Текст книги "Fire Ice"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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11

THE BLACK SEA

AUSTIN STROLLED ALONG the Bosporus past the ferry terminal and sleek tour vessels until the smell of decaying fish told his nostrils he was near the working waterfront. Raucous squadrons of gulls grew more numerous as he approached the ragtag fleet of fishing boats nuzzled up to the dock. With their paint-flaked woodwork and corroded metal, the sea-beaten rust buckets seemed to remain afloat by a miracle of levitation. Austin stopped at one exception, a solid-looking wooden boat that appeared to have under– gone heroic maintenance. The black hull and white wheelhouse gleamed with many coats of paint, and the brightwork was liberally soaked with oil.

Reaching into his pocket, Austin pulled out a folded piece of notepaper and matched the scrawled word Turgut with the name painted in white on the stem. He smiled approvingly. He liked Captain Kemal without having met him. Turgut was a renowned sixteenth-century admiral in the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent. Anyone who would name an ancient fishing vessel after such a towering naval figure displayed a sense story and humor.

The deck was deserted except for a man in a double-breasted black suit. He sat on a coil of thick rope mending a net spread across his knees.

Austin called out a greeting in Turkish. "Meraba. May I come aboard?"

The man looked up. "Meraba," he said, and beckoned Austin aboard.

Austin climbed a short gangway and stepped onto the deck. The boat was about fifty feet long, with a wide beam to provide stability as a fishing platform. His eyes swept the Turgut, taking in the extraordinary efforts that had been made to maintain a vessel that looked as if it went back to the Ottoman Empire itself. He went over to the seated man and said, "I'm looking for Captain Kemal."

"I'm Kemal," the man said. His fingers flew over the mesh without missing a loop.

The captain was a slightly built man in his fifties. His face was narrow, his olive skin burnished to a reddish glow by sun and wind. He wore a woven skullcap over dark brown hair going to gray, and he was clean-shaven except for a toothbrush mustache that seemed to be held in place by the curve of his prominent nose. The soft wail of Turkish music came from a portable radio at his feet.

"My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was on the NUMA ship Argo when we found your cousin Mehmet's body."

Kemal nodded solemnly and put the net aside. "Mehmet's funeral was this morning," he said in well-spoken English. He plucked at his sleeve to show that he was wearing his best and only suit.

"They told me on the Argo. I hope I'm not intruding by coming by so soon."

The captain shook his head and indicated a nearby waist-high stack of netting.

"Sit, please, Mr. Austin."

"You speak English very well."

"Thank you. When I was younger, I worked as a cook for the American air base near Ankara." He smiled, displaying a brilliant gold tooth. "The pay was good, I worked very hard and saved the money to buy this boat."

"I noticed you named it after a great admiral."

Kemal raised a bushy eyebrow, impressed. "Turgut was a big hero to my people."

"I know. I read a biography about him."

The captain studied Kurt with deep-set liquid brown eyes. "Thank your NUMA people for me. It would be very hard for Mehmet's family if they did not have his body to bury."

"I'll be sure to tell Captain Atwood and the Argo's crew of your appreciation. Miss Dorn mentioned your name."

The captain smiled. "The beautiful television woman came by last night. She said Mehmet's widow will be well provided for. It will not bring Mehmet back, but it is more than he could have earned in his whole life." He shook his head in wonder. "God is great."

"I called the hotel earlier, and they told me Miss Dorn had checked out."

"She has gone to Paris. She wants to hire my boat again, but must get permission from her bosses."

Austin received the news of Kaela's departure with mixed feelings. He regretted not having had the chance to get to know Kaela better, but the lovely TV reporter would have been a distraction.

"What else did Miss Dorn say?"

"She told me what happened to Mehmet. She said men on horses shot at the TV people and killed my cousin." He frowned. "They are very bad men. Mehmet never hurt anyone."

"Yes, they are. Very bad men."

"She told me how you shot at them with your little plane. How many did you kill?"

"I'm not sure. There was one body."

"Good. Do you know who these people are who killed him?"

"No, but I intend to find out."

Kemal raised his eyebrows. "You are going back to that place?”

"If I can find a boat to take me there."

"But you have the big NUMA ship."

"It wouldn't be a good idea to use a government vessel." Austin glanced around at the Turgut. "I need something that won't attract attention."

The light of understanding dawned in the dark eyes. "Something like a fishing boat maybe?"

Austin smiled. "Yes, something very much like a fishing boat."

