Yaeger rose from his chair. “I've got a couple of people I want you to meet.”
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-27-
THE SUNLIGHT STREAMING through the tinted floor-to-ceiling window washed the sharp features of Admiral James Sandecker in a sea-green patina that made , his face look like a bronze bust of Father Neptune. From his office on the top floor of NUMA headquarters, he had an unparalleled view of official Washington. He stood at the window, in thought, his authoritative blue eyes sweeping the city, taking in the White House, the tall spire of the Washington Monument and the dome of the Capitol, as if he were a hawk searching for its prey.
Austin had spent most of the morning filling Sandecker in on the events in the Black Sea. The admiral had been fascinated by the description of the sub pen, and intrigued at the meeting with Petrov and the Odessa Star link to Lord Dodson, whom he had met. Occasionally, he asked a question to clarify or offer a theory of his own. But he listened in stony silence, tugging at his precisely trimmed red Vandyke beard, when Austin told him about the massacre aboard the Sea Hunter. At the end of the grisly narrative, he rose from his desk without a word and walked over to gaze out the window. After a few moments, he turned to Austin and Gunn, who sat in leather chairs in front of the desk, and said, "In all my days as a navy commander, I never lost a ship or its crew.
Damned if I'm about to start now, This son of a bitch and his friend Razov are not going to get away with the massacre of an entire NUMA crew."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Sandecker came over and settled behind his desk. "How is Ms. Montague, the young lady who survived the attack?”
“She's tough,” Austin said, “She insisted on staying aboard the ship while the replacement crew brings the Sea Hunter back to port.”
“Make sure I see the young lady on her return.”
“I'll do that,” Austin said, “What's the latest from the CIA?”
Sandecker reached into the humidor on his desk, pulled out a cigar and lit it, “The CIA is barking up the wrong tree, the FBI is skeptical and the armed forces aren't much good unless you point them in the right direction and give them marching orders. The secretary of state doesn't return my phone calls.”
“What about the White House?”
“The president is sympathetic and concerned, of course. But I can't help thinking there is a bit of glee among some of his Cabinet, a hint that the massacre was justified retribution for sticking our nose in where it doesn't belong, They are angry that NUMA rescued the NR-1 crew.”
“What difference does it make who rescued the crew, long as it was rescued?” Austin said in frustration.
Sandecker puffed out a plume of smoke that temporarily enveloped his head in a purple cloud. “I assume that was I rhetorical question, because you're much too savvy in the ways of this city. You know that gratitude simply does not exist inside the Beltway. We've stolen their thunder, and they resent that.”
Gunn sighed. “That's pretty much the scuttlebutt I've heard. There's even criticism behind our back that our 'bungling' is the reason that the captain and pilot are still missing with the sub.”
“Nice of us to provide an excuse for the incompetence of other agencies,” Sandecker said. “But I'm afraid it means NUMA is on its own when it comes to the Sea Hunter business. Any lead on this man, Boris?”
“He's a will-o'-the-wisp,” Austin said. “Our best chance is to concentrate on Razov. At last report, his yacht had left the Black Sea, and we're trying to track it down.”
“We're going to have to do better,” Sandecker said. Sandecker's intercom beeped softly, and the voice of his secretary came on.
“I know you're in conference, Admiral, but Mr. Yaeger is here with two other gentlemen and he says it's urgent that they see you.”
“Send them in, please,” Sandecker said. A moment later, the office door opened and Yaeger came in, followed by the diminutive Dr. Reed and a stranger. Sandecker had spent too much time on the water not to recognize Jenkins as a fisherman, especially after they shook hands and he felt the barnacle-hard calluses.
He greeted them warmly and told the men to pull up chairs. “Well, Hiram, what brings you out of your sanctum sanctorum?”
“I think Dr. Jenkins can explain it better than I can.” Jenkins was nervous at being in the presence of the legendary director of NUMA. But once he started to talk, he hit his stride. When Jenkins finished his saga, Reed gave his opinion as a geochemist. Finally, Yaeger pitched in, passing around printouts of the diagrams Max had projected onto the screen. Sandecker sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers, his eyes alert to every nuance.
