The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,147
thirty knots, the ship skated along atop its one foil—then slowly tipped over. It crashed sideways into the sea, and nosedived hard into the water.
From the coast, a fleet of Royal Moroccan Navy ships steamed toward the site.
Pullman signed off, after getting Gray’s fix from his sat-phone’s GPS.
Gray stared back toward the mountainous coast. In the distance, a thick cloud of dust and ash swirled into the sunset skies. While it wasn’t a new volcano, Gray pictured the little ruby on the gold map.
In the past, Hunayn had done his best to hide this location, to protect his own era—a time of the Crusades and holy wars—against the horrors and hellfire of Tartarus. It seemed history was destined to be repeatedly tested, to be balanced on the precipice of Armageddon over and over again. Sadly, all too often, it was an apocalypse of our own making. It took men like Hunayn—who fought against the darkness—to pull us back from that brink, who were willing to sacrifice all to this cause.
Gray remembered Kowalski’s blind swim across that toxic lake. He pictured the bones of Hunayn’s shipmate, marking the grave of a man who had made the same deadly crossing. Both men—separated by millennia—had been willing to pay the ultimate price for the greater good of all.
Maybe such brave souls were the world’s true messiahs.
Maybe we didn’t need to wait idly by for heavenly salvation.
Maybe we were always our best hope.
Gray watched the hydrofoil settle crookedly into the water and pondered the old quote from Edmund Burke. The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.
He stared toward the setting sun, making a silent promise, picturing his young son.
I will always keep fighting against the darkness.
For you.
For all our bright futures.
48
June 26, 8:24 P.M. WEST
Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Morocco
In the flooded stern hold of the Morning Star, the forty-eighth Musa swore a litany of curses. The yacht foundered on its side. Multiple fires raged throughout the ship. Klaxons rang continuously.
Firat waited atop a bobbing jet-ski, seated behind one of his Sons.
Across the drowned hold, a team freed the ship’s four-man submersible, armed with dual mini-torpedo launchers. The sub’s motors started and the craft burbled in reverse toward him. On the other side, the hold’s sea doors were already open, facing away from the coast. He heard the engines of approaching military ships, the occasional scream of a jet overhead. The wreckage of the yacht would be seized and overrun at any moment.
I must not be here.
In hindsight, he should have followed Senator Cargill’s example. The man had left the yacht at the Strait of Gibraltar, summoned back to the EU summit, needing to address some state matter in person. At the time, Cargill had ranted, disappointed not to be able to make this journey south and rendezvous with the strike team.
But the bastard had gone and lucky he did.
Or maybe the senator’s God smiles upon him more than Allah does upon me.
Back at Gibraltar, Firat had been happy to see the man leave. It opened a range of possibilities, including dealing with the senator’s insufferable daughter. As if buoyed by his good spirits, the Morning Star had made good time, racing along the Moroccan coast. Firat had planned to rendezvous with Nehir’s team—or at least, get updated—when he arrived at Agadir by sunset.
He stared through the stern door at the setting sun.
I kept my word.
Unfortunately, by the time the yacht had reached here, he had become worried. Hour after hour had passed without a new update. Finally, off Agadir, with still no word, worry grew to suspicion. He had ordered the ship’s captain to speed north as fast as the engines could manage.
His instinct had been right, but his timing poor.
The Morning Star had just gained full speed when it was torpedoed from the air and brought down. Now his only hope was to escape. Nothing else mattered.
The submersible finally drew abreast of the jet-ski. He climbed from one watercraft to the other, dropping heavily into a seat behind the two sub operators, two trusted Sons. Firat had the back of the sub all to himself.
Once everything was sealed tight, he pointed ahead. “Go.”
The sub’s engine rumbled, and the craft glided smoothly across the hold and out to sea. Firat had a moment of claustrophobic panic as water rose up and over the sub’s Lexan glass shell. But as the submersible sank deeper, leaving the brighter sunlight for the blue twilight, he relaxed.