The captain studied Austin's face, then got up and went into the wheelhouse. He reappeared with a large bottle and two chipped coffee mugs. He uncorked the bottle, poured liberal quantities into the mugs and handed one to Austin.

"To Mehmet," he said, raising his drink high in toast. They clinked the mugs and Kemal took a generous swallow, gulping the strong drink down as if it were water. Austin knew from the licorice smell that the mug held the potent Turkish firewater known as raki. Although he did not ordinarily drink alcohol before the sun appeared over the yardarm, he didn't want to be impolite. He took a tentative sip and let the fiery liquor trickle down his throat, thinking that this is what it must be like to swallow broken glass.

Kemal took another healthy swig, and to Austin's relief set his mug aside.

He affixed Austin with a leveled gaze. "Why would you want to go back there? You could be shot, too."

"That's a possibility, but it wouldn't have to happen. Last time we had no warning or weapons. This time we will."

Kemal pondered the answer. Austin was glad to see that the captain was not someone who made rash decisions. His coolness could come in handy. The Turk stared into his cup. "I feel responsible for Mehmet. I let him go with the TV people so he could make some extra money."

"No one could have predicted he would be shot."

"Of course, you are right. I fished there many times with no trouble."

"Would you ever go back?"

"Not for pay, no."

Austin was disappointed but not surprised. "I understand, Captain. It could be very dangerous, no matter how well– prepared we are."

"Fah!" Kemal spat off to his side. "I am not afraid. I said I would not go there for pay. I owe you a favor for killing that pig." He dismissed Austin's protest with a wave of his hand. "The Turgut is at your disposal," he said as grandly as if he were turning over the wheel of the QE2.

"You're not obligated to me in any way." The captain thrust his chin forward. Speaking in measured tones to make sure there was no mistaking his intentions, he said, "The men who killed my cousin are the ones who must be made to pay. I am not a stranger to these affairs. As a young man, I was a smuggler. I was never caught." He thumped the deck with his heel and flashed his fourteen-karat grin. "Twin diesels," he said proudly. "Thirty knots cruising speed. When do you wish to go?"

"I'm expecting three other people from the United States today. I have to round up some equipment as well. How about tomorrow morning?"

"The boat will be fueled up and ready at dawn."

"What about crew?" Austin said. "I don't want to place anyone in danger after what happened to Mehmet."

"Thank you. I will keep two crewmen, my most trusted. I will warn them about the danger, so they can make a choice. I know what they will say. They are cousins to Mehmet, too."

They shook hands on the deal. Austin said he would be there with the sun. He left before Kemal wanted to seal the agreement with another cup of raki. His head was spinning on the walk back to the Argo, though by the time he returned to the NUMA ship, the fresh air off the Bosporus had cleared away most of the alcoholic vapors. He went up to the bridge to see Captain Atwood, who was poring over some charts.

"How's the television star?" he asked.

"You've obviously heard about what a natural I am before the cameras," Atwood replied. "Okay, I admit it," he said, with a sheepish grin. "I had a good time filming with those crazy characters. My guess is that they'll edit out my pretty mug in favor of the lovely Miss Dorn."

"Would you blame them?"

"Hell no! Not in a hundred years. I'm surprised you didn't make a move on the lady. Losing your touch?"

"My heart belongs only to NUMA," Austin said, placing his hand on his chest. "Which brings up why I'm here. I'm going to need some help, no questions asked."

The captain cocked his head. He had known Austin a long time and never knew the man to leave business of any sort unfinished.

"We'll do what we can, as long as it doesn't involve putting the Argo or its crew in jeopardy."

"It won't. All I need is the loan of some gear." Austin summarized his wish list and asked that the equipment be delivered to the Turgut. None of it would be a problem, the captain said. While Atwood ordered up the requested gear, Austin went to his cabin and plugged in his laptop computer. He called up a commercial satellite-imaging company off the Internet and requested photos of a location on the Russian coast of the Black Sea. He examined the photos closely, but wasn't surprised when nothing unusual popped out at him. The Soviets would not be advertising their secret base.

He punched out a number on his Globalstar phone. It was still early back in the States, but he knew from his days of working with the CIA that Sam Leahy would be in his office.

"How's the weather at Langley?" Austin said, when Leahy's brass-lunged voice came on the phone.

There was a pause. "You've got the wrong number, pal. If you're looking for a goddamn weather report, call the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Hell, I hear the smart alecks at NUMA know everything there is to know."

