Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

"Oh hell," Austin said. "What happened?"

"No one seems to know. There was an attack on the research vessel at about the same time they lost contact with the submersible."

"Doesn't make sense. Who would attack a peaceful scientific expedition?"

"You got me. I took a fast train to Paris last night, planted myself here and checked with the poor desk clerk every fifteen minutes." "How long have they been missing?" "More than twenty-four hours without contact." "I assume Dirk and Rudi have been alerted?" Zavala nodded. "Dirk wants us to keep him posted. He's called on

the navy for help. I talked to Rudi a half hour ago. He sent the research vessel Searcher in so we could hear something at any minute." "What's the life support situation on the Alvin?" "About forty-eight hours of food and air left." Zavala glanced at his watch.

Austin silently cursed. While he'd been dallying over croissants with Skye, the Trouts, if they were still alive, were in desperate need of help. "We have to move fast."

"There's a NUMA executive jet at De Gaulle airport. We can be in the Azores in a few hours and Rudi's arranged transportation for the next leg of the trip."

Austin told Zavala to stay put while he went up to his room. He shed his new wardrobe in exchange for his standard uniform of jeans and sweater, then threw some clothes in a duffel bag and was back in the lobby within minutes. The jet was warming its engines when they arrived at the airport. After a fast trip to the Azores, they hopped onto a seaplane and headed out into the Atlantic.

The NUMA research vessel Searcher had been on its way home from Europe when Gunn's call diverted it to the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Austin was glad to learn that the Searcher was on site. The research vessel was only a few months old and it was crammed with state-of-the-art remote sensing equipment and undersea robots.

As the seaplane began its descent, Austin looked out the window and saw that the navy had lost no time reacting to Pitt's request. The NUMA vessel and the Atlantis had been joined by a navy cruiser.

The seaplane touched down on the water near the sleek-hulled NUMA vessel. Alerted by the seaplane pilot, the Searcher had a boat waiting to shuttle Austin and Zavala to the ship. The skipper, a tall, olive-skinned Californian named Paul Gutierrez, was waiting for them. Captain Gutierrez wasted little time and led them to the bridge. In the wheelhouse, Austin's coral-colored eyes stared off at

the sea, where a powerboat was approaching the Atlantis from the navy ship.

"Looks like we're about to have company."

"The navy arrived within hours. They've been keeping an eye out for further attacks. Let me show you what we've been doing." He spread out a chart of the area. Sections of the chart were crosshatched with a black grease pencil. "We've been lucky with weather conditions. This will give you an idea of the area we've covered. We've run sonar surveys and sent down our Remote Operated Vehicles." "Impressive."

"Thanks. The Searcher's gear can spot a dime at a thousand fathoms. We've covered the entire Lost City and some of the outlying areas where we discovered more fields of hydrothermal vents. The Atlantis has been checking out the ridge as well. The capabilities of the Searcher are awesome, if I say so myself." He shook his head. "Can't figure it. The Alvin % one of the toughest little subs in the world. She's gone down hundreds of times without a problem." "No sign of the submersible so far?" "~No Alvin, but that's not the end of the story." Gutierrez handed Austin a printout showing the bottom as seen on the sonar monitor. "Once we covered the Lost City, we began to look beyond the immediate area. There are at least three other vent cities of comparable or larger size located on the ridge. Check out what we found in one of them, which we're calling "LC II." It's got us baffled as hell."

Austin borrowed a magnifying glass. Years of survey work had given him a skilled eye in reading sonar, but the markings he saw were puzzling. "What are these strange double lines?"

"We wondered the same thing. So we sent down an ROV and shot these pictures."

Austin studied the glossy eight-by-ten photos. The tall columns of

the Lost City were clearly defined, as were the tracks that wound through the towers.

"They look like tread marks from a big bulldozer or a tank," Austin said.

"Very big," the captain said. "When we used the columns for scale, we estimated that the treads must be at least thirty feet apart." "What's the depth here?" "Twenty-five hundred feet."

Zavala whistled. "A respectable engineering feat, but not impossible. Remind you of something, Kurt?"

"Big John," Austin said with a smile. In answer to the captain's quizzical expression, he explained that Big John was the nickname for a bottom-crawling vehicle NUMA had developed several years before as a moving deep-ocean lab. He pointed to a photo that showed the tracks coming to an abrupt end. "Whatever was down there seems to have lifted off. Unlike Big John, this mechanical turtle can swim as well as crawl."

