Medusa nf-8

by Clive Cussler

  The inflatable bounced, fishtailed, and yawed. For a second, Austin gritted his teeth, thinking he was going to be thrown sideways into the jagged coral. Then the outboard’s propeller blades caught water, and the inflatable squeezed through the opening and glided into the peaceful lagoon.

  Austin quickly killed the motor and waited. Five minutes passed, and there was nothing to indicate he had been detected. No blinding searchlights, no hail of bullets, to herald his arrival.

  Austin took the lack of a warm reception as an invitation to stay. He dug his scuba gear out of the pack, buckling on his lightweight air tank and buoyancy compensator. He checked his GPS and saw that the inflatable had been thrown slightly off course after passing through the reef.

  He began to paddle, until the little black triangle on the GPS’s screen showed he was back on course. A few minutes later, the triangle merged with the circle marking where the satellite showed the dark streak in the lagoon. The submarine he had seen in the satellite image seemed to have sprung from the floor of the lagoon before it vanished magically from sight. The inexplicable disappearance of the Typhoon suggested that there was more to the lagoon than met the eye. Austin had no logical reason to assume the lagoon’s waters were not as shallow as they looked from space, but he look no chances, and had borrowed a tank containing a Trimix mixture from the NUMA research vessel in the event that he had to make a deeper dive than expected.

  Austin pulled on his face mask and fins, chomped on his regulator mouthpiece, hoisted himself belly down onto the inflatable’s right pontoon, then rolled off into the lagoon.

  Water seeped between the neoprene and his skin and gave him a momentary chill until it warmed to an insulating body temperature. He held on to the side of the inflatable for a few seconds, then he pushed himself away, jackknifed as he dove under the surface, and descended about twenty feet.

  As Austin neared the floor of the lagoon, he reached out with his gloved right hand. Instead of touching sand, his fingers pushed against a soft, yielding surface. His coral-blue eyes narrowed behind the lens of the mask. He removed the glove, and discovered that what he thought was sand overgrown with marine life was a loosely woven net covered with an irregular pattern of colors.

  Austin slid his knife from its sheath on his thigh, pressed the point into the fabric, and pushed. With only slight pressure, the blade penetrated the net. He sawed a cut in the net several inches long, withdrew the blade, returned it to its sheath, and glided over the fake ocean botton until he came to where he had seen the streak in the satellite picture.

  He saw from a few inches away that the streak was in fact a partially mended tear in the fake bottom. The uneven nylon stitching looked as if it had been done hastily.

  Austin unhooked a dive light from his vest.

  Holding the light straight out in front of him, Austin squirmed through the opening. He brought his body straight up, paddling with his fins as if he were on a bicycle, and spun around slowly. About midway through his three-sixty pivot, he halted and stared with wonder.

  About a hundred feet away was a massive object, faintly illuminated by wavy starlight filtering through the net. No details were clearly visible, but it was obviously an enormous submarine.

  Austin instinctively switched the light off, even though it seemed unlikely that anybody aboard the sub was aware of his insignificant presence.

  He swam away from the submarine, and saw pinpoints sparkling in the darkness below. He angled his body and dove straight down, only to stop after a few moments to stare at a line of glowing blue objects.

  Blue medusae!

  About six of them floated across his path of descent. He waited until the deadly jellyfish were out of range, then dove again toward the bottom. As he dove down, he saw that the lights that had first caught his attention were beacons on the tops of four large spheres built around a hemispheric hub. Each rested on four spindly legs with disk-shaped footings that resembled the legs of a spider.

  The metal surface of the globes was unbroken with the exception of one sphere which had a transparent dome. Austin swam closer to the sphere and saw two people under the dome. One was a dark-haired woman and the other was Zavala.

  The two were sitting in chairs, apparently deep in conversation. Zavala didn’t seem to be in any trouble, and, from the look on his face he was enjoying himself. Austin guffawed, the deep laugh coming out as a series of noisy bubbles. Only Joe Zavala could find an attractive woman at the bottom of the sea.

