"Dr. Sarghov, I suggest you have the captain issue an immediate emergency warning to all vessels on the lake. By the time anyone catches sight of the wave, it will be too late to get out of its way. We'll need to contact the authorities on shore to evacuate all residents at risk to flooding. There's no time to lose."
Sarghov beat a path to the ship's radio and issued the warning himself. The radio hummed with chatter as a myriad of respondents called back to confirm the emergency. Though Pitt didn't speak Russian, he could tell by the tone of skepticism in the replying voices that at least some thought Sarghov was either drunk or crazy. Pitt could only smile when the normally jovial scientist turned red and spat a series of obvious obscenities into the microphone.
"Idiot fishermen! They're calling me a fool!" he cursed.
The warnings took heed when a fishing boat in the protected cove of Aya Bay barely survived capsizing as the fringe of the wave passed by and its captain hysterically reported the event. Pitt scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars and could make out a half dozen black fishing boats motoring toward the safety of Listvyanka, in addition to a small freighter and a hydrofoil ferry.
"I guess you got their attention, Alex," Pitt said.
"Yes," Sarghov replied with some relief. "The Listvyanka Police Department has issued alerts to all stations around the lake and is going door-to-door to evacuate risky areas. We've done all we can do."
"Perhaps you would be kind enough to have the captain apply full speed and move us toward Listvyanka and the western shore of the lake as quickly as possible," Pitt said, smiling that Sarghov had neglected their own plight.
As the Vereshchagin turned toward Listvyanka and increased speed, Gunn eyed the map of Lake Baikal, rubbing his finger across the lower toe of the lake, which angled to the west.
"If the wave holds its southerly track, we should be positioned away from its primary force," he remarked.
"That's what I'm banking on," Pitt replied.
"We are eighteen miles from Listvyanka," Sarghov said, peering out the bridge window toward the western shoreline. "We will be cutting it close, as you say."
At Listvyanka, an old air-raid alarm was sounded as the panic-stricken residents pulled ashore their small boats, while larger vessels were secured tightly to the docks. Schoolchildren were sent home with warnings for their parents, while dockside shops were swiftly closed. En masse, the residents around the lake moved to high ground and waited for the mountain of water to wash through.
"It resembles the Irish Derby out here," Sarghov said, peering out the bridge window with a humorless grin. Nearly a dozen vessels dotted the horizon ahead of them, driving toward Listvyanka at top speed as if pulled by a magnet. The Vereshchagin's captain, a quiet and steady man named Ian Kharitonov, gripped the ship's wheel tightly, silently urging his vessel to sail faster. Like the others on the bridge, he periodically took sneak peeks toward the northern section of the lake, looking for signs of the impending wave.
Pitt studied the ship's radar, noting a stationary object lying ten miles to the southeast of their position.
"Apparently, someone still didn't get the word," he said to Sarghov, motioning toward the radar target.
"The fool probably has his radio turned off," Sarghov muttered as he trained a pair of binoculars out the portside window. In the distance, he could just make out a faint black speck moving slowly across the lake to the east.
"Heading right for the middle of the tempest," Sarghov said, grabbing the radio microphone again.
Hailing the lone vessel several times brought only silence.
"Their ignorance will mean their death," he said slowly, shaking his head as he hung up the microphone.
His anguish was broken by the approach of a loud thumping noise that rattled the windows of the bridge.
Skimming low above the water, a small helicopter swooped directly toward the Vereshchagin's bridge before suddenly pulling up and hovering off the starboard wing. It was a Kamov Ka-26, an old Soviet civilian helicopter that saw its heyday in the 1960s as a utilitarian light transport craft. The chopper sported a faded coat of silver paint garnished with a seal from the Limnological Institute plastered prominently on the fuselage. The thirty-five-year-old helicopter dipped closer to the boat as its cigar-chomping pilot tossed a genial wave toward the men on the bridge.
"Have released all of the survey pods. Permission to park this whirlybird and get her tied down before surf's up," crackled the deep voice of Al Giordino over the radio.
Sarghov stood and stared out the bridge, looking aghast at the movements of the adjacent helicopter.