"And my guess is that it took the Alvin with it," Zavala said. "It seems too much of a coincidence having the Alvin disappear near these tracks," Captain Gutierrez said with a nod of his head.

"There is another strange coincidence," Austin said. "I understand you were attacked at about the same time as the Alvin % disappearance."

"As we were starting to panic about the Alvin, we were approached by a strange ship," Gutierrez said. "It was an old rust bucket of a freighter. The name on the hull was the Celtic Rainbow and it was out of Malta. They called in a Mayday. When we returned the call there was no answer. Only the distress call, repeating over and over again. Then we sighted smoke, apparently coming from a hold." "Did anyone try to abandon the ship?" "That's what was crazy. No one. Not a soul on the deck. I was

going to send a boat to investigate, but Captain Beck volunteered to go over with a party of his men." "Beck?"

"He ran an ocean security outfit. As you may know, pirates have attacked or threatened research vessels around the world. The institution was working with Beck to set up security procedures for its research vessels. He had three men, all former SEALs like himself, on board for a training mission. They'd been teaching crew and scientists how to react to a pirate attack. He struck me as a very capable man."

"None better," said a man in a navy uniform who had stepped into the pilothouse. "From what I've heard, Beck was a real pro. I'm Ensign Pete Muller. That's my ship over there," he said, pointing to the cruiser. Austin extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Ensign."

"Always a pleasure to talk to folks from NUMA."

"What happened to Captain Beck and his men?" Austin said.

"I'm afraid they were all killed," the ensign said.

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"We found the captain's body in the water, but no sign of his men or the ship," Muller said.

"How could a freighter simply disappear?"

"Our ship was the closest vessel when the Atlantis sent out the SOS. By the time we arrived, the attackers were gone. We secured the situation here, then we chased after the attackers. We knew their direction and with our superior speed we would have overtaken them. We had them on radar when the blip disappeared. We found debris and an oil slick, but no ship."

"I don't get it," Austin said. "SEALs are among the most highly trained special warfare people on the face of the earth. Boarding a potentially hostile ship is one of their specialties."

"I'm afraid they ran into something they never trained for." Austin noticed something in Ensign Muller's expression that he rarely saw in the face of a military man. It was the look of fear.

"I have the feeling that there is more here than I've been told. Maybe the captain can tell us about the attack."

"I can do better than that," Gutierrez said. "I'll let you see it."

THE SHAKY IMAGES on the video screen jumped spastically making it obvious that they had been shot with a handheld camera under unsteady circumstances. The camera showed three men seen from behind. They were wearing bandannas wrapped around their heads and automatic weapons were slung over their shoulders. The men were in a moving inflatable boat, and the scene rose and dipped with the waves as the boat approached a rusty freighter of medium size. A hard-edged voice could be heard over the buzz of the outboard motor.

"Approaching target. Heads up, boys, this isn't a joy ride. We'll try a false insertion to see if we can draw fire."

The man closest to the lens turned and gave a thumbs-up. Then the picture froze.

Ensign Muller rose from his chair and stood beside the flat wall screen. He pointed to the dark-skinned man grinning into the camera lens.

"That's Sal Russo," he said to Austin and the others seated in the room. "Top-notch; savvy and tough as nails. Helped form SEAL

Team Six, the antiterrorism unit. Picked up a basketful of medals for his Persian Gulf service before mustering out to join Beck's company."

"And that must be Captain Beck's voice in the background," Austin said. He was seated in a folding chair next to Zavala and Gutierrez.

"That's right. Beck had a video camera on a chest harness. He used it as a training tool to show his teams where they made mistakes and what they did right. He was still wearing the camera when we plucked his body out of the water. Fortunately, it was in a waterproof housing. The picture gets a little jumpy from time to time, but it will give you a pretty good idea of what they encountered."

Muller punched the resume button on the remote control and returned to his chair. The man on the screen came to life and turned with his back to the camera again. The buzz of the outboard ratcheted up several decibels, the bow lifted as the boat rose on plane and headed directly toward the boarding ladder that hung down the starboard bow. A hundred feet from the ladder, the boat veered off and sped away from the freighter.

