Текст книги "Lost City"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

"No problem, pal. Denise is a fellow public servant and understood completely when I said duty called." He glanced at the helicopter. "She also pulled strings to get me transportation."

"I owe your young lady a bottle of champagne and some flowers."

"I always knew that you were a true romantic at heart." Zavala gazed around and said, "Beautiful scenery, even if it's a little bleak. What's going on?"

Austin headed for the helicopter. "I'll fill you in on the way."

MOMENTS LATER, they were airborne. As they flew over the glacier, Austin gave Zavala a Reader's Digest-style condensed version of events.

"Hell of a mess," Zavala said when he heard the story. "Sorry about your friend. Skye sounds like someone I'd like to meet."

"I hope you'll have that pleasure," Austin said, although he knew the odds were long and becoming longer with every passing minute.

He directed Zavala to the valley Lessard had pointed out from the roof of the power plant. Zavala landed at a spot of ground that was more or less level among the ledges and crags. They took an electric torch from the helicopter's emergency kit and walked up a gradual slope. The damp cold radiating from the glacier penetrated their thick jackets. A concrete casing framed the entrance to the tunnel. The area in front of the opening was washed out and dozens of miniature canyons ran down the slope. They stepped into a tunnel similar in size to those Austin had seen behind the power plant. The

slanting floor was wet, and after they had gone in a few yards, water lapped at their toes.

"Not exactly the tunnel of love, is it?" Zavala said, peering into the darkness.

"It's what I would expect the river Styx to look like." Austin stared at the black water for a moment, and then a bolt of energy seemed to pass through his body. "Let's get back to the power plant."

Drouet and his companions emerged from the plant building after Zavala's helicopter touched down. Drouet hurried over to greet Austin.

"I must apologize for my earlier behavior," he said. "I didn't have all the facts about this horrible situation. I have since talked to my superiors and the American embassy, which told me about you and NUMA, Monsieur Austin. I didn't know there were French citizens trapped under the glacier."

"Should their nationality have made any difference?"

"No, of course not. Inexcusable. You will be happy to know I have sent for help. A rescue team is on its way."

"That's a start. How long before they get here?"

Drouet hesitated, knowing the answer was unsatisfactory. "Three or four hours."

"You must know that will be too late."

Drouet wrung his hands in anguish. He was obviously distressed. "At least we can recover the bodies. It's the best I can do."

"It's not the best I can do, Monsieur Drouet. We're going to try to bring them back alive, but we'll need your help."

"You're not serious! Those poor people are trapped under eight hundred feet of ice." He studied the silent determination in Austin's face and arched an eyebrow. "Very well. I'll knock heads together to get you anything you need. Tell me what I must do."

Austin was pleasantly surprised to learn that Drouet's plump exterior hid a layer of steel.

"Thank you for your offer. First, I'd like to borrow your helicopter and pilot."

"Yes, of course, but I see your friend has a helicopter."

"I'll need a bigger one."

"I don't understand. These unfortunate people are trapped in the ground, not the air."

"Nevertheless." Austin gave Drouet a hard look that said he was through wasting time.

Drouet nodded vigorously. "Very well. You have my full cooperation."

While Drouet scurried over to talk to his pilot, Austin called the NUMA vessel's captain on a hand radio and spent several minutes sketching out his plan. Fortier listened carefully.

"I'll get right on it," he said. Austin thanked him and gazed at the glacier, sizing up the adversary he was about to tackle. He had no room in his scheme of things for self-doubt. He knew plans could go awry, and had scars all over his body to prove it. He also knew that problems could be fixed. He was certain that, with luck, his scheme would work. What he wasn't sure of was whether Skye was still alive.

SKYE WAS VERY much alive. Renaud, who was feeling the full force of her fury, could attest to that. After Renaud had made one of his self-serving comments, Skye had snapped. She had laced into the hapless Frenchman, her eyes bright with tears of rage as she tongue-lashed him for ruining the biggest discovery of her career. Renaud finally summoned up the courage to croak a protest. Skye had exhausted her repertoire and lung power by then and cut him short with a withering glare and a well-chosen word.

"Idiot!"

Renaud tried to play on her sympathy. "Can't you see I'm injured?" He held his bruised and lacerated hand.