"That is a valuable asset of the institute," he said hoarsely to Pitt.
"Don't worry, Alexander," Pitt said, suppressing a grin. "Al could fly a 747 through a doughnut hole."
"It might be best if he parked that thing on shore, rather than risk getting it tossed off the deck," Gunn said.
"Yes ... of course," Sarghov stammered, just wishing the helicopter would move away from the bridge.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to fly by that wayward fishing boat first and try and alert them," Pitt said.
Sarghov looked into the markedly calm eyes of Pitt and then nodded in agreement. Pitt quickly reached for the radio microphone.
"Al, what's your fuel status?" he asked.
"Just fueled up ashore at the Port Baikal airfield. Should have about three and a half hours of remaining flight time, if I keep off the gas. But this pilot's seat wasn't exactly manufactured by La-Z-Boy, I feel compelled to mention." After the better part of the afternoon deploying survey pods across the lake, Giordino was weary from flying the physically demanding craft.
"Go ahead and set her down on the pad, but keep her wound up. We've got an emergency call to make."
"Roger," the radio squawked. The helicopter immediately rose and slipped to the rear of the ship, where it gently set down on a rickety platform built above the stern deck.
"Rudi, keep us advised over the radio as to the wave's progress. We'll take the chopper to shore after we head off the fishing boat," Pitt directed.
"Aye, aye," Gunn responded as Pitt dashed out of the bridge. Sprinting to the rear of the ship, Pitt ducked down a level to his cabin, emerging seconds later with a red duffel bag flung over his shoulder.
Shooting up a stairwell and down the center passageway, he exited onto the open stern deck, where he edged past a bulbous white decompression chamber. The helicopter thumped loudly above him and he felt a blast of air from its rotors as he climbed a narrow flight of steps onto the helipad and ducked toward the Kamov's passenger door.
The odd little helicopter reminded Pitt of a dragonfly. At first glance, the thirty-foot-long helicopter was little more than a high-framed fuselage. The small cockpit appeared to have been sheared in half behind the twin flight controls, the result of a detachable passenger cabin that had been removed. The vintage helicopter had been designed with versatility in mind, and the dead space could be fitted with a tank for agricultural spraying, an ambulance or passenger cabin, or, in the case of the institute's craft, an open cargo platform. A large rack of tubes was fastened to the platform, which had housed the marine-current survey pods. Above the rack and mounted high on the fuselage was a pair of radial piston engines, which drove the helicopter's two separate contrarotating blades, one fixed above the other. A spindly forked tail led to a large stabilizer and elevator flaps, but no tail rotor. The Ka-26, or "Hoodlum" as it was known in the West, was built as a practical multiuse lifting system. Put to marine use, it was perfect for operating off small shipborne platforms.
As Pitt sprinted to the right side of the cockpit, the passenger door popped open and a young Russian technician wearing a ZZ Top baseball cap jumped to the deck. Nodding at Pitt to take his seat, he handed the tall American his radio headset, then quickly scrambled off the platform. Pitt wedged his duffel bag into the footwell and climbed in, glancing toward his old friend in the pilot's seat as he slammed the do
or shut.
Albert Giordino hardly cut the figure of a suave aviator. The stocky Italian with jackhammer arms stood nearly a foot shorter than Pitt. A shock of unruly black hair curled around his head, while an ever-present cigar protruded from a hard face that hadn't seen a razor in days. His mahogany brown eyes glistened with intelligence and a hint of the sardonic wit that sparkled at even the most trying of times. Pitt's lifelong friend and the director of underwater technology for NUMA was more at home piloting a submersible, but had acquired a silken touch with most types of flying aircraft as well.
"I heard the distress warning. You want to go track that roller as it pounds Listvyanka?" Giordino asked through his headset.
"We've got a social call to make first. Get us airborne and head southeast, and I'll fill you in."
Giordino quickly lifted the Kamov off the moving ship and climbed to an altitude of two hundred feet, swinging east across the lake. As the helicopter accelerated to eighty-five miles per hour, Pitt provided a description of the seiche wave and the unsuspecting fishing boat. The black hull of the boat soon appeared on the horizon and Giordino adjusted his direction toward the vessel as Pitt radioed back to the Vereshchagin.