"Attempt to draw fire was unsuccessful," the voice said. "Let's check out the name on the stern."

The camera showed the boat coming around behind the ship, where the words CELTIC rainbow, and below that MALTA, were visible on the peeling hull. Then the boat moved alongside the larger vessel and headed back to the ladder. As they came up to the side, a man grabbed a rung and held the boat in place.

Everyone put gas masks on and two SEALs clambered up the ladder. The bow man pushed the boat off a few yards and brought his gun to bear on the deck, ready to pick off anyone trying to ambush the boarders. The two men climbed to the deck without incident. The point man waved the boat back in.

"Slick insertion with no resistance," Beck said. "Backup going in now."

With the boat tied up to the ladder, Beck and Russo began to climb. There was a jumpy picture of the side of the ship and the microphone picked up the sound of heavy breathing. Beck's voice could be heard muttering, "Getting too old for this crap. Puff. Hell of a lot more fun than sitting at a desk, though."

The camera panned the deck to show the SEALs crouched low, weapons at ready. Smoke drifted over the deck from the billowing cloud. As set out in their preplan, Russo took one man and made a heads-down dash to the other side of the ship, and then they worked their way toward the stern. Beck and the other SEAL did the same on the starboard deck and the team rendezvoused at the stern rail. "Port side's clear," Russo said. He squinted at the smoke. "Looks like the fire's going out."

"You're right," Beck said. "Smoke is thinning. Remove your masks."

The men did as ordered, tucking their masks into belt bags.

"Okay, let's check the bridge to see who's sending that message."

The camera showed the men moving in leapfrog fashion, first one team then the others, so that the lead team was always covered. They climbed the companionways, pausing at each deck before going on, reaching the bridge wings with no incident.

The voice of someone calling "Mayday" was coming through the open door of the wheelhouse.

Speed, surprise and stealth are the essences of a SEAL mission. Having to board the ship in broad daylight ruled out two of those elements, so they wasted no time outside the wheelhouse. The camera followed them in and Beck's voice could be heard saying, "Good job. Hell. Damn place is empty."

The camera showed a 360-degree sweep of the wheelhouse, and then Beck went over to the ship's radio. A hand, obviously his, reached out and picked up a tape recorder next to the radio's microphone. The Mayday message they had heard was repeating over and over. The hand clicked off the recorder and the Maydays stopped.

"Goddamnit!" one of the men said. "What the hell's that stint^?"

Beck's voice could be heard in the background, calm but with an unmistakable sense of urgency, ordering his men to cock their weapons, stay sharp and make their way double time back to their boat.

Then the gates of Hades opened.

Someone or something launched itself through the door, shrieking like an angry banshee. Then came the thundering blast of a shotgun at close range. More shrieks and lunging bodies and the rattle of automatic weapons fire. There were blurred flashes of dingy white hair or fur and glimpses of faces out of a nightmare.

"This way, Captain!"

Chip Russo had his back to the camera, blocking out most of the picture. More gunfire and hideous screams. Then a whole series of blurred images.

Beck was out of the wheelhouse and appeared to be half-falling, half-climbing down the companionways. His breath was coming out in great hoarse gasps. Russo could be heard in the background yelling:

"Move it, Cap, move! I nailed one of the red-eyed sons of bitches, but they're on our asses."

"My men "

"Too late Move. Aw hell."

Another blast of gunfire. Then a man screaming.

Beck had made it to the main deck. He was running now, huffing like a locomotive climbing a steep hill, his boots pounding. He was near the bow within a few feet of the ladder.

There was an inhuman scream from off-camera. More white hair and lunging bodies, then another shotgun blast. A glimpse of luminous red eyes. Then a gurgle and whirling sky and sea. The screen went dark.

Austin broke the stunned silence that followed. "Your video raises more questions than it answers."

"Beck almost made it back to the boat," Muller said, "but someone or something ambushed him as he was about to climb down the ladder. When his body was found his throat, had been torn open."

"Could you go back a few seconds in the video?" Zavala said. Muller complied. "Okay, freeze it right there."