"It's your own stupid fault," she said coldly. "How in God's name could you allow a man with a gun to come into this place?"

"I thought he was a reporter."

"You have the brain of an amoeba. Amoebas don't think. They ooze."

"Mademoiselle, please," LeBlanc entreated. "We have only so much air to breathe. Save your strength."

"Save it for what}" She pointed to the ceiling. "It may have escaped your attention, but we are stuck under a very large glacier."

LeBlanc put his finger to his lips.

Skye glanced around at the cold and frightened faces and saw she was making the others even more miserable. She realized, too, that her tirade against Renaud was a product of her fear and frustration. She apologized to LeBlanc and clamped her lips tightly together, but before she did so, she muttered, "He is an idiot."

Then she went over and plunked down next to Rawlins, the magazine writer, who was sitting with his back against a wall, writing in a notebook. He had bunched a plastic tarp together and was using it to insulate his posterior from contact with the wet floor. She snuggled close for warmth, saying, "Pardon me for being forward, but I'm freezing."

Rawlins blinked in surprise, set the notebook aside and then gallantly wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"You were pretty hot a minute ago," he said.

"Sorry for losing my temper in front of everyone," she murmured.

"I don't blame you, but try to look on the bright side. At least we've got lights."

The floodwaters must have missed the wires that ran along the top of the tunnel to the power plant. Although the lights had flickered a few times, the power was still on. The wet and weary survivors were crowded into the stretch of tunnel that ran between the ice cave and the stairs.

Despite his optimistic observation, Rawlins knew they were short on time. He and the others were finding it more difficult to breathe. He attempted to divert his thoughts.

"What was that scientific discovery you were talking about?" he asked Skye.

A dreamy look came into her eyes. "I found an ancient tomb under the waters of the lake. I think it may have had something to do with

the Amber Route, which means that trade contacts between Europe and the Mediterranean countries go further back than anyone has ever imagined. To Minoan or Mycenaean times maybe." Rawlins groaned. "Are you all right?" Skye said.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Oh hell, no, I'm not. The only reason I'm here was to do a story on the subglacial observatory. Then they found the body in the ice, which would have been a major exclusive. Then a thug posing as a reporter pistol-whips your pal Renaud and floods the tunnel. Wow! My stuff would have been picked up all over the world. I would have been the next Jon Krakauer. Publishers would be pounding on my door with book deals. Now, you tell me about the Minoan angle."

"I don't know that it's Minoan," Skye said, trying to ease his distress. "I could be wrong."

He shook his head sadly.

The TV reporter, who had been listening to the conversation, said, "Don't blame you for feeling bad, but put yourself in my place. I've got video of the body and the French guy getting smacked with the gun."

The other reporter tapped his tape recorder. "Yeah, and I got the voices all on tape."

Rawlins stared at the fire hose snaking past their feet. "I wonder if we could use a water jet to melt a tunnel through the glacier."

Thurston was sitting next to Rawlins. He chuckled and said, "I've already done some calculations in my head. It will take us about three months if we work steadily."

"Do we get time off for Sundays and holidays?" Rawlins asked.

Everyone laughed, except for Renaud.

Rawlins's offbeat humor reminded Skye of Austin. How long had it been since she left the ship? She glanced at her watch and realized that only a few hours had elapsed. She had been eagerly looking for

ward to their date. She'd been entranced by the rugged profile, the pale, almost white hair, but it went beyond physical attraction. He was interesting, a study in contrasts. Austin had a quick sense of humor and he could be warm and gentle, but she detected diamond hardness behind the twinkle in those blue eyes. And, of course, there were those magnificent shoulders. She wouldn't be surprised if he could walk on the bottom of the sea.

Her eyes shifted to Renaud, who was at the far end of the attractiveness spectrum. He sat on the other side of the tunnel, nursing his swollen hand. She frowned, thinking that the worst part of this whole affair was being entombed with an insect like Renaud. The thought depressed her, so she rose and walked to the staircase that led down to the main tunnel. Black water lapped over the top of the staircase. Not a chance of escape. She became depressed again. Looking for a diversion, she sloshed through puddles and climbed the ladder to the ice cave.