  While Austin was trying to make sense of the scene under the dome, the woman looked straight up at him and stared. He peeled off like a fighter plane, swam down to the bottom and under the sphere, then toward the hemispheric hub. He remembered from the diagram that the hub was the transportation module. It had an airlock at the top of it for the cargo shuttle.

  He swam under the module past four submersibles hanging from the bottom of the hemisphere, and found the hatch that allowed divers access to the module. He inflated the buoyancy compensator. Air from the tank flowed into the vest and he began a slow rise. At the same time, he removed the waterproof pouch holding the Bowen from his pack. He figured he could have the pistol out and ready to fire within five seconds of surfacing. With the element of surprise, that should give him the edge he needed.

  Austin’s head broke the surface of the airlock pool inside the hemisphere. He pushed his mask up on his forehead, glanced quickly around, and saw that the Bowen wouldn’t be needed and could stay in its pouch for now. The circular room was deserted.

  He swam over to a ladder and put the pouch on the edge of the pool, making sure it was within easy reach. Then he slipped out of his weight belt, fins, and tank and set them next to the pouch. He climbed out, retrieved the Bowen from its pouch, and hung his scuba gear on a hook next to four other sets of dry gear. Then he listened for a minute at the only door.

  All was quiet. Austin’s Bowen filled one hand, and his other pressed the wall switch. The door slid quietly open. Austin set off along a corridor, determined to stir up some trouble.

  It didn’t take long.

  He came to a door marked RESOURCE CULTIVATION SECTION. He opened it and stepped into a twilit chamber that was circular in shape, the walls lined with fish tanks that contained various jellyfish. But it was the larger, chest-high, circular tank at the center of the room that caught his attention.

  It contained at least a dozen giant jellyfish. Their bell-shaped bodies were nearly a yard across, and their tentacles were short, thick, and ropy rather than the delicate streaming filaments seen on most jellyfish. They glowed with a pulsating neon blue that provided the sole illumination in the room.

  He saw a movement that didn’t come from inside the tank. A distorted face was reflected in the curving glass surface. Absorbed by the strange forms in the central tank, Austin had let himself get sloppy.

  The Bowen dangled at the end of his arm near his thigh. He whirled and raised the gun, but the powerfully built guard who had been quietly stalking Austin brought the metal stock of his machine pistol down and it hit the flesh inside of Austin’s wrist. The Bowen flew from his fingers and clattered on the floor, and a fiery pain shot up to his shoulder.

  Austin’s right arm was momentarily useless, but with his left hand he reached up and grabbed the machine pistol. As he tried to wrench the weapon from the man’s grasp, his assailant pushed him back against the tank. He slammed against the glass wall, but Austin kept a tight grip on the gun, pushed it up and away from his body, and managed to twist the machine pistol away. His fingers lacked the strength to hold on to the weapon, and it splashed into the tank. The giant jellyfish scattered in every direction.

  Both men stared at the lost weapon, but Austin was the first to rally. He kept his useless arm close to his side, lowered his head, and butted the man in the chest, driving him back toward the wall. They both slammed against the row of tanks, dislodging a couple that crashed to the floor and broke open.

  The gelatinous creatures in
the tanks spilled across the floor. Austin lost his footing in the slippery mess and went down on one knee. He struggled to stand again, and the man kicked him in the side of the face.

  But the man slipped in the slimy glop in his second attempt to kick Austin’s head through the goalposts. The blow glanced off Austin’s cheek, rattling his teeth and knocked him over on his right side. The man, regaining his balance, produced a knife from a sheath hanging from his belt and let out a yell. He dove on Austin with knife raised high.

  Austin brought his left arm up in what he knew was a futile attempt to block the blade, but at the last second his groping gloved hand snatched up a shard of glass eight inches long and he plunged it into the man’s neck. He heard a gargled shriek of pain and felt a shower of warm blood from the severed jugular. The knife dropped from the man’s fingers. He tried to get to his feet, only to crumple on rubbery legs as the life drained from his body.

