Fire Ice

14

THE DENTED BLACK Lada taxi clattered down the dirt road, with every bolt in its ancient chassis rattling in protest. The potholed ruts led through thick pines and ended at an encampment of rustic chalets clustered near the Black Sea. The cab bounced on its worn shock absorbers even after Paul and Gamay Trout extricated themselves from the cramped backseat like clowns in a circus skit. They removed their duffel bags from the roof rack and paid the driver. The cab drove off in a cloud of dust, and the door to a nearby chalet flew open with a bang. A bearlike man charged out, roaring in a voice that practically shook the cones off the trees.

"Trout! I can't believe you're here." He wrapped Paul in a bear hug. "How good to see you, my friend!" He pounded Trout on the back.

"Go-od to see you-oo, Vlad," Trout replied, in between the breath-stealing thumps. "Thi-is is my wife, Gamay-may. Gamay, meet Professor Vladimir Orlov."

Orlov extended a ham-sized hand and attempted to click the heels of his rubber sandals together. "A pleasure to meet you, Gamay. Your husband often talked about his brilliant and lovely wife as we drank beer at the Captain Kidd."

"No less than he talked about you, Professor Orlov. Paul has often said how much he enjoyed your time together at Woods Hole."

"We have many fond memories, your husband and I." He turned to Paul. "She is as beautiful and charming as I imagined. You are a lucky man."

"Thank you. And you will be pleased to know that your barstool awaits your return."

"Then it is only a question of when. Tell me how things are at the Oceanographic?"

"I was there only a few days ago. I try to get back home in between NUMA assignments. Woods Hole hasn't changed since the year you spent there."

"I envy you. As a pauper nation, Russia is stingy with money for pure scientific research. Even a well-thought-of institution such as Rostov State University must beg for funding. We're fortunate that the government allows the university to use this place as a fieldwork center." Gamay looked around at the rustic cottages and the water sparkling through the trees. "It's wonderful! Reminds me of the old cottage colonies on the Great Lakes where I grew up."

"The Soviet navy used it as a getaway for middle-level officers and their wives. There's a tennis court, but the macadam looks like the face of the moon. We've brought in students and they have done a good job fixing up the chalets. It's perfect for seminars or retreats like this one where we academics simply come to think." He grabbed the duffel bags. "Come, I'll show you where you're staying." Orlov led the way along a soft pine-needle path to a chalet that gleamed with new green-and-white trim. He climbed onto the porch, dropped the bags and held the door open for the Trouts. The one-room cottage had up-and-down bunks for four people, a rough-hewn table in the middle, a sink with a pump and a gas camp stove on the other side. Orlov went to the sink and pumped the handle.

"The water is pure and cold. Be sure to save some in this coffee can to prime the pump. There's a shower outside. The WC is just behind the house. It's a bit primitive, I'm afraid."

Gamay looked around the room. "Looks quite cozy to me."

Paul said, "We invited ourselves, Professor. We should be grateful we're not sleeping in a tent."

"Nonsense! I'll have no more such talk, You'll probably want to unpack and get into something more comfortable," The professor was wearing baggy black shorts and a red tank top. "As you see, we're very informal, When you're ready, follow the path back to the main clearing. I'll be waiting with some refreshment."

After Orlov left, they filled the sink and washed up. Gamay traded her stylish cotton slacks and sweater for blue shorts and a T-shirt from the Scripps Oceanographic Institute, where she'd first met Paul, who was studying there, Paul was wearing an L.L. Bean nonwrinkle navy blazer and tan slacks and one of the wildly colored bow ties he favored. He put on new tan shorts, navy polo shirt and Teva sandals, Then they strolled back through the pines to the main clearing.

Orlov sat at a picnic table in the shade of an arbor. He was talking to a middle-aged couple he introduced as Natasha and Leo Arbikov, both physicists. They spoke little English but communicated with sunny smiles. Orlov said that there were a number of other academicians and students from various fields scattered about in the woods working on experiments or simply reading. From an oversized cooler, he produced plastic containers of fresh fruit, caviar, smoked fish, cold borscht, a jug of water and a bottle of vodka. The Trouts sampled the food, but drank water, putting off the hard stuff until later. Orlov had no such hesitation, drinking his vodka with apparently little effect.

