Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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"You're being disingenuous. It's not a sin to have political ambitions."

"We're all politically motivated in this town, even you."

"No argument there." Sandecker swung around to face him. "But my ambitions aren't funded by a Russian madman, Sid. Tell me, what did Razov promise you? And don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. You've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar."

Sandecker's bluff was convincing. Sparkman looked for a moment like he was going to bluster – and then he caved in completely, his face a mask of misery.

"I was going to get a big cut of the methane hydrates production off the United States. It would have been worth billions," he said, his voice shaky.

"Now that you've heard the real reason behind those explorations, have you changed your mind?"

"Of course I have! You heard me in the Oval Office. I'm the one who took the hard line. I wanted to go after Razov tooth and nail."

"I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that if Razov were blown out of the water, your secret would be safe."

A wan smile crossed Sparkman's lips. "You're not a man known to dillydally, are you, Admiral? All right. What do you want?"

"First of all, I want you to know that if one word of what transpired in the Oval Office this morning gets back to Razov, I'll see that you are pursued by the hounds of hell."

"I may be greedy, but I'm not a traitor, Admiral. There is no way I would aid and abet Razov after what I've learned of his plans."

"Good. Second, as soon as this is over, I want you to submit your resignation."

"I can't – "

"You can and you will. Or else your role in this scheme will be played out on CNN twenty-four hours a day. Agreed?"

Sparkman's face had a haunted look. "Agreed," he whispered.

"There's one other thing. Tell Razov that the U.S. is still trying to figure out why the NR-1 was hijacked. A little disinformation couldn't hurt."

Sparkman nodded.

"Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I won't waste any more of your time. I know you've got a lot to do carrying out the president's orders."

Sparkman squared his shoulders. "I'll have someone from my office stay in close contact so we can coordinate our planning."

The two men parted without shaking hands, with Sparkman heading back to the White House. Sandecker strode to the parking lot, where the others awaited him. He was angry at having to destroy a man's career, angry that Sparkman had been such a fool. His blue eyes blazed with a cold fire as he slid behind the wheel of the Jeep and said, "Gentlemen, I think it's time we put Mr. Razov's wolfhounds in the dog pound."

34

OFF THE COAST OF BOSTON

IN THE EVENT I ever write my memoirs," Zavala said, "What exactly is going on?"

"This is a scientific mission being undertaken by Siberian Pest Control on a U.S. Navy submarine, supervised by NUMA," Austin said. "Officially, it doesn't exist."

"Maybe I won't write my memoirs," Zavala said, with a shake of his head.

"Cheer up," Austin said, glancing around the spacious wardroom. "No one would believe you anyhow."

Austin had to raise his voice to be heard above the raucous voices of a dozen tough-faced men dressed in black commando uniforms. They were at the far end of the room smearing black and green camouflage paint on their faces. The exercise produced laughter and jokes that rose in decibel level, stoked by slugs from the vodka bottle being passed around. Petrov, who was dressed for combat like the others, dabbed paint on his cheek, hiding his scar, and made a remark in Russian that provoked great hilarity among his men. One man started to howl and pounded him on the back with sufficient force to break the rib cage of an average person.

Petro grabbed the bottle and came over to Austin and Zavala.

Austin said, "Sounds like amateur night at the Kremlin Comedy Club. What was the big joke?"

Petrov laughed and offered the vodka.

Austin declined and Zavala said, "Thanks, I'm a tequila man."

Petrov seemed more in his element than Austin had ever seen him. "I reminded my men of an old Russian proverb: 'Live with wolves, howl like a wolf.' " Noting Austin's blank look, he said, "It's like your saying about birds of a feather." Seeing that his explanation still fell short, Petrov said, "I'll explain later." He daubed Austin's forehead and cheeks with paint, Indian fashion. "Now you're properly prepared for action."

"Thanks, Ivan," Austin said, completing the job. "Sure you're up to a field operation?"

"Are you implying that I'm too old? As I recall, I'm a month younger than – "

"I know," Austin said. "My dossier: Don't be so touchy. I was thinking about your injuries from our fun night in Boston Harbor."

"A wonderful battle. I will never forget the way you swung over the deck like Tarzan of the apes. I have a few scratches. Nothing that would slow me down."