When they were through with their presentation, he tapped his intercom. “Please see if Dr. Wilkins can come up from the Geology Department.”
Dr. Elwood Wilkins arrived a few minutes later. He was I slim, reserved midwesterner who looked like one of those movie character actors who always played the kindly pharmacist or family doctor. Sandecker pulled over another chair close to his desk. He passed Wilkins the printouts and gave the geologist a few minutes to study them. Wilkins finished reading the material and looked up.
Sandecker answered the question in the scientist's eyes. "These gentlemen have suggested that it is possible for the edge of the continental shelf along the East Coast to cave in, creating destructive tsunamis. While I value their opinion, it a never hurts to hear from a disinterested observer. What do d you think?”
Wilkins smiled. “Oh, I don't think there's any danger of the Atlantic City Boardwalk being washed into the sea.”
Sandecker raised an eyebrow.
“But,” Wilkins added, “there is new research which indicates that what they suggest is not at all far-fetched. The d rock under the overlying layer of the continental shelf is quite waterlogged. If the pressure exerted by the sea bottom reached a critical state, the water would squeeze out. It's as if you stepped on a balloon. The blowout could cause landslides that deform the water and send giant waves toward the shore. Some of my colleagues at Penn State University have run computer models demonstrating that the possibility is very real.”
"These slides would have to be triggered by a quake?” Sandecker said.
“A quake could do it, most certainly.”
"Could it happen on the East Coast?” Gunn asked.
Wilkins tapped the sheaf of printouts in his hand. “This material pretty much spells it out. The continental shelf runs the full length of the coast. In several places along its slope are big cracks and craters where the potential for landslides is greater.”
"Could a slide be caused by something other than a quake?” Gunn said.
“It could happen spontaneously. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. This is a whole new area of science.”
“I was thinking of a release of methane hydrate.”
“Why not? If the hydrate layer is destabilized, sure, the whole shooting match could come tumbling down and set off your giant waves.”
Sandecker could see Wilkins's lips about to form a question. He cut the discussion short. “Thank you, Doctor. You've been a great help, as always.” He ushered Wilkins to the door, patted him on the back and thanked him again. Returning to the others, he said, “I hope you weren't insulted at my bringing Dr. Wilkins in. I wanted to hear from an independent source.”
“From what we heard,” Gunn said, “I'd say there's a pretty good case here that Razov has discovered how to cause a tsunami. The wave that struck the Maine coast was a dry run, if you'll excuse the expression. If we're correct in our assumption, he's somehow capable of causing enormous destruction.”
“The Ataman Explorer is the key,“ Austin said. ”We've got to find her."
“We'll have to do more,” Sandecker said with quiet urgency. “We've got to get aboard that ship!”
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-28- ROCKY POINT, MAINE
BEFORE THE BIG wave had hit, Rocky Point had been the quintessential rock-ribbed M
aine town, its picturesque harbor and neat clapboard-and-shingle houses appearing in countless calendars. The tidy Main Street could have come from a Frank Capra movie. But as Jenkins's boat moved out of the harbor, Austin gazed back toward land and thought that the town now looked like one of those pictures where the viewer was challenged to detect the mistakes. Plenty was wrong with this picture.
The waterfront lobster restaurants, the fish pier and the controversial motel were gone, and all that was left were pilings that jutted from the water like bad teeth. Spherical Day-Glo warning buoys bobbed on the water to mark sunken wrecks. Cranes clawed away at the wreckage of boats on shore. Debris of every kind swirled in the Kestrel's wake.
Had Austin been of a more poetical bent, he would have said that the big wave had stolen the town's soul. “What I mess,” was the best he could come up with.
“Coulda been worse,” said Police Chief Charlie Howes, who stood next to Austin in the boat's stern.
“Yeah, if hit by a nuclear missile,” Austin said, with a shake of his head.
“Yep,” Howes replied, not letting an outlander outdo his Maine talent for brevity of speech.
