The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,19

strapped in. We’re due to hit some weather along the coast.”

As if the gods had heard him, the jet bucked underfoot. Kowalski kept his feet by grabbing a seatback. The commander seemed to have managed to stay upright by merely smiling wider.

Bastard . . .

“Like I said,” the commander warned, “time to buckle up.”

Kowalski straightened and began to shoulder past the man when the tactical coordinator turned in his seat and slipped off a set of large earphones.

“Commander Pullman, I just received a report from another Poseidon heading back to Reykjavik. They picked up a possible bogie, running periscope depth along the coast ahead. But with the storm behind them and the seas full of broken ice, they lost it and never made a full ID. They’re asking us to run a search pattern before landing.”

Kowalski checked his watch. “No good. You can play cat-and-mouse with the Russkies another time. We need to be on the ground ASAP.”

The smile on the commander’s face turned into a grimace. “Let me remind you this is my aircraft. You’re only hitching a ride.”

The jet bounced again, throwing Kowalski fully off his feet. Even Pullman grabbed the seats to either side. He certainly wasn’t smiling now.

The pilot radioed back, his voice strained. “The storm ahead is ramping up into a real monster. And fast. Everybody strap down.”

Kowalski stared challengingly at the commander. “Looks like Mother Nature just demoted you.”

Pullman scowled and turned to the tactical coordinator. “Radio your contact. Tell them ‘no go’ on that search pattern.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before the officer could turn away, Pullman added, “As a precaution, run all three launchers. Drop a row of sonobuoys from here to the coast.” He glanced back to Kowalski. “We may not be able to stay airborne, but that doesn’t mean we can’t keep listening.”

Kowalski shrugged and pushed past the commander.

Bub, do whatever you need to save face.

He crossed forward and dropped heavily into the seat next to Maria.

“What was that all about back there?” she asked.

“Just making sure no one gets sidetracked.”

She twisted and tried to look back. Her hand found his and squeezed hard. “Is that likely to happen?”

“Not on my watch.”

She settled back around with a sigh. She tried to remove her hand, but he caught it and held it firmly. Her skin was hot, but her face remained pale. He easily read the anxiety and guilt in her glassy eyes. He knew better than to offer empty platitudes, to try to reassure her about the safety of her friend. He could only offer the facts.

“We’ll be on the ground soon,” he promised.

Hopefully before it’s too late.

5

June 21, 11:20 A.M. WGST

Helheim Glacier, Greenland

Mac watched Elena crumple alongside the meltwater stream after being kidney-punched by that dull-eyed behemoth.

Goddamn bastards.

He took a step toward the crack in the hull, ready to go to her aid, to defend her.

Nelson grabbed his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do.” He then snagged a fistful of Mac’s parka and yanked him back. “And it looks like we’ve got company coming.”

Outside, an order was shouted in Arabic. The assault team responded by running low toward the stranded dhow, flanking to either side. One strafed the crack in the hull with a rifle to cover the others’ approach.

John fired both barrels at the shooter. The gunman flew backward, struck square in the chest. His body crashed into the river. Then John rolled to the side as return fire pounded where he’d been. He escaped unscathed and joined Mac and Nelson. Outside, John’s shots had forced the attackers to approach with more caution.

Not that it would buy them much time.

“We need a place to hole up.” Nelson pointed across the dark hold. “Maybe barricade ourselves inside the captain’s cabin.”

With no better idea, Mac pointed his flashlight and shoved his friend forward. “Go.”

All three of them rushed toward the bow. The tramp of their footfalls turned to splashes as they reached the oil pooled in the bottom of the ship. With the map now outside, the liquid had gone dark again.

But this raised another question.

“Maybe this crap’s flammable,” Mac suggested as they splashed along. “If we set it on fire, it could act as a barrier, maybe drive the others off.”

“Or get us all killed,” Nelson said. “Remember, this is a wooden ship. So, let’s leave arson as a last resort.”

As Nelson spoke, the giant clay pot behind him brightened with a now-familiar greenish glow. It shone through the cracks and hammer-pounded hole. Mac spotted shadows moving within that sheen, accompanied by a