The burning red eyes almost filled the screen. The image was fuzzy, but the vagueness didn't diminish the feral intensity. A silence ensued in the room, broken only by the hum of the ship's ventilator. Finally, Austin said, "What do you make of this video, Ensign?" Muller shook his head like a man who'd been asked to explain the mysteries of the universe. "The only thing I'm sure of is that Captain Beck and his men got themselves into a hell of a mess. Whoever, or whatever, ambushed them didn't expect to run into an armed SEAL unit."

"My guess is that they intended to attack the Atlantis, but changed their minds after the fight with Beck and his men," Austin said. "That was my take on it, too," Muller said.

Captain Gutierrez rose from his chair. "I've got to get back to the bridge. You gentlemen let me know if there is anything further I can do to help."

Austin thanked Gutierrez and, after he left, turned to Muller. "I suppose you'll be going back to your ship."

"Not quite yet. A relief vessel is coming in to stand guard duty. Should be here in a few hours. I've got time. Now that the captain has gone, I'd like to talk about this situation if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Austin said. "From the little I've seen, there's a lot to talk about."

Muller smiled. "When I first heard this crazy story, I thought we

might be dealing with pirates, although there was no evidence that they were operating in this part of the world."

"You've changed your mind about the pirates?" Austin said.

"I've discarded that theory. I neglected to mention that I'm an intelligence officer with the navy. After I saw the video, I contacted my staff in Washington and asked them to research everything they could on 'red-eyed monsters or fiends." You should have heard the disrespectful replies I got, but they went through every source they could, from Dracula, photography, Hollywood movies. Did you know there's a rock group called "Red-Eyed Demons'?"

"My rock education stopped with the Rolling Stones," Austin said.

"Me, too. Anyhow, I spent some time going over their reports and kept coming back to this."

Muller took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to Austin who unfolded it and read the headline.

TV CAST, CREW STILL MISSING POLICE BAFFLED

It was a Reuters news story datelined London. He kept reading.

Authorities say they still have no leads in the disappearance of seven participants and four technical crew members who were filming an episode of the Outcasts television show on a remote island off the coast of Scotland.

Under the rules of the game, the other members of the so-called clan vote an "Outcast" off the island each week. A helicopter sent to pick up the latest exile found no sign of the others. Police, working with the FBI, found traces of blood, suggesting the possibility of violence.

The lone survivor, who was found hiding, is recuperating at home. She has been quoted as saying the survivors were attacked by

"red-eyed fiends." Authorities have discounted this account, saying that the victim was suffering from hallucinations brought on by shock.

The popular TV show, a spin-off of earlier Survivor-type productions, has been criticized by some for encouraging even greater tension among participants and subjecting them to risky tests involving mental and physical stress. The network has offered a $50,000 reward for information.

Kurt handed the article to Zavala, who read the story and said, "How does this tie in with the Alvin's disappearance?"

"It's a tenuous connection, I'll admit, but try to follow my convoluted line of thinking. I went back to those undersea tracks. It was clear that something was going on in the Lost City and someone wanted the activity kept a secret."

"That sounds right," Zavala said. "Whoever made those tracks wouldn't want anyone nosing around the thermal vents

"If you had a secret like that, what would you do if a submersible loaded with cameras dropped into your backyard?"

"Simple," Zavala said. "The expedition was publicized, so I'd move my equipment out."

Austin said, "Not so simple. Someone was bound to see the tracks and ask questions. You'd have to eliminate the outside observers. And you'd have to take care of any witnesses."

"Then that would explain why a shipload of red-eyed freaks was unleashed on the Atlantis," Zavala said.

Austin said, "Suppose the Atlantis vanished. A while later the Alvin surfaced and when it sees the support ship has disappeared it calls for help. A massive search would be launched. There's always the chance that a search would pick up traces of the Alvin and attract more attention."

"Which means whatever made those tracks may have snatched the Alvin" Zavala said.

"Gutierrez says the submersible isn't down there, and I believe him," Muller said.

Austin glanced at the news article again. "Red eyes here. Red eyes there. As you say, a tenuous connection."

"I agree. That's why I ordered up a series of satellite photos of the waters surrounding the Outcasts island." From his briefcase, he took a stack of photos and spread them out on a table. "Most of the islands have small fishing villages that have been there for years. On others, the only inhabitants are birds. This one was unusual enough to catch my attention."

He slid a picture toward Austin. The photo showed several buildings, most of them clustered away from the shore, and some primitive roads.

"Any idea what these structures are?" Austin said.