The glacier was already starting to retake its lost territory. New ice had formed in jagged icicles where there was none before. The ice had thickened and the body was no longer visible in its tomb. The helmet was still in its container. She picked it up and held it under a light where she could see the etchings. They were intricate and finely executed. The work of a master. The design struck her as not being simply decorative. There was a rhythm to it, as if it were telling a story. The metal seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. She got a grip on her rampaging thoughts. Lack of air was making her imagine things. If only she had more time, she could figure it out. Damn that Renaud.

She carried the helmet back into the tunnel. The walk in the thin air had exhausted her. She found a spot against the wall, propped the helmet beside her and sat down. The others had stopped talking. She could see their chests heaving as they sucked the anorexic air into

their lungs. She found that she was doing the same, gulping like a fish out of water, but still not meeting the demands of her lungs. Her chin dropped, and she fell asleep.

When she awoke, the lights had finally gone out. So, she said to herself, we will die in darkness after all. She tried to call out to the others, to wish them a farewell, but she didn't have the strength. She fell asleep again.

AUSTIN STRAPPED THE last waterproof stuff bag onto the SEA mobile flat rear deck behind the bubble cockpit and stepped back to inspect the job. The vehicle looked more like a mechanical pack mule than a high-tech submersible, but the jerry-rigged arrangement would have to do. With no idea how many people were trapped under the glacier, he had rounded up every set of scuba equipment and backup gear he could find and simply hoped for the best.

Austin gave an okay sign to Francois. The government observer had been standing by with a hand radio, acting as a combined liaison and translator between the ship and the helicopter. Frangois returned the gesture and spoke into the hand radio. The pilot of the French helicopter was waiting for the call.

Within minutes, the helicopter was lifting off the beach. It flew out to the NUMA boat, where it hovered and dropped a cable down to the deck. Austin ducked his head against the blast from the spinning rotors, grabbed the hook at the end of the cable and attached it to a four-point harness system. He and the crew had already secured the trailer and submersible so the load could be lifted in one piece.

He gave the pilot a thumbs-up. The cable went taut and the helicopter rose slightly and hung in space with its rotors madly slashing the air. Despite the ear-shattering racket, the submersible and trailer only lifted a few inches off the deck. The combined weight of the sub, trailer and cargo were beyond the aircraft's lifting capacity. Austin signaled the chopper to ease off. The line went slack and the load thumped back onto the deck.

Austin pointed to the helicopter and shouted in Francois's ear. "Tell them to stay where they are until I figure this out." As Francois translated, Austin got on his own radio and called Zavala, whose helicopter had been circling high above the ship. "We've got a problem," Austin said.

"So I see. Wish this chopper was a sky crane," he said, referring to the huge industrial helicopters that were designed to hoist big loads.

"We may not need one." Austin laid out what he had in mind. Zavala laughed and said, "My life must have been very dull before I met you." "Well?"

"Tricky," Zavala said. "Dangerous as hell. Audacious. But possible." Austin never doubted his partner's flying skills. Zavala had thousands of hours as a pilot in helicopters, small jet and turboprop aircraft. It was the vagaries, the unexpected that bothered him. A shift of the wind, human inattention or equipment failure could turn a carefully calculated risk into a disaster. In this case, the job could end with a mix-up in translation. He had to be sure the message was clear.

He pulled Francois aside and told him what he wanted the French pilot to do. Then he made him repeat his instructions back to him. Francois nodded in understanding. He spoke into his radio and the

French helicopter moved off to the side so that the lifting line was at an angle.

Zavala's chopper darted in and dropped a line, which Austin quickly spliced onto the harness. He gave the choppers a visual check, making sure there was plenty of space between the two aircraft. They would be pulled together by the weight they were lifting and he didn't want the helicopters tangling rotors.

Once more, Austin gave the signal to lift. The rotors churned away in earsplitting concert and this time the submersible and trailer seemed to leap skyward. A foot. Two feet. A yard. Two yards. The pilots were well aware of the fact that the helicopters were of unequal size and power, and adjusted for the difference with amazing skill.

They rose in slow motion, the strange load swinging between them until they were a couple of hundred feet above the lake's surface, and then they flew toward land until they were lost against the dark rock of the mountains. Zavala kept up a running commentary over the radio. He had to break off a couple of times to correct his position.

Austin didn't breathe easily until he heard Zavala's laconic announcement: "The eagles have landed."