Austin jerked his head toward Petrov's men. "Hope the same goes for your men. Maybe we should give them Breathalyzer tests."

Petrov dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "I would trust any of those men with my life, drunk or sober. You worry too much. A few shots of vodka before battle is a tradition in the Russian military. It was the secret weapon we used to defeat Napoleon and Hitler. When the time comes, my bandits will carry out the mission with precision and courage."

Austin glanced toward a young sailor who had stepped through the door. "Looks like that time is now, Ivan."

The seeds of the joint operation had been hatched after Austin had returned to his office following the White House meeting. Petrov had been waiting for him. When Austin described the plan, Petrov immediately volunteered his men to board the yacht. Austin checked with Sandecker, who liked the idea and got an okay from the vice-president. Russians boarding a Russian yacht would add another layer of insulation between the mission and the president.

The sailor surveyed the painted faces, trying to pick out someone in command. Austin waved him over.

"Captain says we're ready anytime you are."

Petrov barked a command to his men. The transformation was startling. The horseplay came to a halt and the bottle of vodka vanished. The grins were replaced by firm jaws and stony expressions of determination. Hands reached for automatic weapons, and a chorus of metallic clicks echoed throughout the room as loads were checked. Within seconds, the ragtag gang had changed into a fierce-eyed fighting force.

Ivan gave Austin an I-told-you-so smirk. "After you," he said.

Austin grabbed the pack holding his Bowen, and with Zavala and the others behind him, followed the sailor to the control room. Captain Madison lifted his eyes from the periscope and said, "We surface in exactly three minutes. The target is one hundred yards away. Seas look fairly calm. You're in luck, the clouds are covering the moon."

"Thank you for allowing my men the use of your vessel, Captain," Petrov said.

Madison scratched his head. "This is a first for me, but if your country and mine can cooperate in space, why not under the sea?" He turned to Austin. "Someone at NUMA's got a lot of pull. It's not anyone who can yank a U.S. Navy missile sub off its usual patrol for what seems to be, if you'll pardon the expression, a renegade special-ops mission."

The four-hundred-twenty-five-foot Benjamin Franklin was one of four subs in its class that had been recruited because it was equipped for special operations. Even Sandecker's considerable influence wouldn't have superseded naval orders without approval, however masked, from the highest level.

Austin said, "This mission wouldn't have gotten off the ground if it weren't crucial."

"Good luck, then," the captain said. "We'll standby as long as we have to. Call us when you need a lift home."

"You'll be the first to know." Austin went over to a bank of computer screens.

"We're heading out, Hiram," he said.

Yaeger sat in front of a keyboard where one of the sub's electronics people was explaining the vessel's computer setup. Sandecker had been reluctant to let Yaeger go on the mission, but Austin had pressed his case, saying that Hiram's computer expertise could be vital. The admiral relented after Austin had said he would bring Yaeger aboard only if the yacht's control center had been secured.

Yaeger shook hands with Austin and wished him good luck. "I'm still working to decipher the last piece of code," he said. "I'll let you know if I break through the wall."

At a signal from Austin, Petrov gave his men a series of commands. The boarding party made its way through the sub and crowded into the space under the loading hatch. A crewman climbed a ladder and opened the hatch cover, letting in a cold spray. Austin and Zavala went first, climbing through the hatch to emerge on the deck behind the sail. Petrov's men joined them and passed up two large plastic canisters. The canisters were opened, and compressed air hissed into the inflatable boats inside. The sub's crewman whispered, "Good luck," and the hatch cover closed with a soft clunk.

Moonlight, filtered by the clouds, gave the sea a dark pewter cast. The tall sail, with its horizontal hydroplanes, looked like a giant robot from a science-fiction movie. Austin squinted through the gloom at the silhouetted yacht. Unlike its appearance in Boston Harbor, where it had been lit up like a Mississippi riverboat, the yacht was dark, except for a few lights on its radio masts and the yellow glow of cabin windows.

The satellites had watched the yacht change its course along the coast of Maine and head south, until it finally stopped off the coast of Massachusetts about fifty miles from the Ataman Explorer /, which was due-east of Boston. The other two Ataman ships had halted eastward of Charleston and Miami.

The men grabbed their paddles, pushed the boats off the slippery deck into the water and clambered aboard. Donning their night-vision goggles, they silently dipped their paddles, using precise strokes that propelled the bobbing craft through the mounding seas.