"That island was originally owned by the British government, which operated it as a submarine station during World War Two and the Cold War. Later it was sold to a private corporation. We're still looking into that. Supposedly it was used for bird research although nobody knows for sure, because access to the island is barred."

"This could be a patrol boat to enforce the no-trespassing order," Austin said, pointing to a tiny white line that marked a wake.

"That's a good bet," Muller agreed. "I had the pictures taken at different times during the day, and the boat is always at some point around the island, following pretty much the same route."

As he examined the rocks and shoals guarding the island, Austin noticed a dark, oval object near the harbor opening. He saw it again in other photos but at different positions. It had a vague outline, as if it were underwater rather than on the surface. He turned the photos over to Zavala.

"Take a look at these and see if you see anything unusual, Joe." As the team's expert on remotely operated and manned undersea

vehicles, Zavala noticed the strange object immediately. He spread out the pictures. "This is an underwater vehicle of some sort."

"Let me see that," Muller said. "I'll be damned. I was so concentrated on what was above water that I didn't notice what was under it. I must have thought it was a fish of some kind."

"It's a fish all right," Zavala said. "Battery-operated and motorized. My guess is that it's an AUV."

"An Autonomous Underwater Vehicle?"

Originally built for commercial and research use, AUVs were the hottest development in undersea technology. The robot vehicles could operate on their own, guided by preprogrammed instructions, unlike Remote Operated Vehicles, which had to be guided with a tether.

"This AUV could have a sonar and acoustic instrumentation, and would be able to detect anything or anyone moving on or under the waters surrounding the island. It could send an alarm to land-based monitors."

"The navy has been using AUVs as replacements for the dolphins who sniffed out mines. I've heard that some AUVs can be programmed to attack," Muller said.

Austin stared at the photos and said, "It seems that we may have to make a fast decision."

"Look, I'm not telling you what that should be, and I know you're concerned about your friends," Muller said. "But there isn't much you can do here. Captain Gutierrez will continue the search and he can notify you if and when he finds something."

"You'd like us to check this place out?"

"The U.S. navy can't go busting in on this island, but a couple of highly trained and determined people could."

Austin turned to Zavala. "What do you think we should do, Joe?"

"It's a gamble," Zavala said. "While we're chasing creeps with bloodshot eyes, Paul and Gamay could be a million other places."

Austin knew that Zavala was right, but his instincts were pointing him to the island.

"We asked the seaplane to stand by," he told Ensign Mullen "We'll fly back to the Azores and catch a jet. With any luck we can take a close look at your mysterious island tomorrow."

"I hoped you'd say that," Muller said with a smile.

Less than an hour later, the seaplane lifted off from the water and climbed into the air. The aircraft circled once over the research vessel and the cruiser, and then headed toward the Azores, taking Austin and Zavala on the first leg of their journey into the unknown.

DARN AY LIVED IN a converted farmhouse of stucco and red tile that overlooked the historic old city of Aix-en-Provence. Skye had called the antiquities dealer from the train station to let him know she had arrived and Darnay was waiting at the front door when the cab dropped her off at his villa. They exchanged hugs and the perfunctory double cheek kisses, then Darnay ushered her onto a broad terrace that bordered a swimming pool surrounded by sunflowers. He seated her at a marble and wrought-iron table and poured two Kir cocktails of creme de cassis and white wine.

"You don't know how delighted I am to see you, my dear," Darnay said.

They clinked glasses and sipped the cold sweet mixture.

"It's good to be here, Charles." Skye shut her eyes and let the sunlight toast her face as she breathed in air tinged with the scents of purple lavender and the distant Mediterranean.

"You didn't say much when you called," Darnay said. "Your visit to the Fauchards went well, I trust."

Her eyes blinked open. "As well as could be expected," she said.

"Bon. And did Mr. Austin enjoy driving my Rolls?" Skye hesitated. "Yes and no." Darnay raised an eyebrow.

"Before I tell you what happened, you had better pour us another drink."

Darnay freshened their glasses and Skye spent the next forty-five minutes describing the events at the Fauchard chateau, from the time Emil greeted them at the front door to their madcap flight in the stolen airplane. Darnay's face grew graver with each new revelation. "This Emil and his mother are monsters!" he said. "We're very sorry about your car. But as you see, it couldn't be helped under the circumstances."

