The Storm

CHAPTER 16

GULF OF ADEN, OFF THE COAST OF YEMEN

THIRTY-SEVEN HOURS AFTER THE MEETING IN MARCHETTI’S conference room, Kurt and Joe found themselves sitting in a wooden fishing boat in the dark of night a mile or so off the coast of Aden.

Clad in black wet suits, with fins, and small oxygen tanks on their backs, they waited patiently for a signal.

Kurt rubbed a light coat of baby shampoo on the inside glass of his mask before rinsing it to keep it from fogging up. Joe checked his air one last time and secured a diving knife in a sheath on his leg.

“You ready?” Kurt asked.

“As ready as I’m going to be,” Joe said. “You see anything?”

“Not yet.”

“What if this guy got held up?”

“He’ll make it,” Kurt said. “Dirk swears this guy has helped him out a few times before.”

“Did he give you a name?”

Kurt shook his head and smiled. “He said we wouldn’t need it.”

Joe chuckled. “Dirk has his secrets, that’s for sure.”

It was a moonless night with a light wind from the northwest. Kurt could smell the desert on that breeze, but he could see nothing. They were anchored off a desolate stretch of the coast, bobbing up and down on the swells and waiting to hit the water. But they couldn’t go until they were sure someone had arrived to pick them up.

Finally a pair of lights flashed in their direction. On-off. On-off. And then back on again for a few seconds before going permanently dark.

“That’s our man,” Kurt said, pulling his mask into place.

Joe did the same, pausing for a second. “One question,” he said. “What if those bots are in the water here, waiting to chow down on us?”

Kurt hadn’t thought about that and, quite frankly, wished Joe hadn’t either. “Then you better hope they’re not hungry,” he said.

With that, he pushed back over the side and dropped into the inky black water.

A few seconds later Joe hit the water behind him, the muted sound of his plunge reverberating through the dark.

Without delay, Kurt got his bearings and began to kick with smooth, powerful strokes, the thrust from his fins moving him swiftly through the water. It was a quiet, slow-motion approach to the beach.

As he closed in on the shore, he could hear the sound of the waves pounding, he could feel the pull of the ebb tide trying to drag him to the east. He angled slightly into it, but rather than wear himself out fighting it, he mostly rode with it.

Closer in, he focused on the swells, trying to get a rough sense of timing for the set of waves. One big swell pushed him upward, threatening to dump him face-first, but it passed, broke and sent white foam racing up onto the sand fifteen yards in front of him.

The undertow caught him as the water flowed back, but Kurt powered through it, caught the next wave and bodysurfed right up onto the beach.

Thirty feet ahead boulders offered shelter. He pulled off his fins and dashed forward, taking shelter between them. Once he was there, he pulled his mask off, unzipped the wet suit a few inches and drew out a small night vision scope. He scanned the beach and the road above it. He saw no movement, no sign of anything living.

Seventy yards to the west, an old VW bus sat parked on the road. That was their transportation.

He turned his head in time to see Joe coming up onto the beach. After a short delay, Joe sprinted to the rocks.

Kurt pointed to the van. “Not bad,” he said. “We only missed it by a football field.”

“Easier to walk that distance than to swim head-on into the current,” Joe replied.

“My thoughts exactly,” Kurt said. “Besides, on the off chance our friend has been watched or tailed, probably best not to come out of the water right in front of the getaway vehicle.”

The two men stripped out of their diving gear to reveal plain clothes. Watching for trouble, they moved down the beach in spurts until they reached the VW.

The thirty-year-old vehicle was a tawny brown color, pitted and scratched from years of flying sand. Its tires looked bald, and the VW emblem on the front was broken, missing half of the W.

“Maybe it’s a knockoff,” Kurt said.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, “a Volks Vagon.”

“Not much style to it,” Kurt said, and then, thinking of the Vespa, he added, “but at least it has four wheels.”

“You must be moving up in the world,” Joe said.

Kurt chuckled as he slid the door open. Whatever it lost on style points, the van had other attributes, including ample room for supplies, an air-cooled engine that would be more reliable crossing the desert than a water-cooled power plant, and authentic Yemen plates that Kurt hoped were current.

It was also unoccupied. Whoever Dirk Pitt had found to drop the van off had vanished. A second set of tire tracks on the soft shoulder by the road suggested the driver had been ferried off in another vehicle.

They piled into the van. Kurt made his way to the driver’s seat as Joe checked the supplies in the back.

“We’ve got boots and caftans back here,” Joe said. “Food, water and some equipment. The guy set us up well.”

Kurt looked for the key. He flipped the visor down and it dropped into his hand, along with a note.

He stuck the key in the ignition and unfolded the note as Joe made his way up front and took the passenger seat.

“It says take the coast road northeast for seven miles. Turn northwest on the paved road that marks the Eastern Highway. It will be paved for thirty miles and then become a dirt track. Continue on for exactly forty-five miles. Hide the van and hike northwest on a course of 290 for 5.2 miles. You’ll cut the corner and come upon the compound you seek. Good luck.”

“Any signature?”

“Anonymous,” Kurt said. He folded the note and tucked it away. “Whoever he is, let’s not disappoint him.”

After a quick look around, Kurt turned the key, and the engine came to life with that sound that only old VWs ever seemed to make. The gears made a grinding noise as Kurt put the van in first and released the clutch, but at least they were off and running.

He hoped to make the compound before daybreak. They had four hours.