Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Seats on the Alvin were difficult to come by. Trout considered himself extremely lucky. If not for the urgent nature of the expedition, he might have waited years to go on a dive, even with his impressive NUMA credentials and inside connections.

The pilot was a young marine biologist from South Carolina whose name was Sandy Jackson. With her calm, cool demeanor and laconic drawl, Sandy seemed like a younger version of the legendary aviatrix Jacqueline Cochran. She was a slim woman in her thirties, and under her jeans and wool sweater was the wiry physique of a marathon runner. Hair the hue of raw carrots was tucked under the tan Alvin baseball cap, which she wore with its navy blue visor backward.

While Gamay had settled for a functional one-piece jumpsuit, Trout saw no reason to change his sartorial habits for a deep-sea dive.

He was impeccably dressed, as usual. His stone washed jeans were tailored, his button-down shirt came from Brooks Brothers and he wore one of the large colorful bow ties that he collected. This one had a seahorse pattern. His bomber jacket was made of the finest Italian leather. Even his silk long underwear was custom-made. His light brown hair was carefully parted down the middle and swept back at the temples, making him look like a character from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

"This is an easy trip," Sandy said as the tanks filled with water and the submersible began its twenty-five-hundred-foot dive. "Alvin dives around a hundred feet a minute, which means we'll be on the bottom in less than a half hour. If we were diving to the fifteen-thousand-foot max, we'd drop for an hour and a half. We usually play classical music on the way down and soft rock on the ascent," Sandy said, "but it's up to you."

"Mozart would set the proper mood," Gamay said.

A moment later, the cabin was filled with the lilting strains of a piano concerto.

"We're about midway," Sandy said after fifteen minutes.

Trout greeted the announcement with a broad grin. "Can't wait to see this underwater metropolis."

While the Alvin sank into the depths, the Atlantis moved in a slow circle above the dive area and the support crew gathered with the chief scientist in the top lab, between the bridge and the chart room, where the dive is monitored.

Sandy reported their progress with the acoustic telephone, acknowledged the garbled reply, then turned to the Trouts.

The submarine continued its descent.

"What do you folks know about the Lost City?" she said.

"From what I've read, it was found by accident in the year 2000. The discovery apparently came as quite a surprise," Gamay said.

Sandy nodded. "Surprise doesn't begin to describe our reaction.

Shell-shocked would be a more accurate term. We were towing the Argo II behind the ship looking for volcanic activity on the mid-ocean ridge. Around midnight, the second shift leader saw what looked like frozen white Christmas trees on the video monitor screens and realized we'd hit hydrothermal vents. We didn't see tube worms or clams like those found at other ocean vent areas. Word spread like wildfire. Before long, everyone on the ship was trying to squeeze into the control van. By then, we were starting to see the towers."

"I heard one scientist say that if the Lost City were on land, it would be a national park," Trout said.

"It wasn't just what we found but where we found them. Most of the vents that have previously been discovered, like the 'black smokers' for instance, were near mid-oceanic ridges formed by tectonic plates. The Lost City is nine miles from the nearest volcanic center. We sent the Alvin down the next day."

"I understand some columns are nearly twenty stories high," Trout said.

Sandy switched on the outside floodlights and glanced through her view port. "See for yourself."

Paul and Gamay peered through the circular windows. They had seen the still photos and videos of the Lost City, but nothing could have prepared them for the primordial scene that unfolded before them. Paul's large hazel eyes blinked in excitement as the vehicle glided over a fantastic forest of lofty columns. Gamay, who was equally enthralled, said the columns reminded her of the "snow ghosts" that form atop mountains where supercooled fog forms tufts of rime on the tree branches.

The carbonate and mica pillars ranged in color from stark white to beige. Gamay knew from her research that the lighter-colored columns were active while the darker ones were extinct. The towers soared to multiple, feathery spires at their summits. Delicate white flanges jutted out from the sides the way mushrooms grow on old

tree trunks. New crystals were continuously forming, giving the edges the appearance of Spanish lace.

At one point Sandy slowed the Alvin's descent and the submersible hovered near a chimney whose flat top was at least thirty feet across. The tower seemed to be alive and moving. The chimney was covered with mats of growth that undulated in the bottom currents as if in rhythm to music from the speakers.

