The Storm by Clive Cussler, Graham Brown Page B

okay?”
    She looked pensive and determined, like she was about to go into combat. She nodded yes but seemed as if she’d rather be somewhere else. He decided to distract her by talking about the island.
    “See that ring around the outside of the island?” he asked.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “That’s a breakwater made up of steel-and-concrete barriers. They sit on powerful hydraulic pistons, and, from what I’ve read, when a big wave hits, they’re driven back, taking the brunt of the force like shock absorbers. When the wave disperses, they spring back into position.”
    “What’s all that stuff over on the far side?” she asked, pointing.
    Kurt gazed in the direction she indicated. An artificial beach sat next to a half-circular cutout in the hull. In this section the breakwaters overlapped but didn’t line up. Several small boats and a twin-engine seaplane were docked against a jetty.
    “Looks like an inlet,” he said.
    “Every island has to have a harbor,” Joe added. “Maybe they have a few restaurants on the waterfront.”
    “No one could ever accuse you of lacking focus,” Kurt said.
    The helicopter turned and began to descend. Kurt heard Nigel talking with an air controller over the radio. He looked back toward the island.
    Large sections were obviously still under construction, exposed steel and scaffolding confirmed that. Other sections seemed closer to completion, and the rear of the island looked all but finished, including a pair of ten-story structures shaped like pyramids with a helipad suspended dramatically between them like a bridge.
    “Could someone like this really have been involved in what happened to my brother?”
    “The leads point this way,” Kurt said.
    “But this Marchetti has everything,” she said, “why would he do something so horrible?”
    “We’re going to do our best to find out.”
    She nodded, and Kurt looked back out the window. As the helicopter began to turn, he focused on a row of soaring white structures that sprouted along each side of the teardrop-shaped island. They were widest at ground level, narrowing with a gentle rake toward the top.
    They reminded him of oversize tails plucked from mothballed 747s. He quickly realized why. They were airfoils, mechanical sails, designed to catch the wind. He watched as they changed their angle slightly, turning in unison.
    In the center of the island he saw a rectangular swath of green, complete with trees, grass and hills. It reminded him of New York’s Central Park. On either side were long, wide strips of land on which wheat seemed to be growing.
    At the forward end, banks of solar panels reflected the sun while a group of large windmills turned with gentle grace.
    Nigel turned to Kurt. “They’re denying us permission to land.”
    Kurt had expected that. He reached over and flipped a switch. A canister he’d rigged up to the tail boom began to emit black smoke. He doubted it would fool anybody for long, but it couldn’t hurt.
    “Looks like we’re having an emergency,” he said. “Tell them we have no choice but to set down safely or crash.”
    As the pilot relayed the message, Kurt grinned at Leilani. “Have to let us land now.”
    “Are you always so incorrigible?” she asked.
    Joe replied, “From what I’ve heard Kurt here was the type to skip school and sign his own notes and have all the teachers fawning over him when he came back from his ‘illness.’”
    Leilani smiled. “I call that resourceful.”
    With a line of smoke trailing from it, the JetRanger angled for the helipad that bridged the gap between the roof of the pyramid-like buildings. The descent was smooth, almost too smooth.
    “Make it look good,” Kurt said.
    The pilot nodded, he waggled the stick, shaking the copter to simulate some type of trouble, then stabilized as they got closer and safely touched down on top of the big yellow H.
    Kurt pulled off his headset, popped open the door, and stepped out. Stretching his legs, he