Austin pulled his helmet off to reveal the thick head of platinum, almost white hair. He surveyed the propeller scars on the deck and realized how close they had cut it. “Still among the living,” Austin replied, “but I don't think the Red Ink was designed to be a convertible.”

Zavala felt the water around his waist. “Time to abandon ship.”

“Consider it an order,” Austin said, loosening his harness. They piled out of the boat into the sea. As part of their certification, racers must pass a dunk test. A cabin cruiser came over and hauled them dripping from the water minutes before the Red Ink went to the bottom.

“What happened to the gold race boat?” Austin asked the cruiser's owner, a pipe-smoking middle-aged man who had come out of San Diego to watch the race and got more than he bargained for. He pointed off in the distance with the stem of his pipe. “Over there. The guy plowed right through the fleet. Don't know how he missed hitting the other boats.”

“Mind if we check them out?”

“No problem,” the man said obligingly as he put the wheel over. Moments later they pulled up alongside the Flying Carpet. The canopies had been pushed back. Austin saw to his relief that the men inside were alive, although blood streamed down Ali's head where he'd bashed it, and Hank looked as if he were nursing a bad hangover.

Austin called out, “Are you injured?”

“No,” Ali replied, although he didn't look quite convinced of his own well-being. “What happened?”

“You hit a whale.”

“A what?” When he saw Austin's serious expression, Ali's face fell. “Guess we didn't win,” he said glumly.

“Don't feel bad,” Austin said. “At least your boat doesn't lie on the sea floor.”

“Sorry,” Ali said sadly. Then he brightened as a thought hit him. “Then you didn't win, either.”

“Au contraire,” Austin said. “All four of us won the prize for being the luckiest men alive.”

Ali nodded. “Praise Allah,” he said a second before he passed out.

NUMA 2 - Blue Gold

CHAPTER 3

Venezuelan Rain Forest

The Thick Canopy of overhanging tree branches blotted out the sun's rays, making the black water in the still pool seem deeper than it was. Wishing that she hadn't read that the Venezuelan government was reintroducing man-eating Orinoco crocodiles into the wild, Gamay Morgan Trout jackknifed her lithe body in a surface dive and with strong kicks of her slender legs descended into the Stygian darkness. This must be how a prehistoric animal felt sinking into the ooze at the La Brea tar pits in California, Gamay thought. She flicked on the twin halogen lights attached to her Stingray video camera and swam down to the bottom. As she passed over the spinachy vegetation that rose and fell in the slight current as if dancing to music, something poked her in the buttocks.

She whirled around, almost more indignant than scared, her hand going for the sheath knife at her waist. Inches from her face mask was a long, narrow snout attached to a lumpish pink head with small black eyes. The snout waggled back and forth like a scolding finger. Gamay unclenched her hand from the knife hilt and pushed the snout aside.