Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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THE NEWEST ADDITION to the NUMA fleet began to spout leaks within minutes^>f clearing the harbor. The transition from virtually flat calm to seas of two feet in open water was not a severe change, but it was enough to open seams in the boat's elderly hull. Austin, who was at the helm, noticed that the wheel was responding sluggishly and that the boat was settling. He clicked the bilge pump switch, but the motor refused to start.

"They should have named this boat the Busted Flush" Austin grumbled.

"I'll check it out," Zavala said. At the heart of every brilliant engineer is a mechanic, and Zavala was no different. He was happiest when getting his fingers into grease. He slipped below through a deck hatch, and after a minute or two yelled up to Austin, "Try again." The pump started with a series of chortles and gasps. When he emerged, he looked like a dipstick, but he had a smile on his oil-smeared face.

"Engine repair 101. When all else fails, look for a loose wire," he said.

The repair hadn't come a minute too soon. The boat was listing as if it had a flat tire. But the bilge pump worked heroically, keeping ahead of the leaks, and after a few minutes the Spooler got back on an even keel, more or less, and continued on its heading.

By then, Austin had discovered that when the Spooler wasn't sinking it handled quite well. The creeler was built for local conditions and its graceful, raised bow cut through the washboard sea as easily as a canoe on a pond. With a wind at their back, and the engine chugging along and only missing occasionally, they made good time across the bay.

Austin gave the radar screen a glance and saw that they were on course. He squinted through the spray-streaked windshield but saw only blackness. While Zavala took the helm, he stepped outside the wheelhouse. The cold damp air hit him in the face. He sensed rather than saw a dark mass rising from the darker sea. He went back into the warm wheelhouse.

"The island should be dead ahead," he said.

The boat chugged through the night, and before long the looming presence Austin had sensed earlier began to assume an outline. The island's silhouette was clearly visible against the blue-black of the sky. Austin moved the wheel over slightly to starboard and sheared off a few compass points. Odds were good that the boat had been under surveillance for some time and he wanted to create the impression for any watchers that the Spooler was going around the island.

The AUV's electronic eyes and ears would be less easy to fool with a feint. But it would not be impossible. Austin had studied the images on the satellite photos taken over several hours and he had computed the vehicle's timing, well aware that the formula was subject to natural and human vagaries. He had tracked the vehicle's position and figured the AUV's schedule. Periodically, the AUV went back to recharge its batteries.

He checked the time. The AUV should be on the far side of the

island. Hoping to come in under the radar, he eased the wheel over, moving the boat closer to the sea cliffs, and prayed that his computations were right.

THE COMMAND center that protected the security of the island from nosy outsiders was housed in a squat, flat-roof, cinder-block building situated at the mouth of the inlet. Fifty percent of the building was crammed with electronic surveillance equipment. The other half served as a barracks for the twelve guards who manned the post.

The contingent had been broken up into four-man teams that worked three shifts. During the day, three guards patrolled the perimeter of the island by boat, while the fourth man stayed in the command center.

At night the routine changed. The patrol boat stayed on shore during the graveyard shift because the dangerous knife-edged rocks that lurked in the waters around the island were tricky to navigate in the dark. The boat was kept on standby, ready to respond if the AUV or radar picked up intruders. The night crew took turns recharging the AUV from an electrical station on the deck. The radar operator had seen the blip on his screen long before the boat approached the island and had watch it change course and come nearer.

The radar man was a German mercenary named Max. From experience, he knew that fishing boats rarely went out at night, but he relaxed when the blip moved past the island. He lit up a cigarette and leafed through the well-turned pages of a skin magazine for a few minutes, and then his eyes drifted back to the screen. It was blank. He let out a curse, mashed the cigarette into an ashtray and leaned forward, his nose practically touching the screen. He even tapped the glass with his knuckles as if it would do some good.

Still no sign of the target. The boat must have entered the radar's

blind spot along the base of the cliffs while he was studying female anatomy. It was an annoyance, but not a catastrophe. There was still the AUV. He turned to another monitor that kept tabs on the AUV. As it made its rounds, the vehicle bounced signals off a series of floating transponders that ringed the island. The transponders relayed the hits to the command center, and the vehicle's location could be pinpointed at any time along its route.