The cool air stabbed like an ice pick through Austin's layers of clothing and he almost regretted not taking a slug of vodka himself to warm his innards. He turned and looked back at the sub, which had slipped under the sea with hardly a gurgle. The sub would remain on station with only a few feet of its conning tower above the surface.

Within minutes, the boats were nudging the towering steel walls that formed the ship's sides. Austin felt like a minnow next to a whale. Ordinarily, he would say that the odds against the mission were considerable, but Max had leveled the playing field. As Yaeger had poked around in the yacht's electronic nervous system, he'd come across two very important connections. The first was the vessel's troubleshooting program. It was similar to the visual displays used in cars, only far more sophisticated. The system could tell the people running the yacht the status of the watertight doors, and the performance of the gas turbines, power flow and the other electronic veins and sinews that kept the ship running. Most important, Yaeger had located the central control room. Everyone in the raiding party carried a water– proof map of the ship, based on Max's snooping.

The second breakthrough was more prosaic but equally important. The yacht's payroll records had the names and titles of practically everyone on board. Since the yacht served as Razov's home and corporate center, he had a full complement of housekeeping staff, cooks, bookkeepers, accountants and secretaries. The ship's crew was unexpectedly small, indicating that the vessel was loaded with automated systems. Austin's interest had centered on a category that Petrov had translated to mean: "nonregular crew." In other words, Razov's private shipboard army of thugs, like those who had come after Austin in Boston Harbor. There were fifty of them, and their ruthlessness and loyalty were not to I be ignored. Petrov insisted that the odds were nothing his men couldn't handle.

Stealth would be their primary weapon. They would silently slip aboard the yacht and race to the control center, which they would destroy with well-placed explosives. Opposition would be quietly neutralized. If they had to fight their way out, they had enough firepower and the element of surprise to put them on an even footing. At the same time, Austin and Petrov were realists. They knew that the odds of discovery were high, and casualties were likely on both sides. But given the stakes involved, it would be worth the losses.

The night-vision goggles the boarding party wore gave the ship and the sea a greenish tinge. Austin could see the water-level door he and Kaela had entered to attend Razov's party. It would be too risky trying to gain access through that door because the open portal would show up on the ship's visual display. Instead, they would employ the time-tested method used by pirates, castle stormers arid commandos alike. Grappling hooks. In their folded position, the hooks were tucked into metal tubes. When the grapple was launched like a mortar round, the hooks opened. The prongs were covered with foam rubber so that even someone standing a few yards away wouldn’t hear them grab onto the rail of a ship.

Two grapples shot out of their mortars with quiet coughs of compressed air. The lines were tested. The ropes were taut, indicating that the grapples had engaged. Petrov's men pointed guns equipped with silencers toward the rail where anyone looking over would get a rude surprise. All was quiet, and they moved on to the next phase of the operation.

Austin and Petrov made the first ascent, not an easy task with their packs. They lunged awkwardly over the rail, surveyed the deck and saw it was deserted, then signaled the others to come aboard. Within minutes they were squatting on the deck like a flock of black and heavily armed ducks. Two men stayed with the boats.

The raiding party split in half. The group led by Austin took the starboard side. Those under Petrov's command crossed to the port side. Both units would advance and meet at a ladder at the base of the bridge. From there, the plan was to climb three decks to the control center located in a small room behind the wheelhouse. At this hour, only a skeleton crew should be manning the bridge. Austin gave Petrov the okay sign. Crouching low, their guns at the ready, both groups began to move forward.

Austin was encouraged at their swift progress, but they had just passed the grand salon where Razov had held his Boston bash, when a door opened without warning. Light spilled onto the deck, flaring in their night-vision goggles, Austin pushed the goggles back on his head and saw one of Razov's guards standing like a deer frozen in the headlights. The man clutched a bottle of vodka and his arm was around the shoulders of a young woman in a maid's uniform, his hand under the unbuttoned front of her dress. Her dyed red hair hung down over her face, and her bright lipstick was smeared. Austin realized he had provided for every eventuality except the human libido.

