Page 16 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Kurt raced after the figure in black, realizing the man was carrying a NUMA laptop in his hand.

Chapter 9

Digging his feet into the sand as he raced up the slope, Kurt kept his eyes locked on the departing figure. He wasn’t foolish enough to shout at the man and demand he stop, but the man picked up speed nearing the top of the beach and darted into the swirling crowd.

Kurt had to dodge and weave his way through onlookers, departing rioters, and arriving policemen. It slowed his progress, and by the time he crested the top of the beach and ran out onto the frontage road, he’d lost sight of the man in the swirling crowd. Kurt pushed past a second wave of policemen who were arriving on the scene and scanned the street.

He spotted the man beyond the row of emergency vehicles. He was heading toward a parked van. The side door flew open as he neared it and the laptop he’d taken was tossed inside.

Kurt raced for the van, but it pulled away as the man in black jumped inside.

Rushing up behind him, Joe had seen it all. “Now what?”

Kurt looked around. Their only option was the last vehicle in the crowd of emergency response units. A neon-green fire truck known as a Striker, which had come from the airport. Its distinctive shape, withan angular front end, extended cab, and six large wheels tucked under the body, suggested speed. Kurt hoped that looks didn’t deceive.

“Come on.”

He ran for the truck and found it empty and idling.

“This is a bad idea,” Joe suggested.

Kurt was already climbing into the driver’s seat. “Unless you have another one, this is all we’ve got.”

Joe jumped up onto the running board and climbed in, finding the passenger seat just as Kurt got the big truck moving. With the roar of seven hundred horsepower, the heavy machine lumbered ahead.

Up ahead, the van had come to a traffic light, where it was blocked by a few cars. It slowed and stopped as if pretending to be just part of the regular traffic. It was a fair ruse, but whatever nerve the driver had failed before the light changed. The van lurched forward and pulled onto the sidewalk, clipping a car in front of it and taking out several garbage cans before racing down the path, scattering pedestrians like they were pigeons in the town square.

Kurt kept the Striker rolling, leaning on the horn repeatedly as they approached the light. Joe found the switch for the overhead emergency lights and flipped it. The flashing beacons and the ear-shattering blasts of the horn, accompanied by the sight of the neon vehicle coming down the road, were enough to make the cars pull quickly out of the way.

As the sea of cars parted, Joe offered a repentant shrug. “Maybe the fire truck wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

Kurt grinned, working the steering wheel and the pedals, trying to get used to handling the big machine without playing bumper pool with the other cars around them. He’d driven plenty of trucks in his time, but the Striker maneuvered differently. Despite the weight, it was easy to turn, but sitting so far forward made it feel like every lane change or course adjustment was a wild overcorrection.

The van had come down off the sidewalk and hurtled toward the next intersection. Its brake lights lit up as it raced around the turn, headed for what looked like an elevated highway.

Kurt approached the turn, hitting the brakes late and finding they had little effect on the heavy truck’s built-up momentum. He began to cut the wheel to the right, but a shout from Joe changed his mind.

“Light post,” Joe called out. “Take it wide!”

Kurt swung the wheel to the left, hand over hand, and then spun it back to the right. Because of how far the wheels could deflect, the big rig made the turn, swinging out and then back, narrowly missing the light post with its tail end.

They rumbled down the next street, the height of the cab allowing them to keep their eyes on the van. From the left lane, it cut across the oncoming traffic and onto a ramp, accelerating up the slope at maximum speed.

A sign beside the ramp readNR-1.

“He’s heading for the coastal road,” Joe said.

Kurt changed lanes a little awkwardly, leaned on the horn again, and directed the Striker onto the ramp. Once they were pointing down the center of the lane, he floored the pedal once again. The engine roared with deafening power. Kurt heard Joe shouting something, but it was little more than static behind a wall of noise.

He kept his eyes focused forward as Joe clamped a pair of noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned to see Joe wearing a set as well. They were hooked to the intercom system with audio jacks.

“Breaker, breaker, good buddy,” Joe said.

Kurt laughed. They were thundering down the highway in a ten-ton truck. If there was ever a time to act like they were in a Smokey and the Bandit movie, this was it.

They topped the ramp and raced onto NR-1, the island’s main highway, a multilane road that ran along the shore at the bottom ofsteep volcanic cliffs. On a normal weekday, eighty thousand cars would use this road, but it was Saturday afternoon, and the traffic was light.

Ahead of them the van sped up rapidly, quickly passing the 110-kilometer-per-hour limit. It took the Striker a full minute to match the pace, and by that time the van was a thousand yards ahead of them.

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