Austin and several crewmen scrambled into a small boat and were on shore waiting when the helicopters came back, flying side by side, and landed on the beach. Austin climbed into Zavala's chopper and the French helicopter took on crew from the Mummichug.

Minutes later, they dropped down for a landing near the bright yellow SEA mobile which was on its trailer in front of the tunnel entrance. Austin supervised the crew as they adjusted the sub's load. Then the trailer was backed into the sloping tunnel to the water's edge. Chocks were inserted behind the wheels, while Austin left the tunnel to confer with Lessard. At Austin's request, the plant supervisor had retrieved another blueprint from his trove. He spread it out on a flat rock.

"These are the internal aluminum supports I told you about. You'll

encounter them a few hundred feet inside the tunnel. There are twelve sets laid three abreast, approximately ten yards between one set and the other."

"The submersible is less than eight feet wide," Austin said. "I've figured out that I'll only have to cut one column in each set to squeeze through."

"I suggest that you stagger your cuts. In other words, don't cut the same column position in every set. As you can see by this diagram,

the ceiling is the thinnest here of any place within the tunnel. You've got hundreds of tons of ice and rock pressing down on the tunnel."

"I've figured that into the equation."

Lessard's eyes bored into Austin's face. "I called Paris after you posed your plan and talked to a friend in the state power company. He said this end of the tunnel was built to move the lab trailers into place. It was discarded as prime access because as time went on there was danger of the roof collapsing. The columns were installed to keep the tunnel open as a ventilating air shaft. This is what worries me," he said, drawing his finger across the top of the tunnel drawn on the blueprint. "There's a large unstable pocket of water here. Because of the lateness of the season, it is even bigger than usual. If there is a weakness in the support system, the whole ceiling could come down."

"It's worth the risk," Austin said.

"You've considered the possibility that you're risking your lives in vain, that the people are already dead."

Austin replied with a grim smile, "We won't know that until we take a look, will we?"

Lessard regarded Austin with an expression of admiration. The American with the pale hair and arresting blue eyes was either insane or supremely confident in his abilities. "You must like this woman very much."

"I only met her a few days ago, but we have a dinner date in Paris and I intend to keep it."

Lessard replied with a shrug. Gallantry was something a Frenchman could appreciate. "The first few weeks are the time of maximum attraction between a man and a woman, before they know each other well. Well, bonne chance, mon ami. I see your friend wants your attention."

Austin thanked Lessard for his advice and went over to where Zavala was standing in front of the tunnel entrance.

"I've gone over the sub's control system. Pretty simple stuff," Zavala said.

"I knew you wouldn't have a problem." Austin took a last glance around. "Time to vamoose, amigo."

Zavala gave him a sour look. "You've been watching too many reruns of the Cisco Kid."

Austin pulled on an insulated one-piece dry suit. Looking like a big Day-Glo Gumby, he led the way into the tunnel^ and slipped a helmet containing an underwater acoustic transceiver onto his head. Zavala helped him on with his air tank and weight belt, and then gave him a hand climbing onto the back of the submersible.

He sat behind the bubble using the waterproof stuff bags as a seat and pulled on his fins. A crewman handed up a lightweight underwater cutting torch and oxygen tank, which Austin secured to the deck with bungee cords. Zavala got into the cabin and gave Austin the high sign.

"Ready to roll?" Austin said, testing his headset.

"Sure, but I feel like the bubble boy."

"You can trade places with me anytime you'd like, Bubble Boy."

Zavala chuckled. "Thanks, but I'll pass on the generous offer. You look natural riding shotgun, Tex."

Austin rapped on the bubble. He was ready.

The launch crew lifted the trailer hitch and slowly let the trailer roll into the water, keeping its speed under control with a pair of launching lines, until the wheels were submerged. As soon as the vehicle started to float, the crew jerked on the pull lines and pushed the vehicle at the same time. The SEA mobile floated free of the trailer and the motors came alive.

Zavala used the lateral thrusters on the tail section to put the SEA mobile into a 360-degree turn, facing the vehicle into the tunnel. He moved the vehicle forward until the water was deep enough to submerge. Using a light touch on the vertical thruster, he pushed the sub down until the hull was under water. The tail thrusters whirred again, the submersible moved forward, going deeper, and the water washed over Austin and the bubble.