"It helps my concentration," he said with good cheer, washing down a mouthful of caviar. He gave Trout another teeth-rattling pound on the back. "This is so incredible to see you, my friend, I'm glad you called to say you would be in the neighborhood."

"It's wonderful to see you again, Vlad, although it was a little difficult getting through to you."

"We're connected to the outside by a single telephone. That's the beauty of this place. It's the Lost World. Only we are the dinosaurs." He roared with laughter at his own joke. "We are paid practically nothing, but we can pursue our work with little in the way of expenses." He lifted the bottle, smacked his lips and poured himself another two fingers of vodka. "Enough about me. Tell me what brought you to the Black Sea."

"You've heard of the NUMA research vessel, Argo?"

"Oh, yes. I've been on her, in fact. A few years ago. She's a wonderful ship. I would expect nothing less from NUMA."

Paul nodded in agreement. "Garnay and I are doing some research in connection with the Argo's most recent survey. I remembered you were at the university and thought I'd give you a call to let you know we were in the neighborhood."

Austin had asked the Trouts to look into Ataman Indus- tries while he and Zavala checked out the submarine base. Ataman's headquarters were in the port city of Novorossiysk, on the northeast comer of the Black Sea. Trout immediately thought of Orlov, who had been a visiting professor at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, because he remembered that the professor taught at the university in Rostov near Novorossiysk. When he'd called Orlov, the professor said he would never forgive Paul if he and Gamay didn't come to visit him.

"You had no problem getting here?" the professor inquired.

"Not at all. We were lucky to catch a commercial flight to Novorossiysk on short notice. The university arranged for a cab to pick us up at the airport, and here we are." He looked around at the bucolic setting. "Let me get my bearings. We're between Rostov and Novorossiysk?"

"That's right. Novorossiysk is the port for the oil fields in I the Caucasus. It's also a Hero City full of large ugly monuments commemorating the heroic resistance of the people during the Great Patriotic War." Orlov turned to Gamay. "Paul has lauded your skills as a marine biologist. What sort of work have you been doing?"

"Before coming to the Black Sea, I was in the Florida Keys looking at coral damage from industrial runoff."

Orlov gave a shake of his head. "It seems that we Russians are not the only environmental barbarians. I am involved in a study of Black Sea pollution. What about you, Paul?"

"I was at Woods Hole doing some consulting work on a study of ocean mining. I think one of the ocean mining concerns I read about is in Novorossiysk, as a matter of fact."

Guile was not one of Trout's strong suits. He had a blunt Yankee openness and felt uncomfortable skirting the truth, especially with an old friend. Trout figured that if he threw out a few conversational seeds, one of them would sprout. This seed fell on fertile soil.

"Ocean mining? You must mean Ataman Industries."

"Sounds familiar. I'm sure I read about it somewhere."

"I'd be surprised if you hadn't. Ataman is huge. They started as a land-mining conglomerate, but they saw the potential under the sea and now their fleet ranges allover the world."

"Smart move, with the worldwide demand for fuel."

"Yes, that is true, but less commonly known is that Ataman has been in the forefront in devising ways to extract methane hydrate from the sea bottom."

"I don't remember any mention of that in the corporate literature."

"Ataman tends to be secretive. Russian capitalism is still in its Wild West phase. We don't have all the disclosure laws your country does. I doubt if they'd make that much difference, anyway. With the thousands employed by Ataman, it's very difficult to keep a secret. Ataman has built an entire fleet of monstrous ships that will be used in the extraction of fire ice."

"Fire ice?" Gamay said.

"It's a term someone came up with for methane hydrate, a compound of methane gas," Paul explained. "Pockets of the stuff are trapped under the sea bottom allover the world. Looks like icy snow, only it's flammable."

Orlov chimed in. "Everyone knows that Soviet scientists claim to have invented everything, from the electric light-bulb to the computer, but in this case I must give them credit. The first natural deposits were found in Siberia, where it was known as marsh gas. Some American scientists picked up on the work of our glorious scientists and discovered hydrates under the ocean."

"Off the South Carolina coast, as I recall," Trout said. "Woods Hole did some dives with the deep-water submersible Alvin and found the plumes escaping from the sediment along faults in the ocean floor."

"What are the commercial applications?" Gamay said.

