Clive Cussler - Devils Gate

Table of Contents

DIRK PITT ADVENTURES
BY CLIVE CUSSLER

Crescent Dawn
(with Dirk Cussler)
Arctic Drift
(with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan
(with Dirk Cussler)
Black Wind
(with Dirk Cussler)
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave
Inca Gold
Sahara
Dragon
Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacific Vortex!
Night Probe!
Vixen 03
Raise the Titanic !
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper

FARGO ADVENTURES
BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH GRANT BLACKWOOD
The Kingdom
Lost Empire
Spartan Gold

ISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER
The Race (with Justin Scott)
The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
The Chase

KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES
BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS
Medusa
White Death
The Navigator
Fire Ice
Polar Shift
Blue Gold
Lost City
Serpent

OREGON FILES ADVENTURES
BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH JACK DU BRUL
The Jungle
The Silent Sea
Corsair
Plague Ship
Skeleton Coast
Dark Watch

WITH CRAIG DIRGO
Golden Buddha
Sacred Stone

NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER
AND CRAIG DIRGO
Built for Adventure
The Sea Hunters II
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed
The Sea Hunters

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PROLOGUE

Santa Maria Airport, Azores island chain, 1951

HUDSON WALLACE STOOD ON THE RAMP just outside the terminal building on a cold, wet night. His leather jacket did little to keep out the chill as a mix of drizzle and fog shrouded the airport and the whole island around it.

Across from him, blue taxi lights glowed in stoic silence, doing little to warm the scene, while above a beam of white light swung through the fog followed moments later by a flash of green as the airports beacon spun slowly and repetitively.

Hudson doubted anyone was up there to see it, not with the clouds so thick and low, but God help him if he were. Mountains surrounded the airport on three sides, and the island itself was just a speck on the map in the middle of the dark Atlantic. Even in 1951 finding such a spot was no easy task. And if someone could find Santa Maria though this soup, Hudson guessed hed hit the peaks long before he saw the runway lights through the rain.

So getting to the island was one thing. Leaving was something else. Weather notwithstanding, Hudson wanted to go, couldnt wait to get moving, in fact. For reasons he knew too well it had become unsafe to stay. Despite that fact, and despite being the pilot and owner of the Lockheed Constellation parked on the ramp, he didnt have the final word.

With little to do but watch and wait, Hudson pulled a silver case from his coat pocket. He drew out a Dunhill cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Ignoring the No Smoking signs plastered every twenty feet, he cradled a Zippo lighter to his face and lit the Dunhill.

He was a hundred yards from the nearest plane or fuel line, and the whole airport was soaking wet. He figured the chances of causing a problem were just about nil. And the chances of anyone bothering to leave the warm, dry terminal building to come outside to complain? He figured they were even less than that.

After a deep, satisfying draw, Hudson exhaled.

The heather gray cloud of smoke faded as the door to the terminal opened behind him.

A man wearing ill-fitting clothing stepped out. His round face was partially hidden by a brown hat. His jacket and pants were made of coarse wool and looked like surplus leftovers from the Red Army winter catalog. Thin, fingerless gloves completed the appearance of a peasant traveler, but Hudson knew differently. This man, his passenger, would soon be wealthy. That is, if he could survive long enough to reach America.

Is the weather going to clear? the man said.

Another drag on the Dunhill. Another puff of smoke from Hudson before he answered.

Nope, he said dejectedly. Not today. Maybe not for a week.

Hudsons passenger was a Russian named Tarasov. He was a refugee from the Soviet Union. His luggage consisted of two stainless steel trunks, heavy enough that they might have been filled with stones. Both of which sat locked and chained to the floor of Hudsons aircraft.

Hudson hadnt been told what was hidden in those trunks, but the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency was paying him a small fortune to get them and Tarasov into the U.S. He guessed they were paying the Russian a lot more than that to defect and bring the cases with him.

So far, so good. An American agent had managed to get Tarasov to Yugoslavia, another communist country, but under Tito there was no love of Stalin there. A hefty bribe had managed to get Hudsons plane into Sarajevo and out before anyone began asking questions.

Since then theyd traveled west, but word was out and one attempt on the mans life had left Tarasov limping with a bullet still in his leg.

Hudsons orders were to get him to the U.S. as quickly as possible, and keep it quiet on the way, but they never specified a route. A good thing too, because Hudson wouldnt have followed it.

So far, hed avoided all European cities of note, traveling to the Azores instead, where he could refuel and then go nonstop to the States. It was a good plan, but he hadnt counted on the weather, or on Tarasovs fear of flying.