"Almost everything, Sam. That's why I'm calling for your help."

"I knew you'd come crawling back to the Company. Great hearing from you. How have you been, you old sea dog?"

"I'm fine. They still have you tied to a desk?"

"Not for long. Retirement is in six months. Then it's running fishing charters on the Chesapeake. I could use a first mate if you ever get tired of the Washington rat race."

"Sounds tempting. Put me down for a charter at the very least. Right now I could use some information. What do you know about Soviet sub bases?"

"Broad subject. Anything in particular you'd like to know?"

"Yes. How were they physically constructed?"

"To begin with, they were big. They had to be large enough to accommodate the babies like the Typhoon, with a length of five hundred fifty-seven feet. The beam alone was seventy-five feet. Those monsters were armed with twenty nukes a piece. The Soviets wanted them protected from a nuclear attack, so they built the pens deep. They learned from the German U-boat pen construction that held up pretty well under Allied bombing. Basically, they'd blast a tunnel out of a hillside and line it with several yards of reinforced granite."

"Do you have any data on the where and how of these bases?"

"I can get it." Austin heard an unspoken conditional in the answer. "It would really be a help if you could dig out what you can."

"No problem. Lots of that stuff has been declassified anyhow. But I'll hold you to that promise to do a charter."

Austin was relieved. He'd expected Leahy to say he would have to run the request through his higher-ups. "You provide the bait and I'll bring the beer."

Austin gave Leahy his e-mail address, thanked him again and hung up. He worked out some logistical problems on his computer, then he went out to check on the preparations for his trip with Captain Kemal. The equipment he'd asked for was stacked in boxes on the deck and ready to go. A truck was on its way to run the equipment to the Turgut. Austin had done all he could until he heard from the Special Assignments Team. He didn't have to wait long. As he was taking an equipment inventory, his phone buzzed. It was Joe Zavala calling.

"We're at the airport," Zavala said.

"What took you so long?"

Zavala sighed loudly. "That's gratitude for you. You yanked me out of the arms of the most beautiful woman on the planet."

"Every woman you've ever been involved with was the most beautiful woman on the planet."

"What can I say? I am a fortunate man."

"One day you'll thank me for rescuing you from the bonds of matrimony."

"Matrimony! A sobering thought. Don't even joke about it."

"We can talk about your love life later. How soon will you be at the Argo?"

"Gamay is nailing down a cab and Paul is humping the luggage out to the curb. We'll be there sooner than you can spell Constantinople."

Within the hour, Zavala and the Trouts arrived at the hotel. After a brief reunion, Zavala said, "Not that it matters, but we were wondering if you could give us a hint why we raced halfway across the world at warp speed."

"I missed your smiling faces?"

"Right," Zavala said. "That's why you asked me to bring along your shooting iron and my own metal delivery system."

"I'll admit I had an ulterior motive, but I'm not lying when I say it's good to see you."

Austin glanced around at the other members of the Special Assignments Team and grinned with pleasure at their eager expressions. Then he began to outline his plan.

12

ROCKY POINT, MAINE

THE IMAGE ON the oversized computer monitor looked like the profile of a very tall tortoise. Leroy Jenkins clicked the computer mouse until the shell flattened as if it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. Jenkins made some computations from the numbers on the screen, then exploded with the blue-lightning curses he usually reserved for a tangled lobster pot line. He turned away from the computer and swiveled his chair so he was facing a big picture window. From its position high on the hill, the tall white clapboard house offered an unequaled view of the harbor and the sea beyond.

The harbor swarmed with activity. Front-end loaders scooped scattered debris into a waiting line of dump trucks. Forklifts normally used to hoist boats onto multistory racks for winter storage were plucking battered wrecks from the parking lot and lining them up where their owners could claim them. Cranes had been brought in to pick remnants of the motel off the breakwaters.

Jenkins's boat was tied up at the town pier with the others lucky enough to have been out of the way when the big wave struck. Jenkins rubbed his eyes and turned back to the computer to enter some new numbers. After a few minutes, he shook his head in frustration. He had gone through the modeling process dozens of times, feeding in different combinations of data, and his findings still didn't make sense. Jenkins was grateful when the doorbell rang. He went out into the hallway and yelled down the stairs, "Come in."

The door opened and Charlie Howes stepped inside. "Not bothering you, am I?" the police chief said.

"Hell no, Charlie. Come on up. I was just fiddling around on the computer."

