Fire Ice

15

AUSTIN'S EYES TOOK a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. The pungent fragrance of incense evoked the image of an ancient Byzantine chapel in a monastery he had visited high on a hill at Mystra, overlooking the Greek city of Sparti. Gaslight flickered in brass lanterns of ornate gold and stained glass that were set into sconces in rough plaster walls covered with brilliantly painted icons. The vaulted ceiling was reinforced with thick wooden ribs. A high-backed chair faced an altar at the far end of the room.

They moved in for a closer look. The altar was draped with a dark purple cloth stitched in gold with the letter R. On top of the altar was a smoking incense burner. Set in the wall above the altar was a lamp whose yellow light illuminated a large black-and-white photograph in an ornate gold frame.

Seven people were pictured in the photograph. From the facial resemblance they shared, the two adults and five young people appeared to be posing for a family portrait. Standing on the left side was a bearded man wearing a military-style visored cap and a ceremonial military uniform trimmed with fancy piping. Medals adorned his chest.

A thin, pale-faced young boy in a sailor suit stood in front of the man. Next to the boy were three girls in their teens and another girl slightly younger, all gathered around a seated middle-aged woman. The children's features combined their father's wide forehead and the broad face of their mother. In the foreground was a low column like those used for museum display. Resting on top of it was a magnificent crown.

The crown was massive and obviously not designed to be worn for very long. It was heavily encrusted with rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Even in the black-and-white photograph, the gemstones crowding the surface glittered as if they were on fire. A two-headed gold eagle surmounted the globe.

"That little bauble must be worth something," Zavala said. He leaned closer and studied the somber faces. "They look so unhappy."

"They could have had a premonition of what awaited them," Austin said. He ran his hand over the embroidered altar cover. "R as in Romanov." He glanced around the funereal chamber. "This is a shrine to the memory of Tsar Nicholas II and his family. The boy in the picture would have been in line to wear that crown if he and his family hadn't been murdered."

Austin plunked into the chair facing the altar, and, as he leaned back, a deep chorus of male voices poured from hidden speakers. The religious chanting welled throughout the chamber and echoed off the walls. Austin shot out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box, his revolver at the ready. The haunting music stopped.

Zavala saw the look of alarm on his partner's face and stifled a laugh. "A bit jumpy, my friend?"

"Cute," Austin said. He pressed his hand against the back of the chair and the chanting resumed. It stopped when he removed his hand. "A pressure-activated switch turns on the tunes. It gives a whole new meaning to the term 'musical chair.' Care to try it?"

"No, thanks. My musical taste runs more to salsa." "Remind me to rig a Barcalounger up to my collection of progressive jazz." Austin glanced at the door. "We're done here. Even a rat wouldn't be dumb enough to be caught in a trap like this."

They left the somber confines of the Romanov shrine and returned to the staircase they had climbed from the submarine pen. They went up another level and found themselves in a barracks similar to the one below. Whereas the lower dormitory was neat, here blankets were bunched on the dirty mattresses as if thrown there in a hurry. Cigarette butts and plastic cups littered the floor. There was the stale smell of sweat and rotting food.

"Phew!" Zavala said.

Austin wrinkled his nose. "Look on the bright side; we won't need bloodhounds to pick up the trail."

They followed a wide corridor that slanted upward like the ramp in an underground parking garage. After a few minutes, fresh air blew against their faces, replacing the foul odor emanating from the barracks. Natural light coming from a bend in the passageway began to fill in the spaces between the puddles of illumination from overhead bulbs spaced in the ceiling.

The passageway ended in a steel door that had been left ajar. A short ramp led to the interior of what appeared to be a warehouse or garage. The concrete floor was stained with oil and spotted with the droppings of small animals. Austin picked an old, yellowed copy of Pravda out of a pile of rubbish. The beetle-browed face of Leonid Brezhnev glowered from the front page.

Austin tossed the newspaper aside and went over to a window. Not a shard of glass remained in the metal frame, giving him an unimpeded view of several nearby steel structures. The warehouse was part of the complex of abandoned buildings Austin had first seen from the air. The corrugated exteriors were streaked with rust, and the seams on the walls and roofs had buckled with age. Concrete walks linking the complex were overgrown with tall grass.

Zavala caught Austin's attention with a sharp whistle. He was looking out from the opposite side of the warehouse.