Orlov started to pour himself more vodka, thought better of it and pushed the bottle aside. "The potential is enormous. The deposits around the world possibly hold more energy than all the other fossilized fuels combined."

"You see it as a replacement for oil and gas, then?"

"No less than Scientific American called it the 'fuel of the future.' It could be worth trillions, which is why so many people are interested in its extraction. The technical problems are formidable, though. The substance is unstable and quickly decomposes once it is removed from conditions of extreme depth and pressure. But whoever controls the process may control the future energy supply of the world. Ataman is in the forefront of the exploration and research," Orlov said. His wide brow wrinkled in a worried furrow. "Which is not good."

"Why not?" Paul asked.

"Ataman is owned in its entirety by an ambitious businessman named Mikhail Razov."

"He must be fabulously wealthy," Gamay said.

"It goes beyond riches. Razov is a complex man. While he keeps his business dealings shrouded in secret, his public persona looms quite large in Russia. He has been outspoken in his criticism of the way things are being run in Moscow, and has gained a substantial cult following."

"A tycoon with political ambitions is not unusual, even in the United States," Gamay said. "We've often elected rich men as governors, senators, presidents."

"Well, God help us if we put someone like Razov in power. He's a nationalist zealot who talks only of restoring the good old days."

"I thought communism was dead."

"Oh, it is, only to be replaced by another form of oligarchy. Razov believes Russia achieved its greatest glories under the rule of the tsars: Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible. He's not clear on the specifics, which is what frightens many people. He says only that he wants to see the spirit; of the old empire embodied in the New Russia."

"Guys like him come and go," Paul said.

"I hope so, but this time I'm not so sure. He has a magnetic quality, and his simplistic message has struck a chord in my poor country."

"Is Ataman a city or region?" Gamay asked.

Orlov smiled. "It's a Russian term for a Cossack chieftain. Razov is a Cossack by birth, so I suppose he fancies himself as the company's chief. He spends most of his time on a magnificent yacht. It's called the Kazachestvo. Loosely translated, it stands for Cossackism, the whole bloody chest-thumping exercise. You should see it! A floating palace a few miles from here." Orlov displayed his gold teeth. "But enough of politics. We have more pleasant things to talk about. First, I must excuse myself. I have some unavoidable work I must attend to. It will take only an hour or two, then I will be completely free. In the meantime, you might like to sun yourself on the beach."

"I'm sure we can find something to do."

"Splendid." He got up, shook hands with Trout and embraced Gamay. "I will see you back here later this afternoon and we will talk all night." The middle-aged couple also took their leave and the Trouts were alone. Paul suggested that they inspect the beach.

The deep blue sea was a short walk from the camp. A lone swimmer was paddling around about a hundred feel out. The beach was stony and not conducive to sun bathing, and the metal beach chairs were as hot as grills to the touch.

While Gamay looked for a place to stretch out, Paul walked down the beach. He came back a few minutes later.

"I found something interesting," he said, and led the way around a bend, where a powerboat was drawn up on shore. The white paint was peeling on the wooden hull, but the boat looked sound enough. The outboard motor was a Yamaha in good condition and there was gas in the tank.

Gamay read her husband's mind. "Are you thinking of taking a spin?"

Trout shrugged and glanced off at a young man of college age who was coming out of the water. "Let's ask this guy if it's okay."

They went over to the swimmer, who had come to shore and was toweling himself dry. When they said hello, the young man smiled. "You're the Americans?"

Paul nodded and introduced himself and Gamay.

"My name is Yuri Orlov," the Russian said. "You know my father. I'm a student at the university." He spoke English with an American accent.

They shook hands all around. Yuri was tall and gangling, about twenty years old, with a shock of straw-colored hair over his forehead and big blue eyes magnified by horn-rimmed glasses.

"We were wondering if it would be possible to take a spin in the boat," Paul said.

"No problem," Yuri said, beaming. "Anything for friends of my father."

He pushed the boat out to where the water was deeper and gave the cord a pull. The motor coughed, but didn't start. "This motor has an attitude," he said in apology. He rubbed his hands together, then adjusted the fuel mixture and tried again. This time, the motor sputtered and snarled before smoothing out. The Trouts got in the boat and Yuri gave it a push, jumped aboard and pointed the boat out to sea.