Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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4

HIGH ABOVE THE overturned Zodiac, a turquoise aircraft that resembled a winged canoe wheeled in a lazy circle. The broad-shouldered man at the controls rolled the ultralight airplane into a tight banking turn and peered down through tinted goggles, squinting against the reflected glare with eyes the color of coral underwater. His wind-burnished face was creased in a look of puzzlement.

Moments before, he had seen swimmers in the water next to the overturned inflatable. He glanced away to get his bearings, and when he looked again the swimmers were gone.

Kurt Austin had been chasing the Zodiac like an aerial motorcycle cop hot on the tail of a speeder, and had seen the boat flip over. He couldn't figure out why it had gone out of control. The seas were moderate, and no rocks or other submerged objects were visible. Austin wondered if the inflatable, or the fishing boat he had seen steaming away from the coast, had anything to do with the television crew he was looking for. Probably not. The crew should be on its way to meet the NUMA survey ship Argo, not heading for this desolate stretch.

Austin was aboard the Argo as a deep-ocean consultant on loan from his duties as leader of NUMA's Special Assignments Team. The other members of the team, Joe Zavala and Paul and Gamay Trout, had been given different and undemanding assignments in scattered projects around the globe. NUMA director James Sandecker had insisted that they take working vacations after the team had crossed swords with the hired killers of a megacorporation that wanted to take over the freshwater resources of the world. He had been particularly worried about Austin's attachment to the beautiful, brilliant Brazilian scientist who had sacrificed herself to bring down the conspiracy.

The Argo was in the Black Sea, collecting information on wave and wind action for an international data bank. With his master's degree in systems management from the University of Washington and his vast practical knowledge as a diver and undersea investigator, Austin had been invaluable in helping to set up the sophisticated remote-sensing survey instruments.

As the cruise had gone on and systems were set in place, however, his expertise became less necessary. He read some philosophy books he'd brought from his extensive library, but he started to grow bored and restless. The ship seemed like a prison surrounded by a very wide moat. Austin was aware that his psyche had been bruised and that Sandecker had his best interests at heart, but he needed strenuous physical and mental activity, not a cruise ship atmosphere.

The serious scientists aboard the ship had been grumbling about the impending visit from the TV crew. They saw them as intruders who would interrupt their work with dumb questions. The fact that they were from a tabloid show on a mission to find Noah's ark didn't add to their appeal. Austin's outlook was the exact opposite. He looked forward to their arrival as a diversion from his shipboard boredom.

The television people had been due that morning, but they'd never arrived and attempts to reach them by radio were unsuccessful. After lunch, Austin had climbed to the wheelhouse to run an idea past the skipper. The Argo's commander, Captain Joe Atwood, was clearly annoyed at the TV crew's failure to show up or contact his ship. He'd paced from one side of the bridge to the other, scanning the sea with binoculars. The Argo was supposed to be moving to another station, and the captain was unhappy about the delay.

"Any word on our guests?" Austin said, although he knew from Atwood's dour expression what the answer would be.

Atwood scowled at his watch. "I think they're lost," he declared sharply. "The next time those idiots in public affairs want me to entertain some crazy TV people, I'm going to tell them to stick their request where the sun don't shine."

The captain was in no mood to be told that the job done by NUMA's public affairs department in proclaiming the agency's accomplishments helped loosen the congressional purse strings and attracted grants for projects like the Black Sea survey.

"I've got a suggestion," Austin volunteered. "I'm not busy. What say I take a spin around the neighborhood and see if I can spot them?"

The captain's frown dissolved into a knowing grin. "You're not fooling me, Austin. You've wanted to get the Gooney into the air since the day you stepped aboard."

"It would serve a dual purpose. I could test-fly the bird and look for our wayward guests at the same time." And it would be a perfect antidote for his developing case of cabin fever.

Atwood ran his fingers through his pale red hair. "Okay, pal. Go for it. But keep us appraised of your position every few minutes. I've got enough trouble with those missing TV types. I don't want to chase you allover the Black Sea as well."