"Rudi, how's our wave rolling?"
"Gaining more power by the minute, Dirk," Gunn's voice replied soberly. "The wave is now topping thirty feet in height at its center, with velocity on the increase as it squeezes past the Selenga River delta."
"How much time before she reaches us?"
Gunn paused as he keyed in a command on the computer. "ETA to the Vereshchagin is approximately thirty-seven minutes. We'll be shy of Listvyanka by about five miles."
"Thanks, Rudi. Keep the hatches battened down. We'll be overhead for the show once we get the fishing boat alerted."
"Roger," Gunn replied, suddenly wishing he could trade seats with Pitt.
The wave was still forty miles away and the hills of Listvyanka were now plainly visible to the men on the Vereshchagin. The ship would safely be out of the main force of the wave when the tempest arrived, but there was no protecting the shoreline. Counting the minutes to go, Gunn peered out the bridge window and silently wondered what the picturesque lakeside community would look like in another hour.
-3-
"Looks like we've got some company," Wofford said, pointing off the fishing boat's stern toward the horizon.
Though Theresa had already spotted the aircraft, Wofford's words made everyone else aboard the boat stop and look. The stubby silver helicopter was approaching from the west and there was no mistaking its beeline path directly toward them.
The fishing boat was cruising toward the eastern shore with its survey gear tailing behind, the crew oblivious to any impending danger. No one aboard had noticed the sudden disappearance of all other surface boats, though an absence of vessel sightings was hardly unusual on the huge lake.
All eyes turned skyward as the ungainly helicopter roared up to the small boat, then pivoted and hovered off the port beam. The survey crew gazed up at an ebony-haired figure in the passenger's seat who waved a microphone toward the window and pointed a finger at his headset.
"He's trying to call us on the radio," Wofford observed. "Do you have your ears on, Captain?"
Tatiana translated to the annoyed captain, who shook his head and spoke indignantly back to the Russian woman. He then grabbed a radio microphone from the wheelhouse and held it up toward the helicopter while slicing his free hand horizontally across the front of his throat.
"The captain says his radio has not operated for two years," Tatiana said, reporting the obvious. "He states that there is no need for one, he sails efficiently without it."
"Now why does that not surprise me?" Roy said, rolling his eyes.
"He obviously wasn't in the Boy Scouts," Wofford added.
"It looks like they want us to turn around," Theresa said, interpreting new motions from the helicopter copilot. "I think they want us to return to Listvyanka."
"The helicopter is from the Limnological Institute," Tatiana noted. "They have no authority. We can ignore them."
"I think they are trying to warn us," Theresa protested, as the helicopter dipped its rotors several times, while the passenger continued making motions with his hands.
"We're probably intruding on an insignificant experiment of theirs," Tatiana said. Shooing her arms at the helicopter, she yelled, "Otbyt', otbyt' ... go away."
***
Giordino peered out the cockpit windshield and grinned in amusement. The crusty captain of the fishing boat appeared to be yelling obscenities at the helicopter, while Tatiana stood shooing them away.
"Apparently, they don't like what we're selling," Giordino remarked.
"I think their captain is either short on brains or long on undistilled vodka," Pitt replied, shaking his head in frustration.
"Could be your lousy Marcel Marceau imitation."
"Take a look at the waterline on that bucket."
Giordino studied the portside hull of the fishing boat, noting that it rode low in the water.
"Looks like she's sinking already," he said.
"She won't have much chance against a thirty-foot wave," Pitt remarked. "You're going to have to put me on the deck."
Giordino didn't bother questioning the wisdom of the request or protesting the danger to Pitt. He knew it would be a futile gesture. Pitt was like an overgrown Boy Scout who wouldn't take no for an answer when helping an old lady across the street. He would put his own safety last in order to help others, regardless of the risk. With a steady hand on the controls, Giordino inched the helicopter in a tight circle around the boat, searching for a spot he could touch down and offload Pitt. But the old vessel would not cooperate. A tall wooden mast ran up from the wheelhouse a dozen feet, shielding the boat like a lance.