Working his way around the rubbish, Austin crossed over and peered through the window. The warehouse sat on a rise overlooking a large weed-grown field that was roughly rectangular in shape and depressed a few feet, like a giant soap dish. The rusty framework of a soccer goal jutted from the grass at one end. Austin guessed that the area had once been an athletic field used for R amp;R by visiting submarine crews.

Now, horsemen were strung out along the perimeter of the field on three sides. Only the side nearest the warehouse and the other buildings was open. Austin recognized the gray tunics and black pants worn by the gang of Cossacks that had shot him out of the sky. There were at least three times as many riders, now all facing into the field.

"You never told me this was a polo club," Zavala said, in a bad imitation of a British accent.

"I wanted to surprise you," Austin said, focusing on a frightened-looking group of people huddled in the center of the field. "We're in time for the last chukker. Follow me and I'll introduce you to the chaps I met the last time I was here."

Austin and Zavala slipped out of the warehouse, dropped to their hands and knees and wriggled snake-style until they came to the edge of the field where the grass thinned out. Austin pushed aside the grass for a better look as three horsemen broke away from the others, one from each side. With a series of bloodcurdling yells, the Cossacks galloped toward the huddled people, then broke off their charge at the last second and circled like Apaches attacking a wagon train. With each pass, they came closer. The horses kicked up fountains of dirt and the riders leaned out of their saddles and brought their whips down in slashing blows.

Austin quickly figured out the one-sided rules of the game. The Cossacks were trying to break the group apart so they could run them to ground individually. The field had been left unguarded on one side to tempt someone to make a break for freedom. But the strategy wasn't working. With each charge, their prey bunched closer together, like zebras being stalked by hungry lions.

Yelping loudly, the riders galloped back to the edge of the field and took their place in line again. Austin expected another attack, maybe with more riders. Instead, a lone horseman broke from the ranks and put his mount into a trot as if he were out for a Sunday ride.

Austin shielded the binocular lenses with his hands to prevent the sun from reflecting. The rider was dressed in the familiar mud-colored belted tunic, baggy black pants and boots and fur hat, although the day was warm. Cartridge belts crossed his chest. He rode a big dark gray horse with wide flanks and shoulders like a draft animal.

Austin studied the man's long, unkempt red beard and let out an evil chuckle. The last time he'd seen the giant Cossack was over the barrel of a flare gun. "Well, well, we meet again."

"Is that clean-cut chap a friend of yours?" Zavala said.

"More a passing acquaintance. We had a glancing encounter not too long ago."

Taking his time, the Cossack put his mount into a parade strut and circled the field, showing off for the other horsemen, who cheered him on. Then he drew his saber, raised it high and let out a hoarse yell. Digging his spurs into his mount, he charged toward the center of the field like a bowling ball rolling down on tenpins. At the last second, he brought the horse to a skidding stop and pulled back on the reins. The big horse reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air.

The people huddled in the field scrambled to avoid the flailing hooves and to escape the crushing weight of the giant animal. In the confusion, one man tripped and fell, and became separated from the others. He got up and tried to regain the relative safety of the pack, but the Cossack saw the opening and wedged his horse between. The man feinted to the right and made a dash to the left. The Cossack anticipated the move and herded the man like a cowpoke culling out a steer for branding. Seeing no alternative, the man sprinted for the unguarded side of the field.

The runner's face was set in a determined expression, even though he must have known his two legs were no match for the horse's four. The Cossack made no move to give chase and continued to put his strutting mount through its paces for the benefit of his comrades. Not until the runner was halfway to the edge of the field did the rider wheel his horse around. He spurred his horse into a trot, then into a ground-eating canter. Raising his sword again, he urged his mount into a full gallop.

Alerted by the pounding hoofbeats, the runner thrust his chest out like a sprinter at the finish line and pumped his arms to wring out the last ounce of speed. No use. As the horse thundered by him, the Cossack leaned over to one side and the sword swept down in a killing blow to the neck. The runner's legs crumbled and he slammed face-first into the ground. Austin swore with helpless anger. The cowardly attack had come too fast for him to react. The Cossack laughed at his own cleverness and wheeled his mount around, then rode leisurely back to the center of the field, daring someone else to make a run for it.

Austin brought the Bowen up and sighted on the Cossack's broad back. He was squeezing the trigger when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. To Austin's amazement, the figure slumped on the ground began to stir. The runner got onto his hands and knees and staggered to his feet. The Cossack had only toyed with his prey, using the flat of his sword so as to extend the game.

