The Storm

CHAPTER 3

KURT AUSTIN STOOD IN A SEMIDARKENED WORK BAY ON THE lower level of his boathouse as the hour crept past midnight.

Broad-shouldered, relatively handsome, Kurt tended more toward rugged than striking. His hair was a steel gray color, slightly out of place on a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties yet perfect for the man all Kurt’s friends knew him to be. His jaw was square, his teeth relatively straight but not perfect, his face sun-kissed and lined from years spent on the water and out in the elements.

Sturdy and solid were the terms used to describe him. And yet, from that rugged face came a piercing gaze. The directness of Kurt’s stare and the brilliance of his coral-blue eyes often caused people to pause as if taken by surprise.

Right now, those eyes were studying a labor of love.

Kurt was building a racing scull. Thoughts of performance ruled his mind. Drag coefficients and leverage factors and the power that could be generated by a human being.

The air around him smelled of varnish, and the floor was littered with shavings, wood chips and other types of debris, the kind that piled up and marked one’s progress when crafting a boat by hand.

After months of on-and-off work, Kurt felt he’d achieved something near to perfection. Twenty feet long. Narrow and sleek. The wooden craft’s honey blond color shined from beneath nine coats of shellac with a glow that seemed to light up the room.

“A damn fine boat,” Kurt said, admiring the finished product.

The boat’s glasslike finish made the color seem deep as if you could look into it for miles. A slight change in focus, and the room around him was caught in the reflection.

On one side of the reflection, a new set of tools sat untouched in a bright red box. On the other side, pegged to the backboard of the workbench with meticulous precision, were a set of old hammers, saws and planes, their wooden handles cracked and discolored with age.

The new tools he’d bought himself, the old ones were hand-me-downs from his grandfather—a gift and a message all at the same time. And right in the middle, like a man caught between two worlds, Kurt saw his own reflection.

It seemed appropriate. Kurt spent most of his time working with modern technology, but he loved the old things of this world; old guns, antebellum and Victorian homes and even historical letters and documents. All these things grabbed his attention with equal power. But the boats he owned, including the one he’d just finished, brought out the purest sense of joy.

For now, the sleek craft rested in a cradle, but tomorrow he would lift it off its frame, connect the oars and take it down to the water for its maiden voyage. There, powered by the considerable strength in his legs, arms and back, the scull would slice through the calm surface of the Potomac at a surprising clip.

In the meantime, he told himself, he’d better stop looking at it and admiring his own work or he’d be too tired to row in the morning.

He lowered the bay door and stepped toward the light switch.

Before he could flick it off, an annoying buzz startled him. His cell phone was the culprit, vibrating on the work desk. He grabbed the phone, instantly recognized the name on the screen and pressed answer.

It was Dirk Pitt, the Director of NUMA, Kurt’s boss and a good friend. Before he’d taken over as Director, Pitt had spent a couple of decades risking life and limb on special projects for the organization. Occasionally, he still did.

“Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” Pitt said. “I hope you don’t have company.”

“Actually,” Kurt replied, looking back at his boat, “I’m in the presence of a beautiful blonde. She’s graceful and smooth as silk. And I can see myself spending lots of time alone with her.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to postpone all that and tell her good night,” Pitt said.

The serious tone in Pitt’s voice came through loud and clear.

“What’s happened?”

“You know Kimo A’kona?” Pitt asked.

“I worked with him on the Hawaiian Ecology Project,” Kurt replied, realizing that Pitt wouldn’t start a conversation that way unless something bad was coming. “He’s first-rate. Why do you ask?”

“He was working an assignment for us in the Indian Ocean,” Pitt began. “Perry Halverson and Thalia Quivaros were with him. We lost contact with them two days ago.”

Kurt didn’t like the sound of that, but radios failed, sometimes entire electrical systems did, often the boaters turned up safe and sound.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know, but this morning their catamaran was spotted adrift, fifty miles from where it should have been. An aircraft from the Maldives made a low pass this afternoon. The photos showed extensive fire damage on the hull. No sign of the crew.”

“What were they working on?”

“Just analyzing water temps, salinity and oxygen levels,” Pitt said. “Nothing dangerous. I save those jobs for you and Joe.”

Kurt couldn’t imagine any reason such a study might offend someone. “And yet you think it was foul play?”

“We don’t know what it was,” Dirk said firmly. “But something’s not right. We can see the life-raft containers from the air. The casings are burned but otherwise untouched. Halverson was a ten-year vet, he was a merchant marine sailor for eight years before that. Kimo and Thalia were younger, but they were well trained. And none of us can come up with a reason for a widespread fire aboard a sailboat to begin with. Even if we could, no one can tell me why three trained sailors would fail to deploy a life raft or get off a distress call under such conditions.”

Kurt remained silent. He couldn’t think of a reason either, unless they were somehow incapacitated.

“The bottom line is, they’re missing,” Dirk said. “Perhaps we’ll find them. But you and I have been around long enough to know this doesn’t look good.”

Kurt understood the math. Three members of NUMA were missing and presumed dead. Something both Dirk Pitt and Kurt Austin took personally.

“What do you need me to do?”

“A salvage team from the Maldives is getting set up,” Pitt said. “I want you and Joe on-site as soon as possible. That means you’re on a plane in four hours.”

“Not a problem,” Kurt said. “Is anyone still looking for them?”

“Search-and-rescue aircraft out of the Maldives, a pair of Navy P-3s and a long-range squadron from southern India have been crisscrossing the zone since the boat was spotted. Nothing yet.”

“So this isn’t a rescue mission.”

“I only wish it was,” Pitt said. “But unless we get some good news that I’m not expecting to receive, your job is to figure out what happened and why.”

In the dark bay, unseen by Pitt, Kurt nodded. “Understood.”

“I’ll let you wake Mr. Zavala,” Pitt said. “Keep me posted.”

Kurt acknowledged the directive, and Dirk Pitt hung up.

Placing the phone down, Kurt thought about the mission ahead. He hoped against all reason that the three NUMA members would be found bobbing in their life jackets by the time he crossed the Atlantic, but considering the description of the catamaran and the length of time they’d been missing, he doubted it.

He slid the phone into his pocket and took a long look at the gleaming craft he’d built.

Without another second of hesitation, he reached for the light switch, flicked it off and walked out.

His date would have to wait for another morning.