Devil's Gate

Eight feet under, Kurt watched as one wake and then another flashed across the top of them. He immediately turned left, a direction the Barracuda seemed to favor after the damage they’d suffered.

“You see any other holes?” Joe asked.

Kurt looked around. The patches and smeared resin made it look like someone had sprayed graffiti over half the cockpit. The fumes had his head pounding and eyes burning already. But the water was no longer pouring in. And as the patches hardened it would almost cease.

“Good work, Joe,” he said.

“Not my most aesthetically pleasing job,” Joe said, “but it’s not meant to be patched while submerging under fire.” “Looks like art to me,” Kurt said, straining to see past the mess and locate the powerboats he knew had to be approaching.

“In a future life I’m going to work on a NASCAR pit crew,” Joe said.

“Let’s just work on extending our current lives a little bit,” Kurt said. “Can you think of any way to contact the Argo?” Silence reigned as both of them racked their brains. Kurt certainly couldn’t.

“The data link,” Joe said. “We can e-mail them.” “E-mail?”

“Not exactly, but we can send them a data message. It goes up to a satellite and then comes down. As long as someone sees the telemetry equipment go on, they’ll get it.” Kurt wondered how likely that was, picturing the screens on the telemetry unit coming on and no one there to see them. Certainly there was no reason for anyone to be monitoring them right now.

“Anything else?”

“Either that or we paddle all the way back to Santa Maria and use semaphores,” Joe said.

“That’s what I thought,” Kurt said. “Key up the telemetry system, let me know when you’re ready.” “We’ll need thirty seconds on the surface for the satellite to lock.” “I don’t think we’ll have that long,” Kurt said. As if to prove the point, he saw one of the wakes coming back toward them, not racing this time but rather matching their speed and then paralleling their course. The second wake did the same on the other side and to the rear.

Kurt turned hard to the left, back toward the undersea graveyard. The boats followed.

“They can see us, Kemo Sabe,” Joe said.

“We’re like a dying fish leaving a trail of blood,” Kurt said, thinking of the bubbles the sub was probably venting.

A strange concussive sound reached them, and Kurt saw spray patterns in the water above and ahead. He guessed their pursuers were shooting into the water with the shotguns. Not a real danger, but one more sign of an impossible situation.

Maybe if they went deeper.

He put the nose down a few degrees.

The depth meter read 15 and then 20 and then — Crack!

One of the taped sections broke away, and a new spray of water came in.

As Joe slammed the section back into place and began taping it over, Kurt brought the sub back up, leveling off at ten feet. He changed course again but to no avail.

“They’re probably wearing those Maui Jim sunglasses,” Joe said. “You know, the ones that let you see fish in the water.” Kurt felt like a fish in a barrel. Or a whale being hunted from above by a couple of harpoon boats. Sooner or later they had to surface, if not to send the message, just to survive.

Despite Joe’s efforts, the Barracuda was slowly taking on water, not just from the buckshot holes in the windshield but from the damage in other places. Compartments normally sealed against water were now filling with it.

And, like whales, Kurt and Joe were faced with pursuers above that were faster, bigger, and well armed. At this point they had to do little more than follow Kurt and Joe in the Barracuda and wait for them to come up for air.

A flash lit the sea ahead and to the right. A concussion wave shook the sub even as Kurt turned hard left. A few moments later a second flash went off directly in front of them. Kurt actually saw the water expand, contract, and then crash into the nose of the Barracuda.

“Grenades,” he said.

Cracks were begi

When another explosion shook them, Kurt knew they didn’t have much time. “Get your message ready,” he said.

“We won’t last ten seconds up there.” “We will if we surrender,” Kurt replied, realizing that once Joe hit “Enter,” there would be no visible sign of the data message being sent, and they could stand there with their hands up, hoping not to be shot as a distraction.

Joe said nothing, but Kurt heard him tapping away at the keyboard. “Ready,” Joe said.

Kurt pointed the nose toward the surface, hoping they wouldn’t get machine-gu

The Barracuda slowed instantly, and the pursuing boats passed them.

“Now,” he said.

Joe hit the “Enter” key as Kurt pressed the canopy switch and the cockpit rose.

“Come on,” Joe was muttering. “Rápido, por favor.”

Kurt stood, hands raised high in surrender, as the boats circled back toward him.

The Barracuda rocked back and forth on the waves, and the powerboats pulled up next to them. A half mile off Kurt saw a larger boat headed their way too.

“We surrender,” Kurt said.

Two men with shotguns pointed their weapons at him.

An almost inaudible beep chirped from the rear of the cockpit, and Joe stood up as well.

“Message sent,” he whispered.

Kurt nodded almost imperceptibly. Whatever happened now, whatever fate held for them, at least they’d sent their warning. He only hoped it was in time.

Across from him, one of the men put his weapon down and threw them a line. In a moment the Barracuda was tied up to the larger of the two powerboats, and Kurt and Joe were standing on board it with their wrists chained in proper cuffs.

Apparently, their foes had come prepared.

The larger boat approached, a 60-foot motor yacht of a design Kurt had never seen, it appeared far more utilitarian than anything he could remember in that class. It almost looked like a military vessel done up to pass as a pleasure craft.

It sidled up next to them, and Kurt saw a man in jungle fatigues standing at the bow, gazing down at him. It was the same man he’d seen the night before and also on the Kinjara Maru. The grin of a conqueror beamed from his face, and he jumped down onto the deck of the powerboat before the yacht had even bumped up against it.

He strode toward Kurt and Joe in their defenseless positions, looking ready to inflict pain. Kurt stared him down the whole way, never blinking or looking away. “Andras,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Friend of yours?” Joe asked.

Before Kurt could answer, the man hauled off and slugged him in the jaw, sending Kurt crashing to the deck.

Kurt looked up, blood dripping from his mouth, his lip split open.

“Sorry,” Joe said. “Forget I asked.”

35

TWO MEN GRABBED THE CHAIN on Kurt’s cuffs and yanked him back up to his feet. “I want you to see something,” Andras said. He motioned for the motor yacht to pull forward. A brief spurt of power did the trick, and as its motor died once again the two boats knocked together. On the aft deck of the larger vessel, a mixed group of thirty or more men and women sat in cuffs and shackles with their backs to the far rail.

As painful as the split lip and wounded pride were, this sight caused a far deeper agony. Kurt recognized them as members of the various science teams sent to study the magnetism. Katarina sat among them, a dark bruise covering the right side of her face.

Her eyes rose up to meet his gaze and then looked back down at the deck, sad and forlorn, as if she’d failed somehow.