Page 45 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

So far they’d been on the move, putting some space between themselves and the harbor and making their way toward more touristy areas where there would be plenty of Americans and Europeans to help them blend in.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Kurt replied. “The question is: How?”

He was alluding to their second problem. Five had no ID of any kind. No driver’s license, no passport. He didn’t even have a real name.

He couldn’t be coached into lying about his lack of a passport because he had no idea what one was or why you’d need it. He didn’t even understand the concept of a sovereign country. Or what it meant to be arrested.

There was no way to get him through even the most rudimentary checkpoint or security screening, which ruled out airports or crossing the border by car. And hiking through the mountains to get to Pakistan or China wasn’t going to improve the situation.

“We could have Rudi send a jet to an out-of-the-way location,” Joe suggested. “There are no customs checks out in the hills. But there are plenty of small airfields.”

“Considering that we’re wanted men now, a NUMA jet landing in the middle of nowhere would probably raise some alarm bells,” Kurt said. “Besides, every time we let Rudi know what we’re doing, it seems to tip off the guys we’ve been fighting with.”

Joe nodded. “You really think NUMA has been hacked?”

They’d discussed it earlier and refrained from contactingWashington. Kurt was convinced. “Someone got into my phone. And the ‘great white hunter’ and the ‘cruel brothers’ seem to be only a half a step behind us wherever we go.”

He hadn’t just shown up on Reunion or at the breakers’ yard, but they’d spied him and his goons hanging around the hotel when they’d made their way back from the harbor.

Joe sighed at the dilemma and brought out the back scratcher, extending it a bit and scratching a spot on the back of his neck.

“So we can’t get out the normal way,” Joe said. “And we can’t ask Rudi for help. I’d say we go by ship, but after what our guest has already been through, I don’t think we’ll be able to keep him calm enough to get on board.”

That was the third problem. Five was overwhelmed by the real world. The machines they moved about in seemed like monsters to him: loud, noisy, and belching smoke.

Every time a bus got near them, Kurt had to fight through traffic to get away from it because Five saw it swaying to and fro, and was convinced it would fall over on him.

An attempt to catch a train had been derailed as well. Even though they’d managed to explain what a ticket was and how they would all sit in the car together and it would move by itself, one look at a train rumbling into the station with brakes squealing and steam venting from pneumatic lines had put Five into shock.

“Whatever we do it has to be quick and simple,” Kurt said.

Both men fell into silent thought, Kurt driving, Joe tapping the back scratcher against the dashboard in a subconscious, repetitive fashion. A few minutes later, he looked up. An idea had obviously sprung to mind.

“Got something?” Kurt asked.

“Maybe,” he said. He picked up the paper map they’d been given. A city named Porbandar lay on the coast up ahead. “All we need is aninternet café. And the right kind of airport. I think there’s someone nearby who could help.”

Kurt had no idea what Joe was thinking, but they were already heading for Porbandar, so he figured he’d let Joe work on his plan in silence.

Chapter 25

MVAkeso

Two Hundred Fifty Miles Southwest of Porbandar, India

Dr. Elena Pascal was jolted from a deep slumber by a loud voice coming over a raspy intercom system. Though she’d had only four hours of sleep and wasn’t on duty for another eight, the wake-up call was not softened by the slightest of good-morning greetings or even an explanation. Just the booming voice of the ship’s executive officer ordering her to the bridge immediately.

Throwing the blanket off and jumping out of the rack, she pulled open the tiny wardrobe, threw on a set of scrubs that doubled as her uniform, and then headed for the door. Out of pure habit, she grabbed her stethoscope on her way.

Smoothing her hair down and blinking the sleep from her eyes, she double-timed it along the main gangway and up the ship’s ladder. Nearing the bridge, she slowed her pace and took a deep breath. She had the strangest feeling she was in trouble, though she couldn’t imagine why.

Entering the bridge, she announced her arrival. “Dr. Pascal reporting as ordered.”

The XO looked her way and then deferred to the captain, who was looking out the window at a speck in the morning sky.

Captain Marjorie Livorno turned her way. The longtime captain of the medical relief ship was a no-nonsense leader. “This is a medical ship,” she said to Dr. Pascal. “We go to various places around the world helping out where needed. Since you’ve been aboard, we’ve raised the flag in Indonesia after a tsunami, Bangladesh after last year’s floods, and Pakistan after the recent earthquake, where we spent six weeks doing surgeries on the injured. You understand that we’re invited to these places because we have no political or military agendas.”

The hospital ship wasn’t part of any nation’s navy or merchant marine. It was owned and operated by a charitable organization. And though the captain ran a tight ship, the doctors were all volunteers, including Dr. Pascal. That usually kept them out of the line of fire.

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