The quartet of halogen lights in the front of the vehicle played off the orange walls and ceiling, and the reflected light gave the water a brownish cast.

Zavala's metallic voice came over Austin's earphones.

"This is like diving into a bucket of chocolate mole sauce."

"I'll remember that the next time I eat in a Mexican restaurant. I was thinking about something more poetic and Dante-ish, like a descent into Hades."

"At least Hades is warm and dry. How far are the first support columns?"

Austin stared into the murk beyond the reach of the lights and thought he saw a dull glint of metal. He stood up and leaned against the bubble, holding onto the D-shaped protective bars that flanked the cabin.

"I think they're coming up now."

Zavala slowed the submersible to a stop a few yards from the first set of aluminum columns, each about six inches across, that barred the way. Carrying the torch and tank, Austin swam to the base of the middle column. He ignited the torch and the sharp blue flame

quickly cut through the metal close to the base. At the top of the column he made another cut, and then he yelled "Timber!" and pushed the middle section out. He motioned for Zavala to follow, directing him through the gap with hand signals, like an airport worker guiding a plane to its gate. Then he went on to the next set of columns.

As he swam, he cast a wary glance above his head and tried not to think of the thousands of gallons of water and tons of ice pressing down on the thin rock ceiling. Heeding Lessard's advice, he cut the right-hand column on the second set. Again Zavala moved the vehicle through. Austin cut a middle column, then a left-hand one on the next set. Then he started the process over again.

The work went smoothly. Before long, twelve columns lay on the tunnel floor. Austin resumed his seat on the back of the submersible and told Zavala to go at the vehicle's top speed of 2.5 knots. Although they were moving at a brisk walk, the darkness and the closeness of the walls combined made it seem to Austin as if he were on Neptune's chariot flying down to the Abyss..

With nothing to do but hold on, he extended his thoughts to the difficult task ahead. Lessard's words echoed in his ears. The Frenchman was right about maximum attraction. He might also be right about everyone in the tunnel being dead.

It had been easier being optimistic while he was in daylight. But as they plunged deeper into the stygian darkness, he knew that the rescue attempt could be in vain. He had to admit that there was little chance that anyone could remain alive for long in this dreadful place. Reluctantly, he steeled himself for the worst.

IN HER DREAM, Skye was having dinner with Austin in a Parisian bistro near the Eiffel Tower and he was saying, "Wake up," and she was answering with no little irritation, "I'm not asleep."

Wake up, Skye.

Austin again. Irritating man.

Then Austin was reaching across the table, past the wine and pate, gently slapping her cheek, and she was getting angrier. She opened her mouth. "Stop!"

"That's better," Austin said.

Her eyelids popped open like a pair of broken window shades and she turned her face away from the blinding light. The light shifted and she saw Austin's face. He looked worried. He gently squeezed her cheeks until she opened her mouth, then she felt the hard plastic mouthpiece of a scuba regulator between her teeth.

Air flowed into her lungs, reviving her, and she saw that Austin was kneeling by her side. He was wearing an orange dry suit and some strange sort of headgear. He took her hand and gently wrapped her fingers around the small air tank that fed the regulator.

He removed the regulator from his own mouth.

"Can you stay awake for a minute?" he said.

She nodded.

"Don't go away. I'll be right back."

Then he stood and walked toward the staircase. In the brief instant before he descended into the water with his electric torch, she saw the others who'd been trapped with her, all looking like derelicts sleeping off a cheap wine hinge in an alley.

Moments later, the water in the stairway emitted an eerie glow and Austin reappeared holding a line slung over one shoulder. He dug his feet in and hauled on the line like a Volga boatman. The floor was treacherous underfoot and he slipped to his knee, but he was up immediately. A plastic bag that was attached to the line came out of the water and slid across the floor like a big fish. More bags followed.

Austin quickly unzipped the bags and handed out the air tanks that they contained. He had to shake a few people into a groggy consciousness, but when they got their first breath. of air, they revived quickly. As they greedily sucked down the life-giving air, the metallic sound of the regulator valves was loud in the confined space.

Skye spit out the mouthpiece. "What are you doing here?" she said, like a society doyenne addressing a party crasher.