Austin thanked the captain, and, with a noticeable spring in his step, went down to get the Gooney ready. The ultralight seaplane had been developed as a way to extend a boat's visual reach. The radar that most NUMA ships carried could pick up a gnat at ten miles, but at times there was no substitute for the human eye. Joe Zavala, whose mechanical mind bordered on brilliant, had designed the aircraft. Zavala had asked Austin to take the plane aboard the Argo to test it under real-life conditions, but the ship had been on the go for most of its mission and Austin had been reluctant to ask the captain for time to make a test flight.

The single-seat plane was named after the gooney bird, the nickname sailors gave the albatross, a seabird known for its exquisite beauty in flight, and clumsiness taking off and landing. Austin inspected the aircraft in its deck hangar. The stubby, ungainly appearance didn't bother him. Austin had flown ultralights before, and what was important was stability and ease of operation.

The letters NUMA were painted in black on the side. The flat-bottomed fiberglass hull had an upturned canoe nose, and fiberglass floats supported by aluminum struts hung from both sides of the hull. Attached to the floats and flanking the hull was the manually operated retractable landing gear that allowed the Gooney to set down on waterways or runways.

The plane was hauled out onto the deck and its narrow, thirty-foot Dacron-covered wings were unfolded and locked in place. Austin eased into the snug cockpit, and some of the Argo's crew pushed the Gooney down the ship's broad, slanting stem ramp into the sea. Austin started the power plant, threw off the safety line and taxied to open water to get the feel of the controls. The aircraft handled well on water, and he decided to see what it would do in the air. He pointed the Gooney down an imaginary airstrip and gave it the throttle.

Powered by the compact forty-horsepower engine, the Gooney got on plane quickly with no skidding. The aircraft skimmed the wave tops for about a hundred feet, then lifted into the air and climbed until it was above the survey ship. Austin circled the Argo once, tipped his wings in salute, then headed in a line toward the Bosporus Strait that connected the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. He reasoned that the TV people, based in Istanbul, would be coming from that direction.

The Rotax two-stroke, twin-cylinder engine driving the rear-mounted propeller could push the blunt-nosed plane at a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour. Not exactly supersonic, but the plane handled like a dream, turning, climbing and diving without a hint of a stall. Austin felt as free as the seabirds he'd seen wheeling high above the Argo in search of scraps from the galley. He flew at about a thousand feet, an altitude that allowed him to see miles in every direction, cruising at fifty-five miles per hour. The five-gallon tank gave the plane a range of about one hundred and fifty miles.

The air was as clear as fine crystal, and the bright sun cast a silvery sheen on the rippled surface of the water. He set up a rough search pattern, running a series of parallel lines that would cover the greatest amount of territory in the shortest time. The TV people had sent a short radio message before they'd left Istanbul, requesting the Argo's position and giving their estimated time of arrival. They said they would be traveling on a fishing boat. Austin saw a number of trawlers, but none appeared to be on a direct course for the Argo.

The back-and-forth flight pattern quickly used up his fuel. He was down to a third of a tank, enough to get back to the ship with a narrow margin of error. He checked his compass and was about to turn back to the ship, when he spotted the wake of a boat approaching the Russian coast at a high rate of speed. Curiosity got the best of him, and he decided to make a swing close to land. He brought the Gooney down so that he was flying less than five hundred feet over the water, and had almost caught up with the boat when suddenly it was caught by a wave and flipped over.

As Austin circled, pondering his next step, he noticed that the capsized inflatable was behaving oddly. Although it was caught in the pull of waves, it was moving toward shore at an angle.

Austin picked up his microphone and clicked the On button.

"Gooney to NUMA ship Argo. Come in, please."

"Argo here." Austin recognized the voice of the ship's captain. "How's the little seabird handle?" Atwood said.

"Like a trained pterodactyl. She practically flies herself. I'm just along for the ride."

"Glad to hear that. Any sign of those unbelievable TV idiots from Unbelievable Mysteries?"

Keeping his eye on the boat below, Austin said, "The only mystery out here is an overturned Zodiac. I saw some people hanging on to it, but they're gone."

"What's your position?"

"I'm right off the coast." Austin scanned a craggy point of land that jutted into the sea. "I'm looking at some medium-high sea cliffs, with a beach and dunes in between them. There's a rock profile on a headland that reminds me of Admiral Sandecker's profile. Beard and all."

