The Storm by Clive Cussler, Graham Brown

There’s so much pollution out there, the sea is literally choking on it. The problem is, even in places like the Pacific Garbage Patch, the stuff is too spread out to be economically cleared up. Unless the instrument that’s doing the clearing feeds off what it clears, turning the garbage itself into a power source that enables the cleanup.”
    He waved toward the screen. “To accomplish that, I designed a self-sustaining, self-replicating microbot that could live in the seawater, float around until it found some plastic or other garbage and chow down once it did. As soon as these things find a food source, they use the by-products and the metals in the seawater to copy themselves. Voilà!—reproduction—without all the fun parts.”
    Kurt had always been baffled by the world’s collective unwillingness to do anything about the pollution being poured into the marine environment. The world’s oceans created three-quarters of its oxygen, a third of its food. Yet the polluters acted as if this was a trifle. And until there was nothing left to fish, or no one could breathe, it was doubtful anyone would do anything about it because it just wasn’t economical.
    In a bizarre way, there was a certain elegance to Marchetti’s solution. Since no one wanted to do anything about the problem, he’d proposed a way to fix it without anyone actually having to lift a finger.
    Joe seemed to agree. “There’s some brilliance in that.”
    “There’s also insanity,” Kurt said.
    “You’d be surprised how often those traits coincide,” Marchetti said. “But the real insanity is doing nothing. Or dumping billions of tons of plastic and trash into the thing that feeds half the planet. Could you imagine the vociferous outcry, the wailing of epic proportions, if the amber waves of grain were choked with cigarette lighters, plastic bottles, monofilament line and broken bits of children’s toys? That’s what we’re doing to the oceans. And it’s only getting worse.”
    “I don’t disagree,” Kurt said. “But turning some self-replicating machine loose in the sea and just hoping it all works out isn’t exactly a rational response.”
    Marchetti sat back down, he seemed to agree. “No one else thought so either. So like I said, we didn’t produce any.”
    “Then how did these things get on my brother’s boat?” Leilani asked bluntly.
    Kurt watched Marchetti, waiting for an answer, but he didn’t reply. His gaze was locked onto Leilani. Fear flickered in his eyes. Kurt turned and he saw why.
    Leilani held a compact snub-nosed automatic in her hands. The muzzle was pointed directly at the center of Marchetti’s chest.

CHAPTER 12
     
    “I SWEAR,” MARCHETTI SAID, PUTTING HIS HANDS UP INSTINCTIVELY, “I don’t know how they got on your brother’s boat.”
    Kurt stepped in between Leilani and the billionaire. “Put the gun down.”
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Because he’s our only link to the truth,” Kurt said. “You kill him, you’ll never know what happened. And as sad as it sounds, I’ll make sure you end up in prison for it.”
    “But he built these machines,” she said. “He admitted it. We don’t need to go any further.”
    Kurt looked her in the eyes. He hoped to see fear, doubt, and nerves, but he saw only coldness and anger.
    “Get out of the way, Kurt.”
    “Tired of being alone,” he said, repeating her words from the night at the hotel. “You pull that trigger, you’ll be more alone than you can possibly imagine.”
    “He killed my brother, and if he’s not going to tell us why, I’m going to even the score,” she said. “Now please, get out of my way.”
    Kurt didn’t budge.
    “Listen,” Marchetti said nervously, “I didn’t have anything to do with your brother’s death. But maybe I can help you find out who did.”
    “How?” Kurt asked.
    “By tracking down those with knowledge, those with an understanding of the process,” Marchetti offered. “Obviously you don’t just