The Cossacks began shouting. Redbeard pretended that he didn't understand, then turned and went through a great show of being surprised. He waved his arms as if he were nonplussed at his victim rising from the dead – then once more he gave chase. The runner was almost to the edge of the field. Austin knew that the Cossack would never let his prey reach the buildings, where it would be difficult to get at him. The next sword blow would be lethal.

Zavala had lost his patience. "Game's over," he snarled. Bringing his Heckler and Koch up in the classic prone shooting position, he sighted on the Cossack's chest.

Austin put his hand on the barrel and said, "No." Then he stood up.

When the runner saw Austin spring from the earth, his sweat-streaked face fell in dismay. Seeing his escape route cut off, he jammed his heels in and came to a skidding stop.

Redbeard saw Austin at the same time. He reined in his horse, leaned forward on the pommel and stared at the broad-shouldered man with the strange pale hair. Austin could see the hate burning in the red-rimmed eyes. The horse snorted and nervously pawed the ground. Losing interest in the runner, the Cossack sat up in his saddle and put his horse into a pirouette. Then he made a false charge, only to retreat when Austin showed no sign of yielding ground.

Austin had been standing with his hands behind his back like a child hiding cookies. He brought his left hand out and beckoned. The horseman's puzzled frown turned into a gap-toothed grin. He liked this new game. He edged his mount closer, still wary.

Austin beckoned again with more animation. Emboldened, the horseman came nearer. Austin smiled like Davy Crockett grinning down a grizzly. The horseman let out a roar and goaded his mount forward.

Still smiling, Austin waited until he couldn't miss, then in a smooth fluid motion he brought the Bowen from behind his back. Holding the heavy revolver in both hands, he sighted on the X made by the Cossack's crossed cartridge belts.

"Here's one for Mehmet," he said, squeezing the trigger. The revolver barked once. The heavy bullet smashed into the rider's sternum and splintered his rib cage, sending fragments of bone into his heart. The Cossack was dead even before his hands lost their grip on the reins. The horse continued toward Austin like a runaway cement mixer, its eyes rolling in panic. Austin cursed himself for not getting down to business and firing sooner.

Spooked by the human standing in its way, and with no signal coming from the slack reins, the animal veered off. Its rock-hard haunch swung around, slammed into Austin with the force of a battering ram and knocked him off his feet. He flew through the air, and crashed to the turf with a teeth- rattling shock, landing on his left side. When he stopped rolling, he tried to stand but only made it up onto one knee. He was covered with dust and wet on one side from horse sweat. Zavala was by Austin's side, helping him to his feet.

As Austin's blurred vision cleared, he expected to see the Cossacks bearing down on them.

Instead, the world seemed frozen in time and place. Stunned by their leader's fall, the horsemen sat in their saddles like statues in a park. The people on the field were equally immobilized. Austin spat out a mouthful of dirt. Slowly and deliberately, he walked over to where his gun had landed and picked it up. He yelled at the runner and told him to go for the warehouse. The order shocked the man into action. He started to run.

It was if a power switch had been thrown.

Seeing their friend break for safety, the men in the field bolted after him in a disorganized mob. Austin and Zavala yelled encouragement and pointed to the warehouse. With their leader dead and their prey escaping, the Cossacks yelled as one, poured into the soccer field and advanced at a gallop, sabers held high, toward Austin and Zavala. The two men stood there in awe at the fearful beauty of a Cossack charge.

"Wow!" Zavala shouted over the thunder of hooves. "It's like being in an old Western."

"Let's hope it isn't a remake of Custer's Last Stand," Austin said, with a thin smile.

Austin brought his Bowen up and fired. The lead rider pitched from his saddle. Zavala's H and K stuttered, and another horseman crashed to the ground. The riders advanced without slackening their pace, well aware they held the ad- vantage in numbers and momentum. The guns fired simultaneously and two more men flew from their saddles.

The Cossacks were bold but not suicidal. First one, then another, leaned out of his saddle and hung from his horse's neck so he no longer offered an easy target. As Austin and Zavala adjusted to the new strategy, one horse came to a sudden stop, dropped to the ground and rolled onto its side.

Austin thought the animal had stumbled. Then he saw that the rider was firing at them, using his mount as a protective barricade. Other riders followed suit. Those Cossacks still in their saddles split up, corning in from both sides in a pincer movement. Austin and Zavala hit the ground and dug in. Bullets flew over their heads like angry bees.

"Automatic weapons!" Zavala yelped. "You said these guys carried blunderbusses and pigstickers."