"I'll ask the navigator. He's sailed these waters hundreds of times." After a pause, the voice came back. "That's Imam's Point. Supposedly the face of an old holy man."

"The boat's drifted into the surf line. Too rough for me to set down at sea."

"What do you want us to do?"

"I'm going down for a peek. I'm going to need help if I find anyone. The Gooney wasn't made to carry passengers."

"We're on our way. ETA in about an hour."

"Roger. Will land and see if I can find a bar that serves decent Stoli martini."

Austin clicked off the mike and checked the boat again. He smiled tightly. He hadn't been imagining things. Three swimmers had broken away from the Zodiac and were stroking toward the beach.

The ultralight landed best into the wind, which was coming off the water. Austin dropped down to a hundred feet and headed toward shore, setting his sights on a long rolling dune overlooking the beach. He intended to make a U-turn over the dune and bring the aircraft down lightly onto the sand.

The Gooney flew over the figures struggling through the surf. The swimmers were making good progress, riding the crests to save their strength. Austin had a brief glimpse of some low-lying buildings inland, but a brilliant flash of light from the ground caught his eye. The Gooney could turn on a dime. Taking advantage of its quick handling, Austin pushed the rudder control. The plane seemed to spin in midair, and he had a clear view of the shallow valley behind the dune.

Hidden behind the dune were a dozen mounted men spread out in a single line with swords held high in the air. The silvery-red brightness Austin had seen was the sun reflecting off the sword blades. The Gooney's sudden and noisy appearance startled the horses, however, and they milled around in fright while the riders fought to bring them under control. Austin only caught a glimpse of the scene as he passed directly overhead, then he was above the beach again. The swimmers were only moments from shore.

Suddenly, pieces of Dacron began flying past his face. The horsemen were carrying more than swords. The wing over Austin's head looked as if a tiger was sharpening its claws in the fabric-someone on the beach was shooting at him. The thin fiberglass cockpit was no protection against bullets. Even worse, Austin was practically sitting on the Gooney's gas tank. The shots were high, but one lucky round in the propeller would drop him like a wounded duck. He pushed forward on the stick, and the plane dove. Even wearing earphones, he heard the sharp thwack of a bullet striking one of the hollow aluminum struts that connected the cockpit to the wings. He felt a sharp sting on his right temple. A splinter of flying metal had hit him, and blood was trickling down his face. He was wearing a neckerchief, and he pulled it up around his fore– head to catch the blood.

The same volley that had also hit the strut had shattered a fiberglass wing float. Austin jammed the stick as far forward as it would go, and the ultralight dropped like a run-away elevator and tilted dangerously, the plane thrown off– balance by the loss of the float. Austin had to compensate by leaning his weight to one side. He flew out to sea until he was out of range, then put the plane into a turn that took him parallel to the shore.

The swimmers had hit the sand on their bellies when the gunfire broke out. Now they were up again and running along the water's edge. He picked out a slim, dark-skinned woman and two men, one short and the other tall. As they ran, they glanced over their shoulders, trying to keep an eye on the Gooney, only to see the mounted men crest the dune with swords raised. Spurred on by the new threat, the trio dug their feet in, but it was impossible to run faster in the soft sand. The mounted men would make short work of die defenseless runners caught between them and the deep blue sea. The open expanse of beach offered no shelter. It was a perfect killing field.

The horsemen spurred their mounts and galloped along the dune to outflank their prey. Austin reached into an emergency chest behind his seat and pulled out the Orion 25– millimeter signal kit for offshore boats. He fit one of the 10,000-candIepower Red Meteors into the pistol launcher. Then he cranked up the throttle to full speed. Wobbling dangerously because of the damage, the Gooney hurtled toward the beach at sixty-five miles per hour.

The runners dove onto their bellies again as the ultralight buzzed overhead like a large, angry hornet. Austin was operating on pure reflex, more machine than man. Holding the control stick between his knees, he leaned around the curved Plexiglas sheet that served as a windshield and sighted on the center of the mounted line. He squeezed the trigger and the flare streaked toward the horsemen like a miniature comet.

The awkward angle of the aircraft threw Austin's aim off. The missile struck the dune a few feet below the grassy crest and exploded in a bright scarlet shower. The horses nearest to the fiery burst reared in panic. Those animals that managed to maintain their calm lost it as the plane grazed their heads like a giant buzzing insect.