The man's drunken grin faded at the sight of the intruders with their painted faces and automatic weapons. As a professional gunman he knew exactly what was expected of him: silence. His female companion had no such restraint. Her mouth opened wide, and she let out an ear-piercing scream. Her lung power was opera-star level. Her second shriek was even louder, the howl easily drowning Austin's curses. She finally ran out of breath, her eyes rolled up and she crumpled to the deck in a faint.

As the echoes faded, the ship lit up like a pinball machine. Doors flew open at every level, and yells seemed to come from all directions. There was the sound of running feet and rough voices shouting orders, with a few more high-pitched screams thrown in for variety. Those were only the preliminaries. A second later, all hell broke loose.

35

THE SIKORSKY HH 60-H Seahawk helicopters raced side by side over the ocean like twin Valkyries, skimming so low their landing gear was splashed with spume from the cresting wave tops. The aircraft were painted in low-visibility gray, their insignia and markings toned down and almost invisible.

As he stared out the window of the right-hand helicopter, the platoon commander, Navy Lieutenant Zack Mason, reflected on the urgent phone call from Washington and the orders to scramble a special warfare task unit for a secret mission.

With his classic profile and soft-spoken manner, Mason could have passed for an investment banker. Under the patrician looks was a tough and competent warrior who had not simply survived the rugged SEAL training, but thrived on it. Still only in his thirties, Mason had been involved in missions that ranged from an aborted plan to shoot down Saddam Hussein's helicopter to security at the Olympics in Atlanta.

Officially, he was the leader of a SEAL group on the East Coast. Unofficially, he was liaison to the Joint Special Operations Command, an amalgam of SEALs, Delta Force and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment known as SOAR. The shadow force maintained its own helicopter support. The assault teams specialized in attacking at-sea targets such as shipping or oil rigs. The joint command was authorized to conduct preemptive strikes against terrorists and terrorism.

The orders for the mission had bypassed the normal links in the chain of command. This job had been directly authorized by the secretary of the navy, who had handed the problem off to the admiral in command of the Naval Special Warfare Command in Coronado, California. The admiral had been told to avoid the usual red tape, and have the operations decisions made at the lowest possible level. Mason would report directly to Coronado from the field.

After Sandecker talked to him, Sid Sparkman had gone to the president and told him the truth about his connection to Ataman. He'd admitted to being seduced by the chance to make billions of dollars, but he'd said he had no inkling of Razov's plans against the United States. He'd handed in his written resignation, to be announced at the pleasure of the president. And he had offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb. If the operation blew up in their faces, Sparkman would take responsibility for the rogue action to contain the damage. Ever the pragmatist, the president pocketed the resignation, accepted Sparkman's offer and told him to call the naval secretary.

Based in Little Creek, Virginia, Mason's SEAL team was chosen because it had been trained in boarding a ship at sea. The mission goal was simple: Swarm aboard the ship without warning and deactivate a bomb. Mason knew that reaching that goal would be the hard part.

"Coming up on target," the pilot said, with a lazy drawl, interrupting Mason's meditations. "T minus ten minutes."

Despite his calm demeanor, Mason couldn't avoid the adrenaline rush and excitement of a SEAL mission. He was what was known as an "operator," one who had joined the navy for action. He glanced at his Chase-Durer Swiss watch, turned and gave the men behind him a ten-fingered signal like a basketball player making a two-handed free throw.

Dressed in black uniforms, their exposed faces streaked with war paint, the SEALs were barely visible in the cabin's dim light. As an elite force, SEALs were given leeway in dress and weapon. Some wore "drive-on rags," Rambo-style around their heads, others the more traditional floppy hats with the brim turned up at front.

There was a rustle as the SEALs patted the pouches of their assault vests and laid reassuring hands on their automatic weapons. Most in the team carried Colt automatic rifles, the shortened version of the M-16 that fired rounds with no cartridges, allowing them to carry more ammunition. One man, who was built like a bull, carried the M-60 E3, a light machine gun that normally requires two men to operate. Another was armed with a 12-gauge shotgun whose slugs could penetrate metal. In addition to his own rifle, the explosives expert carried a rucksack that contained C-4 plastic charges and fuses.

Mason commanded the sixteen-man platoon that would board the starboard side. His executive officer, "2IC," for second in command, headed the group that would secure the port deck. No matter how heavily armed they were, thirty-two men composed a small attack force for a target as huge as the Ataman Explorer. The last thing the SEALs wanted to do was get into a firefight with a vastly superior force. Their main weapon would be surprise; their allies would be confusion and shock.