"How would I know they'd stop off at a gun show?"

"What ever happened to background checks?"

Austin's reply was drowned out by the stutter of automatic-arms fire. He and Zavala let off a couple of rounds more for show than effect, then pulled back from the rise and crawled toward the warehouse. The Cossacks peppered the ridge with gunfire. Thinking their prey was dead, they climbed onto their horses and took up the charge where they had left off.

From the shelter of the warehouse, Austin and Zavala aimed through the windows and two more riders toppled from their mounts. Seeing that their foe was still alive, the Cossacks called off the attack and galloped to the center of the field to regroup. Taking advantage of the momentary battle lull, Austin turned from the window and surveyed the men who had taken refuge. Austin couldn't remember when he'd seen a more bedraggled-looking bunch. Their tan jumpsuits were wrinkled and begrimed, and their hollow-eyed faces bristled with whiskers. The first runner, who had felt the direct wrath of the Cossack leader, came over to speak with Austin. His uniform was torn at the knees and elbows and covered with dust. Yet he kept his chin as high as if he were wearing newly pressed dress whites on parade. The young man gave Austin a crisp salute. "Ensign Steven Kreisman of the U.S. Navy submarine NR-1."

Austin reached under his belt, where he had tucked the cap Zavala found on the Russian submarine. "Maybe you can get this back to its owner," he said, handing the cap over.

"It's the captain's. Where did you get this?" Kreisman said, looking at the cap as if he were seeing it for the first time.

"My partner found it in a Russian sub."

"Who are you guys?" Kreisman said, losing his aplomb.

"I'm Kurt Austin and that's my partner Joe Zavala at the window. We're with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

The ensign's jaw dropped down to his Adam's apple. With their battle-hardened eyes and smoking guns, the two who had rescued him and his crew looked more like commandos than ocean scientists.

"I didn't know NUMA had its own SWAT team," he said with wonder.

"We don't. Are you okay?"

"I feel as if I've been run over by a bulldozer, but other than that I'm fine," he said, rubbing his neck where the saber had whacked him. "I won't be wearing a tie for a while. This may sound like a dumb question, Mr. Austin, but what are you and your friend doing here?"

"Your turn first. Last I heard, your sub was diving for relics on the bottom of the Aegean."

The young man's shoulders sagged slightly. "It's a long story," he said, with weariness.

"We don't have much time. See if you can tell me what happened in thirty seconds."

Kreisman chuckled at Austin's audacity. "I'll do my best."

He took a deep breath and delivered a condensed version of events.

"A guest scientist we had on board, a guy named Pulaski, pulled a gun on us and hijacked the NR-1. We were transported on the back of a giant submarine. This whole thing is so unbelievable." He paused, expecting a skeptical reaction. Seeing none in Austin's attentive eyes, he continued. "They transferred the crew to a salvage ship. They made us work on an old sunken freighter. Tricky retrieval stuff using the manipulators. Then the big sub brought us here. They kept the captain and pilot with the NR-1. We were held prisoner underground. When they brought us up today, we thought we were going back to the NR-1. Instead they herded us onto that field. The guards who'd been watching us disappeared, and those cowboys with the fur hats started trying to break us up." He rubbed his neck again. "Who are those SOBs?"

Zavala was signaling to Austin. "Sorry," he said. "Our thirty seconds appears to be up."

He went to the window, and Zavala handed him the binoculars. "The members of the polo club are having an argument," he said lazily.

Austin peered through the binoculars at the Cossacks, who were still gathered in the field. Some riders had dismounted and were waving their arms in the air.

Lowering the glasses, Austin said, "They could be exchanging borscht recipes, but my guess is that they're adding our names to the guest list for a slice-and-dice party."

Zavala looked as if he had a stomachache. "You have a way with words. How can we decline the invitation without hurting their feelings?"

Scratching his chin in thought, Austin said, "We've got a couple of options. We can run for the beach and swim out to sea, hoping our fur-hatted friends won't have settled their differences. Or we can hole up below."

"I'm sure you see the same problems I do," Zavala said. "If they catch us in the open, we're sitting ducks. If we go back down to the sub pen, we've only got dive gear for two people." Austin nodded. "I suggest that we go with a double. You and the crew run for the beach. I'll stay here, and if the riders move in I'll draw them into the sub base, where they'll be at a disadvantage on foot. I'll escape the way we came. Like a fish slipping through a hole in a net."