Gamay let out the breath she'd been holding. "This is like being in a dreamscape."

"I've seen it before and I'm still in awe," Sandy said. She steered the Alvin close to the top of the tall column. "This is where it gets really interesting. The warm water coming from below the sea bottom rises and becomes trapped under those flanges. Those mats you see are actually dense microbe communities. The flanges trap the 160-degree alkaline fluids that stream up the chimneys from below ocean crust that is 1.5 billion years old. The water carries methane, hydrogen and minerals emitted by vents. Some people think we may be looking at the beginnings of life," she said in a hushed voice.

Trout turned to his wife. "I'm strictly a rock-and-gravel guy," he said. "As a biologist, what do you think of that theory?"

"It's certainly possible," Gamay said. "The conditions out there could be similar to what they were in the early days of the earth. Those microbes living around the columns resemble the first life-forms to evolve in the sea. If this process can occur without volcanoes, it greatly increases the number of locations on the seafloor of early earth where microbial life could have started. Vents like these could be incubators for life on other planets as well. The moons of Jupiter may have frozen oceans that could be teeming with life. The Mid-Atlantic Ridge is hundreds of miles long, so the potential for new discoveries is endless."

"Fascinating," Trout said.

"Where's the Gorgon weed epicenter from here?" Gamay asked.

Sandy squinted at her instruments. "A little east of here. The Alvin % speed is rather underwhelming two knots tops so sit back and enjoy the ride, as the airline pilots say."

The towers thinned out and began to vanish as the submersible moved out of the Lost City. Eventually, however, the lights began to pick out more spires.

Sandy let out a low whistle. "Wow! It's a whole new Lost City. Unbelievable!"

The submersible wove its way through a thicket of towers that extended in every direction beyond the range of the vehicle's bright lights.

"This makes the original Lost City look like East Podunk," Trout said, as he peered with wondering eyes through the view port. "We're talking about real skyscrapers here. That one looks like the Empire State Building."

"Ugh," Gamay said a moment later. "Guess this is the place. Reminds me of kudzu."

They were coming up on a dark green curtain of algae that floated like a smoky pall among the pinnacles.

The Alvin rose about thirty feet, passed over the cloud, then dropped back down once they were clear.

"Funny to see stuff like that at this depth," Gamay said, with a shake of her head.

Trout was staring out his view port. "That's not all that's funny," he murmured. "Am I seeing things off to the right?"

Sandy steered the Alvin so the full force of the klieg lights was directed at the sea bottom.

"It can't be!" she said, as if she had seen a McDonald's on a corner of the newly discovered undersea metropolis. She brought the submersible to within a few yards of the bottom. Two lines of parallel tracks at least thirty feet apart led off into the darkness. "Seems we're not the first visitors," Trout said.

"It looks as if a giant bulldozer passed this way," Sandy said. "But that's impossible." She paused, and then in a hushed tone, said, "Maybe this really is the lost city of Atlantis."

"Nice try, but these tracks look too recent," Paul said.

The tracks went straight for a while, and then curved between two towers that soared for nearly three hundred feet. At several points along the way, they came upon towers lying on their sides like toppled bowling pins. Other pillars had been ground to powder by giant treads. Something very large and powerful had cut a swath through the new Lost City.

"It looks like an undersea clear-cutting operation," Trout said.

Gamay and Paul worked the video and still cameras to record the scene of destruction. They were at least a half mile into the new vent field. The original Lost City was like a pine woods compared to a redwood forest. Some of the towers were so tall that their summits were invisible. From time to time, they had to detour around great blobs of algae.

"Thank goodness for those cameras," Sandy said. "The folks on the surface would never believe what we're seeing."

"I don't quite believe it myself," Trout said. "I What was that}"

"I saw it, too," Gamay said. "A big shadow passed over us." "A whale?" Trout said. "Not at this depth," Gamay replied.

"What about a giant squid? I've heard they can dive deeper than whales."

"Oh, anything is possible in a place like this," Gamay said.

Trout asked Sandy to put the vehicle into a slow spin.

"No problem," Sandy said, working the controls. The vehicle slowly began to pivot. They were in the middle of a tight concentration of towers that obscured sight in every direction.

