Closer in, he focused on the swells, trying to get a rough sense of timing for the set of waves. One big swell pushed him upward, threatening to dump him face-first, but it passed, broke and sent white foam racing up onto the sand fifteen yards in front of him.
The undertow caught him as the water flowed back, but Kurt powered through it, caught the next wave and bodysurfed right up onto the beach.
Thirty feet ahead boulders offered shelter. He pulled off his fins and dashed forward, taking shelter between them. Once he was there, he pulled his mask off, unzipped the wet suit a few inches and drew out a small night vision scope. He scanned the beach and the road above it. He saw no movement, no sign of anything living.
Seventy yards to the west, an old VW bus sat parked on the road. That was their transportation.
He turned his head in time to see Joe coming up onto the beach. After a short delay, Joe sprinted to the rocks.
Kurt pointed to the van. “Not bad,” he said. “We only missed it by a football field.”
“Easier to walk that distance than to swim head-on into the current,” Joe replied.
“My thoughts exactly,” Kurt said. “Besides, on the off chance our friend has been watched or tailed, probably best not to come out of the water right in front of the getaway vehicle.”
The two men stripped out of their diving gear to reveal plain clothes. Watching for trouble, they moved down the beach in spurts until they reached the VW.
The thirty-year-old vehicle was a tawny brown color, pitted and scratched from years of flying sand. Its tires looked bald, and the VW emblem on the front was broken, missing half of the W.
“Maybe it’s a knockoff,” Kurt said.
“Yeah,” Joe replied, “a Volks Vagon.”
“Not much style to it,” Kurt said, and then, thinking of the Vespa, he added, “but at least it has four wheels.”
“You must be moving up in the world,” Joe said.
Kurt chuckled as he slid the door open. Whatever it lost on style points, the van had other attributes, including ample room for supplies, an air-cooled engine that would be more reliable crossing the desert than a water-cooled power plant, and authentic Yemen plates that Kurt hoped were current.
It was also unoccupied. Whoever Dirk Pitt had found to drop the van off had vanished. A second set of tire tracks on the soft shoulder by the road suggested the driver had been ferried off in another vehicle.
They piled into the van. Kurt made his way to the driver’s seat as Joe checked the supplies in the back.
“We’ve got boots and caftans back here,” Joe said. “Food, water and some equipment. The guy set us up well.”
Kurt looked for the key. He flipped the visor down and it dropped into his hand, along with a note.
He stuck the key in the ignition and unfolded the note as Joe made his way up front and took the passenger seat.
“It says take the coast road northeast for seven miles. Turn northwest on the paved road that marks the Eastern Highway. It will be paved for thirty miles and then become a dirt track. Continue on for exactly forty-five miles. Hide the van and hike northwest on a course of 290 for 5.2 miles. You’ll cut the corner and come upon the compound you seek. Good luck.”
“Any signature?”
“Anonymous,” Kurt said. He folded the note and tucked it away. “Whoever he is, let’s not disappoint him.”
After a quick look around, Kurt turned the key, and the engine came to life with that sound that only old VWs ever seemed to make. The gears made a grinding noise as Kurt put the van in first and released the clutch, but at least they were off and running.
He hoped to make the compound before daybreak. They had four hours.
CHAPTER 17
GAMAY TROUT WAS FILLED WITH GLEE AS SHE RODE ALONG at twenty knots, a mere thirty feet above the waves, in a small airship of Elwood Marchetti’s design.
To call it a blimp would have been a disservice to the sleek craft. The crew compartment sat between and slightly below what Marchetti called air pods. Filled with helium, the pods resembled pontoons, although much larger and longer. They were flat on the bottom and curved on the top to provide lift as the craft moved forward. They were attached to the passenger compartment by a series of struts that ran up and out at a forty-five-degree angle. A second raft of struts ran between them, bracing them and keeping them apart. The design allowed a view upward to the sky, something no other airship had.
The passenger compartment was shaped like that of an upscale cabin cruiser, raked backward as it dropped away from the inflated sections. A platform to the rear allowed open-air cruising, sunbathing and a way to enter and exit the airship. Twin ducted fans, placed well forward of the cabin, pulled the craft along like a pair of sled dogs. A stubby set of wings acted as a canard while a pair of vertical tails, one on each pod, acted as the airship’s rudders.
“This is amazing,” Gamay said, leaning over the side and staring at a trio of dolphins they’d found and begun following.