Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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2

RYAN WATCHED THE cruiser break out of its lazy circle and head toward the SOS ship. "Looks like Hamlet finally made a decision," he said to Chuck Mercer, his first mate, who was at the wheel of the Sea Sentinel.

The Sea Sentinel had been trying to drive the whales out to sea. The pod held about fifty pilot whales, and some of the female whales were holding back to stay with their calves, slowing the rescue at– tempt. The SOS ship zigzagged like a lone cowpoke trying to corral stray cattle, but the nervous whales made the job almost impossible.

"Like herding cats," Ryan muttered. He went out on the star– board bridge wing to see how close the advancing whaleboats were to the pod. He had never seen so many islanders involved in a grind. It seemed as if every harbor in the Faroes had emptied out. Dozens of boats, ranging in size from commercial trawlers to open dories powered by outboard motors, were speeding from several different directions to join the hunt. The dark water was streaked with their wakes.

Therri Weld was already out on the wing, watching the armada gather. "You've got to admire their stubbornness," she said.

Ryan was equally awestruck. He nodded in agreement. "Now I know how Custer felt. The Faroese are going all out to defend their bloody traditions."

"This is no spontaneous outpouring," Therri said. "From the or– derly way they're moving, they've got a plan."

The words had barely left her lips when, as if on signal, the ad– vancing fleet began to split up in a pincer movement. In a classic mil– itary flanking maneuver, the boats swept around Ryan's ship so they were on the seaward side of the slow-moving whales. They spread out in a line, facing inshore, with the pilot whales between them and the Sea Sentinel. The ends of the line began to curve slowly inward. The whales bunched closer together and moved toward shore.

Ryan was afraid of hurting the panicked whales or breaking up family units if the ship stood in place. Reluctantly, he ordered the helmsman to move the ship out of the path of the hunt.

As the Sea Sentinel moved aside, a loud chorus of triumphant cheers went up from the fishermen. The line of boats began to wrap itself around the hapless whales in a deadly embrace. The whale– boats moved forward, tightening up the line to drive their prey to the killing field, where the sharp knives and spears of the executioners awaited.

Ryan ordered Mercer to steer the Sea Sentinel out to open water.

"Giving up awfully easy," Mercer said. "Wait and see," Ryan said, with an enigmatic smile. The cruiser came up alongside the Sea Sentinel like a cop escort– ing an unruly spectator from a soccer game, but when the ships were about a half mile from the whale hunt, the navy escort began to fall back. Ryan took over the wheel, frequently checking the cruisers lo– cation. When the ships were in what he judged to be the right posi– tion, he picked up the phone to the engine room. "Full speed ahead," he ordered.

The Sea Sentinel was a clunky wide-beamed vessel, high at both ends, with a silhouette like an old-fashioned bathtub. The slow– moving research ship was designed mainly as a stable platform from which to launch undersea instrumentation and nets. The first thing Ryan had done after SOS had acquired the ship at auction was to out– fit the engine room with powerful diesels that could push her along at a more respectable clip.

Ryan cut the wheel hard left. The ship shivered from the strain as it circled about in a great arcing swash of foam and raced back to– ward the whale hunt. Caught off-guard, the cruiser attempted to follow, but the warship couldn't match the Sea Sentinel's tight turn and went wide, losing valuable seconds.

The whale hunt had advanced to within a mile of shore when the Sea Sentinel caught up with the pod and the line of herdsmen. The SOS ship made a sharp turn that brought it across the wakes of the whaleboats. Ryan stayed at the wheel. He wanted sole responsibility in case something went wrong. His plan to disrupt the hunt required a deft touch on the helm. Too fast or too close, and the whalers would be overturned and thrown into the frigid water. He kept the ship at an even speed, using its broad beam to create a following sea. The wave hit the boats stern-on. Some boats managed to ride the wave that lifted them out of the water. Others lost headway and spun around in a wild attempt to prevent pitchpoling.

The line broke up into a disorganized jumble, leaving large open spaces between the boats, like gaps in a row of teeth. Ryan spun the wheel again and brought the Sea Sentinel around in another sharp turn that placed the ship broadside to the advancing whales. The whales fleeing the advancing whalers sensed the presence of the ves– sel, turned back in the opposite direction and began to break through the openings in the hunt line.

Now it was the turn of the Sea Sentinel's crew to cheer-but their jubilation was short-lived. The faster-moving cruiser had caught up with the SOS ship and was alongside no more than a hundred yards away, matching the Sea Sentinel's speed knot for knot. A voice speak– ing in English crackled over the radio.

"This is Captain Petersen of the LeifErilsson calling the SOS ves– sel Sea Sentinel.)

Ryan snatched up the microphone. "This is Captain Ryan. What can I do for you, Captain Petersen?"

