Fire Ice

by Clive Cussler

  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.

  NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

  -16-

  WITH HIS TALL gangling physique and questing intelligence, Yuri Orlov reminded Paul Trout of himself as a kid hanging around the ocean scientists at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The way Yuri stood in the stem with one hand on the tiller, the Russian student could have been any of the skiff fishermen Trout knew on Cape Cod. All the youth needed to complete the picture was a Red Sox baseball cap and a big black Labrador retriever.

  Yuri had taken immediate control of the boat, steering it a few hundred feet offshore, then stopping and letting the motor idle.

  “Thank you so much for allowing me to go with you, Dr. Paul and Dr. Gamay. It's really an honor to be in the company of two such famous scientists. I envy you working for NUMA. My father told me all about his experiences in the States.”

  The Trouts smiled, even though the young man had upset their plan to sneak off on a scouting expedition. He brimmed with youthful enthusiasm, and his big blue eyes danced with excitement behind the thick glasses.

  “Your father often talked about his family back in Russia,” Paul said. “I remember him showing me pictures of you and your mother. You were younger then, so I didn't recognize you today.”

  “Some people say I look more like my mother.”

  Trout nodded in agreement. During Professor Orlov's stay in Woods Hole, the Russian had countered bouts of homesickness by whipping family snapshots from his billfold and proudly passing them around. Trout remembered being struck by the contrast between the bearlike professor and Svetlana, his tall, willowy wife.

  “I enjoyed working with your father. He's a brilliant man, as well as personable. I hope we can work together again someday.”

  Yuri lit up like a bulb. “Next time Professor Orlov goes to the States, he has promised to take me with him.”

  Trout smiled at Yuri's use of the proper title before his father's name. “You should have no problem. Your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. My parents used to have American exchange students stay with us.” He pointed in the opposite direction from the one the Trouts wanted to take. “It's pretty nice along the coast here. Are you bird-watchers?”

  Gamay saw their mission going astray. “Actually, Yuri,” she said sweetly, “we were hoping to go to Novorossiysk.”

  A look of amused amazement crossed Yuri's young face. “Novorossiysk? Are you sure? The coast the other way is much prettier.”

  Paul picked up on Gamay's cue. “We do a lot of bird-watching in the Virginia countryside, but as an ocean geologist I'm more interested in deep-sea mining. I understand one of the largest ocean mining companies in the world has its headquarters in Novorossiysk.”

  “Sure. You're talking about Ataman Industries. They're huge. I'm doing my grad work in ecological mining, and I may apply for a job there myself when I get out of school.”

  “Then you'll understand why I'd be interested in taking a look at their facilities.”

  “Absolutely. Too bad I didn't know earlier. Maybe we could have set up a tour with them. You can't get a good idea of the scale of their operation from the water.” Yuri grinned with relief. “I like birds, too, but not that much.”

  Gamay said, “I'm a marine biologist. Fish and plants are my game, but I think it would be interesting to go to Novorossiysk.”

  “That settles it, then,” Paul said. Yuri goosed the throttle and brought the boat around in a big, lazy turn. He stayed about a quarter of a mile offshore on a course roughly parallel to the coast. After a while, the woods began to thin out, giving way to coastal plain and high, rolling hills. The beach was replaced by extensive reed-grown marshes and meandering creeks.

  Paul and Gamay sat side by side on the center seat as the po
werboat plowed through the sun-sparkled sea. The boat was around eighteen feet long and built like a tank, with overlapping planks and a thick prow. Yuri kept up a running narrative as he pointed out landmarks. The Trouts nodded with appreciation, although the snarl of the motor and the shush-shush of the hull drowned out most of Yuri's words.

  Any misgivings the Trouts had about Yuri were quickly dispelled. He turned out to be a godsend. He knew how to keep the touchy motor supplied with the proper mixture of air and fuel, and was intimately acquainted with the countryside. They would have had trouble navigating the busy port on their own. Finding Ataman would have been almost impossible without a guide. As they got farther into Zeroes Bay, the city's importance as a major Russian seaport became apparent. Ship traffic in both directions was nonstop. The parade included every type of commercial vessel imaginable: cargo ships, tankers, oceangoing tugs, passenger ships and ferries.

  Yuri kept a respectful distance from the big ships and their boat-swamping wakes. The shoreline became more built-up. High-rise buildings, smoking chimneys and grain elevators could be seen through the industrial haze that hung over the port. Yuri slowed the boat down to a fast walk.

  “The city is very historic,” Yuri said. “You can't go ten feet without tripping over a monument. The Russian Revolution ended here, when Allied ships evacuated the White Army in 1920. It's also one of the biggest ports in Russia. Oil is piped here from the wells in the northern Caucasus. That's the Shesharis Oil Harbor over there.”

  Paul had been studying the dark hue of the water. “It's a deep-water port, judging from the size of those ships.”

  “Novorossiysk doesn't freeze up in the winter. This is the major port for cargo moving between Russia and the Mediterranean and the rest of Europe, and it's also more or less convenient to Asia, the Persian Gulf and Africa. The port facilities are state-of-the-art. There are actually five parts to the harbor: three dry cargo handling areas, the oil harbor and the passenger terminal. You came in through the airport, so you know it's got connections allover the world.”