Page 18 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Instead of hugging the base of the volcanic mountains and zigging in and out with every curve of the coastline, the New Coastal Road sat a hundred feet offshore, six lanes of glorious new concrete and macadam running on viaducts held up by massive pylons that rose a hundred and twenty feet above the water.

The New Coastal Road had been called the most expensive road in the world, costing over two billion dollars for seven miles of elevated highway. It offered spectacular views of the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other. Looking down, one could see the waves rolling beneath it and crashing against the black sand beaches.

Invigorated by the change of scenery and encouraged by the flat, smooth blacktop, Kurt hammered the accelerator once more. Here the Striker would have the advantage, and Kurt needed to make the most of it before the tighter curves came into play once again.

“Deploy the boom!” he cried out. “Prepare for ramming.”

Chapter 10

The sudden stretch of flat, open highway was not a surprise to the Overseer. It was a deliberate part of the plan and meant they were only a few miles from the extraction point. It would do him no good to get there and be run over by the madmen in the futuristic-looking fire truck.

He stood pensively, feet planted wide, one hand gripping an overhead strap like a commuter riding an unstable subway car, the other holding a MAC-10 submachine gun like a character from a video game.

A quick glance out the side door showed him the problem hadn’t gone away. His first spread of shots had forced the fire truck to back off, but it was now tucked in behind them, blocked from view.

“Hold this thing steady!” he demanded.

As the driver grunted a reply, the Overseer leaned out, putting his shoulder against the doorframe to brace himself while extending his arm as far as he could. Bending his wrist, he pulled the trigger repeatedly. Two quick bursts and then a third. It was a wild form of shooting he and other professional soldiers called pray and spray, as in pray you hit something while blindly wasting your ammunition by spraying it everywhere.

It was the way amateurs and the untrained draftees of the world fought, firing blindly around the corners of buildings and up over the tops of trenches. Occasionally they got lucky, but usually they just made a lot of noise.

As he ducked back inside the van, the Overseer could tell his shots had done nothing.

“Get them off our tail,” the driver shouted to him. “Otherwise the boat will never pick us up.”

“Just drive the damned truck and keep your mouth shut,” he grunted back.

Instead of wasting the last of his ammunition—he hadn’t come here expecting a war and had only the MAC-10 and a pistol to fight with—the Overseer pulled a radio headset over his ears. Switching to a prearranged channel, he keyed the mic twice and then spoke. “Being followed, need backup and extraction. Where’s the boat?”

“Coming in now,” a voice replied. “Prepare to egress in two miles. At pylon fifteen. The boat is standing by.”

“Move it closer or we’ll never make the rendezvous.”

As if to prove the point, the neon-green truck came surging toward them, charging at the rear of the van. Their pursuers had deployed some type of extendable arm equipped with a six-foot metal spike at the tip. The tip surged through the back of the van, puncturing the sheet metal and nearly skewering him as he dove to the floor to avoid it.

As it pulled back, it left a wide gash in the back door of the van.

The Overseer grinned. “Thanks for the firing port.”

He crawled over the back seat and aimed his weapon out through the breach and opened fire at the cab of the neon-colored truck.

He saw the occupants duck and cover. Watched as the driver jerked the wheel to one side. And then saw the big truck re-center and charge forward once more.

This time the boom punched through the right side of the door before scraping across the ceiling and ripping the headliner down and nearly tipping the van over as it slammed into the side panel.

Adding insult to injury, a blast of high-pressure fire retardant erupted from the nozzle. The Overseer was knocked backward and drenched in the foam, the cabin itself filled with the stuff, and it was soon impossible to see or even breathe.

Down on the floor, unable to open his eyes, the Overseer fumbled for a way to end the battle. He pulled out an incendiary grenade like the ones he’d used on the lab. He pulled the pin, released the grip, and counted to three before shot-putting it through the foam and out the back end of the van.

—

Kurt saw the grenade coming and tried to swerve around it, but there was just no time. The explosion was moderate. It felt like they’d hit a curb at high speed. But two ruptured tires and a bent axle sent the vehicle careening out of control.

Kurt jerked the wheel one way and then the other. The Striker rocked to the left and then back the other way. The boom—still stuck inside the fleeing van—tore out through the side panel, jerking the van to the left. Both vehicles went over on their sides and slid across the lanes of the beautiful new road.

The van went all the way to the retaining wall, crushing its front end and then sliding along the wall to a halt.

The Striker remained more centered, sliding on its side and slowly swapping ends until it came to a halt in the middle of the highway with the back end pointed toward the overturned van.

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