Austin had been introduced to the chief a few hours earlier. A NUMA executive corporate jet had whisked Austin, Paul Trout and Jenkins to the Portland Airport. Jenkins had called ahead to Chief Howes, and he was waiting at the air- port in a police cruiser to drive the men to Rocky Point.
After the meeting with Sandecker, Austin had gone to his office with the satellite photos of the Ataman Explorer and studied them under a high-powered magnifying glass. Even though the pictures had been shot from thousands of feet up, they were sharp and detailed. He could easily read the ship's name on the hull and see people on deck.
Austin was immediately struck by the ship's resemblance to the Glomar Explorer, the six-hundred-foot-long salvage vessel Howard Hughes had built in the 1970s on secret contract to the CIA to retrieve a sunken Soviet submarine. Tall derricks and cranes similar to those on the Glomar extended off the deck like waterborne oil rigs.
Austin examined the ship from stem to stern, paying particular attention to the deck area around the derricks. He made a few sketches on a pad of paper and sat back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. He had figured out a way to set onto the Ataman Explorer. It was a long shot and depended on how close he could get to it The vessel would run for cover at the first sight of a NUMA ship. He thought about the problem for a few minutes, recalling his Black Sea experience with Captain Kemal, then picked up his phone, called Yaeger and asked where Jenkins was.
“Doc Reed is giving him the NUMA VIP tour. He's offered to put Jenkins up for the night before he catches a plane back to Maine tomorrow.”
“See if you can track them down and give me a call.” Austin's phone rang a few minutes later. Austin outlined his plan to Jenkins, making no effort to soft pedal its possible dangers. Jenkins didn't hesitate for a second. When Austin was through describing his wild scheme, Jenkins said, “I'll do anything you can think of to get back at the bums who ruined my town.”
Austin told Jenkins to enjoy his tour while he made a few phone calls. The first call was to the NUMA transportation section to see if fast transportation was available. The second was to the Trout's Georgetown town house. Gamay had left a message saying she and Paul were home from Istanbul and were standing by for orders. Austin got Paul on the phone and brought him up to date.
In the meantime, Jenkins started calling those local fishermen whose boats were still afloat and asked if they would like to do a job. At Austin's suggestion, Jenkins told the fishermen that NUMA needed their boats for a deep-ocean species study. As a bonus, the substantial sums they were being paid would be matched by no-strings grants to get their port back into shape without going through the usual government red tape.
Jenkins had no trouble recruiting fishermen, and when the Kestrel left port shortly after dawn, six other lobster boats and trawlers trailed behind him single-file. Charlie Howes had insisted on going along, and Jenkins was glad to have him. The chief had trapped lobsters for a living before joining the police department and hadn't lost his sea sense.
The fishing fleet passed the rock-ribbed promontory that gave the town its name, and entered the open ocean. The sea was a bright bottle green. Only a few whispery cirrus clouds marred the azure sky, and the breeze was a gentle westerly. The line of boats plodded east, then south, climbing the rolling swells and sliding down the other sides in an easy rhythm. Periodically, Gamay called from NUMA headquarters with the Ataman Explorer's position as seen by satellite.
Austin penciled the positions on a chart of the Gulf of Maine, the expansive stretch of water between the long Maine coast and the curving arm of Cape Cod. The ship seemed to be moving in a big, lazy circle. Austin guessed it was in a holding pattern. Gamay used a simple code so anyone listening would think they were hearing fishermen's chatter. Jenkins and Howes politely ignored Gamay's butchering of the Maine dialect. But when the voice that over the speaker said, “Catching some good haaadik floundah soweast of my last set, ayup,” they could remain silent no longer.
“Ayup?” Jenkins cringed. “Did she say, 'ayup'?”
Howes shook his head. “I've lived Down East my whole life, and I've never heard anyone say 'ayup.' Wouldn't know what it means.”
Trout suppressed a smile. Mumbling an apology, he explained that Gamay had seen too many episodes of Murder; She Wrote, which had been set in the Hollywood version of a Maine town. Jenkins cut him off. With clear excitement in his voice, he pointed to a large blip on the radar screen. '“There she is. No doubt about it.”