The towers directly in front of the Alvin seemed to be vibrating

like strings in a piano. Then two or three of the spires crumbled in slow motion and disintegrated in a smoky cloud. Trout had a vague impression that something black and monstrous in size was emerging from the smoke screen and heading directly for them.

Trout yelled at Sandy to put the Alvin in reverse, knowing that it was too slow to evade anything faster than a jellyfish, but the pilot was transfixed by the advancing behemoth and didn't respond until it was too late.

The vehicle shuddered and a loud metallic clunk rattled the pressure hull.

Sandy tried to move the submersible backward, but there was no response from the controls.

Trout glanced through the view port again.

Where an instant before, the lights had illuminated a forest of white and beige towers, a monstrous mouth yawned ahead.

Inexorably, the Alvin was drawn into the great glowing maw.

THE ALVIN HAD failed to answer the call, and thought it was not yet due to surface, concern was mounting aboard the Atlantis with each passing moment. There had been little apprehension at first. The submersible had an impeccable safety record and carried reliable backup systems in case of an emergency. Tension had already ratcheted up to a high peak when the strange ship showed up. Charlie Beck leaned against the rail, examining the vessel through his binoculars. It was a small freighter well past her prime. Its hull was splotched with cancerous rust spots and was badly in need of a coat of paint. The ship seemed haunted by a general air of neglect. Painted below the name on the scarred hull was the country of registration, Malta.

Beck knew that the freighter was probably neither Celtic nor Maltese, and that these were designations of convenience. The ship's name could have been changed five times in the last year. Its crew would undoubtedly be low-paid sailors from third or fourth world countries. It was the perfect example of a potential pirate ship or terrorist ship, what some in the maritime security business call the "Al Qaeda navy."

As a professional warrior, Captain Charlie Beck lived in a relatively uncomplicated world. Clients gave him jobs to do, and he did them. In his rare reflective moments, Beck thought that one day he should erect a memorial paying homage to Blackbeard the pirate. Had it not been for William Teach and the bloodthirsty brethren who succeeded him, Beck reasoned, he would not have his Mercedes, his speedboat on Chesapeake Bay or his trophy house in Virginia horse country. He'd be a broken-down paper-pusher, sitting behind a desk in the Pentagon labyrinth, staring at his service pistol and thinking about putting a bullet in his brain.

Beck was the owner of Triple S, shorthand for Sea Security Services, a specialized consulting firm that hired out to ship owners who were worried about the threat of piracy. His security teams ranged around the world, teaching ship crews how to recognize and defend themselves against attacks at sea. In highly dangerous waters, heavily armed Triple S teams rode shotgun as well.

The company had started with a few former navy SEALs who missed being in action. Business had grown briskly, fueled by the rapid growth of piracy. But the World Trade Center attacks had heightened awareness of terrorism threats, and Beck soon found himself at the head of a far-flung, multimillion-dollar corporation. Commercial ship owners had always worried about piracy, but it was the attack on the research vessel Maurice Ewing that provided a wake-up call for the scientific community. The Ewing was on an oceanographic expedition off the coast of Somalia when a group of men in a small boat raked the vessel with gunfire and launched a rocket-propelled grenade at the research ship.

The grenade missed the Ewing and the ship made a safe getaway, but the incident demonstrated that a research ship on a peaceful, scientific expedition was considered as much a prize as a container ship carrying valuable cargo. To a pirate, a research vessel was a floating mother lode. A pirate could sell a stolen laptop computer on the black market for more money than he might earn in a year at a respectable job.

As an acute businessman, Beck saw a niche to be filled. Business was only part of his motivation. Hard-nosed as Beck might be, he was not without sentiment. He had a particular love of the sea, and attacks against scientific oceanic inquiry were personally offensive to him.

Beck's company had developed a program specifically aimed at security for research vessels, which were particularly vulnerable to attacks because they anchored for long periods of time to conduct ocean drilling and to provide support for tethered vehicles or submersibles. A stationary ship was a sitting duck for pirates.

Beck and a team of SEALs had come aboard the research vessel Atlantis through a previous arrangement with the shop operations division at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. After stopping for a few days to make the Lost City probe, the Atlantis had planned to sail to the Indian Ocean and hired a Triple S team to go along. Beck, who went on operations whenever he could, wanted the ship's crew and his men to be prepared. He'd read about the Lost City in a scientific journal and was eager to join the expedition.