The vehicle was twelve feet long, flat and wide, a combination of a manta and a shark in shape, and topped with a tall dorsal fin. One of the guards had said the menacing profile reminded him of his former mother-in-law, whose name was Gertrude, and the name had stuck. Gertrude cruised a few feet below the surface, its sonar scanning the water for one hundred feet on each side. Its TV cameras took in the underwater scene.

Commands could be transmitted back to the AUV as well. This was an invaluable asset, given the vehicle's dual function as an underwater watchdog and weapons carrier. The AUV carried four miniature torpedoes, each with the power to sink a destroyer.

Max commanded Gertrude to return at top speed to the area where he had last seen the boat. Then he punched an intercom button.

"Sorry to break up your game, boys," he said into the microphone. "We've got a boat inside the security zone."

The boat crew had been playing poker in the barracks when the wall speaker crackled with the news of an intruder. Two of the men were former French Legionnaires and the other a South African mercenary. The South African threw his cards down in disgust and went over to the intercom.

"Where's the target?"

"It entered the security perimeter on the north side, then slipped into the radar blind spot. I've sent Gertrude over to sniff around."

"What the hell," the mercenary said. "My luck stinks tonight."

The three men pulled on their jackets and boots and grabbed their compact FA MAS assault rifles. A moment later they trotted to the end of the fog-draped pier and climbed into a thirty-foot rigid inflatable boat. The twin diesels roared to life. The crew cast off the mooring lines, and before long the water jet system was kicking the boat along at nearly forty knots.

The boat had barely been at sea for a few minutes when the man in the command center reported that the target had reappeared on radar outside the mouth of the inlet. He guided the patrol boat to the target and watched as the two blips merged on the screen.

While two guards stood ready to blast anything that moved, the helmsman brought the patrol boat in close, until its spotlight could pick out every square inch of peeling paint. The South African lowered his rifle and began to laugh. The others joined in.

"Spooler," he said. "We broke up our poker game for a Spooler?" "What are you complaining about? You were losing your ass." They roared with laughter again. a

"Better board the old scow," the helmsman said. The guards were all trained military men who didn't let their amusement get in the way of their caution. Their levity ended and their training came into play. The patrol boat edged up to the creeler and two men went aboard with weapons drawn while the other covered them with his rifle. They checked out the deserted wheelhouse, opened the hatch and looked below.

"Nothing," one of the mercenaries called back to the man on the boat. He leaned against the rail and lit up a cigarette.

His companion said, "I wouldn't perch there for too long, if I were you."

"Hell," said the other man. "Who died and made you king?" The Legionnaire grinned and climbed back onto the patrol boat. "Suit yourself," he said. "Don't get your feet wet."

The South African looked at his boots. Water was rapidly flowing from the engine hatch and flooding the deck. The boat was sinking. He let out a yell, which got his colleagues laughing. The helmsman pulled the patrol boat off a few yards, as if he were leaving his companion to his own devices, but he came back when the South African gave forth with a string of curses in Afrikaans.

The South African practically fell into the patrol boat, then he and the others watched as the water reached the gunwales. Then only the mast was visible and a few minutes later that was gone and the only evidence of a boat was a patch of bubbling water.

"Okay, so you bastards had a little joke," said the South African. "Let's go back and break open another bottle."

The helmsman got on the radio and reported to the command center.

"Doesn't make sense," the radar man said. "That thing was moving on a straight-line course when I picked it up on the radar."

"You been drinking?"

"Of course I've been drinking."

The shore patrol had been celebrating after hearing scuttlebutt from the guards at the complex that they might be closing down the island's operation.

"That explains it."

"But "

"Currents are strong around the bloody island. She could have been caught up."

"I guess so," Max said.

"Can't help you there, mate. She's deep-sixed. We're coming in."

The voice from the command center said, "Watch out for Gertrude. She's in the area."

Seconds later, the huge fin cut the water near the boat. The men on the patrol boat were used to seeing Gertrude, but they had never felt comfortable when the AUV was in the area. They were nervous about its destructive potential and the fact that it operated largely on its own. The AUV stopped fifty feet away. It was matching the sound profile of the patrol boat with the information stored in its database. "Make damned sure she's not armed." Laughter. "I'll have the fish check around." "You do that. We're getting the hell out of here." The diesel engines rumbled, and the boat did a banking turn and headed back to its dock.