Austin made a quick turn for a second run. The chaotic scene atop the dune reminded him of the famous Picasso mural, Guernica. It was hard to know where the horses ended and their riders began. He smiled grimly and slid an– other flare into the launch gun. Again he came in, attacking from the rear this time.

A ragged hole surrounded by a lacework of cracks appeared in the windshield. One of the riders had gotten off a lucky shot. Austin felt the bullet whistle by his ear. He made a superhuman effort to keep a grip on his concentration as he aimed the pistol and squeezed the trigger.

The second flare streaked toward the confusing mass of horse and human bodies and slammed into a rider with a burst of red phosphorus. He fell from his horse and was dragged off with one foot still caught in the stirrup.

The beach flashed by in a blur, and again Austin was out to sea. He came around at an angle until he was behind the dune once more. The grass was on fife and black smoke billowed into the sky. Riders who had been thrown by their mounts were trying to roll out of the way to avoid being trampled. Others had dismounted and held tightly to the reins as they tried to calm the terrified animals. The horses bumped into one another, and the contact only served to increase their terror.

A lone horseman broke away from the others and spurred his mount into a gallop. Kaela and her friends heard the thunder of hooves and turned to see the rider bearing down on them with sword held high. Austin swung around until he was facing the horseman. He brought up the flare gun, but had a problem keeping it steady for proper aim. Instead, he put the Gooney into a low dive that took him a few feet above the heads of the runners and aimed directly at the horseman, a big man with a flowing red beard. At the last second, Austin pulled up. The float missed the man's head by inches. The horse whinnied in terror and broke into a wild run. The rider struggled to hang on as the horse took matters into its own hooves, climbed the dune and chased after the other riders, who had lost their stomach for the at– tack and were galloping for the woods.

Meanwhile, Austin was fighting a losing battle to keep the damaged plane level. He sat half out of the cockpit, like someone hiking out on an angled sailboat, gritted his teeth – and braced himself for the hard landing that he knew was coming.

5

KAELA DORN HELD her breath as the strange little aircraft plunged from the sky in a spiraling tailspin. At the last second, the plane swung up in a wild G-force swoop. It soared and dipped like a kite on a string, then leveled off, although the wings quivered and the aircraft pitched and yawed as if it were on an invisible roller coaster.

The pilot finally brought the plane under a semblance of control and put it in a landing glide. He held it steady, but before he could touch down, the left wing dipped sharply and dug into the soft sand. The wing snapped off where it joined the fuselage and the plane slammed into the beach at an angle, skidding several yards before it came to a jarring halt, tail section high in the air. The engine shut down, and the beach was suddenly quiet except for the lap of waves and the crackle of burning grass.

The reporter and her colleagues stared like zombies at the plane wreck. They were too exhausted to move, drained by their swim to shore, still panting from the run for their lives. Kaela was in the best shape of the three, and her legs felt like putty. When the stubby plane had first appeared, they hadn't known whether it was friend or foe, but there had been no question as to the intentions of the horsemen with their wild yells and drawn swords: They had been out for blood. The plane looked like a bird that had flown into a fan, and it seemed impossible that its pilot could have escaped without harm, but someone moved in the cockpit. The pilot got one leg, then another over the cockpit combing and climbed out.

He seemed to be all right as he walked around the aircraft, hands on hips, inspecting the damage. He kicked a buckled wheel as if he were checking out a used car and shook his head. Then he turned to the television crew, gave them a friendly wave, and started in their direction, walking with a slight limp.

Lombardo and Dundee moved in and stood protectively at Kaela's sides. She was more interested in appraising the stranger. He was tall, slightly over six feet, and the broad powerful shoulders of a nightclub bouncer filled out the navy sweatshirt. He wore tan shorts, and his muscular legs looked as if they could propel the husky body through a brick wall. As he came closer, he removed his baseball cap to reveal his steel gray, almost platinum hair. His bronzed face was unlined, except for laugh crinkles around the eyes and mouth. She guessed his age at around forty. Dried blood dripped down one cheek and soaked the bandanna around his forehead. The aircraft landing must have been hair-raising, yet he seemed as if he were coming off a game of tennis.