Beck was in his late fifties and his hair had gone to salt-and-pepper, and squint wrinkles framed his gray eyes. He waged a constant battle through diet and exercise with a persistent middle-aged paunch. Yet he still maintained the snapping turtle attitude and hard leanness that had got him through the challenging, sometimes brutal SEAL training, and he ran his company with military discipline.

On the trip out, Beck and his three-man team of former SEALs had put the crew and scientists through the usual training exercises. They'd taught the scientific team that speed and surprise were a pirate's great

est allies. The crews learned how to vary schedules, restrict access in port, travel in daylight, how to spot a potential threat, aim searchlights, keep their night watches on high alert and how to repel boarders with fire hoses. And if all that failed, they were to give the pirates what they wanted. No ship's computer was worth someone's life.

The training had gone well, but as the scientific activity on board increased, thoughts of security were put aside. Unlike Southeast Asia and Africa, the waters around the Mid-Atlantic Ridge were not considered pirate country. There was some excitement when the Alvin was launched, but there was nothing much to do until it resurfaced. Then the strange ship hove into sight in the midst of the Alvin crisis. It seemed too much of a coincidence to Beck.

Although he knew the Atlantis was not in usually dangerous waters, and there was nothing overtly threatening about the ship or its behavior, he watched with careful eyes after it stopped dead in the water, and then he climbed to the bridge to consult with the captain. As Beck entered the wheelhouse, he could hear a voice squawking over the radio.

"Mayday, Mayday. Come in."

The captain had the mike in his hand and was trying to return the call. "Mayday received. This is the research ship Atlantis. Please state the reason for your Mayday."

The distress call repeated with no elaboration. As the captain tried to make contact, again without success, greasy black smoke rose from the ship's deck.

The captain examined the ship through his binoculars. "Looks like a fire in one of the holds."

He ordered the helmsman to move closer to the other vessel. The distress call kept repeating. Atlantis came to a stop a couple of hundred yards from the freighter. Beck scanned the ship's deck. Smoke still poured out of the hold, but he was surprised not to see anyone on deck. With a fire on board, crewmen should have been crowding

the rails trying to get attention, climbing into lifeboats, or jumping over the side.

Beck's antennae began to quiver. "What do you make of it?" he asked the captain. The captain lowered his binoculars. "Can't figure it. A fire wouldn't have incapacitated the whole crew. Someone was operating the ship until a few minutes ago. And there's apparently someone in the bridge sending the Mayday. I'd better send a party over to investigate. Maybe the crew is incapacitated or trapped below."

Beck said, "Use my men. They're trained in boarding and in medical treatment." He grinned. "Besides, they've been getting lazy and could use the exercise."

"Be my guest," the captain said. "I've got enough on my mind with the Alvin." He ordered his first mate to ready a small shuttle boat.

Beck's men had been on deck, their eyes glued to the dramatic sight of the burning vessel. He ordered them to round up their weapons and ammo.

"You guys have been getting flabby," he said. "Think of this as an exercise, but keep your weapons loaded. Heads-up at all times."

The team snapped into action. The men had become bored with inactivity and welcomed the diversion. Navy SEALs are known for their unconventional dress. A sharp eye would have recognized the "drive-on rag," headbands, the unofficial headgear many SEALs preferred to the traditional floppy hat. But they had traded in their camouflage uniforms for denims and work shirts.

Even a small SEAL team like Beck's could produce an amazing measure of firepower. They kept their weapons wrapped in cloth and out of sight. Beck favored the short-barreled 12-gauge shotgun that could cut a man in half. His men carried the black Car-15, a compact version of the M-16 favored by many SEALs.

Beck and his men climbed into an outboard-powered inflatable boat and quickly covered the distance between the two ships. Beck,

who was at the helm, made a feint toward the ship. When he failed to draw fire, he went in for a closer look, eventually heading toward a ladder that hung down the side of the hull near the bow.

Sheltered under the steep sides of the ship, they pulled on their gas masks and shouldered their weapons. Then they climbed to the smoke-filled deck. Beck paired off with his least experienced man and sent the rest of the team to the other side with orders to make their way to the stern.