  Austin rolled out of the way before the man crashed down on him and got unsteadily to his feet. His right wrist was on fire, and he had to use his left hand to retrieve his Bowen. As he stepped carefully around the spreading pool of blood and dozens of dying jellyfish, he took a quick glance at the big tank. The giant mutant jellyfish glowed even brighter. It was as if they had enjoyed the blood sport.

  Austin wasted no time putting the nightmarish scene behind him. He set off down a corridor to search for Zavala, wondering what other delightful surprises Davy Jones’s Locker would have to offer.

  CHAPTER 43

  IT WAS LOIS MITCHELL WHO HAD SUGGESTED A PLACE TO formalize the just-formed alliance with Phelps.

  “I’ve been using Dr. Kane’s office,” Lois said. “The guards have been ordered not to bother me while I work. We’ll be all right there for a while.”

  “That okay with you, Phelps?” Zavala asked.

  “Fine,” Phelps said, “but we’re going to have to do it my way. The lab is still controlled by Chang’s goons, so we can’t just take a stroll.”

  Phelps told Mitchell to take the lead and for Zavala to follow her. He brought up the rear, holding his machine pistol at the ready as if he were escorting the other two under guard.

  They passed a few of Chang’s men, who gave them a glance and a nod but asked no questions. They avoided the control room, which was off-limits to the staff, and skirted the fermentation lab so as not to arouse curiosity among the scientists.

  Despite the direness of the situation, Zavala couldn’t help but grin with appreciation when he ascended the spiral staircase to Kane’s office and saw the colorful schools of fish nosing around the clear Plexiglas dome that were the ceiling and walls.

  “This is fantastic!” he said.

  Mitchell smiled, and she said, “I agree. I would spend a lot of time here even if it weren’t a refuge from the guards. Please have a seat.”

  Mitchell turned up the lights to blot out the fishy distraction and sat behind the desk. Zavala and Phelps settled in chairs. Their newborn coalition was still on a shaky foundation, and the initial moment of uncomfortable silence was broken finally by Phelps, who cleared his throat and asked Zavala, “Where’s your pal Austin?”

  Zavala’s instinct to spar went back to his boxing days in college, and he gave Phelps a minimal answer.

  “Kurt was on Pohnpei, last I knew.”

  Phelps twitched his nose.

  “Hope Kurt stays out of Chang’s sights,” he said. “He’s been gunning for your friend.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Phelps. Kurt can take care of himself.” Then Zavala asked, “How much time do we have before your boss arrives?”

  “He’s probably just about landing on that freighter he uses as a base,” Phelps said. “Ship looks like a rust bucket, but she’ll outrun most her size. There’s even a moon pool for the lab’s shuttle. He’ll use the shuttle to get down in the crater. I’m supposed to make sure everything’s okay with the airlock. That maniac will be here in under an hour. We won’t have a lot of wiggle room once he’s on board.”

  “Where’s the staff when they’re not working in the lab?” Zavala asked.

  “They’re confined to quarters,” Mitchell said. “They’re kept under pretty tight guard, thanks to Mr. Phelps here.”

  “Just doing my job,” Phelps said.

  “How do you undo your job?” Zavala asked.

  “I’ll try my best, Joe, but it won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t worry,” Zavala said, “there will be lots of opportunities here to redeem yourself. For a start, do you have any idea how we can get the staff away from the lab?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Phelps said. “We can use the minisubs under the transit hub. They’ll each take four people. We’ve got fifteen scientists down here plus the cargo-shuttle pilot.”

  Zavala forgot his throbbing head in his eagerness to go on the offensive.

  “You and I can go out the way we came in,” he said. “We’ve got to neutralize those guys on the Typhoon. How many will we have to deal with on the sub?”

  “The Triad triplets like to do things in threes,” Phelps said. “Something to do with lucky numbers. They got three squads of three on the sub, which makes nine, minus the two that came down here with us. They’re all armed and meaner than rattle-snakes.”

