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  To my mother and father

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Patient souls accompanied me on this writing adventure. I am grateful to all of you for enriching my life.

  Victoria Skurnick, my trusted agent, you blend intuition and creative vision with abundant wisdom. I am a better writer for your guidance. Our collaboration has been a joy.

  Tim Wojcik, Beth Fisher, and Lindsay Edgecomb, you are the A-Team at Levine Greenberg. Your support along the way has lifted my spirits.

  A writer could not hope to work with a more passionate editor and risk-taker than Bob Gleason of Tor/Forge. Thank you, Bob, for betting on Sabotage.

  Nature’s most skilled aerial acrobat is a hummingbird. The publishing world knows her as Kelly Quinn. Thank you, Kelly, for your superb piloting, speed, and agility.

  I owe a special debt of gratitude to retired U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer and novelist Jeff Edwards, whose expert counsel in technical matters enhanced the story’s plausibility. Jeff, you have a gift for fielding questions through the lens of a storyteller.

  Howard Wolf, you believed in Sabotage after a short ride home from the airport. Stanford loyalty lives large. When it comes to the Tree, you are not afraid to go out on a limb. Thank you for your introduction to Scott, an early advocate, now my attorney and friend.

  The stars were aligned when Dirk Cussler and Jack du Brul graciously took the time to critique my manuscript. Many thanks to both of you for sharing your valuable insights and feedback. I am also grateful to you, Karl Monger and Evan Storms, for your help in polishing an early draft.

  Much credit goes to Frank (Tha-An) Lin for his inventive puzzle in the Stanford “Game,” the principle of which now underlies the secret radio transmission in this book. I loved your challenges, Frank—especially that one. Great fun. Big thanks.

  My early writing exercises yielded articles concerning the military as well as a motivational book for youth. Maria Edwards offered to champion those works. Your respect, referrals, and support validated my efforts, Maria. Thank you. I admire your generous spirit.

  Victoria Normington, Terry Andrews, George Ramos, and Cotter Donnell, you showed me how language is as much a medium for inventing art as it is a means of transferring thought. I am grateful to you for making English one of my favorite classes.

  Travis Cohoon, Fidel Hernandez, Erica Morgan, Nick Niemann, and Jon Zhang, we go back a long way, dear friends. I continue to learn by your example. It is your character, integrity, and appetite for challenge that inspired my good guys.

  Some imagine adventure. Others create it. Few live it. Thank you, Louise, for sharing the journey. Your laughter is the best antidote for writer’s block. Our story grows richer as time goes by.

  Mom and Dad, I forgive you for sometimes shading the truth. In fact, your assurances that Tovar’s Enchantment was a masterpiece in the making convinced an eight-year-old boy that a published novel was within his reach. I hope you are proud of what you accomplished.

  Finally, I am grateful to the critic who first spotted promise in this project, and who has helped me navigate the publishing industry with unwavering support. Thank you, Scott Schwimer, for your guidance as my entertainment attorney. I treasure your friendship. You truly can leap tall buildings.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part I: The Pearl Enchantress

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II: Pulse

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part III: Night Dive

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part IV: The Ace and the Amateur

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Part V: Saboteur

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Arctic winds drove needles of ice into the trespasser’s skin. As the prickling sensation faded to numbness, he pulled a black ski mask over his head and fought to bring his pulse below a hundred beats.

  He crouched low, donning a pair of leather gloves. Warm fingers meant nimble fingers. Tonight he needed both.

  The runway followed a paved line to a small network of taxiways. He spotted hangars at the far end of the tarmac. Zeroing in on one of the buildings, he sprinted toward the compound.

  A chain-link fence blocked access. Finding easy footholds, he scaled the barrier and snipped off a section of barbed wire before pocketing his pliers and climbing over the edge.

  Losing his grip, he landed with a loud thud—too loud, as he could hear his fall over the rhythmic drumming in his ears. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp. He scanned the area for signs of danger and took several moments to recover.

  The compound appeared empty. After five minutes of absolute stillness, he began to crawl, adhering to the shadowy perimeter and following the fence to a cluster of buildings.

  He arrived at a recessed portal that pushed open with ease. He softened his stride as he entered the hangar, where a metallic bird nested in the center of the room. A sleek burgundy fuselage, flamed underbelly, hot-red propeller, and matching elevator suggested a free and defiant nature. The biplane’s double wings stretched wide, angling skyward. Even in the dark she found a way to glisten.

  The man paced beside the taildragger undercarriage and ran a glove along the body. He wasted no time. Checking his watch, he hoisted himself into the cockpit and inspected the helm and controls. Producing a small box of tools from his coat pocket, his delicate fingers inserted a skinny rod near the yoke and loosened four screws. He worked with the skill of a locksmith.