Austin, who was leaning over his shoulder, looked at the target to the southeast. “Ayup,” he said.
Jenkins gunned the throttle, picking up speed. The other boats did the same. It was more than a matter of impatience. Jenkins wasn't lulled by the playfulness of the sea. He had been studying the fetch, the distance between waves, with an experienced eye, assessing the situation as a fisherman and a scientist. “We've got some weather coming in.” he said.
Austin said, “I've been listening to the NOAA report on the radio.”
“I don't need the squawking of a computer-generated voice to tell me there's a storm on the way,” Jenkins said, with a grin. “You just have to know how to read the signs.”
Since leaving port, Jenkins had watched the clouds gather and thicken and the sea spectrum shift to an oily gray. The breeze had moved a couple of compass points to the east. “If we get our work here done quickly, we can get back to port ahead of the storm. Problem is that if the sea and the wind kick up, it could be dangerous hauling back on our net.”
“I understand,” Austin said. “Paul and I will get ready.”
“Might be a good idea.” Chief Howes said, his easygoing voice gaining an uncharacteristic tautness. “We've got company.”
The chief was pointing at a huge, dark shape that loomed from the gathering fog. As the amorphous mass grew closer, it lost its spectral aspect, and the lines that had been softened by the vaporous mists hardened into the silhouette of a very large ship. The vessel was completely black, from the waterline to the top of the single funnel protruding from the high superstructure. Derricks and cranes bristled from the deck like the quills on a porcupine. The dull, light-absorbing paint made the ship hard to see and gave it an evil, brooding aspect that wasn't lost on the other fishermen.
The radio crackled with excited voices. One fisherman said, “Jeez, Roy, what's that thing? Looks like a floating hearse.”
“Hearse,“ said another voice. ”Looks like the whole damned funeral parlor."
Austin smiled at the chatter. Anyone listening to the comments would know they hadn't been rehearsed. Jenkins warned his fellow fishermen to keep a sharp eye out so they wouldn't be run down. They didn't have to be told twice and gave the monster ship a wide berth. Austin estimated the ship's speed at around ten knots.
The Ataman Explorer seemed to slow as it came nearer. A dot
detached itself from the deck. The speck grew larger, buzzing like a hornet stirred from its nest. Moments later, the black helicopter flew low over the fishing fleet. Jenkins and Howes gave the aircraft a friendly wave. The chopper circled the fishing fleet a few times, then headed back to the ship.
From inside the pilothouse, where he and Trout were donning their scuba gear, Austin watched the departing aircraft with calm eyes.
“Guess we passed inspection,” Austin said.
“That was a lot friendlier than the reception Gamay and I got when we poked around Ataman's property in Novorossiysk.”
“You can thank Jenkins for that. It was his idea to have lots of witnesses so Ataman would stay on the straight and narrow.”
Austin was glad that he had listened to Jenkins when he'd asked if he'd be willing to offer his services. Jenkins pointed out that there was safety in numbers. Since the vessel was sitting in prime fishing grounds, it was not all that suspicious for boats to be trawling in the area. In fact, Austin could see a half dozen fishing boats tending their nets on the way out.
Austin had based his plan on the successful infiltration of the sub base from Captain Kemal's fishing boat. Penetrating the sub pens had been easy compared with what he had in mind now. Unlike the scruffy Cossacks, who were more interested in playing people polo than standing guard, watchful and well-armed sentries would be manning the Ataman vessel.
Then Austin caught the break he was looking for. The ship plowed to a stop and floated dead in the water. Jenkins ran his boat as a trawler when he wasn't going after lobsters, and it was fitted out with a drumlike stem hauler to handle the net. With the help of the chief, he got the net in the water. Then the Kestrel got under way again and made a sweep by one side of the ship, a hundred yards off. The maneuver gave those on the ship a chance to inspect the fishing boat at close range. What they didn't see were the two divers hanging off the opposite side of the boat.