  “They’ve had it easy up until now,” said Zavala, “so they’ve lost their edge and won’t be expecting anything. They won’t have a chance.”

  Phelps let out a deep chuckle.

  “Like Chesty Puller said when they told him he was surrounded: ‘They won’t get away this time.’ ”

  “That’s right,” Zavala said. His mind raced ahead. “Okay, we get the people on the minisubs and they leave the lab . . . Where do they go?”

  “Through the big tunnel in the side of the crater,” Phelps said. “They’ve got enough power to get well beyond the reef, past Chang’s freighter, to where they can surface and send out a Mayday.”

  “We’ve got to get to the staff and let them know what’s up,” Zavala said.

  “I can do it,” Lois Mitchell said. “The guards are used to seeing me around the lab.”

  Phelps glanced at his watch.

  “That will have to wait until I get back. I’ve got to get things ready for Chang’s arrival. Why don’t you two get to know each other better?”

  “Ladies first,” Zavala said after Phelps had closed the door behind him.

  Mitchell gave Zavala a brief overview of her work with Dr. Kane and the medusa project, going back to Bonefish Key.

  “You’re to be congratulated for the success of the project,” he said.

  “I never dreamed it would come to this,” she said. “And you, Mr. Zavala, how did you come to be in this awful place?”

  “I’m an engineer with NUMA. My boss, Kurt Austin, and I were asked by the Navy to help search for the lab. So here I am.”

  He was surprised when Lois Mitchell didn’t question him further. She seemed distracted, with a far-off look in her eyes that said her thoughts were elsewhere. He had the feeling that she was holding something back. But then she blinked and focused behind Zavala.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  He turned and saw only the schools of curious fish caught in the light from the office interior.

  “Did you see something?” he asked.

  “I thought I saw somebody swimming.” She smiled. “Sorry, I’ve been down here too long. Probably a big fish.”

  The incident seemed to bring her back to reality. Joe’s charm and soft-spoken manner penetrated Lois’s shell, and she began to relax. She was actually smiling until Phelps returned with the news that his boss was bringing along someone named Dr. Wu.

  Mitchell stiffened when she heard the name.

  “He’s no doctor,” she said, “he’s a monster!”

  “Maybe it’s time you showed Joe the video,” Phelps suggested.

  Mitchell was stone-faced as she took a key on a chain hung from around her neck and unlocked a drawe
r in her desk She reached in and pulled out a box holding a number of CD-ROM discs. She picked out one labeled COMPUTER PROGRAM BACKUP. Her fingers trembled as she slipped the disc into her computer and turned the monitor around so that it was facing the two men. The disc’s narrator spoke Chinese.

  “No subtitles?” Zavala asked.

  “You won’t need them once this thing gets going,” Phelps said. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Wu is Chang’s creature,” Mitchell said. “His job is to check on our progress. When he’s here, he kicks me out of my office. Luckily, he doesn’t like being on the lab.

  “I found this disc in the computer after his last visit. He must have been reviewing its contents. I made a copy, then left the disc in the computer. He eventually realized he had left the disc behind and sent one of his thugs to retrieve it.”

  A picture had come up on the screen. The camera showed Wu talking to a man in a suit, then switched to a view of some people lying in beds encased in transparent cylinders. Figures in protective suits moved among the cylinders. The camera zoomed in to show close-ups of the people in them. Some appeared to be asleep or possibly dead. Others had faces mottled with mahogany splotches and contorted in agony.

  “Is this a hospital?” Zavala asked.

  “Far from it,” Mitchell said in a tense voice. “That’s Dr. Wu narrating. From what I can determine, the video was shot at a lab in China where they were experimenting with vaccines the Triad created. I don’t know the man in the suit. They used human subjects, and of course they had to infect their subjects with the virus. You can see the results on the screen. He’s worse than that Nazi Mengele, the concentration-camp doctor.”