"Comm check," Mason said. Like the men in his platoon, he carried a Motorola MX300 radio with throat mike and earpiece. The men answered in order of their seating. Mason counted the answers. Sixteen. Everyone was connected. His 2IC called in from the other helicopter. He and his men were ready.

Mason slipped a cell phone out of his assault vest and punched out a number. The phone used a special encryption algorithm that connected Mason directly to the other assault teams.

As Mason's unit headed due east of Boston at the chopper's maximum speed of one hundred forty-five miles per hour, the other squadrons were on similar missions to the south. The Delta Force was in the group off of Charleston, South Carolina, and an air force special operations regiment was in the southernmost track east of Miami. On this mission, the navy would be in charge. Which meant Mason was calling the shots. If he got taken out of action, the Delta leader would take charge, then the SOAR officer.

"This is Omega One," he said. "Come in, Omega Two."

"Omega Two, and how are you?"

Mason smiled at the bad rhyme. On joint training exercises, he had come to know and respect the Delta Force leader, a wisecracking African-American named Joe Louis, after the great champion boxer.

"We're right on schedule, Joe. T minus ten."

"Roger. Hey, Zack, couldn't the navy brass come up with something more imaginative than Omega. Maybe something like the Three Bears?"

"Doubt if the admiral would like being called Goldilocks. Besides, it was the air force's turn to name this mission."

"Figures. Fly boys. T minus eight."

"Call when you make visual contact."

"When we do, I will call you. Over and out."

Mason punched another button and got Will Carmichael, leader of Omega Three. In contrast to Louis, Carmichael went by the book. Even his spontaneous comments seemed to be programmed. He reported that his team was right on schedule, then added, "Pieceacake."

Mason knew from hard experience that dropping out of the sky onto a huge and possibly heavily armed moving ship in open ocean and disarming an unknown explosive was not exactly a piece of cake. They had rehearsed boarding vessels at sea dozens of times, but this was the real McCoy. The mission depended on delaying detection until the last possible moment. The HH 60-H helicopter was ideal for the job. It was relatively quiet, had an infrared jammer and suppressor system, a radar threat-warning receiver and other electronic eyes and ears. In addition, the helicopter had sharp teeth: two M-60 machine guns and a Hellfire missile system.

"T minus four," the pilot's voice droned.

Mason turned and held up four fingers. It was an unnecessary gesture because all his men were plugged into the helicopter's communications system, but he did it for emphasis. The tension was so thick he could have cut it with the knife at his belt. It seemed only seconds passed before the pilot said, "Visual contact."

Mason donned his night-vision goggles and ordered his platoon to do the same. He made out the silhouette of an enormous ship plowing wake through the sea. He called the other teams to report visual contact. Both had sighted their targets. He said he would call as soon as he was aboard the LZ, military shorthand for landing zone, and quickly slipped his phone back into its pouch.

They were seconds away from their target. At the last moment, when it seemed as if they were going to slam into the side of the ship, the Seahawks cut their speed, swooped up and over the vessel and hovered over each side of the wide stern deck. Thermal-imaging viewers scanned the ship for heat areas that would indicate human presence. Satisfied the deck was clear, the pilot maneuvered the aircraft past the masts and antennae and hovered at fifty feet.

Every man knew that this was when the teams were at their most vulnerable. As they had practiced dozens of times, the SEALs dropped a two-inch-thick rope that was secured to the hoist bracket down to the deck, then they donned heavy welder gloves. Mason stood in the door, got a good grip on the line and jumped. Using the upper body strength that was a product of rigorous SEAL training, he checked his controlled fall before his feet touched the deck, quickly moving aside to avoid the next man down.

Both helicopters were emptied within ninety seconds. As soon as they hit the deck, the boarders threw their gloves away. The first four men down adopted a circular formation that was reinforced as the others joined them. The helicopters darted off like startled dragonflies and hovered a few hundred yards from the ship on either side. They would await the word that the ship had been secured, or that the mission had failed. Their orders were to evacuate the assault team and sink the ship with well-placed missiles.