They rendezvoused a moment later without seeing a soul and began to make their way to the bridge. They leapfrogged up companionways with each two-man team covering the other. "Mayday, Mayday. Come in."

The voice was coming through the open door of the wheelhouse. But when they stepped inside, the wheelhouse was empty.

Beck went over and examined the tape recorder next to the microphone. It had been set to play the same message over and over again. Alarm bells went off in his head.

"Goddamnitl" one of his men said. "What the hell's thattfrn^?" The stench was coming through their masks. "Never mind the smell," Beck said quietly, cocking his shotgun. "Back to the boat. Double time."

Beck's words had barely left his lips when a bloodcurdling shriek filled the wheelhouse. A terrifying apparition had launched itself through the open door. Acting on pure instinct, the captain brought the gun up in a single motion and fired from his hip.

There were more shrieks intermingled with the shouts of his men, and blurred glimpses of long white hair, yellow teeth, glowing red eyes and lunging bodies.

His shotgun was knocked from his hands. Withered hands clawed at his throat. He was thrown to the deck and the overpowering smell of decaying flesh filled his nostrils.

THE ROLLS-ROYCE Silver Cloud raced through the sundrenched French countryside, passing a blur of farmhouses, rolling green fields and yellow haystacks. Darnay had offered the use of his car before he flew off to Provence. Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who favored exotic cars, Austin drove a nondescript vehicle from the NUMA motor pool back home. As the Rolls whisked over hill and dale, Austin felt as if he were at the controls of a flying carpet.

Skye sat beside him, her hair playfully tousled by the warm breeze flowing through the open windows. She noticed the faint smile on his lips. "A penny for your thoughts."

"I was congratulating myself on my good luck. I'm driving a magnificent car through countryside that could have inspired a Van Gogh painting. There's a lovely woman at my side. And I'm on the NUMA payroll."

Skye gazed with longing at the passing scenery. "It's unfortunate that you are being paid. Otherwise, we could forget about the

Fauchards and go off on our own. I'm so sick of this whole sordid business."

"This shouldn't take long," Austin said. "We passed a charming auberge a while back. After we visit chez Fauchard, we could stop and have the dinner we've been putting off."

"All the more reason to wrap up our visit as quickly as possible." The car was approaching a crossroad. Skye consulted a map. "We should be turning off not far from here."

Several minutes later, Austin wheeled the car onto a narrow strip of macadam. Hard dirt tracks branched off from the road and provided access to vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see. The vineyards eventually thinned out and the car came to an electrified chain-link fence. NO trespassing signs in several languages hung from the fence. The gate was open so they kept on going and plunged into a dense forest. Thick tree trunks hugged the road on both sides and the dense canopy filtered the sun's rays.

The temperature dropped several degrees. Skye crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders.

"Cold?" Austin said. "I can roll up the windows." "I'm fine," she said. "I wasn't prepared for the abrupt change from the lovely farmland and vineyards. This forest is... so foreboding." Austin glanced at the dense woods. He saw only shadows beyond the phalanx of trees. Occasionally, the woods opened to reveal a dank marsh. He flicked on the headlights, but they only served to intensify the gloominess.

Then the scenery began to change. The road widened and was bordered on both sides by tall oaks. Their branches interlocked high above, creating a long tree tunnel that went on for at least a mile before ending quite suddenly. The road began to rise.

"Mon Dieu!" Skye exclaimed when she saw the massive granite pile that loomed ahead on a low hill.

Austin's eyes took in the conical turrets and the high, crenellated walls.

"We seem to have passed through a time warp into fourteenth-century Transylvania."

Skye said in hushed tones, "It's magnificent in an ominous sort of way."

Austin was less enthralled with the chateau's architecture. He gave her a sidelong glance. "They used to say the same thing about Castle Dracula."

He wheeled the Rolls onto a white gravel driveway that encircled an ornate fountain whose motif was a group of armor-clad men hacking each other to death in bloody combat. The bronze faces on the struggling warriors were twisted in agony.

"Charming," Austin said.

"Ugh! It's absolutely grotesque."

Austin parked the Rolls near an arched bridge that spanned a wide moat. A swampy odor rose from the greenish-brown surface of the stagnant water. They walked across the bridge and drawbridge and passed through a gate into the expansive cobblestone-paved courtyard that surrounded the chateau and separated the building from the encircling walls. No one came to greet them so they made their way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to a terrace that ran along the front of the house.