A broad smile replaced Darnay's grim expression. "What matters most is that you are safe. The loss of the Rolls is of no consequence. The car cost me a fraction of its worth. A 'steal," as your American friend might say."

"I thought it was something like that."

Darnay paused in thought. "I'm intrigued by your description of the Jules Fauchard portrait. You're sure he was wearing the same helmet?"

"Yes. Have you made any progress with its identification?" "A great deal of progress." He drained his glass. "If you are sufficiently refreshed, we will go see Weebel." "What's a Weebel?"

"Not a what, but a who. Oskar Weebel is an Alsatian who lives in the city. He has the helmet." "I don't understand."

Darnay rose from his chair and took Skye by the hand. "You will when you meet him."

Minutes later, they were in Darnay's Jaguar, speeding along a narrow, twisting road. Darnay casually wheeled the car around the switchbacks as if he were on a straightaway.

"Tell me more about your friend," Skye said as they entered the outskirts of the historic old city. Darnay turned off onto a narrow street between the Atelier de Cezanne and the Cathedrale Saint Sauveur.

"Weebel is a master craftsman," Darnay said. "One of the finest I've ever come across. He fabricates reproductions of antique weapons and armor. He farms out most of his production these days. But his own work is so good that some of the finest museums and most discerning collectors in the world are unaware that what they consider antique pieces were actually forged in his shop."

"Fakes?"

Darnay winced. "That's such an ugly word to come from such a lovely mouth. I prefer to call them high-quality reproductions."

"Pardon me for asking, Charles, but have any of these wonderful reproductions been sold to the museums and collectors who are your clients?"

"I seldom make claims about the authenticity of my wares. Something like that could land me in jail for fraud. I merely imply that the item in question may have a certain provenance and let the client connect the dots. As the American comedian W. C. Fields said, "You can't cheat an honest man." We're here."

He pulled the Jaguar up to the curb and led Skye to a two-story stone building of medieval architecture. He punched the bell and a moment later a short round man in his sixties, wearing a pale gray workman's smock, opened the door and greeted them with a wide smile. He ushered them into the house, where Darnay made introductions.

Weebel seemed to have been assembled of mismatched spare parts. His skull-bald head was too large for his shoulders. When he removed his old-fashioned spectacles, his kindly eyes were seen to be too small for his face. His legs were stumpy. Yet his perfect mouth and teeth could have come from a fashion model and his fingers were long and slender, like those of a concert pianist. He reminded Skye

of Mole from the English classic The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame.

Weebel shot a shy glance in Skye's direction. He said, "Now I know why I have not heard from you, Charles. You have been otherwise distracted."

"As a matter of fact, Mademoiselle Labelle arrived only a little while ago, my good friend. I have filled the time since her arrival telling her of your wonderful skills."

Weebel replied with a self-effacing tut-tut, but it was evident from his expression that the compliment pleased him. "Thank you, Charles. I was just brewing some hibiscus tea," he said, and led them into a neatly ordered kitchen, where they sat at a trestle table. Weebel poured the tea, then peppered Skye with questions about her work. As she patiently answered the questions, she had the feeling that Weebel was tucking her answers in tidy mental files.

"Charles has told me about your work as well, Monsieur Weebel." When he became excited, Weebel punctuated his speech with a quick "Aha," spoken as one word.

"He has. Well then. Aha. I'll show you my workshop." He led them down a narrow staircase to the basement, which was brightly lit with fluorescent lights. It was basically a blacksmith's shop equipped with a forge, anvil, chisels, specialized hammers and pincers, all tools geared for the amorer's basic task, which was beating out plates from hot metal. An assortment of breastplates, leg armor, gauntlets and other protective equipment hung from the walls. Darnay's practiced eye glanced at a shelf holding several helmets of various styles.

"Where is the piece I left here?"

"A special headpiece like that deserves special treatment," Weebel said. He went over to the suit of armor standing in the corner, flipped up the visor and reached inside. "This is a mass-produced item. Aha. I have them fabricated in China for the restaurant trade mostly."

He activated a switch inside the suit and a section of wall panel about four feet wide opened with a soft click to reveal a steel door. He punched out a number on the combination keypad. Behind the door was a room the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with wooden boxes of odd sizes, each marked with a number.