Mason swept his eyes around. He was glad to see that the ordnance expert, Joe Baron, had made it safely. Mason could handle explosives in a pinch, but Baron was a pro. The lieutenant pulled a light stick from his vest and snapped it back and forth so that the chemicals inside mixed and glowed a cold blue. He waved the light stick to let the port team know all was well. His signal was returned a second later. Radio talk would be kept to a minimum as they swept the ship from one end to the other.

Mason got on his cell phone. "Omega Three. Stern LZ secured. No assets encountered. Report in, Omega Two."

"Omega Two. Stern secured. No one home, so we will roam."

"This is Omega One. Proceed according to plan and cut out the lousy poetry."

"Roger," Louis answered, although it must have killed him not to say "Dodger."

"Omega Three. All A-OK."

Mason ordered the teams forward. They broke into two squads on both sides. One squad formed the base element, taking up firing positions to protect the other group as it raced forward. Then the assault team became the fire team and the other squad leapfrogged ahead in a maneuver that quickly covered ground.

Within minutes, they had rendezvoused in the bow of the ship with the port team. Mason ordered his 2IC to probe the bridge and superstructure while he took his squad to the decks below. Using the same leapfrog technique, Mason and his men made rapid progress through the storage areas and holds. They stopped in front of one door that was welded shut. Since they couldn't get in, no one could get out, so they moved on. They burst into the boiler room with guns ready. The engines were going, but there was no sign of boiler men or engineers.

A voice crackled in Mason's earpiece. "Up Squad. Gone through the crew and officers' quarters. Beds all made. No one here. Spooky as hell."

"Boiler room. Engines are purring away. No one here either."

The squads continued into the ship, and still they encountered no one. After a thorough search, they climbed back to the main deck.

The voice of the 2IC came onto Mason's radio. "Lieu– tenant, I think you should get up to the bridge as quickly as possible."

Moving quickly, Mason led his team to the wheelhouse. On the way, they passed men who were stationed on the decks and wings of the bridge keeping watch.

"Anything?" Mason said to the man who carried the shotgun.

"No, sir."

Mason made his way into the wheelhouse. The 2IC and several of his team were waiting for him. Nothing seemed out of place. "What did you want to show me?"

"This is it, sir. Nothing. There's nobody here."

As he looked around at the computer monitors glowing with blue light and the blinking faces of the digital readouts, the truth dawned on Mason. He and his men were the only human beings on the great ship.

CALLS WERE COMING in from the other Omega teams. Louis and Carmichael reported that the Ataman II and III were deserted. As he listened to the reports, Mason detected a change in the ship's movement. He was sure of it. The ship had stopped its forward motion. He went over to the big window that overlooked the deck and stared out into the darkness. Something was definitely happening. He couldn't be sure, but the ship seemed to be moving laterally.

"Lieutenant," one of his men called. "Look at this." The man was standing in front of a large computer monitor. Pictured on the screen was what looked like an archery target. The image of a ship was slightly off to one side of the bull's-eye. The ship was turning on its axis as it moved closer to the center of the concentric circles. Red lights flashed intermittently on both sides of the ship image. The situation became clear to Mason in an instant. The ship was a drone. The vessel and its sister ships were being controlled from another location.

Mason ordered his 2IC to secure the bridge and called the choppers and told them to land. Then he instructed Joe Baron to assemble with the squad members trained in explosives on the foredeck. He called the other Omega teams and instructed them to proceed to the main objective, the bombs. Mason raced down to the first level and led the way inside the ship, with Baron and the other SEALs pounding down the stairs behind him until they came to the sealed door they had seen on their first exploration.

The lieutenant checked their location against the ship's diagram. They were outside the bomb chamber. Baron got to work right away and taped strips of plastic explosive C-4 onto the door. He inserted the blasting cap into the puttylike material and ran an attached wire around a corner. Mason and the other men cleared out of the area and squatted a safe distance away, with their hands covering their ears. Baron squeezed the M-57 firing device attached to the other end of the wire. A loud, hollow thump echoed through the passageway. They rushed back to the smoking door, now marked by a ragged-edged square hole. Baron, who was as skinny as an eel, easily wriggled through. The others handed their packs to Baron, then squeezed through the opening after him. Flashlight beams stabbed the darkness. Then someone found a wall switch, and the chamber was flooded with light.