Page 30 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

From his pack, he pulled out the back scratcher, extended it like a baton, and hooked the rope. With a firm jerk, he pulled it down.

Kurt shook his head as Joe put the device away. “I’ll never doubt you again.”

“I’m getting you one for Christmas,” Joe said.

With the rope in reach, Kurt pulled hard, using his weight to extend the ramp. When it reached its full travel, he hooked the rope around a cleat and climbed on. He and Joe moved cautiously, but the ramp squeaked and groaned with each step.

After entering the ship, Kurt pulled down the diving hood and ran a hand through his silver hair. “Easy peasy,” he said. “Now tell me we’ve got a signal.”

Joe was pulling a receiver from his backpack. It was used to pick up the signals from the sea-life trackers. With a little help from Hiram and Max, he’d tweaked the design to make it more sensitive and to act directionally.

Raising the twin “rabbit ears,” Joe soon found a pulse. He turned in one direction and then the other, watching as the strength of the signal waxed and waned.

“It’s coming from the stern,” he announced. “And it might be above us by a deck or two.”

Kurt pulled out a flashlight and aimed it down the length of the darkened corridor. “Let’s head aft and find the main ladder.”

Chapter 18

Virat Sharma had remained in his office late into the evening, hoping for good news from his men aboard theKhalil. He indulged himself with a meal and a couple of drinks and spent much of the night standing on the balcony, staring at the tanker through a set of binoculars. From time to time he would pick up a handheld radio and call his foreman, checking on his progress.

As the night ran on, he became irritated. It was a big ship, he told himself. And the Americans hadn’t said what they were looking for.

He considered going home, but with another tanker set to beach itself tonight, he decided to stay. He always enjoyed the arrivals, no matter how many times he’d seen the spectacle.

He was just about to put a call in to the idling ship when the door to his office opened and a Caucasian man barged in. The man was bald, sizable, and confident. He held a gun in one hand and put a finger to his lips with the other, making a shushing sound as he stared unblinking across the room.

Sharma tensed, shocked at the intrusion. He indeed remained quiet, but not because he’d been told to be. It was more from surprise, as three fierce-looking men with more tawny skin tones came in behind the white man. They were young, lean, and looked so similar toeach other that they could have been triplets. There was something feral about them, Sharma thought, as if they weren’t quite human. He noticed tattoos on the sides of their necks, long strings of alphanumeric codes and what looked like a couple letters from the Greek alphabet. Aside from these, there wasn’t a mark on them.

The triplets spread out around the room while the white man closed the door slowly. “My name is Blakes,” the white man said quietly. “Your name is Virat Sharma. These are my dogs, and they will rip you to pieces with their bare hands if you don’t cooperate.”

Sharma was wary, but not cowering in fear. He’d grown up on the streets of Mumbai. He’d been involved with criminal elements by the age of twelve and had killed a man before he turned eighteen.

He’d fought his way out of that hell and made it in the world of large-vessel salvage by dealing fiercely with competitors, shakedown artists, and corrupt government officials. Just to stay in business in Alang one had to be strong enough to fight off threats from various gangs.

“What do you want?” he said calmly.

The white man slid the pistol into a shoulder holster that fit snugly under his safari jacket. Instead of throwing a punch, he smiled warmly and put his arm around Sharma, guiding him to the window and gesturing at theKhalil. “Tell me about that ship out there. The one with all the lights running about it.”

“We’re preparing it for stripping,” Sharma explained. “The breakdown begins in the morning.”

It was a good lie. But not good enough.

The white man took his arm off Sharma and reached for a pair of binoculars. “A very hasty preparation, by the looks of it.”

Freed for the moment, Sharma eased backward toward the desk. If he could lean against it, he could reach back and press the hidden alarm button. “The faster we break it down, the sooner we get paid.”

“What about these other ships?”

Sharma spoke from memory. “KN-42 is a frigate retired by the Indian Navy. TheSoufriereis a Liberian-flagged freighter built in the nineties. The other ships are—”

“Which one is theSoufriere?”

It was hard to see in the dark. Sharma didn’t want to leave the desk and the chance of signaling for help. “Between the fires and theKhalil.”

The binoculars went up and then came back down. “And the Americans that came in here this afternoon. I assume they asked about it?”

Sharma bumped the desk, leaning on it for support. He moved one hand behind him, finding the lip and sliding his fingers along it. He was so focused on the act that he didn’t bother to lie. “No,” he said. “They wanted something off theKhalil.”

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