Lost City nf-5

by Clive Cussler

  The submarine pen was at the head of the inlet. A road ran from the crew quarters above the pen's entrance, along the cliffs that bordered the harbor. After the road passed an abandoned church and moldering graveyards and the ruins of an old fishing village, it merged with another way that led inland, climbing through a narrow pass, then descending to the island's interior, once the caldera of a long-dead volcano.

  In contrast to the rocky ramparts that protected it from the sea, the interior was rolling moorland dotted here and there by small thickets of tenacious scrub pine and oak. The road eventually terminated in the former naval base that now housed the lab complex under Strega's command.

  MacLean was walking across the lab toward Trout's station. "Sorry to interrupt your work," he said. "How is your analysis coming?"

  Trout tapped the notepad with his pen. "I'm between a rock and a hard place, Mac."

  MacLean leaned over Trout's shoulder as if they were conferring. "I've just come from a meeting with Strega," he said in a low voice. "Evidently the test of the formula was a success."

  "Congratulations, I suppose So that means we have outlived our usefulness? Why aren't we dead already?"

  "Strega may be a murderous lout, but he's a meticulous organizer. He'll see to the details of wrapping up the operation on the island first, so he'll have time to enjoy himself without distraction. My guess is that tomorrow he'll take us on a lovely picnic and have us dig our own graves. "

  "That gives us tonight," Trout said. He handed the notebook to MacLean "How does this jibe with your observance of the island topography?"

  MacLean examined the map. "You have a skill at cartography. It's accurate in every detail. What now?"

  "Here's how I see it, Mac. As Kurt Austin would say, KISS." "Pardon me?"

  "Keep it simple, stupid. We go through the pass, which so happens to be the only way out. Get to the harbor. You said there was a pier there."

  "I couldn't be sure. We came in at dusk."

  "It's a reasonable assumption. We'll assume that where there is a pier there's a boat. We borrow the boat. Then once we're at sea, we figure out where we are."

  "What about contingencies in case something goes wrong?" "There are no contingencies. If something goes wrong, we're dead. But it's worth a try when you consider the alternative."

  MacLean studied Trout's face. Behind the academic features was an unmistakable strength and resolve. His mouth widened in a grim smile. "The simplicity appeals to me. It's the execution of the plan that's worrisome."

  Trout winced. "I'd prefer to not use the word execution." "Sorry for letting my pessimism show. These people have beaten me down. I'll give it everything I've got."

  Trout leaned back in his chair in thought and stared across the room at Gamay and Sandy, who sat side by side examining specimens from the thermal vents. Then his eye swept across the lab, where the other scientists were immersed in their tasks, blissfully unaware of their approaching doom. MacLean joined him in his gaze. "What about these other poor souls?"

  "Could Strega have embedded any of them to keep an eye on us?" "I've talked to every one on the train. Their fear for their lives is as genuine as ours is."

  Trout's jaw hardened as he realistically considered the complexities of an escape and the chances that any plan would go awry.

  "It's going to be risky enough with the four of us. A large group would attract more attention. Our only hope is to make it out of the lab complex in one piece. If we can get control of a boat, it will have a position finder and a radio. We can call in help."

  "And if we can't?"

  "We'll all be on the same sinking ship." "Very well. How do you propose to get us past the men guarding the electrified fence?"

  "I've been thinking of that. We're going to have to create a distraction."

  "It will have to be a big one. Strega's men are all professional killers."

  "They might have their hands full trying to save their own skins." MacLean's face turned gray when Trout outlined his plan. "My God, man. Things could get completely out of control." "I'm hoping that's exactly what happens. If we can't commandeer transportation, we'll have to go it on foot, which means we will need every minute we can gain."

  "Don't look now, but one of the guards is watching," MacLean said. "I'm going to gesture and wave my arms as if I'm angry and frustrated. Don't be alarmed." "Be my guest." MacLean pointed to the spectrometer screen and scowled. He picked the notebook up, slammed it down, muttered a few curses,

  then stalked off across the room. Trout stood and stared at MacLean back with a frown on his face. The guard laughed at the confrontation, then pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stepped outside for a smoke.

  Trout got up and walked across the lab to break the good news to Gamay and Sandy.

  AUSTIN STEPPED through the front door of a noisy pub called the Bloody Sea Serpent and walked across the smoke-filled room to the corner table, where Zavala was, chatting with a toothless man who looked like a Scottish version of the Old Man of the Sea. Zavala saw Austin enter and shook hands with the man, who then rejoined the crowd at the bar.

  Austin sat down in the now-vacant chair and said, "Glad to see that you're making friends."

  "It's not easy for a Mexican American boy like me. Their accents are as thick as chili, and as if things weren't tough enough, there isn't a single ounce of tequila in the whole town." He lifted his pint of lager to emphasize the terrible state of affairs.

  "Appalling," Austin said, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He signaled a waitress, and a minute later he was sipping on a pint of stout. "How did your mission go?" Zavala said.

  In reply, Austin reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a key ring and dropped it on the table. "You see before you the

  key for the newest addition to NUMA's worldwide fleet of state-of-the-art vessels."

  "Did you run into any problems?" Zavala said. Austin shook his head. "I strolled along the fish pier and picked out the worst-looking boat I could find. Then I made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse." "He wasn't suspicious?"

  "I said I was an American TV producer doing a program on the Outcasts mystery and that we needed the boat right away. After I showed him the money, I could have told him I was from the Planet NUMA, for all he cared. He'll be able to buy a new boat with this windfall. We executed a quick bill of sale to make it legal. I pledged him to silence and promised him a bit part in the show."

