CLIVE CUSSLER is the author or coauthor of more than seventy previous books in five best-selling series, including Dirk Pitt, NUMA Files, Oregon Files, Isaac. Results 1 - 16 of Online shopping for Kindle Store from a great selection of Literature & Fiction, Foreign Languages, Romance, Religion & Spirituality. Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Stuart Leuthner is the author of Clive Cussler.
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Results 1 - 10 of 82 Clive Cussler’s New York Times bestselling Blue Gold, now available in ebook, is a heart-pounding thriller in the NUMA adventure series. Fraternal twins, Summer Pitt and Dirk Pitt, Jr., are working to determine the origin of a A SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER 'Cussler is hard to beat. The Pharaoh's Secret: NUMA Files #13 (The NUMA Files series) by Clive Cussler . Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. Results 1 - 12 of Search results for "clive cussler" at Rakuten Kobo. Read free previews and reviews from booklovers. Shop eBooks and audiobooks at.
Kurt Austin navigates the Amazon jungle in search of a legend that could change the path of science—but secretive powers will do anything to stop him. From deep within the Venezuelan rain forest emanates the legend of a white goddess and a mysterious tribe with startling technical accomplishments. Few believe the tribe exists—and even fewer suspect its deity may hold knowledge that can change the course of history. But with each step into the bush, he and his NUMA team feel like fish out of water—and must fight a deadly, twisting trail of enemies through a dense jungle of treachery, blackmail, and murder. Chapter One San Diego, California, West of Encitas on the Pacific coast, the graceful motor yacht Nepenthe swung at anchor, the grandest craft in a flotilla that seemed to include every sailboat and powerboat in San Diego. With her fluid drawn-out lines, the spearlike sprit jutting from the thrusting clipper bow, and her flaring transom, the two-hundred-foot-long Nepenthe looked as if she were made of fine white china floating on a Delft sea. Her paint glistened with a mirror finish, and her brightwork sparkled under the California sun.
The one-hundred-sixty-mile race began in San Diego, made two sharp turns around Santa Catalina Island, and came back to the starting point, giving thousands of spectators along the beaches a view of the dramatic finish.
The final turn should be coming up any minute. He squinted through the spray-splashed canopy and saw a vertical line off to the right, then another. Sailboat masts! The spectator fleet flanked a wide swath of open water. Once past the spectators, the racers would pick up the Coast Guard cutter near the turn buoy and head into the last lap. He snapped a quick glance over his right shoulder and caught the reflection of the sun off gold.
The hard shocks coming through the steering wheel indicated that the wave height was growing.
Zavala had observed white flecks in the water and a distinct marbling to the seas that told him the wind was up. Where's Ali Baba? He should just lie back and let us take the lumps like he's been doing, then go for the home stretch. Sea and wind are too unpredictable.
Take it to one twenty-five.
Maybe he'll back off. A moment later Zavala reported: "Doing one twenty-seven. Seems okay. Austin could read the black lettering on the side: Flying Carpet.
The boat's driver was hidden behind the tinted glass, but Austin knew the bearded young Omar Sharif look-alike would be grinning from ear to ear. The son of a Dubai hotel magnate, Ali Bin Said was one of the toughest competitors in one of the world's most competitive and dangerous sports, Class 1 offshore powerboat racing.
The loss in his own backyard before his home audience was particularly galling. Ali had beefed up the power in the Carpet's twin Lamborghini engines. With improvements in its power plant the Red Ink squeezed out a few extra miles per hour, but Austin estimated Ali's boat was a match for his. But he knew better than to play King Canute. Ali had been beaten not by engine power but by the way Austin and his NUMA partner clicked together as a team.
The slight smile always on his lips masked a steely resolve forged in his college days as a middleweight boxer and honed by the frequent challenges of his NUMA assignments. The gregarious and soft-spoken marine engineer had thousands of hours piloting helicopters, small jets, and turbo-prop aircraft and easily switched to the cockpit of a race boat. Working with Austin as if they were parts in a precision machine, he took command of the race from the second the referee raised the green starting flag.
They were up on plane at a near-ideal angle and blasted across the start line at one hundred and thirty miles per hour. Every boat had hit the finish line with throttle straight out. Two hard-driven competitors blew out their engines on the first lap, one flipped on the first turn, probably the most dangerous part of any race, and the rest were simply outclassed by the two leaders.
The Red Ink rocketed by the others as if they were stuck on fly paper. Only the Flying Carpet kept pace. The Flying Carpet had been playing catch-up ever since. Now the Carpet had taken wing and was coming abreast of the Red Ink.
Austin knew of Ali's last-minute switch to a smaller propeller that would be better in rough seas. Austin wished he could trade in his large calm-water propeller. Ali had been smart to listen to his weather sense rather than the forecast.
She'll kite if we don't slow down. The twin catamaran sponsons skated across the surface with practically no water resistance. The same design that allowed for high speed over the wave tops also meant wind could get under the hull, lift it in a kiting motion, or, even worse, flip it back onto its deck.
The Flying Carpet continued to gain. Austin's fingertips played over the tops of the throttle levers. He hated to lose. His combativeness was a trait he'd inherited from his father along with the football player physique and eyes the color of coral underwater.
One day it would get him killed. But not today. He eased back on the throttles. The maneuver may have saved their lives. A white-crested four-foot rogue sea was racing in off the port bow, practically snarling as it bore down on them. Zavala saw it angling in, prayed they'd clear it, knew instantly that the timing was all wrong.
The wave hooked one of the sponsons like a cat's claw. The Red Ink was launched spinning into space. With lightning reflexes Zavala steered in the direction of the spin like a driver caught on an ice patch. The boat splashed into the water sideways, rolled so the canopies were buried, then righted after a few more yaws. Ali slowed down, but once he saw they were all right, he gunned his engines, throwing caution to the winds.
He wanted to finish as far ahead of Austin as possible. Ignoring the advice of his veteran throttle man, Hank Smith, Ali pushed his boat to the edge. The giant rooster tail arced high in the air for hundreds of feet, and the twin propellers plowed a wide and double-furrowed wake for hundreds more. Let's go for second place. High above the race course the Italian TV cameraman had spotted the dramatic reversal of the lead boats.
The chopper swooped out in a wide circle and came back over the flotilla to hover at midchannel. Pozzi wanted a wide shot of the lone boat speeding past the spectators to the turn buoy for the final approach to San Diego. The cameraman glanced at the sea below to get his bearings and saw wavelets outlining a large, shiny, grayish object mounding at the surface. A trick of the light. No, there was definitely something there. He caught the attention of the pilot and pointed straight down. Pozzi aimed the camera at the object and zoomed in with the touch of a button.
A whale. Don't worry, he'll dive when he hears the boats. He's not moving. There's another one. I'm counting three -- no, four. They're popping up all over the place. This is the TV helicopter over the race course. Go ahead. I think they're dead. Then: "Roger. We'll try. Orange signal flares blossomed against the blue sky. Ali saw neither the flares nor the bloated gray carcass floating in his path until it was too late.
He yanked the wheel, missed the obstruction by inches, dodged another body, but could not avoid a third. He veered off, yelling at Hank to cut power. I'm Fine and Neither Are You. Killman Creek.
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