Fire Ice

24

THE BLACK SEA

THE CALL FROM Captain Atwood came in as the NUMA helicopter sped across the Black Sea toward the Turkish mainland. Austin had been jotting down his thoughts in a notebook when he heard the familiar voice crackle in his earphones.

"Kurt, are you there? Come in, please," Captain Atwood urged.

"Miss me already, Captain?" Austin said. "I'm truly touched."

"I'll admit things are a lot quieter here since you left, but that's not why I'm calling. I've tried to get in touch with the Sea Hunter and still can't raise her."

"When was the last time you talked to her?"

"I called last night to say you'd be on your way in the morning. Everything was okay. Then I tried again after you took off, to let them know you were in the air. No answer. We've been calling at regular intervals. I called again a few minutes ago. Still no reply."

“That's odd," Austin said, glancing down at the water-tight bucket sitting on the floor at his feet. Inside the bucket, soaking in seawater, was the silver jewelry box plucked from the Odessa Star. At Gamay's suggestion, the Argo had called the Sea Hunter and asked if a conservator could take a look at the box and its contents. The Sea Hunter's captain said the ship had finished its project in the Black Sea and was on its way to Istanbul, where he would be happy to hook up with Austin.

"It's more than odd; it's crazy. What the hell do you make of it?"

Austin went down a mental checklist of possible reasons for the ship's silence, but none of them held water. All NUMA vessels carried the latest in communications, and their systems were redundant several times over. They kept inconstant contact with other ships.

He felt as if someone were walking on his grave. "I don't know, Captain. Have you called NUMA headquarters to see if anyone there has heard from the ship?"

"Yes. They said the Sea Hunter called in yesterday, saying they had found some significant Bronze Age relics and were heading into port."

"Hold on, Captain," Austin said. He hailed the pilot over the intercom. "How far can we fly on our current fuel supply?"

"We're corning up on the Turkish mainland now. We're carrying a light load, so we can go another forty-five minutes or so before we drop out of the sky. Planning a side trip?"

"Maybe." Austin looked over at Rudi Gunn, who had been listening to the exchange with Captain Atwood. Gunn nodded slightly, like someone bidding at an auction. Do what has to be done. Austin got back to Captain Atwood and said they would try to find the Sea Hunter. Then he relayed the ship's last known position to the pilot. The chopper banked and headed off at a tangent.

Zavala sat up and his eyes snapped open. He had been plugged into a Walkman, completely absorbed in a Latin American CD. Zavala was an experienced pilot who flew by the seat of his pants like an old barnstormer. Sensing the course change, he removed his earphones and peered out the window, a quizzical expression on his face.

"We're making a detour," Austin said, explaining the situation. Then he called the Argo and asked the captain to advise the Trouts of the change in plan. Paul and Gamay had stayed aboard the ship to map out the sea bottom in the area of the sunken cargo vessel and planned to return to port with the ship in a few days.

Austin closed his eyes and tried to picture the Sea Hunter as he remembered her from two years before, when he had sailed on the research vessel during a survey in the Caribbean. He visualized the vessel as if he were looking at a computer-rendered image. It was a relatively easy task because it was practically identical to the Argo, having been built at the same shipyard in Bath, Maine. The two-hundred-foot-long hull was painted the familiar turquoise hue, like all NUMA research vessels. An A-frame hung over the stem, a hydraulic crane towered over the raised deck behind the I bridge and there was a smaller boom on the starboard side.

A single tapering -funnel stuck out through the roof of the cream-colored bridge superstructure and a tall radio mast rose like a flagpole from the bow. His mental camera floated from the aft deck into the ship, through the winch-operation station, the main lab, library and mess hall. Below this deck would be scientific stores, the lower lab and crew and scientists' accommodations. The ship normally traveled with a crew of twelve and room for a dozen scientists. In the wheelhouse, he could picture the Hunter's good-natured skipper, Captain Lloyd Brewer, a highly competent sailor-scientist who would not have ignored a call from another NUMA vessel.

The pilot flew a dead-reckoning course, following a line between the ship's last-known position and her destination. Austin took a post on one side of the helicopter, and Zavala pressed his nose against a window on the other. Gunn went up to the cockpit to scan the sea ahead. They saw fishing boats, commercial vessels and cruise ships. Sightings thinned as they moved away from the more heavily traveled traffic lanes.

