“Not to mention our dinner benefactors,” added Rudi Gunn.
Kurt and Joe’s bet had been ruled a tie. They were glad to agree to split the tab and just thankful they were alive to host the party. Though no one had heard from them yet this evening.
“What’s the latest on the Pickett’s Islander’s Pain Machine?” Gamay asked.
“Our computer division scoured it out of long-missing files,” Gunn answered. “It was described as a secret World War Two project created to stop Japanese banzai missions. In those days, the Japanese believed it was a glorious thing to die for the Emperor. When they couldn’t attack using normal flanking maneuvers, they would make suicidal charges in human waves, shouting, ‘Banzai!’ or ‘Tenno Heika Banzai!’ which meant ‘Ten thousand years of rule to the Emperor!’
“The Pain Maker was designed to incapacitate the attacking force and allow the Americans to capture and interrogate valuable prisoners while stopping wholesale slaughter the Japanese were intent on causing themselves.”
“Why wasn’t the machine used during the war?” asked Paul.
“Soon after the John Bury went missing, the War Department determined that the machine was too easy to replicate if captured and could be used against our island assault forces.”
“And now the machines from Pickett’s Island sit in some obscure military warehouse, gathering dust,” added Gamay.
“That’s the size of it,” replied Gunn.
At that moment their attention became focused on a tall, craggy figure with dark hair and sharp green eyes who entered the private dining room.
“Please don’t get up,” Dirk Pitt said with a broad smile. He held up a small card in his hand. “One of the Agency’s credit cards. This one is on Uncle Sam.”
Gamay laughed. “Kurt and Joe will be happy.”
“Where are they?” asked Paul.
“Right behind me,” Dirk said, motioning toward the arched doorway.
They all turned toward the doorway as Kurt walked in with Joe, and Leilani a step behind. The women embraced. The men shook hands, hugged one another and kissed the ladies on the cheek.
“We have a head start on you,” Paul said, motioning a waiter to the table. “What will be your pleasure?”
Dirk ordered a Don Julio Blanco Tequila on the rocks with lime and salt. Joe took a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. Leilani preferred a Kettle One Cosmopolitan while Kurt asked for a Bombay Sapphire Gin Gibson straight up—a martini with onions instead of olives.
“Well, now,” Dirk said to Joe. “Since you’re the man of the hour, with a gold star on your chart, show us your Egyptian medal.”
Joe flushed with embarrassment. “It’s been seen for the last time.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It’s in my sock drawer.”
Gamay laughed. “Now, there’s a modest man.”
Paul held out a newspaper. It was pink. The Financial Times, printed in the UK.
He read a list of possible consequences had the tragedy not been averted. It included a million dead, starvation, anarchy and even all-out war in the Middle East had the blame mistakenly been foisted on Israel instead of being traced back to Jinn and his group in Yemen.
At this point he almost looked chagrinned. “But Joe is not going to like this part,” he said, then read on. “All of this and more was averted due to heroic efforts of the dam’s operations team, the military force, including Major Edo and an unnamed American who is now being hailed as an Egyptian hero and who will receive the coveted Order of the Nile medal.”
Gamay shook her head. “That’s not fair.”
“At least he got a medal for it,” Dirk said grinning.
“That’s the best the government could do for Joe saving a million lives?”
Leilani joined in. “I know him well enough now to have learned Joe doesn’t like being the center of attention unless of course he’s surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous women.”
Joe laughed. “You’ve just given me a reason to return to Egypt.”
“All joking aside,” said Dirk, “if not for Joe risking his own life on an intrepid mission to stop the flow coming through Aswan Dam, a million lives along the river would have been lost.”
“Do they have a count?” Rudi Gunn asked.
“At least ten thousand,” Pitt replied slowly.
Joe looked like he’d crawled into a shell of embarrassment. “I’d like another Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. A double this time.”
For a few moments they sipped their drinks in a silence that was finally broken by Paul. “How do we stand with Jinn’s underground factory?”
Dirk checked the orange dial of his Doxa dive watch. “It was blown into a scrap yard forty minutes ago, allowing for the time differential.”
“Would bombs from the air penetrate deep enough into the mountain to destroy the factory?” Gamay inquired.
“They can and they did,” revealed Pitt. “A heavy drone fired two missiles. An initial impulse invisible from the ground accelerated them to three hundred miles per hour straight down. Their main boosters erupted and they accelerated to well over two thousand miles per hour. Crashing and blasting a twenty-foot crater, but not strong enough to burst into Jinn’s vast subterranean factory.
“So five minutes later a different kind of ordinance was launched at the deep caverns. Four B-2 bombers flew over Yemen carrying what were known as MOPs, a military acronym for Massive Ordinance Penetrators. Thirty-thousand-pound GPU-57s, the most powerful nonnuclear bunker-busting weapon in the world. The bombs carry over five thousand pounds of explosives packed in a twenty-five-thousand-pound metal casing. They strike with such momentum, they can punch through four hundred feet of dirt and rock. When the dust settled, the entire mountain was gone. All that remained was a pile of sand and rubble. The equipment and material for creating the microbots are gone.”
“What about Jinn’s right-hand man, Sabah?” Kurt asked, checking his own watch and glad to have it back, even at the cost of a new, top-of-the-line scooter.
“Blown to the size of microbots,” Pitt said caustically.
Dinner was finally served in a festivity directed by the executive chef, beginning with Black Sea spiced King Olaf salmon. The next course was smoked sturgeon, followed by goose foie gras and a selection of pork pâtés and duck terrine.
The main course was St. Louis–style baby back ribs accompanied with lobster ravioli and braised leeks with fried eggs.
Dessert was a crepe stuffed with guava and mascarpone. The red wine was Purple Angel Carménère and the white Duckhorn Sauvignon Blanc.
Sated with good food, delightful wine, and exhilarating company, they all bid their farewells and began drifting from the restaurant, eventually congregating in a stretch limousine Dirk had provided for his friends so they would all reach their homes safely.
Leilani was staying in the city at a hotel and Kurt promised to see her home.
Dirk looked at him for a long moment. “You may hold your booze, but if a cop stops you, it’s the slam with a DUI. I strongly suggest you take a cab.”
“I shall do so,” said Kurt.
After the rest had left in the limo, a cab pulled up to the restaurant. Kurt and Leilani settled into the backseat on the way to her hotel.
“Have you decided on taking the job at NUMA that Dirk offered you in the marine biology department?” he asked.
She almost looked sad. “Washington isn’t for me. I’m going back to Hawaii and the biological institute on Maui.”
Kurt squeezed her hand. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too,” she said. “I hope you understand.”
Kurt smiled. “What’s his name?”
Her eyes widened for a moment and then she smiled back. “His name is Kale Luka.”