  For all his paraphernalia, he was no expert infiltrator. He’d failed to notice any movement behind him. Soon after he’d climbed the fence, an automobile had cut its engine and parked outside the airfield, not two hundred yards from the trespasser’s vehicle.

  The car’s passenger stole into the hangar and concealed himself behind a stack of storage crates, his gaze never leaving the intruder. As the man in the ski mask groped around the cockpit, the newcomer reached into his rucksack, pulled out a camera, and trained its high optical zoo
m on the prowler’s busywork. Two dozen snapshots later, he packed away his device and continued to observe.

  * * *

  Sleet-filled, overcast skies mirrored an icy wasteland. Guards lounged in their seats and stared at screens from four towers around the colony. Their entertainment was the news channel, the sole connection to the outside world. The attraction had grown dull with time. Armed sentries patrolled the surrounding stone ramparts, assault rifles slung over their shoulders.

  Only the hardest criminals suffered Siberia, and only the toughest survived. Ragnar leaned against the stone walls of the prison yard, cupping a hand over his mouth to light a cigarette.

  Flicking his lighter a few times, he created a flame that quivered in the subzero extreme. He inhaled slowly, then breathed out, his lungful of mingling steam and smoke whisked away in a violent blitz of gales. He turned down the flaps of his fur shapka-ushanka, protecting his ears from the onslaught.

  Ragnar gazed at his fellow inmates. A hulking mountain of a man with wide, protruding cheekbones and a jutting chin, he dwarfed most of the other prisoners. Jasper hair burned down his shoulder blades. His arms, flecked with scars, had clear definition, though his muscles more resembled knotty burls than pleasing curves. His left bicep bore a simple tattoo, a single word inscribed in plain cursive: Firecat. A horned helmet rested beneath it, superimposed over a double-sided ax.

  His mind drifted to the territory beyond the walls. Outside were vast stretches of desolate land. With more than a hundred miles to the nearest village, the frozen tundra blocked any escape.

  Ragnar took one last drag and tossed his cigarette to the ground, watching the embers die before he could squelch them. From a recess in the wall, he observed other captives hewing wood and stacking timber for shipment. A few clustered around a makeshift chessboard, where two rivals faced off in concentration. Nearby, a pair of bald men locked wrists in an arm wrestle, as betting spectators rooted for their champion. The wrestlers suffered mutely in the numbing cold, their fingers soon to be black as soot and ravaged by frostbite without protection.

  Ragnar rarely said a word to the other inmates. An observer of human nature, he kept to himself, content with his estrangement. No one went near him anymore; they’d seen what happened to the hostile few who had tried to bait him into scuffles. His past was a mystery into which no one probed.

  But today was different. A man approached. Ragnar recognized the smooth, oil-on-glass voice.

  “Hello, Captain.”

  The newcomer strode into Ragnar’s corner. He spoke with the air of a sophisticate in convict’s attire, his clean grooming and lack of stubble suggesting he was a recent transplant from the outside world. His thick brows might have been prominent without scrupulous trimming. Unlike the other inmates, he had no signs of wear and tear; his hands looked manicured, his skin unsullied by grime or perspiration. His nose and chin were defined by acute angles, combining with a head of charcoal hair in an attractive mix of Russian and Romanian gypsy. The combing emphasized a sharp widow’s peak.

  A few other inmates looked in their direction as if intrigued by the unusual interaction involving Ragnar. He glanced back at them, and they turned away.

  “Just finished my shift in the machine shop,” said the man. He was holding a sack. “Look inside.”

  Ragnar opened the sack to find a bottle of vodka, a towel, and a can of degreaser. He uncorked the bottle and emptied the vodka onto the ground, then filled it to the brim with degreaser.

  “Where’d you get this?” he asked as he took hold of the towel, ripped off a rag-sized portion, and stuffed the fabric into the bottleneck like a plug.

  “Guards’ locker room. Same as the bottle.”

  Ragnar nodded. “And fuel from the machine shop,” he said. He paused a moment. “When does he come?”

  “He’s already here.”

  Ragnar arched a suspicious brow. Then he heard it: a faint thrumming in the distance. Even as the percussive rhythm grew steadily louder, the guards failed to notice anything amiss over the battering hail. To Ragnar and his accomplice, the sound of freedom was crystal.

  “Distract them,” the newcomer instructed.

  With a firm grip on the bottle, Ragnar ambled toward the closest of the four guard towers. He drew his lighter and ignited the cloth soaked in degreaser, then lobbed the bottle at the tower.

  The cocktail soared in a wide arc before shattering a glass window panel. Flames exploded inside the tower room. Frenzied guards dashed out, shouting for help.

  Ragnar looked on as chaos erupted throughout the colony. Sentries opened fire and cried for reinforcements. Streams of bullets lay siege to the yard, kicking up snow and ice as guards searched for the culprit. The other inmates scattered, screaming in confusion and crazed jubilation, sprinting toward the sidelines to escape the barrage and bloodshed.