Austin checked his watch and called the pilot on the intercom. "How are we doing?"

"We'll have to turn back pretty soon."

"Can you give us five more minutes?" Austin pleaded.

A pause. "I'll give you ten, but one second more and we learn to walk on water."

Austin asked the pilot to do his best and squinted into the glare, thinking about the line from the old sailors' prayer: Oh Lord, Thy sea is so great and my boat so small. Zavala's voice broke into his reverie. "Kurt. Check this out at two o'clock."

Austin shifted to the opposite side of the cabin and followed Zavala's finger with his eyes. A large, dark object was silhouetted against the sea's surface a couple of miles away. The pilot had picked up Zavala's alert and pointed the chopper's sharp nose at the object. Soon the full light of the sun fell upon a blue-green hull and the letters NUMA painted in black amidships.

"It's the Sea Hunter," Austin said, recognizing the ship's features.

"I don't see a wake," Gunn observed from the cockpit. "She seems to be dead in the water."

The helicopter angled down until the water was a sparkling blur. They soared over the ship's mast, then wheeled around and hovered. Upturned faces and hand waves would have greeted a normal flyover. Nothing stirred, except for the desultory flutter of the ship's flags. The pilot moved the helicopter forward until it was directly over the ship. He tilted the aircraft first one way, then the other, so those on board could look straight down. Powered by the twin turbos, the rotors made a horrendous racket.

"We're making enough noise up here to wake King Neptune," Gunn said. "I don't see one damned person. No anchors over the side. She looks like she's drifting."

"Can you try them on the radio?" Austin said.

"I'll give it a shot."

The pilot reported no answer from the ship. "Wish I could set this bird down for you," the pilot said. "Deck is too cluttered with junk."

A research vessel was basically a floating platform that allowed scientists to drop various ocean-probing instruments or submersibles over the side. Dozens of different research projects might be in progress. The decks were designed for flexibility, with cleats and bolt eyes where equipment could be fastened down with cable or chain. Sometimes ship containers were brought aboard to use as extra lab space. The Argo's deck was relatively uncluttered, allowing use of the helicopter pad. But the Sea Hunter had installed labs on the space normally used for chopper landings.

Austin scanned the deck and focused on a cargo container. "How low can you get us?" he said.

"Maybe thirty or forty feet. Any lower and the rotor might hit a mast. It could be tricky."

"Does this aircraft have a winch hoist?"

"Sure. We use it on short hops for carrying stuff that's too big to fit in the chopper."

Zavala was listening intently to the discussion. From long experience with his partner's thought processes, Joe knew exactly what Austin had in mind. Zavala reached over and grabbed his rucksack from the adjoining seat. Austin told the pilot what they planned to do, then he checked the load in the Bowen, stuck it in his rucksack and slung the pack over his shoulder.

The copilot came back from the cockpit and opened the side door, bringing a blast of sea air into the cabin. Gunn helped the copilot uncoil cable from a winch drum and feed it through the doorway. Austin sat in the doorway with legs dangling. When the chopper was as low as it was going to be, he grabbed onto the cable and swung his body out of the helicopter. He slid down the cable, wedged one foot in the hook on the end and hung on as the cable swung back and forth like a twisting pendulum, buffeted by the powerful downdraft from the rotors.

From his perch, the pilot could not see Austin and relied on the copilot, who was crouched at the open door where he shouted directions. The chopper inched lower. The deck whirled under Austin's feet. The main hydraulic crane took up a major portion of the aft deck, along with coils of chain and rope, orange plastic containers holding various instruments, cartons, bollards and air vents.

Hanging on to the twisting cable with one hand, Austin pointed to the nearest cargo container and jabbed the air with his finger. The chopper moved several feet until it was directly over the container. Austin gave a thumbs-down signal. Released from its drum by the slow-turning winch, the cable unwound until the container was barely a yard below Austin's feet. Waiting for the right moment, he decided it wasn't going to come. He dropped onto the metal roof and rolled over a couple of times to absorb the shock and to avoid being bashed in the head by the hook swinging wildly inches above his head.