"Good afternoon," he said, with a wide grin. "Are you folks okay?"

"Yes, we're fine, thank you," Kaela replied warily. "What about you? You're bleeding."

He touched the wound absentmindedly. "It's only a little cut. I'm still in one piece, more or less." He jerked his thumb at the battered ultralight. "Wish I could say the same for my transportation. They just don't make them like they used to. You don't happen to have a roll of duct tape?"

Kaela ventured a smile. "Your plane has gone beyond the duct tape stage," she said. "I believe the term insurance people use is totaled."

The stranger grimaced. "I'm afraid you're right, Ms.– "

"Dorn. Kaela Dorn. This is my producer, Mickey Lombardo, and his assistant, Hank Simpson. We're with the Unbelievable Mysteries television series."

"I thought so. My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with NUMA."

"NUMA." Lombardo stepped forward and pumped Austin's hand. "Boy, are we glad to see you. Lucky you came by."

"It was more than luck," Austin said. "I've been looking for you folks. You were supposed to rendezvous with the Argo this morning."

"Sorry about that," Lombardo said. "We took a detour to check out an old Russian submarine base that's supposed to be around here."

"The captain of the Argo isn't too happy. You've delayed his departure schedule. It might have saved us some grief if you had let us know that your plans had changed." Austin was smiling, but the gentle scolding tone of his voice was unmistakable.

"It's my fault," Kaela said. "We thought we'd only be a few hours. We intended to call you at sea, but the fishing boat we hired didn't have a workable radio. The captain had to return to port for engine repairs, and he planned to get the radio fixed and give you a call."

"That must be the fishing boat I saw steaming away from here."

She nodded. "He was going to pick us up in the morning. Thank you for saving our lives. I apologize for putting you through so much trouble."

"No trouble," he said, reluctant to chastise the bedraggled group any further. He gazed at the wrecked aircraft. "Maybe a little trouble. What made your boat capsize?"

"Someone on shore shot at us and killed the Turkish man who was bringing us in," Kaela said. "A wave caught us broadside and the boat went over. We hid under the Zodiac and tried to move it away from the beach, but the surf was too strong and we came almost straight in.” She glanced to– ward the dune where she had first seen the attackers. "Do you know who those men on horseback were?"

Austin didn't reply. Although he seemed to be studying her face, Kaela became aware that her wet T-shirt and shorts clung to her lithe figure. She self-consciously plucked at the sand-caked front of the shirt, but the fabric insisted on plastering itself to her skin. Austin sensed her discomfiture and stared off at the smoke rising from the dune.

"My guess is that they weren't the local equestrian group out for a jaunt," he said. "Let's take a look."

He climbed up the sloping beach, with the others trailing tentatively behind. The fire had almost burned itself out. They walked through the charred stalks of grass at the top of the dune. Austin saw sunlight glinting off something on the ground and went over to investigate. It was a saber. He picked the weapon up and tested the heft and balance. The sword's long, curved blade was perfectly weighted to give the arm greater striking power. Austin's jaw muscles clenched as he contemplated the terrible damage the scalpel-sharp edge could inflict on human flesh. He was examining the Cyrillic writing etched into the blade when the Australian called out. Dundee was standing in a knee-high patch of unburned grass staring at something at his feet.

"What is it?" Austin said.

"Dead guy."

Austin stuck the saber point into the sand and waded through the thatch. Dundee pointed to the body of a man who lay on his back, glassy eyes locked in a death stare. A black beard and mustache matted with sand hid most of his features. He could have been in his forties. His head was twisted at a wrong angle. Blood soaked one side of his face, which had a caved-in look to it.

Austin said, "I'd guess he fell off his horse during the fight and was kicked in the head." He was not a callous man, but he felt no pity for the dead horseman.

Lombardo had retrieved his camera from the beached Zodiac and was filming the battle site. He and Kaela came over to see what the others were looking at. Lombardo let out a low whistle. "What kind of a getup is that?"

Austin knelt by the body. "Looks like something out of The Wizard of Oz."

The dead man wore a long muddy-gray coat that but– toned up the front and baggy pants tucked into black boots. His black fur pillbox hat lay a few feet away. Red epaulets decorated each shoulder. A pistol holster and scabbard hung from the wide leather belt that encircled his waist. Slung across his chest was a cartridge belt. A sheathed dagger hung from a cord around his neck.

