Page 6 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Once Lacourt had made the introductions, Kurt began to speak, dropping down on one knee and drawing a diagram in the wet sand.

“This is the waterline,” he said, drawing a horizontal line. “This is the whale,” he added, placing a stick of driftwood down to represent the stranded animal. “We need the excavators to dig a pair of channels.” Using his fingers, he gouged out a pair of diagonal lines, leading from the surf zone to a spot above the whale. “One here and one here.”

“You don’t want to dig under or behind the whale?” the man in the hard hat asked.

“Can’t really get under it,” Kurt said. “It’ll just sink in deeper. Like spinning your tires in mud. Dredging the sand behind it will be helpful, but save that for the last, because the sea will fill it in almost as fast as you dig it out.”

“Okay,” the man said. “I’ll get my guys on it.”

“We have barrels coming over on a flatbed,” Lacourt announced. “What do you want us to do with them?”

“How many do you have?”

“A couple dozen. They came from the highway project.”

Kurt took some pebbles and placed them around the front of the stick, which represented the whale’s head. “Put them here,” he began, and then turned to the battalion chief from the fire brigade. “Fill them to the top and round up some strong volunteers who can be ready to dump them over when we need it.”

“I think I see what you have in mind,” the fire chief said, standing up. “We’ll be ready.”

“One more thing,” Kurt said before the man left. “How much pressure is in the waterline?”

“Twenty psi at the hydrant, but running it through the truck we can jack it up to one-fifty.”

That sounded helpful. “Are you comfortable burying that line under sand and getting the nozzle under the whale?”

The chief pushed his helmet back. “ ‘Comfortable’ isn’t the word I’d use, but if you think it will help, I’ll give it a try. What’s the idea?”

“I want to create a slurry under the whale at the right moment,” Kurt said. “The biggest problem in moving this creature is that the sand compresses underneath it, which creates a lot of friction, but water doesn’t compress. If we can supersaturate the sand, it’ll be easierto move the big fella. As different as sliding on foam instead of forty-grit sandpaper.”

The chief nodded. “I’ll get my bravest guys to start digging a trench. How close do you want us to get?”

“As close as possible and as deep into the sand as you can go,” Kurt said. “Get the nozzle under the animal if you can.”

“What about all those teeth?”

Curved seven-inch teeth were visible in the whale’s open jaw.

“As long as you don’t stick your arm in his mouth you should be fine,” Kurt said. “On the other hand, if any of your guys don’t like the smell of fish, I’d leave them back at the truck. Whales have horrible breath.”

“Good to know,” the commander said, chuckling.

He went back up the slope to where the fire engines had parked. When he was out of earshot, one of the volunteers spoke up, a young woman who was part of the university’s marine biology department. “I don’t mean to be the voice of doubt,” she said. “But as you pointed out, the sand is porous. All the water you pour onto the beach will just sink downward and spread horizontally.”

She had raven-black hair, dark eyes, and pale, almost alabaster skin. Her lips were full and a dark reddish color without a hint of lipstick or gloss on them. She stared at Kurt with arched eyebrows and crossed her arms, waiting for an answer.

“You make a good point, Ms….”

“Chantel Lacourt,” she said, eyebrows remaining on full alert.

A whimsical look hit Kurt’s face. “The governor’s daughter?” If only he were a pirate looking for amnesty.

“She’s my niece,” Lacourt said. “And I am theprefecthere, not governor.”

Both Kurt and Chantel laughed at that one, but the prefect didn’tseem to get the joke. Kurt looked back to Chantel, who was still waiting for an answer. “The water won’t sink too far, because high tide has saturated the sand below the surface. As for spreading sideways, that’s where the sheet metal comes in.”

Searching for something to represent the sheet metal, Kurt pulled out his wallet and emptied it of credit cards. He stuck them in the sand at an angle, pushing them down and under the stick.

“We jam the panels into the sand, making sure every sheet overlaps the one next to it.” His driver’s license and a library card made up the last links in the wall. He slid a fistful of sand in behind them for support. “We use the bulldozers to pile up sand behind them, and that way—”

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