The cable was winched up, and Austin scrambled to his feet and waved to the faces peering down at him to show he was all right. Zavala lost no time exiting the helicopter. He dropped to the roof of the cargo container, but his timing was wrong and he would have fallen off if Austin hadn't grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Seeing them both on board, the pilot headed off. Watching the aircraft as it sped toward the horizon, Austin prayed that the fuel supply would hold out.

As the chopper receded to the size of a mosquito, Austin and Zavala dabbed antiseptic from their first-aid kit onto hands rubbed raw by the cable. From their elevated perch, they had a good view of the ship, and from what they could see the vessel was completely deserted.

They climbed down to the deck and Austin suggested that they move forward on each side of the boat, keeping their weapons at the ready. Austin took the starboard deck and Zavala the port. They advanced cautiously, guns in hand. The only sound was the snap of pennants and flags in the warm breeze. They came out onto the foredeck at the same time.

Zavala's face wore an expression of astonishment. "Nothing, Kurt. It's like the Mary Celeste," he said, referring to the famous old sailing ship that had been found adrift with no one on board. "Did you find anything?"

Austin gestured for Zavala to follow and led the way back along the starboard deck. He knelt next to a dark streak on the metal deck between the railing and a doorway into the ship. Austin gingerly touched the sticky stain and sniffed the coppery odor on his finger.

"I hope that isn't what I think it is," Zavala said.

"If you said blood, you'd be right. Someone dragged a body, maybe more than one from the looks of it, across the deck and threw the corpse overboard. There's more blood on the rail."

With a heavy heart, Austin took the lead and stepped through the door out of the hot sun into the cool interior of the ship. Moving methodically, he and Zavala checked out the mess hall, library and the main lab, then climbed to the upper lab and the bridge. The farther into the ship they got, the more apparent it became that the Sea Hunter had been transformed into a charnel house. Everywhere they looked they saw spatters or puddles of blood. Austin's jaw grew rock hard. He had known many of the crew and scientists on board.

By the time they got to the wheelhouse, their nerves were as taut as piano strings. The floor was littered with charts and paper and broken glass from the windows. Austin picked up the radio microphone that had been ripped from its connection. The mike would have been of little use, since the communications console was riddled with bullet holes.

"Now we know why they didn't answer their calls," he said.

Zavala murmured softly in Spanish. "It looks like the Manson gang was here."

"We'd better check the ship's quarters," Austin said. They made their way down two levels in the tomblike silence and worked their way through the accommodations for the crew, officers and the scientists, finding more evidence of violence but no one alive, finally stopping outside a door marked STORES.

Austin pushed the door open, slipped his hand around the jamb and flicked on the lights. Cardboard cartons stacked several levels high were arranged in a rectangle on wooden palettes with a narrow aisle running around the outside. In one corner of the room was a service elevator used to haul supplies up to the galley.

Austin heard a soft muffled sound, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He signaled to Zavala to take one side of the room while he took the other. Zavala nodded and started off, moving as silently as a ghost. Austin edged along the other wall, then peered around a stack of canned-tomato cartons. The noise was repeated, louder now, sounding more animal than human. Zavala peered around the far corner, then they both stepped into the clear. Austin put his finger to his lips and pointed toward a narrow cleft between stacked boxes. A low moan issued from the alcove.

Austin waved Zavala off. Holding his gun in front of him with both hands, he stepped forward, and swung the Bowen around, pointing it between the boxes. He let out a robust curse, thinking how close he had come to shooting the young woman who cowered in the tight space.

She was a pitiful sight. Her dark curly hair hung over her face, her red-rimmed eyes brimmed with tears, her nose was wet and runny. She had crammed herself into a space less than two feet wide, her legs tight together, her arms around her knees. Her clenched fists were white-knuckled. When she saw Austin, a toneless ululating sound escaped her lips.

“Nunununu."

Austin realized the woman was repeating the word "no" again and again. He holstered his gun and squatted down so their faces were level.

"It's okay," he said. "We're from NUMA. Do you understand?"

She stared at Austin and mouthed the word NUMA.

"That's right. I'm Kurt Austin." Joe had come up behind him. "This is Joe Zavala. We're from the Argo. We tried to call your ship on the radio. Can you tell us what happened?"

She replied with a vigorous shake of her head.

"Maybe we should go on deck where there's fresh air," Zavala suggested.