The chief climbed to the second-floor office. "You've done a nice job with the house," he said, glancing around at the well-ordered space with its neatly arranged filing cabinets and bookcases.

"Thanks, Charlie. Wish I could claim credit." He picked up a framed photograph of a handsome middle-aged woman who was smiling directly at the camera from a sailboat cockpit. "Mary knew that I'd need more than lobstering to keep my brain from fossilizing. Setting up my office in the attic space was her idea. You know how she was. She could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

"She didn't do a bad job of filing down some of your rough edges."

Jenkins laughed. "I consider that a miracle, given the material she had to work with." He glanced out the window again. "Looks like they're making progress down there."

"Getting the harbor cleared out real fast. There was some worry about oil spills from the fuel tanks, but the environmental people from the state got it under control. I needed a break from the press people. Started getting in the way anyhow, with all the insurance guys showing up." He jerked his head toward the computer. "See you've been workin'. Got things figured out yet?"

"Been trying. Pull up a seat and take a look. I could use your detective's intuition."

Despite the chief's folksy language and country ways, he was no bumpkin. Howes had a master's degree in criminal science from the state university. He replied with a skeptical snort, dragged a stool next to Jenkins's chair and squinted into the computer monitor.

"What's that thing that looks like a pregnant snake?" Jenkins raised an eyebrow. "Rorschach would have a field day with you. What do you know about tsunamis?"

"I know I never want to see one again !"

"That's a good start. Let me don my professor's hat, and I'll give you a crash course." He wrote out the words tsu and nami on a pad of paper. "These words represent the Japanese characters for 'harbor' and 'wave.' An international conference adopted the term in 1963 to avoid confusion."

"I always heard them called tidal waves."

"That was the popular term, but it isn't accurate. Tides come from gravitational forces such as the moon, sun and planets. Even we scientists were wrong. We called them seismic sea waves, which implies that earthquakes generate all tsunamis. A quake is only one cause."

"You think a quake caused that mess out there?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." He grinned at the chief's befuddled reaction and ripped a sheet of paper off the pad. "Here's the real culprit." He held the paper horizontally. "Make believe this is the ocean bottom." He pushed the ends in so that the middle of the paper humped up. "A quake occurs when tectonic plates bump together and deform the seafloor. This hump pushes up the column of water all the way to the surface. The water tries to regain its equilibrium."

"You're losing me."

Jenkins thought for a moment. "It's like Joe Johnson, the town drunk, staggering home after a night on the town. Reason he zigzags is because the booze has affected his equilibrium. He has to keep catching himself from going off in the wrong direction. Sometimes he can't stop and slams into a wall and knocks himself out." He frowned. "Okay, it's a rough analogy."

"I get the picture."

"Think of Joe as that column of water and the wall as the Maine coast. Only difference is the wall gets the worst of it not, Joe."

"How come every wave isn't a potential tidal wa – I mean tsunami ?"

"I knew your policeman's logic would come into play. Two reasons. Time and distance. The time between waves hitting the beach is five to twenty seconds. With a tsunami, that time can be ten minutes to two hours. The distance between waves is called the wavelength. Beach waves can be three hundred to six hundred feet apart. With a tsunami, you're talking three hundred miles-plus."

"I've seen some pretty destructive beach waves."

"So have I. But even an ordinary wave crashing on the beach only has a short life and a speed of ten to twenty miles per hour. Your tsunami has had hundreds of miles and hours to build up its energy. The deeper the water, the faster the wave. That's why a tsunami can hit six hundred miles per hour as it crosses the ocean, even though ships don't feel it and you can't see it from the air. Let me give you an example. In 1960, an offshore quake near Chile sent a wave across the Pacific. The wave was no more than three feet high. Twenty-two hours later, when the wave hit the coast of Japan, it was twenty feet high and killed two hundred people. The waved bounced around the Pacific for days, causing damage wherever it touched."

"If it's only a ripple in the ocean, how'd you figure this was going to be a big one?"

"I was lobstering out on the ledge where it's comparatively shallow. The wave slowed down when it hit the shallows and started to peak. It was moving slower, but all the energy it built up was still there. That energy has to go somewhere. When the wave approaches shore, the mousy little sea grows up into a monster. Sometimes it builds up into a great towering wave. It might be a bunch of series of breaking waves, or a bore, like a bunch of steps with a steep breaking front. It might suck out the water and spit it back out."