The fin went back and forth for several minutes, following parallel lines in a mow-the-lawn search pattern. The probing sonar picked up the fishing boat now lying on the bottom and transmitted a picture. The radar man watched the screen for several minutes and then commanded the AUV to resume its normal patrol.

Moments after the AUV moved off, two figures emerged from the cabin' of the sunken boat. With strong rhythmic kicks that ate up the distance, they began to swim in theA direction of the island.

TROUT HAD MASHED the accelerator to the floor after he blasted Strega's Mercedes through the compound gate. MacLean who was in the passenger's seat with Gamay between them, had been staring at the speedometer as the car hurtled through the pass.

"Dr. Trout!" he said in a voice that was calm but assertive. "There's a sharp turn in the road ahead. If you don't slow down, we'll have to sprout wings."

Gamay put a hand on her husband's arm.

Trout glanced at the speedometer. They were doing more than seventy miles per hour. He pumped the brakes and switched the headlights on in time to see that the turn was more than sharp; it was angular. Off to the right was a drop-off with no guardrail.

The tires skidded close to the ragged edge of the cliff, but the Mercedes stayed on the road, which straightened and began a gradual descent. Trout let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel one finger at a time.

"Thanks for the warning, Mac."

MacLean compressed his lips in a tight smile. "I wouldn't want us to get stopped for speeding."

Trout glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of arms and legs in the backseat.

"Is everyone still with us?" he asked.

"We're not going anywhere unless you pry us out with a crowbar," Sandy said.

Trout allowed himself the luxury of a hearty laugh. In spite of his outer calm, he was wound as tight as a clock spring. MacLean composed demeanor brought Trout back down to earth. The adrenaline pumping through his veins had helped him pull off the escape from the compound, but if they were to survive, he needed to be cool and deliberate. The road continued to descend until it was at sea level and ended at a junction with two roads.

Trout brought the Mercedes to a halt and pointed to the road on the left. "Is this the way we came in?"

"That's right," MacLean said. "The road runs along the edge of the inlet to the submarine pen. There's a garrison and guards' quarters there. If we turn right, we'll come to the mouth of the harbor. There's a command center and a dock there for the boat patrols."

Trout said, "You've done your homework."

"You're not the only one who's tried to figure out how to get off this blasted rock."

"Seems like a pretty clear choice. The patrol boat could be our ticket off the island."

"I agree," Gamay said. "Besides, if we're going to stir up a hornet's nest, the fewer hornets the better."

Trout nodded and wheeled the Mercedes to the right. The road ran for another half mile alongside a beach that bordered the inlet. He saw lights glowing in the distance and pulled off the road. He told

the others where he was going and suggested that they get out and stretch, but to stay near the car. Then he started walking. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea and it felt good to be out of the compound. He had no illusions. His freedom was as ephemeral as the waves lapping the beach.

Trout saw that the lights were coming from a concrete-block building. The window shades were down. He gave the building a wide berth and kept on going until he came to a wooden pier that jutted out into the water. There was no patrol boat. Not even a rowboat. The cool breeze from off the sea was nothing to the cold he felt in the pit of his stomach. He trudged back to the Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel.

"The patrol boat is gone," he announced. "We can wait and hope it comes back, but once the sun comes up, all bets are off. I suggest that we scout out the submarine pen."

"It's the last place they'd expect us to be," Gamay said in support.

"It's the last place I'd expect us to be," MacLean said. "We're not what one would call a Special Forces contingent."

"There were only a hundred or so misfits at the Alamo."

"I know my American history, Paul. The Alamo defenders were massacred. And don't tell me about the Scots at Culloden. They were massacred, too."

Trout grinned. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"That's something I can understand. But I'm still not clear what measures you have in mind."

"I'll try to get aboard the sub and look for a radio. If that doesn't work, I'll figure out something else."

"I believe you will," MacLean said, examining Trout as if he were an interesting lab specimen. "You're a very resourceful man for a deep-ocean geologist."