She shook her head again. This wasn't going to be easy. The woman was wedged tightly in her space and they would hurt her, and maybe themselves, if they tried to pull her out by force. She was in a state of shock.

Austin extended his hand palm up. She stared at it for a minute, then reached out and brushed his fingers as if she wanted to make sure he was real. The physical contact seemed to bring her back into the world.

"I was on this ship two years ago. I know Captain Brewer very well," Austin said.

She studied his face for a moment, and the flame of recognition flickered in her eyes. "I saw you at NUMA headquarters once."

“That's possible. What department did you work in?"

She shook her head. "I'm not with NUMA. My name is Ian Montague. I teach at the University of Texas. I'm a guest scientist."

"Do you want to come out, Ian? It can't be too comfortable in there."

She made a face. "I'm beginning to feel like a sardine."

The flash of humor was a good sign. Austin helped Ian from the alcove and turned her over to Zavala, who asked if she was hurt.

"No, thank you. I can walk on my own." She took a few steps and had to reach out for Joe's arm for support.

They climbed up to the aft deck. Even the fresh air and sun couldn't dispel the black cloud that hung over the ship. Ian sat on a coil of line, blinking her eyes in the sunlight. Zavala offered her a flask of tequila he carried in his pack for what he said were medicinal purposes. The liquor brought color back to her cheeks, and signs of life returned to the impassive eyes. Austin waited patiently for her to speak.

She stared out at the water in silence. Finally, she said, “They came out of the sea."

"Who did?"

"The killers. They came at dawn. Most people were in bed."

"What kind of boat did they come on?"

"I don't know. They were just… here. I never saw a boat." Once the plug was pulled, the story poured out. "I was sleeping, and they came into my room and pulled me out. They were dressed in strange uniforms, baggy pants and boots. They killed my roommate, shot her without warning. I could hear gunfire allover the ship."

"Did they tell you who they were?"

“They didn't say a word. They just went about their business as if they were killing cattle in a slaughterhouse. Only one of them talked."

"Tell me about him."

She reached out with trembling hands and took another swig of tequila. "He was tall, very tall, and skinny, almost emaciated. He was pale, as if he never saw the sun, and had a long beard and hair all matted as if he never combed it." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "He smelled, too, as if he hadn't taken a bath in months."

"How was he dressed?"

"All in black, like some kind of priest. But the worst thing were those eyes." She shuddered. “They were too big for his face, round and staring. I don't think he blinked, They were like fish eyes. Dead with no emotion in them."

"You said he spoke to you."

"I must have passed out. When I awoke, I was lying on my bunk. He was bending over me. His breath was so foul, it was all I could do not to vomit. The ship was quiet. There was only that voice, soft like the hissing of a snake. Almost hypnotic. He said he had killed everyone on the ship except me. They were leaving me alive to deliver a message." Her body convulsed into choking sobs, but her anger helped her pull herself together and she continued. "He wanted NUMA to know that this was revenge for killing his Guardians and violating the 'sacred precincts.' He said he wanted Kurt Austin."

"You're sure he called me by name?"

"I wouldn't make a mistake about something like that. I said that you weren't here. They knew you were on the Argo. I told him this wasn't the Argo. He had one of his men check. When he learned he was on the wrong ship, he flew into a rage. He said to tell NUMA and the U.S. that this was a small taste of the destruction that was yet to come."

"Is there anything else?"

"That's all I remember." She stared dumbly.

Austin thanked her and went over to where his pack was lying on the deck. He pulled out his Globalstar phone. Within seconds, he was talking to Gunn. "Are you still in the air?"

"Just barely. We're running on fumes, but we'll make it. Are you and Joe okay?"

"We're fine."

Gunn sensed from Austin's tone that there was more be- hind the terse reply. "What's the situation on the Hunter?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone, but it's about as bad as it can get."

Gunn said, "Help is on its way. I talked to Sandecker, and he called his friends in the navy. They're grateful for getting the NR-1's crew back. When he said you needed some assistance, they broke a cruiser off from NATO exercises in the area."

"I wouldn't mind an aircraft carrier at this point, but a cruiser will be fine."

"The ship will be there within two hours. Anything else you need?"

Austin's eyes hardened and a razor-sharp edge came into his voice. "Yeah. I'd like about five minutes with a certain bug-eyed freak."