He hoisted Skye gently to her feet and kissed her on the forehead. "Never let it be said that Kurt Austin let a little hell or high water stand in the way of our dinner date." "Dinner! But "

Austin tucked the regulator back between Skye's lips. "No time for talking."

Then he was opening the other bags and pulling out dry suits. Rawlins and Thurston were both certified divers, as it turned out, and they helped the others get into their suits and scuba gear. Before long, the survivors were suited up. Not exactly a SEAL team, Austin thought, but with a lot of luck they might make it.

"Ready to go home?" he asked.

The muted chorus that echoed in the cave was incomprehensible but enthusiastic.

"Okay," he said. "Follow me."

Austin led the pitiful-looking cave dwellers down the staircase and into the flooded tunnel. More than one eyebrow was raised at the strange vision of Zavala waving at them from inside his glowing bubble.

Austin had foreseen that his passengers would need something to hold on to during their ride. Before he and the Mummichugs crew had piled the dive gear bags onto the sub, they had stretched fishing net over the SEA mobile deck. With vigorous use of hand signals, pushes and prods, Austin arranged the cave survivors facedown on the deck in rows of three like sardines in a can.

He put Renaud, with his bad hand, in the first row, right behind the bubble, between the reporters. Skye was in the middle row between Rawlins and Thurston, who were the most experienced in the water. He would be behind her in the third row between LeBlanc, who seemed strong as a bull, and Rossi, the young research assistant. As insurance, Austin ran lines over the backs of his passengers as if he were securing any bulky cargo. The submersible was practically invisible under the tightly packed bodies, but the arrangement was the best he could think of with the limited space available. Austin swam to the rear, where he put himself behind Skye. He would have to move freely from his perch later, so he left himself unfettered.

"All our ducks are lined up in a row," he said over the communicator. "Tight quarters back here, so I'd advise against picking up hitchhikers."

With a whirr of electric motors, the SEA mobile inched forward at a crawl, then sped up to a walk. Austin knew the survivors must be weary beyond words. Although he had cautioned the group to be

patient, the vehicle's slow pace was maddening and he was having trouble abiding by his own advice.

At least he could talk to Zavala. The others were alone with their thoughts. The submersible plowed through the tunnel as if it were being pulled by a team of turtles. At times, the submersible seemed to be standing still and the tunnel walls were moving past them. The only sounds were the monotonous hum of the motor and the burble of escaping air bubbles. He almost yelled for joy when Zavala announced, "Kurt, I can see the columns dead ahead."

Austin lifted his head. "Stop before you get to them. I'll bird-dog you through the slalom course."

The SEA mobile coasted to a halt. Austin detached himself from the deck and rose above the bubble. The first set of supports gleamed about thirty feet ahead. With easy, rhythmic kicks of his fins, Austin swam toward the supports and passed through the gap he had cut in the columns. Then he spun around and waved Zavala through like a traffic cop, directing him to the right or left as needed.

The submersible eased slowly through the opening. Zavala veered from his straight course to steer through the next opening and that's when he got into trouble. The overburdened submersible responded sluggishly and skidded into a slide. Using a steady hand on the thruster controls, he arrested the sideways momentum and headed the submersible toward the opening. But as the vehicle passed through the breach, he tried to compensate and the sub clipped a column and began to fishtail.

Austin swam off to one side and plastered himself against a tunnel wall until Zavala prudently brought the SEA mobile to a stop. Austin swam up to the cabin.

"You really have to do something about your driving, old pal." "Sorry," Zavala said. "With all the weight in the back, this thing handles like a bumper boat."

"Try to remember that you're not behind the wheel of your Corvette."

Zavala smiled. "I wish I were."

Austin inspected the passengers, saw that they were holding up, and swam ahead to the next set of columns. He held his breath as the vehicle and its load eased through without incident. Zavala was getting the hang of controlling the sub and they successfully navigated several more sets of columns. Austin kept a count in his head. Only three more sets of pillars to go.

As he approached the next set of columns he noticed something was off-kilter. He squinted through his mask and was not reassured by what he saw. He had cut the middle column out and now the supports on either side of the opening looked like a pair of bowed legs. A quick movement caught his eye and he glanced upward. Bubbles were streaming through a narrow fissure in the ceiling.