"I try to be," Trout said, and turned the ignition key.

He drove the vehicle along the edge of the inlet until he came to the abandoned church and cemetery. He parked behind the ruined building and told the others to sit tight. Gamay insisted on going with him this time. They followed a gravel road that led to where the inlet narrowed to a rounded point.

Floodlights lit the perimeter around the barracks. The Trouts went to within a hundred feet or so of the barracks and studied the layout. The building was situated near the edge of the cliff with an observation platform cantilevered out over the inlet from the main structure. An enclosed ladder led down from the underside of the platform. "Let's check out that ladder," he said.

"I don't think we'll have to worry. It sounds like a Klingon stag party is in progress," Gamay said.

Like the men in the compound, the sub guards must have learned that their duty was about to come to an end because a similar drunken celebration was under way in the guardhouse. Apparently, they hadn't learned the fate of their comrades in the lab. compound area. Gamay and Trout moved in until they were under the platform. The ladder dropped off the edge of the bluff. They climbed down the face of the cliff onto a narrow metal catwalk that was built a few feet above water level and followed a line of ankle-high lights into the yawning entrance of the sub pen.

The giant submarine that had kidnapped them loomed ahead. A few deck lights had been left on, so they were able to find the gangway and walk along the deck to the entry hatch. Trout lifted the hatch cover and poked his head inside. Low-level lights illuminated the sub's interior.

They descended a ladder and began to make their way through the sub as silently as shadows. Trout, who was in the lead, paused to peer around every corner, but he encountered no one. The control room was in semidarkness, lit by lights glowing on the various instrument

panels. The radio shack was a small space off the control room. While Gamay kept watch, Trout sat in front of the communications console, picked up the radiophone, dialed the main number for NUMA and held his breath, not sure what would happen.

"National Underwater and ... Agency," said a friendly female voice.

The faint transmission was broken up, probably by the walls and ceiling of the sub pen.

"Rudi Gunn, please. Tell him this is Paul Trout calling."

"One ... ment."

The moment seemed like a day. In his mind's eye, he pictured the lobby of the NUMA building with its centerpiece globe. Then the voice of NUMA's assistant director came on the phone. He could picture the slightly built Gunn sitting in his big office, probably applying his genius to a complex logistical problem.

"Trout? Where in God's name ... you? We've been looking ... over Creation. Are you okay?"

"Fine, Rudi. Gamay's here, too. Got to talk fast. The Alvin was hijacked. We're on an island I think it's in Scottish or Scandinavian waters. There are seven other scientists also being held prisoner. We've been working on some nutty experiment. We've escaped, but it might not last long."

"Having trouble hear ... you, but understand. Can you stay on ... radio?"

"We've got to get back to the others."

"Leave the radio phone on. We'll try to track you down through ... signal."

Trout's reply was cut short by a whispered warning from Gamay. Someone was whistling a mindless tune. He carefully replaced the mike in its cradle and shut off the radiophone. Then he and Gamay dropped to their hands and knees and tried with limited success to

cram their bodies under the console. The whistle came nearer. The whistler paused to peer through the glass pane in the door and apparently saw nothing amiss because the whistling grew fainter.

The Trouts pried themselves out of their hiding place. Paul called Gunn again and told him they were leaving the radio on. He checked the passageway, saw it was empty and they started back the way they came. They moved with even greater caution, keeping their ears cocked for a telltale whistle. They emerged from the deck hatchway, trotted along the catwalk and climbed the ladder that would take them back to the access road.

They returned to the church and were making their way through the graveyard when the night blazed with light. Beyond the blinding glare, several forms could be seen rising from behind the gravestones like restless spirits. Then rough hands grabbed Trout and Gamay and guards hustled them into the church. A tough-looking guard stood in front of the altar, a grin on his face that didn't match the machine pistol held at waist level, its muzzle pointing toward Trout's belly button.

"Hello, mate," the man said, with a quick glance at Gamay. "This is the end of the road for you and your friends."