"You are requested to move your ship to open water." "We are acting in accordance with international law." He gave Therri a crooked grin. "My legal advisor is standing here by my side."

"I don't intend to debate the finer points of the law with you or your advisors, Captain Ryan. You are endangering Danish fishermen. I have the authority to use force. If you don't move immediately, I will blow your ship out of the water."

The gun turret on the frigate's fore deck turned so that the barrel was pointed directly at the Sea Sentinel.

"That's a dangerous game you're playing," Ryan said with delib– erate calmness. "A bad shot could miss us and sink some of those fish– ermen you're trying to protect."

Petersen said, "I don't think we would miss at this range, but I want to avoid bloodshed. You've given the TV cameras plenty of footage. Many pilot whales have escaped, and the hunt has been dis– rupted. You've made your point and are no longer welcome."

Ryan chuckled. "Nice to deal with a reasonable man. Unlike your gun-happy predecessor. Okay, I will pull out of the way, but we're not leaving Faroe waters. We've got other business."

"You are free to do as you please, as long as it doesn't break our laws or endanger our people."

Ryan breathed a sigh of relief, his outward serenity only an act– he was aware of the danger to his crew and the press people. He turned the helm back to his first mate and gave the order to move off slowly. Once beyond the hunt area, the Sea Sentinel headed out to sea. Ryan's plan was to anchor the ship a few miles offshore while he pre– pared for the protest against the fish farm.

Chastened by the Sea Sentinel's earlier move, Petersen made sure the cruiser stayed slightly behind, ready to dart in and cut off the ship if it tried to break away.

Therri broke the tension in the pilothouse. "Captain Petersen doesn't know what a narrow escape he just had," she said, with a grin.

"One shot and I would have dragged him into court and slapped a property lien on his ship."

"I think he was more afraid of our garbage gun," Ryan said. Their mirth was cut short by the sound of Mercer swearing. Ryan said, "What's wrong, Chuck?"

"Damnit, Mark." Mercer was standing with both hands on the wheel. "You must have messed up the steering pushing this ship around like a Jet Ski." He frowned, then stepped back. "Here, you try it."

Ryan tried to turn the wheel. It gave for an inch on either side, but it seemed locked into place. He exerted a slight pressure, then gave up. "The damned thing is locked into place," Ryan said, with a com– bination of anger and puzzlement.

Ryan picked up the telephone, ordered the engine room to stop and turned his attention back to the wheel. Instead of slowing down, the ship inexplicably picked up speed. Ryan swore and called down to the engine room again.

"What's wrong, Cal?" he barked. "Those engines finally made you deaf? I said cut speed, not increase it."

Ryan's engineer, Cal Rumson, was a topflight seaman. "Hell, I know what you said," Cal replied. The frustration in his voice was obvious. "I did reduce speed. The engines are acting crazy. The con– trols don't seem to be working."

"Then kill the power," Ryan said.

"I'm trying, but the diesels are work ing harder

"Keep trying, Cal."

Ryan slammed the phone in its cradle. This was insanity! The ship seemed to have a mind of her own. Ryan's eyes swept the sea ahead of the ship. Good news. No vessels or land masses in the way. The worst that could happen would be to run out of fuel in the At– lantic. Ryan picked up the radio microphone to inform the cruiser of their predicament. But he was interrupted by a yell from Mercer.

"The wheel's turning!"

Mercer was trying to hold on to the wheel, which was gradually spinning slowly to the right, bringing the ship around toward the cruiser. Ryan grabbed the rim, then he and Mercer tried to bring the ship back on course. They used every ounce of strength they could muster, but the wheel slipped out of their sweaty hands and the Sea Sentinel moved closer to the warship.

The Danish ship had taken notice of the course change. A famil– iar voice crackled over the radio.

"Come in, Sea Sentinel. This is Captain Petersen. What is the in– tention of your course change?"

"We're having problems with our steering. The wheel is locked and we can't shut down our engines."

"That's impossible," Petersen said.

"Tell that to the ship!"

A pause. Then Petersen said, "We'll bear off to give you plenty of sea room. We'll issue a warning as to any ships in your way."

"Thanks. Looks like you'll get your wish about us leaving the Faroes."

The cruiser began to peel away.

But before the Danish ship could veer off, the Sea Sentinel made a sharp turn and drove toward the cruiser's exposed side like a water– borne guided missile.

Sailors lined the cruiser's decks and frantically tried to wave off the advancing ship. The cruiser blew short, rapid warning bursts of its horn. Voices squawked over the radio in Danish and English.

Seeing that the ships were within seconds of disaster, the sailors ran for their lives.

In a last desperate attempt to avert a certain collision, Ryan put all his weight into the wheel. He was still hanging on when the ship smashed into the side of the cruiser. The Sea Sentinel's sharp bow pen– etrated the steel hull plates like a bayonet, then slid off the moving ship in a horrendous shriek of tearing metal.