"Your chances would be better if we were watching each other's back."

"Someone has to cover for the sub crew. They look pretty beat-up."

Ensign Kreisman had edged closer. "Excuse me for eavesdropping. I went through SEAL training when I joined the navy. I washed out, but I still know the drill. I can take the men out of here."

Austin sized up the determined set of Kreisman's jaw and decided he would be wasting time arguing with the young navy man. "Okay, it's your show. Run for the beach and start swimming. A fishing boat will pick you up. We'll stay here and cover you as long as we can. I'd urge you to get going. Joe will ride shotgun part of the way."

If the ensign wondered how Austin had arranged for an at-sea pickup, he didn't show it. He snapped his arm in a crisp salute and rounded up his comrades. Then they climbed out of the back of the warehouse through a window. While Zavala escorted the crew to the beach, Austin kept watch. The Cossacks still seemed disorganized. He got on his hand radio and called Captain Kemal.

"You are all right?" the captain said. "We heard guns shooting."

"We're okay. Please listen carefully, Captain. In a few minutes, you will see men swimming out to sea. Go in as close to the beach as you safely can and pick them up."

"What about you and Joe?"

"We'll come out the way we went in. Anchor offshore and watch for us." He clicked off. Something had caught his eye.

Austin was outside the warehouse when Zavala returned a few minutes later. "I went as far as the dune. They should be in the water by now."

"Kemal's been alerted for a pickup." He pointed to the sky, where the sun glinted off metal. "What do you make of that?" The object grew from a pinpoint to the size of a flying insect, and they could hear the beat of rotors.

"You didn't tell me the Cossacks had an air force."

Austin peered through his binoculars at the helicopter speeding their way. "Oh hell – " Lombardo hung out of the open door holding a video camera. "That sawed-off little idiot."

As Zavala took the glasses for his own look, the helicopter spun around so that the other side came into view. He studied the figure in the doorway, then lowered the glasses and gave Austin a strange look.

"You need your eyes examined, my friend." He handed the binoculars back.

This time when Austin looked, he swore even more loudly. Kaela's dusky face, framed by windblown dark hair, was clearly visible. The helicopter was practically over the field. Chastened by their earlier encounter, the TV crew must have instructed the pilot to stay a prudent distance from the ground. They couldn't have known that the horsemen had substituted modern automatic weapons for their antique rifles. The Cossacks saw the helicopter and lost no time targeting the aircraft in a withering fire. Within seconds, the engine began to throw off oily dark smoke. The helicopter shuddered like a bird buffeted in a strong wind, then it dropped from the sky.

The rotors had slowed to a point where individual blades were visible, but the spin was enough to create a parachute effect. The chopper came down like a falling leaf. The impact with the ground was hard enough to crumple the landing gear, but the fuselage remained intact. Seconds after the helicopter hit, Kaela, Lombardo, Dundee and another man spilled out like dice from a shaker.

The Cossacks saw the stunned crew and pilot, and their frustration and anger erupted like a long-dormant volcano. They swung into their saddles and charged down on the hapless foursome at a mad gallop. Austin's blood went cold.

The Cossacks were seconds away from their targets. There was no time to save the crew. He sprinted toward them anyhow, pistol in hand. He was still a hundred yards away when the Cossacks started to pop out of their saddles like grain being harvested by a giant, invisible scythe.

The charge that seemed so inevitable faltered, fell apart, then stopped completely. The horsemen milled around in confusion. More Cossacks dropped from their saddles.

Austin saw movement at the edge of the woods bordering the field. Men clad in black uniforms were emerging from the trees. They advanced slowly and deliberately toward the horsemen, weapons at their shoulders, firing as they walked. Seeing themselves overmatched, the Cossacks rode off in panic toward the distant woods.

The men in black moved relentlessly after the retreating horsemen. Except for one. He broke off from the others and came toward where Austin and Zavala stood. He was limping, Austin noticed. As the man drew closer, Zavala automatically raised his gun. Austin put his hand on the barrel and gently pushed the weapon down.

Petrov stopped a few yards away. The pale scar on his face stood out in vivid relief against his sunburned skin. "Hello, Mr. Austin. A pleasure to see you again."

"Hello, Ivan. You have no idea how nice it is to see you."

"I think I do," Petrov said, with a careless laugh. "You and your friend must join me for a shot of vodka. We can talk about old times and new beginnings."

Austin turned to Zavala and nodded. With Petrov leading the way, the three men made their way to the soccer field.