THE OWL had been perched in a withered tree near the edge of the sea, its keen hearing attuned to the scampering of a mouse darting among clumps of grass. The bird was about to swoop down upon the hapless creature when its round yellow eyes caught a movement on the beach. Something large and shiny had broken from a wave and climbed out onto the wet sand. The owl spread its wings and silently flew inland. The mouse scurried into the grass, unmindful of its reprieve.

A second figure with black skin emerged from the surf like a

primitive creature crawling out of the primordial ooze. Austin and Zavala pushed their face masks up, unzipped their watertight packs and pulled out the SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter pistols the ill-fated SEAL team had left on board the research vessel. Seeing that they were alone, they took off their air tanks and stepped out of their dry suits.

They had slipped over the side of the Spooler as the patrol boat approached, first opening the pet cocks to send the fishing boat to the bottom. They had watched from inside the wheelhouse as the AUV checked out the sunken boat. When the AUV had left, they'd started swimming for land. Currents had thrown them off course, but Austin was reasonably sure they had landed close to where they were supposed to be.

A glance at his watch told Austin they had six hours until daylight. He signaled to Zavala. After a five-minute walk in the sand, their feet crunched hard gravel. Austin took a minicomputer from his pack and examined the image the satellite photo had taken of the island.

"If we stay on this road, we'll come to the compound. It's about two miles through what looks like a pass."

Without another word, they started walking along the darkened road.

THE MAN pointing the gun at Trout had a face like a lizard, all teeth and no lips.

"We've been waiting for you," the man said in an Australian accent.

"How'd you know where we were?" Trout said.

The man laughed. "Guess you didn't know we've got surveillance cameras scattered around the island. If the boys hadn't been so drunk, we might have seen you earlier."

"Sorry to interrupt your party."

"Your friends didn't feel like talking," he said. "Where'd you get Strega's car?"

"The colonel wasn't using it, so we thought we'd take it out for a drive."

The man swung his rifle around and thrust the butt into Trout's midsection. Trout felt as if his heart had stopped. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, and dropped to his knees. When the waves of nausea had subsided, he staggered painfully to his feet. The man grabbed the front of Trout's jumpsuit and pulled him close. He reeked of whiskey.

"I don't like wiseass answers," he said. He pushed Trout away and leveled his gun at Gamay. "Where did you get the car?" "Strega's dead," Trout said, still gasping for breath. "Dead!" The eyes narrowed. "How'd he get dead?" Trout knew that even if he told the truth, the man wouldn't believe him. "It's better if I show you." . The guard hesitated.

"What are you up to?" he said, raising his weapon. "Nothing. We're in no position to hurt you." The comment went to the man's ego, as Trout hoped it would. "Right about that, mate."

He and the other guards marched Trout and Gamay around to the back of the church where the Mercedes was parked. Sandy, MacLean and the other scientists were huddled near the vehicle under the watchful eyes of two more armed men. A long-bed pickup truck was parked next to the Mercedes. The prisoners including Gamay were ordered into the back of the truck. Some of the guards went with the truck while two others got into the backseat of the Mercedes. The Aussie told Trout to drive the car. Then he slid in next to Trout and ordered him back to the compound. "This better be good," he said.

"Why don't you simply leave us?" Trout said. "The experiment has been completed."

"Nice try. We leave, and the next day some bloke comes along and finds you waving your undershirts on the beach. Things have a way of catching up with you in my business. Now drive and keep your mouth shut."

Trout did as he was told. When they arrived at the compound, the Aussie ordered Trout to stop. He yanked the keys from the ignition and got out to look around. The other guards jumped down from the truck and stared into the darkness with their weapons at ready.

The Aussie inspected the wreckage of the gate and the overturned gatehouse. There was an eerie quiet about the place. No night bird cries or insects humming. There was no sign of the carnage Trout had witnessed. He thought back to the rat-eating feast Strega had orchestrated and decided he didn't want to know what happened to the bodies.

The Aussie got back into the Mercedes. "What the hell is going on here?" he said.

"Did you know what we were working on in the labs?"

"Yeah. Germ warfare. Something to do with the stuff the sub was bringing in off the bottom of the sea. They never let us into the compound. Said we might catch something."

Trout laughed.

"What's so funny?" There was a dangerous tone to the Aussie's voice.

"They were lying," Trout said. "We were doing enzyme research."