The Sea Sentinel wallowed in the ocean like a dazed boxer who had just taken a hard right to the nose. The cruiser was struggling to keep afloat, as thousands of gallons of water poured in through the gaping hole in the hull. Crewmen scrambled into the lifeboats and prepared to lower them into the cold sea.

Therri had been thrown to her knees by the impact. Ryan helped her to her feet, and he and the others in the pilothouse dashed down to the deck. The panicked TV people, seeing that they were now part of the story rather than covering it, were trying to get someone to tell them what to do. People were bruised and limping.

Someone was screaming for help, and crew and press people were extracting a bloody body from the metal mush that was all that was left of the bow section.

Ryan shouted orders to abandon ship.

With all the yelling and confusion, no one looked up to see the hel– icopter wheeling high above the ships. The chopper circled a few times like a hungry buzzard, then headed off along the coast.

3

Off the northern coast of Russia

TWELVE HUNDRED MILE S southeast of the Faroe Islands, the search-and-survey ship William Beebe lay at anchor in the frigid waters of the Barents Sea. The letters NUMA were embla– zoned on the 250-foot-long turquoise hull. Named after one of the pioneers in deep-sea exploration, the Beebe bristled with muscular cranes and winches capable of hoisting entire boats off the ocean floor.

Four crewmen dressed in Neoprene wetsuits stood on the stern deck, eyes fixed on a patch of ocean where the surface roiled like a bubbling cauldron. The surface grew paler and mounded into a foamy white dome, and the submersible rescue vehicle Sea Lamprey burst from the water like a mutant leviathan coming up for air. With the precision of a navy assault team, the ready crew pushed an outboard-powered inflatable down the stern ramp into the water, scrambled aboard and raced toward the wallowing submersible.

The ready team attached a towline to the bright-orange vehicle, and a winch on board the Beebe hauled in the submersible until it was under the tall A-frame that angled out over the ship's stern. Kevlar cables were fastened to eyebolts on the submersible's abbreviated deck. The powerful A-frame motor growled, and the submersible was hoisted from the sea. As it dangled from the cables, the Sea Lam– prey offered a full view of its unlovely cylindrical hull and strangely truncated accordion bow.

The A-frame swung slowly over the deck and lowered the vehi– cle into a custom-made steel cradle, while the waiting deck crew placed a ladder against the cradle. Then the hatch at the top of the low conning tower opened and clanged back on its hinges. Kurt Austin poked his head out and blinked like a mole. His steel-gray, almost platinum, hair was radiant in the intense metallic light of the overcast sky.

Austin greeted the deck crew with a wave, then squeezed his

broad shoulders through the narrow hatchway, climbed out and stood next to the conning tower. Seconds later, his partner, Joe Zavala, stuck his head out into the fresh air and handed his partner a shiny aluminum case.

Austin tossed the case down to a stocky, middle-aged man who stood at the base of the ladder. The man was dressed in a wool turtleneck sweater, yellow rainproof pants and a slicker. Only the high-peaked cap on his head identified him as Russian navy. When he saw the case go airborne, he let out a yell of despair. He caught the container, hobbled it for an instant, then hugged it close to his chest.

As Austin and Zavala descended the ladder, the Russian opened the case and removed a paper-wrapped object cushioned in protec– tive plastic foam, then he unwrapped the paper to reveal a heavy square bottle. Holding it like a newborn, he mumbled in Russian.

Noticing the perplexed looks on the faces of the NUMA men, he said, "Pardon me gentlemen. I was offering a prayer of thanks that the contents of the container were undamaged."

Austin eyed the label and grimaced. "We just dove three hundred feet and cracked into a submarine to retrieve a bottle ofvodla?"

"Oh no,ff Vlasov replied, digging into the case. "Three bottles. The finest vodka made in Russia." He carefully unwrapped the other containers and planted a noisy kiss on each one before laying it back in the case. "Jewel of Russia is one of our finest and Moskovska is su– perb. Charodei is the best chilled."

Austin wondered if he would ever understand the Russian mind– set. "Of course," he said cheerfully. "Sinking a submarine to keep your booze cool makes perfect sense when you explain it that way."

"The submarine was an old Foxtrot-class boat used for training," Vlasov said. "It hadn't seen service for more than thirty years." He gave Austin a 14-karat-gold smile. "You must admit it was your idea to place objects on the sub to test your ability to retrieve them."

"Mea culpa. It didn't seem like a bad idea at the time."

Vlasov closed the cover of the case. "Your dive was a success, then?"

"By and large," Zavala said. "We've got a few technical problems. Nothing major."

"Then we must celebrate with a drink," Vlasov said.

Austin reached over and took the case from the Russian's hand. "No time like the present."