  The peaceful compound had descended into bedlam. Black curls of smoke coalesced into pillars, rising from the tower and sweeping away with the cold Siberian wind. Guards cast buckets of water over the spreading flames and unleashed extinguishers while the blaze raged out of control. Workers in chains flung chunks of timber at the tower to feed the conflagration. Pistols raised, guards poured into the yard at ground level to contain the anarchy.

  Ragnar jogged to his corner and joined his abettor. At first the din of machine-gun fire masked the sound for which they’d so keenly listened. Then they felt the pulsations. A black apparition climbed over the tower opposite the fire, its blades kicking up gray swirls of dust and debris. The helicopter hovered over the colony for several seconds before descending into the center of the yard. The chopper’s skids scarcely tapped the ground. Prisoners fled at the sight of the aircraft, and guards ceased fire, surprised their reinforcements had arrived so promptly. The Kamov helo was a civilian craft closely modeled after a Russian Air Force helicopter intended for reconnaissance, anti-tank, radio-electronic jamming, and distant hauling of air-assault forces. Designed to fly with stealth and maneuverability worthy of special ops, the Kamov demonstrated its true colors by hovering inches above the snow with no sign of powering down.

  Ragnar and his conspirator made for the chopper, which lingered in place as they climbed inside and slammed the door behind them.

  Guards and inmates gawked in disbelief as the two men disappeared behind the helicopter’s reflective windows. The rotor blades began to revolve faster, lifting their attached machinery skyward.

  The aircraft veered in a one-eighty. Sparks flew as a volley of rounds grazed the hull, all sentries now training their aim on the chopper as it soared. For all their relentless shelling, the guards were too late. Riding an easterly wind, the Kamov climbed to a safe distance and became a dot in the clouds, leaving in its wake a glowing inferno amid stretches of ice.

  PART I

  THE PEARL ENCHANTRESS

  ONE

  White froth rolled shoreward and dissipated. A tall, slender form unfurled from the water and stood in defiance of a stiff wind. The body turned to the sea and dove against an oncoming wave, then surfaced as the wave passed.

  His eyes were two black opals panning the seascape. An insatiable desire to see, to feel, to experience, could be seen in their crystalline intensity. Bronzed only slightly by the sun, the face held a look of wayward independence under thick waves of dark brown hair. He was twenty-four.

  The noon sun blazed overhead, easing the chill of the ocean air. Visibility was perfect, the sky cloudless and clear, rare in Northern California’s Half Moon Bay. This beach was always empty when he came. He thought of it as his beach.

  A crest loomed, capped with white. The young man’s arms plunged into the water with force, and his legs kicked up to a horizontal, carrying him against the tide until he reached the base of the mounting arc. An engine hummed in the distance; he ignored it. He took in a sharp breath and flipped around, holding his body in the shape of the curved wall as he timed his launch, and thrust his torso forward.

  The wave engu
lfed and propelled him. A surge of cold streamed through the layer of water caught inside his full-length wetsuit, flushing across the skin of his chest and back. He laughed under the surface, his mind filled with the awareness of his own body; he could feel the vibrations of his laughter in a mix with the tumult. Soon the wave became a gentle hand stroking the sandbank.

  He stood again, a six-foot-three silhouette of slim musculature. Then he dove back, arms churning to catch another.

  The sound of the engine grew louder. When he surfaced, he realized the source was practically riding on top of him. A deluge of saltwater splashed over his face, and the humming diminished.

  A female voice spoke.

  “Looking lean and mean in neoprene, Austin Hardy.”

  Blond curls fluttering behind her as she jockeyed the water scooter head-on into the crosswind, Rachel Mason was grinning. The passenger behind her was not. Sitting on the pad and still clinging to her waist, a young Japanese man had wedged his feet inside the Jet Ski for safety, his expression laced with queasiness and regret. The life vest hugged so tightly around his waist and aloha shirt that his cheeks were flushing red.

  His name was Ichiro Yamada, and his face had pulled taut. “Austin, hurry! Save me from this madwoman!” he shouted.

  Rachel tossed her passenger a pitiless glance, her dimples caving with amusement and condescension. “You haven’t lost any limbs. That’s good enough for me.”

  Austin smiled back at them.

  “Hello, Rachel, Itchy. How are you two enjoying your romp around the Bay?”

  “You’ve told us about this place for too long,” Rachel said. “We had to see the swimmer in his element.”

  “You make a grand entrance.”

  She tossed her hair, and a cascade fell over a strap of her light green bikini. “We rented the Jet Ski for the hour. Unfortunately, Itchy here may be too scrawny to last.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Ichiro said irritably, removing a pair of goggles.

  Austin asked, “How has my brave roommate fared?”

  “Your brave roommate loves his life and wishes to keep it,” Ichiro said. “Which means it’s time for him to disembark.”