"What are you talking about?"

"You ever heard of the Philosopher's Stone?"

The gun barrel jabbed Trout in the ribs. "This is my philosophy."

Trout winced, but stayed calm. "It was a secret formula supposed to change other material into gold."

"No such thing."

"You think the people who hired you would go through all this trouble if there were no such thing?"

Pause. "Okay, mate, show us this gold."

"I'll take you to the storehouse where they keep it. Maybe you'll rethink my suggestion about leaving us. "

The Aussie smiled. "I'll do that," he said.

Trout knew that he and his fellow scientists would be doomed, even if he were able to produce all the gold in Fort Knox. No other reason would have persuaded him to return to the Zoo. He drove up and parked in front of the wide-open front door.

"Here we are," he said.

They got out of the Mercedes and the Aussie took the ignition key and ordered his men out of the truck, leaving one behind, who was instructed to shoot anyone who got out of order. Then he told Trout to lead the way.

"Jeezus, what's that stink?" the guard said.

"That's the smell of gold," the Aussie said with a laugh.

Trout headed for the door as if he were in a trance. He knew he was taking a calculated risk, but he reasoned that the creatures who'd once been imprisoned in the building would return to the place that had been their home. He knew he had guessed right when he stepped into the fetid darkness, heard the sickening sound of bones being crunched and saw pairs of red eyes burning in the darkness. He ran his hand along the wall and flicked the light on.

The creatures were back in their cages with the doors open. They had been busy feasting on the remnants of Colonel Strega and his minions. As the light came on, they retreated to the back of their cages. There was a yell of revulsion and surprise from the Aussie guard.

The Aussie grabbed Trout and pushed him against the wall. "You and your friends are going to die for this."

Trout grabbed the barrel of the gun and tried to twist it out of the

Aussie's hands, but his adversary had the advantage of being on the trigger end. He let off a shot that went wild, taking a chip out of the wall a few inches from Trout's neck. As they wrestled for the gun, the creatures came to the front of their cages. The sight of guard uniforms triggered a ferocious attack. The creatures leaped into the room in a howling mass of teeth and claws.

The guard got off a few rounds before being mowed down by the snarling onslaught. Two creatures jumped on the Aussie's back, pushing him to the floor. Another creature lunged toward Trout, but stopped halfway and stared. In that brief instant, Trout could swear that he saw a glimpse of humanity in the thing's face. When he saw Trout wasn't wearing a uniform, he pounced instead on the Aussie.

Trout bolted for the door and bowled over the man who'd been guarding the prisoners. One of the creatures who'd followed Trout out the door saw the fallen guard and made short work of him.

Trout yelled at Gamay to drive the truck. He slid behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes and reached for the ignition key. Gone. He remembered that the Aussie had taken it with him. Gamay called out that the truck key was missing as well. Trout jumped out of the car, grabbed Gamay and told everyone to run for their lives.

From the sudden quietness from the Zoo, Trout guessed that the creatures were enjoying having the guards over for dinner. He didn't want to be around at dessert time.

AUSTIN AND Zavala were about a mile from the compound when they heard feet pounding along the road in the darkness ahead. They scuttled off the gravel road and threw themselves belly-down in the tall grass.

As the footfalls approached, they were intermingled with the low murmur of voices and a wheezing that suggested that some of the people coming toward them were not in the best of physical condition. Then he heard a familiar voice pleading. "Please move it along, folks. We'll have plenty of time to rest later."

Trout stopped short as two figures materialized from the darkness.

"You're a long way from Lost City," Austin said.

"Kurt and Joe?" Trout said with relief. "Damn. This is like old home week."

Gamay threw her arms around her NUMA colleagues.

"These are my friends, Mac and Sandy," Trout said. "I'll introduce the others later. Do you have a boat?"

Austin said, "I'm afraid we burned our bridges behind us. We saw a patrol boat out on the water earlier. Do you know where they keep it tied up?"

"I know where it might be." Trout cocked his ear and he frowned. "We've got to get out of here."

Austin had heard the noise, like the distant howling of the wind. "What's that?" He listened again. "Sounds like a pack of wolves chasing a deer." .

"I wish it were," Trout said. "Are you armed?"