They picked up three plastic cups from the mess hall, then headed for the ready room. Vlasov opened the bottle of Charodei and poured a healthy portion into each cup. He raised his drink in toast. "Here's to the brave young men who died on the Kursk.

Vlasov slugged down the vodka as if he were drinking herbal tea.

Austin sipped his drink. He knew from past experience that demons lurked in the potent Russian firewater.

"And here's to something like the Kursk never happening again," Austin said.

The Kursk sinking had been one of the worst submarine disasters on record. More than a hundred crewmen had died in 2000 when the Oscar II-class cruise missile sub had sunk in the Barents Sea after an explosion in the torpedo compartment.

Vlasov said, "With your submersible, no young man serving his country in any nation need die such a horrible death. Thanks to the ingenuity of NUMA, we have a way to get into a sunken vessel whether the escape hatch is operable or accessible, or not. The inno– vations you came up with for this vehicle are revolutionary."

"That's kind of you to say, Commander Vlasov. Joe deserves the credit for hammering some odds and ends together and applying good old American common sense."

"Thanks for the praise, but I stole the idea from Mother Nature," Zavala said with typical modesty. A graduate in marine engineering from the New York Maritime College, Zavala possessed a brilliant mechanical mind. He'd been recruited by NUMA Director James Sandecker right out of college, and in addition to his duties on the Special Assignments Team led by Austin, he had designed numer– ous manned and unmanned underwater vehicles.

"Nonsense!" Vlasov said. "It's a long way from the lamprey eel to your submersible."

"The principle's the same," Zavala said. "Lampreys are superbly engineered creatures. They latch on to a moving fish, sink their ring of teeth into the skin and suck the blood out of it. We use suction and lasers rather than teeth. The main problem was coming up with a flexible watertight seal that would attach to any surface and allow us to make the cut. With the use of space-age materials and computers, we put together a pretty good package."

Vlasov raised his vodka glass again. "I hold the proof of your in– genuity in my hand. When will the Sea Lamprey be fully operational?" "Soon." Zavala said. "I hope."

"The sooner the better. I shudder to think of the potential for dis– aster. The Soviets built some magnificent boats. But my countrymen have always leaned toward gigantism over quality." Vlasov finished his drink and rose from his chair. "Now I must go back to my cabin to prepare a report for my superiors. They should be very pleased. I'm grateful for all your hard work. I will thank Admiral Sandecker per– sonally."

As Vlasov left, one of the ship's officers came into the room and told Austin he had a telephone call. Austin picked up the telephone,

listened a few moments, asked some questions, then said, "Stand by. I'll get right back to you."

He hung up and said, "That was NATO's East Atlantic subma– rine disaster office. They need our help on a rescue mission." "Someone's lost a sub?" Zavala said.

"A Danish cruiser went down off the Faroe Islands, and some of the crew were trapped inside. They're still alive, apparently. The Swedes and the Brits are on their way, but the cruiser doesn't have an escape hatch. The Danes need someone who can go directly through the hull and get the guys out. They heard we were out here making test dives."

"How long do we have?" "A few hours, the way they tell it."

Zavala shook his head. "The Faroes must be more than a thousand miles from here. The Beebe is a fast ship for her size, but she'd need wings to get there in time."

Austin thought about it a minute, then said, "You're a genius." "Glad you finally realized it. Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion? It would make a great pick-up line in a bar."

"First, let me ask: Is the Sea Lamprey in any shape to use on a real– life rescue operation? I detected a note ofCYA when Vlasov asked when it would be ready."

"We civil service types automatically take Cover Your Ass 101 when we sign on," Zavala said.

"You must have passed the course with flying colors. Well?" Zavala pondered the question for a moment. "You saw how she handled coming up."

"Sure, like a Brahma bull, but we made it okay. You'd pay big bucks for a ride like that at Disney World."

Zavala slowly shook his head. "You do have a talent for present– ing the possibility of a horrible death in a lighthearted way."

"My death wish isn't any stronger than yours. You told me the Sea Lamprey is built like a brick outhouse."

"Okay, I was bragging. Structurally, she's extremely sound. Op– erationally, she could do better."

"On balance, how do the odds of a successful mission stack up?"

"About fifty-fifty. I can jury-rig some repairs to increase the odds slightly in our favor."

"I'm not pushing you, Joe."

"You don't have to. I'd never sleep again if we didn't try to help these guys. But we've still got to get the submersible to that Danish cruiser. You've figured it out, haven't you, you old fox?" Zavala said, noting Austin's grin.

Maybe," Austin replied. "I've got a few details to work through with Vlasov."

Since I'm about to risk my life on a typical spur-of-the-moment Austin scheme, I wonder if you could tell me whats cooking under that prematurely silver-gray hair of yours?"

– Not at all/5 Austm said. "Do you recall what Vlasov said about Soviet gigantism?"

"Yeah, but-" "Think – Austin said, heading for the door. -Think real big."