With its forty-two-foot-diameter rotors, there wasn't a place on the boat the helicopter could hover without striking the mast.
"I can't get in tight enough with that mast. You'd have to swim it or risk a twenty-foot drop without breaking a leg," Giordino said.
Pitt surveyed the derelict black boat with its crowd of occupants who still stared up in confusion. "I'm not ready for a swim just yet," he said, contemplating the frigid lake water. "But if you can put me on that mast, I'll do my best fireman's imitation."
The thought seemed crazy, Giordino thought, but he was right. If he could maneuver the helicopter up tight to the mast from above, Pitt could grab hold and slide down to the deck. A tough enough maneuver over land, Giordino knew the attempt over a moving and rocking boat could knock the chopper out of the sky if he wasn't careful.
Pulling the Kamov up till its wheels hung ten feet above the mast, Giordino gently inched the helicopter forward until its passenger door was directly above the mast. Lightly stroking the throttle control, he adjusted the chopper's speed until it precisely matched that of the moving boat. Satisfied he was tracking together, he slowly lowered the helicopter until it hung just three feet above the mast.
"With the boat rocking, I'll have to take just a quick dip to get you down," Giordino said through the headset. "Sure you can climb back up, so I can pull you off?"
"I'm not planning on coming back," Pitt replied matter-of-factly. "Give me a second, and I'll guide you down."
Pitt took off his headset, then reached down and pulled out the red duffel bag at his feet. Opening the cockpit door to a rush of air from the rotors, he casually tossed the bag out, watching it land with a bounce on the wheelhouse roof. Pitt then dangled his feet out the door and motioned with one hand for Giordino to hold steady. The mast swung brusquely back and forth from the rocking motion of the boat, but Pitt quickly got a feel for the rhythm. When it slowed between swells, Pitt dropped his palm to Giordino. The pilot instantly dipped the helicopter three feet and, in a flash, Pitt was gone out the door.
Giordino didn't wait to see if Pitt had successfully connected with the mast but immediately lifted the helicopter up and away from the f
ishing boat. Gazing out the side window in relief, he saw Pitt with his arms grappled to the top of the mast, slowly sliding his way down.
" Vereshchagin to airborne unit, over," burst the voice of Rudi Gunn through Giordino's ears.
"What's up, Rudi?"
"Just wanted to give you a status on the wave. It's now traveling at one hundred thirty-five miles per hour, with a wave height cresting at thirty-four feet. It has passed the Selenga River delta, so we expect no further increases in velocity before it reaches the southern shoreline."
"I suppose you call that the good news. What's the current ETA?"
"For your approximate position, eighteen minutes. The Vereshchagin will turn to align itself to the wave in ten minutes. Suggest you stand by for emergency relief."
"Rudi, please confirm. Eighteen minutes to arrival?"
"Affirmative."
Eighteen minutes. It was nowhere near enough time for the dilapidated fishing boat to reach safe haven.
Staring at its black hull skimming low in the water, he knew that the old boat had no chance. With a gnawing sense of dread, Giordino realized he might have just given his old friend a death warrant by dropping him to her decks below.
***
Pitt clung to the mast cross-member momentarily, eyeing a pair of worn GPS and radio antennas sprouting just inches from his face. Once Giordino pulled the helicopter away and the air deluge from its rotors subsided, he casually slid down the mast, using his feet as brakes to slow his descent. Grabbing his duffel bag, he stepped across the wheelhouse roof and down a stepladder at its stern edge. Dropping to the deck, he turned and faced the group of shocked people staring at him with open mouths.
"Privet." He grinned disarmingly. "Anyone here speak English?"
"All of us but the captain," Theresa replied, surprised like the others that Pitt was not Russian.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Tatiana demanded tersely. Her dark eyes surveyed Pitt with a look of distrust. Behind her, the fishing boat's captain stood in the wheelhouse door and launched an equally contemptuous tirade in his native tongue.
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