Austin put his hand on the massive knocker that decorated the iron-banded wooden door. "Does this look familiar?"

"It's the same eagle design as on the helmet and the plane."

Nodding in agreement, Austin lifted the knocker and let it drop twice.

"I predict that a toothless hunchback named Igor will open the door," he said.

"If that happens, I'm running for the car."

"If that happens, I'd advise you not to get in my way," Austin said. The man who answered the doorbell's ring was neither toothless nor hunched. He was tall and blond and dressed in white tennis clothes. He could have been in his forties, or fifties, although it was hard to tell his age because his face was unlined and he was as trim as a professional athlete.

"You must be Mr. Austin," the man said with a bright smile, his hand extended in greeting.

"That's right. And this is my assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." "I'm Emil Fauchard. A pleasure to meet you. You're very kind to come all the way from Paris. My mother has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please come this way."

He ushered his guests into a commodious foyer and led the way at a brisk pace along a carpeted hallway. Painted on the high vaulted ceilings were mythological scenes showing nymphs, satyrs and centaurs in unearthly woodland settings. As they followed their guide, Skye leaned into Austin's ear. "So much for your Igor theory."

"It was only a hunch," Austin said with astraight face. Skye rolled her eyes, the only appropriate response to Austin's pun. The hallway seemed endless, although it was hardly a boring walk. Decorating the dark wood-paneled walls were enormous tapestries of medieval hunting scenes showing life-sized figures of nobles and squires whose arrows were making pincushions out of hapless deer and wild boar.

Fauchard stopped at a door, which he opened, and gestured for them to enter.

The chamber they stepped into was a stark contrast to the chateau's oversized architecture. It was small and intimate and with its low beamed ceilings and walls lined with antiquated books, it was like a room in a country cottage. A woman sat in a leather chair in a corner of the room, reading by the light streaming through a tall window.

"Mother," Fauchard softly called out. "Our visitors have arrived. This is Mr. Austin and his assistant, Mademoiselle Bouchet." Skye had chosen her alias out of the Paris phone book.

The woman smiled and put her book down, then stood to greet them. She was tall and almost military in her posture. A black business suit and lavender scarf set off her pale complexion and silver hair. Moving as gracefully as a ballerina, she came over and shook hands. Her grip was unexpectedly strong.

"Please sit down," she said, indicating two comfortable leather chairs. Glancing at her son, she said, "Our guests must be thirsty after their long drive." She spoke English with no accent.

"I'll attend to it on my way out," Emil said.

a Moments later, a servant appeared bearing cold bottled water and glasses on a tray. Austin studied Madame Fauchard as she dismissed the servant and poured their glasses full. As with her son, it was difficult to guess her age. She could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old. Whatever her age, she was quite beautiful in a classic sense. Except for a spidery network of wrinkles, her complexion was as flawless as a cameo and her gray eyes were alert and intelligent. Her smile ranged from beguiling to the mysterious, and when she spoke her voice had only a few of the cracks in it that can come with old age.

"It was very kind of you and your assistant to travel all the way from Paris, Mr. Austin."

"Not at all, Madame Fauchard. You must be very busy with your duties and I'm pleased that you were able to see us on such short notice."

She threw her hands up in a gesture of astonishment.

"How could I not see you after hearing about your discovery?

Frankly, I was stunned when I learned that the body found in Le Dormeur glacier could be that of my great-uncle, Jules Fauchard. I have flown over the Alps many times, never suspecting that an illustrious member of my family lay frozen in the ice below. Are you quite certain it's Jules?"

"I never saw the body, and can't be sure about the identity," he said. "But the Morane-Saulnier airplane I discovered in the glacial lake was traced to Jules Fauchard through a manufacturer's serial number. Circumstantial evidence, but compelling nonetheless."

Madame Fauchard stared off into space. "It could only be Jules," she said, more to herself than to her guests. Rallying her thoughts, she said, "He disappeared in 1914 after taking off from here in his plane, a Morane-Saulnier. He loved to fly and had gone to French military flying schools, so he was quite accomplished at it. Poor man. He must have run out of fuel or encountered severe weather in the mountains."