"That's what happened with us. Like someone pulled the plug out of the harbor."

Jenkins nodded. "Tsunamis are fascinating and very adaptive critters. Reefs, bays, entrances to rivers, can affect the damage, the slope of the beach. The waves can crest to one hundred feet or more, but mostly they just surge. All depends on what's in the way. They can wrap around a headland and cause damage on the opposite side of an island. When they get squeezed, they become really dangerous, because you've got all that intensity built up in a small space." He pointed out the window at a river that fed into the harbor. The high banks were littered with debris. "They can even go up rivers, as they did here."

"Good thing the condos Jack Schrager built on the banks of the river weren't occupied, or there would be a lot of dead people floating around in that harbor instead of scraps of wood. Damned lucky you saw those waves and recognized their threat."

"More than lucky." Jenkins clicked his computer mouse and pulled up a map of the world with arrows pointing to various countries. "In the decade starting in 1990, tsunamis killed more than four hundred people and caused billions of dollars in damage." He tapped the screen. "This one in Papua New Guinea was a real horror. The wave was forty– five feet tall when it hit along nineteen miles of coast. A few minutes later, there were more than two hundred people dead."

He switched over to a simulation. "This is an animation of a quake-generated wave attacking a Japanese village back in 1923. You see a lot of big waves in the Pacific. It's surrounded by the 'rim of fire,' all those tectonic plates that shift every so often."

"Hate to be so parochial, but we're talking the Atlantic, not the Pacific, and the coast of Maine, not Japan. I've lived here all my life and I've yet to hear about a quake."

"You've probably had more minor tremors than you know of, but I agree, that's why I started thinking about other causes. Tsunamis caused by landslides are less common. Then you've got volcanic eruptions and large meteorites."

"Not too many volcanoes around here that I know of." "Be grateful. The Krakatoa volcano created waves one hundred feet high and killed thousands back in 1883. If an asteroid five miles across landed in the mid-Atlantic, it would create a wave high enough to swamp the upper east coast of the U.S. New York would be wiped off the map."

"That leaves landslide."

"It's what we call a slump. Here – let me show you." Jenkins pulled up another map on the monitor. "This is Izmit Bay in Turkey. They had a slump-generated wave there that caused extensive damage."

"What caused the slump?"

"An earthquake." Jenkins chuckled. "I know, it's like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg? In general, a slump is caused by a quake. That's the problem with our Rocky Point ripple. There was a slump, but no quake."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I've talked to the folks at the Weston Observatory in Massachusetts. They keep tabs on all seismic disturbances in the area. They picked up some rumbles that indicated a slump, but no quake preceding it, as I'd expect. I heard a tremendous underwater boom shortly before I saw things happening. There was apparently a movement of ocean bottom east of Maine, but without the normal crash of tectonic plates. I've talked to tsunami experts all around the country. Nobody has heard of such a thing."

"Then we're stumped."

"Not exactly." Jenkins brought the wave profile back onto the computer screen. "I've put together a simulation of our wave. It's pretty crude. Even with the best information, wave calculations can be complicated. You've got to factor in stuff like velocity, wave height and destructive force. Then you've got all the coastal features that cause a wave to deflect or diffract. You've got to calculate the effects of backwash from following waves."

"Sounds impossible."

"It nearly is. But not totally. A few years ago, scientists used computer-based mathematical modeling techniques to solve the demise of the civilization on Crete. Look, this is a map chart of the Maine coast. That's the harbor. The hardest hit was several miles from here, where some fishermen saw waves breaking over Newcomb's Rocks."

The chief whistled. "Those cliffs must be fifty feet high." Jenkins nodded and indicated the chart on the screen. An arrow pointed toward the land. "The main wave force was just to the north of here, so even with my warning, things could have been worse here at the cove. I don't even know if this house would have been safe."

The chief went pale. "That would have been the whole town."

Jenkins leaned forward and peered at the computer. "This is amazing. Look at how straight it came in. Almost like a child creating a wave in a bathtub."

The chief tapped the screen. "Is this where it started?"

"Yeah. It's only an estimate built on circumstantial evidence."

"I took a course in accident reconstruction. It's amazing what you can tell about speed and impact from skid marks and broken headlights."

"I'm pretty confident that it originated about a hundred and fifty miles to the east."

"What are you going to do now?" Jenkins's shoulders ached from tension. "First I'm going to brew up some tea. Then we're going to have us a slam-bang game of chess."