"G'dayr' Dundee said with wonderment. “The man's a walking arsenal."

Austin searched the grass around the dead man. A few yards away, he found a rifle and he put the stock against his shoulder and worked the well-oiled bolt. Like the saber blade, the barrel was etched with Cyrillic writing. Austin was a collector of dueling pistols, and he had accumulated a general knowledge of antique guns. The rifle was a Moisin-Nagant, more than a hundred years old, and in mint condition. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that the horsemen weren't carrying modern automatic weapons. A single Kalashnikov would have ripped him and the Gooney to shreds.

Austin handed the rifle off to Dundee and went through the dead man's pockets. Nothing. He unpinned the metal starburst emblem from the front of the hat and pocketed it. Lombardo had finished filming the battle scene, and Kaela suggested shooting some footage around the one-story cinder-block buildings farther inland.

"Not a good idea," Austin said, pointing to the trail of hoofprints leading toward the structures. He'd been worried that the horsemen would make a return appearance, but hadn't said anything because there wasn't much they could do about it. "In fact, I’d suggest that we get out of here as soon as we can." He rested the rifle on his shoulder, retrieved the saber and started walking back toward the beach. Kaela caught up with him on the crest of the dune.

"Do you have any idea what this is all about?" she said breathlessly. "Why these men would want to kill us?"

"You know as much as I do. I thought they were filming a movie until somebody took a few shots at me."

"It's a good thing for us that their aim was bad." She paused. Austin was studying her face the way he had earlier. "Is there anything wrong?"

"I'm almost embarrassed to say."

"I find it hard to believe that you'd be embarrassed. You hardly seem the shy type."

Austin shrugged. "Well, in a manner of speaking, you might say we've met before."

"Sorry, I'm sure I would have remembered."

"Not literally. Believe me when I say this. You bear a striking resemblance to the face of a princess I once saw painted on the wall of an Egyptian temple."

Kaela was tall, with a good part of her height invested in long shapely legs. She had a smooth mocha complexion and ebony black hair that she kept long with a natural tight curl. Her mouth was full and almost perfect, and her eyes were a dark amber. As an attractive woman working in a man's profession, she thought she had heard every male line invented – but this was a new one. She gave Austin a sidelong glance. "That's funny, I was thinking that you looked as if you'd fallen off Captain Kidd's pirate ship."

Austin laughed and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "I suppose I do look like a pirate, but I'm not joking. You're a ringer for the young woman in the temple. You're quite a bit younger than she is, though. I believe her portrait dates back to about four thousand B.C."

"I've been called a lot of things," she said, "but never an Egyptian mummy. Thanks for the compliment, if that's what it was. And for saving our necks. There's no way we can ever repay you, Mr. Austin."

"You can start by calling me Kurt. And may I call you Kaela?"

She smiled. "Of course."

"Now that we're old friends, how about being my guest at dinner?"

She glanced up and down the deserted coast. "What did you have in mind, something out of the Boy Scout handbook? Roots and berries?"

"I only made it as far as Cub Scout, and foraging was never my forte. I was thinking more of something like duck a l'orange. I can almost guarantee a table with a water view."

"Here?" she said, going along with the game.

"No, there." He pointed out to sea, where a turquoise-hulled ship could be seen steaming in their direction. "Casa Argo. They say the chef used to work at the Four Seasons before NUMA stole him."

"My mother didn't raise any stupid kids," Kaela said. "I'd be a fool to refuse an invitation like that." Conscious of her unkempt state, she said, "I don't think I'm dressed for a fancy dinner."

"I'm sure we can find something appropriate aboard the ship. I'll ask when I call for reservations. My radio is the only thing that wasn't smashed when I landed. Maybe you can round up your friends while I hail the boat – but you might want to hurry them along. We're on Russian territory, and I don't have my passport. We shouldn't overstay our welcome."

Kaela followed Austin with her eyes as he made his way back to the damaged ultralight. She sensed a story. Who was this guy? This was no nerd. She called out to Mike and Dundee and told them to wrap up their filming. Then she hurried to catch up with Austin.