Dragon by Clive Cussler Page B

grasped the outstretched hand from the last man inside. He was in the act of heaving him out when the junk’s bow raised on a swell and came down on the stern of the submersible. There was no loud tearing noise of a crash, there was hardly a noise at all, except a soft splash followed by gurgling as the sub rolled to port and the water poured in through the open hatch.
    Then came shouting on the decks of the junk as the crew pulled on the sails, dropping them like venetian blinds. The ship’s engine coughed to life and was thrown into full astern as life rings were thrown over the side.
    Giordino was pitched away from the junk as it slipped past only an arm’s length away, yanking the last passenger through the hatch, grating the skin from his knees, and falling backward, forced underwater by the body weight of the man he saved. He had the foresight to keep his mouth closed but took saltwater up his nose. He snorted clear and gazed around. Thankfully, he counted six heads bobbing on the swells, some floating easily, some swimming for the life rings.
    But the submersible had quickly filled and lost its buoyancy. Giordino watched in rage and frustration as the deep-sea craft slid under a swell stern-first and headed for the bottom.
    He looked up at the passing junk and read the name on her ornately painted stern. She was called Shanghai Shelly. He swore a storm at the incredible display of dirty luck. How was it possible, he cursed, to be rammed by the only ship within hundreds of kilometers? He felt guilty and devastated for failing his friend Pitt.
    He only knew that he must commandeer the second sub, dive to the bottom, and rescue Pitt no matter how vain the attempt. They had been closer than brothers, he owed too much to the maverick adventurer to let him go without a fight. He could never forget the many times Pitt had come through for him, times when he thought all hope had vanished. But first things first.
    He looked about. “If you’re injured, raise a hand,” he called out.
    Only one hand went up—from a young geologist. “I think I have a sprained ankle.”
    “If that’s all you’ve got,” grunted Giordino, “consider yourself blessed.”
    The junk came about and slowed, coming to a stop ten meters to the windward of the sub’s survivors. An older man with snow-white hair in a windblown mass and a long curling white mustache bent over the railing. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Is anyone hurt? Shall we lower a boat?”
    “Drop your gangway,” Giordino directed. “We’ll climb aboard.” Then he added, “Keep a sharp watch. We’ve another sub about to surface.”
    “I hear you.”
    Within five minutes of the exchange, all of the NUMA crew were standing on the deck of the junk, all except the geologist with the bad ankle who was being lifted by a net over the side. The man who had hailed them walked up and spread out his hands apologetically.
    “God, I’m sorry you lost your vessel. We didn’t see you until it was too late.”
    “Not your fault,” said Giordino, stepping forward. “We came up almost under your keel. Your lookouts were more alert than we had any right to expect.”
    “Was anyone lost?”
    “No, we’re all accounted for.”
    “Thank God for that. This has been one crazy day. We picked another man out of the water not twenty kilometers to the west. He’s in a bad way. Says his name is Jimmy Knox. He one of your men?”
    “No,” Giordino said. “The rest of my people are following in another submersible.”
    “I’ve ordered my crew to keep their eyes peeled.”
    “You’re most courteous,” Giordino said mechanically, his mind taking one step at a time.
    The stranger who seemed to be in command glanced around the open sea, a puzzled look on his face. “Where are you all coming from?”
    “Explanations later. Can I borrow your radio?”
    “Of course. By the way, my name is Owen Murphy.”
    “Al Giordino.”
    “Right through there, Mr. Giordino,”