  "Did he have any theories about the disappearance of the missing Outcasts crew?"

  "Lots of them. Mostly waterfront gossip. He said the police combed the island but the authorities have been keeping a tight lid on information. According to the scuttlebutt around the waterfront, the investigators found traces of blood and body parts. People don't seem overly disturbed about the whole thing. There's a rumor that it was all a publicity stunt and the missing crew will pop up on a tropical isle somewhere for a new show. They figure the lone survivor is an actress being paid big bucks to pony up a story about the red-eyed cannibals. What about your sources?"

  "I picked up some of the same stuff from the guy I was just talking to. He's been around since kilts were invented and knows everyone and everything. I said I was a sport diver and bought a few rounds," Zavala said.

  "Did your friend mention any connection between the Outcasts incident and the island?" Austin said.

  "There was talk at first," Zavala said. "Then the publicity stunt rumor began to circulate and that was that."

  "How far is the island from the Outcasts set?" "About five miles. The locals think it's a semiofficial operation, and that it's still owned by the government," Zavala said. "Given the place's history, it isn't far-fetched. The fishermen avoid the place. Armed patrol boats pop out the minute anyone even thinks of getting close. Some fishermen swear they've been tailed by miniature subs." "That would fit in with what we know from the satellite photos," said Austin. "They must have encountered the AUV watchdog."

  The pub
's door opened and the fisherman who'd sold Austin his boat stepped inside. Austin figured the man would buy everyone in the house a drink, and didn't want to get drawn into any good luck celebration and the inevitable questions that would arise. He drained his mug and suggested that Zavala do the same. They left by the pub's back door and stopped off at their rooming house to pick up their gear bags. Minutes later, they were walking along a narrow cobblestone lane that took them to the fog-shrouded harbor.

  Austin led the way along the line of boats and stepped in front of a vessel about twenty-five feet long. The lapstrake, or "clinker-built" wooden hull of overlapping planking, had an up swept bow built for rough seas. The deck was open except for a small wheelhouse near the bow. Even in the gauzy mists, they could see that the boat was being held together by numerous coats of paint.

  "She's what the local fishermen call a 'creeler," " Austin said. "The former owner says she was built in '71."

  "Is that 1871 or 1971?" Zavala said, chuckling. "Can't wait to see Pitt's face when he gets the bill for this little luxury yacht." "Knowing Pitt, I think he'd understand," Austin said. Zavala read the name on the stern. "Spooter?" "It's the local term for a razor clam. Spoot is supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities."

  "Really," Zavala said, his interest piqued. "I suppose it makes about as much sense as rhino horn."

  They climbed aboard the boat, and Zavala surveyed the deck while Austin poked his head into a wheelhouse about as big as two telephone booths put together. The cabin reeked of stale cigarette smoke and diesel fumes. When Austin came back out, Zavala stomped his foot on the planking.

  "Feels solid enough."

  "This old rust bucket is actually more seaworthy than she looks. Let's see if she has a chart."

  Austin rummaged around in the wheelhouse and found a grease-smeared map that showed the island to be ten miles across the bay from the boatyard. Austin pointed to the island's harbor and explained the plan he had been mulling over to Zavala.

  "What do you think of it?"

  "A low-tech solution to a high-tech challenge. I think it can work. When do we go?"

  "No time like the present," Austin said. "I persuaded the former owner to throw in a full tank of fuel."

  He went into the pilothouse. In short order, they had the engine warming up, gear stowed and a compass course set. The boat had seen some hard times, but its electronics were fairly new and would allow them to navigate the unfamiliar waters in the night fog.

  Zavala cast off the mooring lines while Austin took the helm and pointed the bow out of the harbor. The engine chortled and gasped as if it were on its last legs, but the Spooler pushed its way through the swirling mists and began its voyage to the mysterious island.

  FOR A MAN who was nearly seven feet tall, Trout moved with uncommon stealth. Only the sharpest eye would have seen him slip out of the prisoners' compound shortly after midnight. He darted from shadow to shadow, staying away from the floodlights. His excessive caution proved to be unnecessary. No guards patrolled the compound and the watchtowers were unoccupied. Drunken laughter and loud music drifted from the bunkhouse, where the guards were having a party. Trout surmised that the guards were celebrating the end of their boring duty on this lonely outpost. The raucous noise grew fainter as Trout trotted along a dirt road away from the bunkhouse. No longer making an attempt to conceal himself, he covered the distance rapidly with his long-legged stride. He knew he was nearing his goal when the stench hit his nostrils. His resolve faltered as he considered the task he had set himself, but he set his jaw and pressed on toward the chamber of horrors Colonel Strega had facetiously referred to as the "Zoo."

  Trout slowed to a walk as he entered the floodlit area around the concrete building and went directly to the front door. He ran the

  beam of his flashlight around the doorjamb, but saw no indication of alarm connections. No one could imagine the blockhouse being broken into, Trout mused, although that was exactly what he was about to do.

  The double steel doors could have withstood a battering ram, but they were secured only with an ordinary padlock. Using a hammer and sharp-edged chisel borrowed from the lab, where the tools were used to chip rock samples, he made short work of the latch. He looked around, almost wishing someone would stop him, then opened the doors and stepped into the building.

  The awful smell inside hit him like a baseball bat and he had to stifle his gag reflex. The big room was in semidarkness, illuminated by a few dim ceiling lights. His noisy entry must have alerted the Zoo's occupants because he heard faint stirrings in the darkened cells. Pairs of burning red eyes watched his every move. Trout felt like a clam at a clambake.

  He ran his flashlight beam along the wall until he found a switch. As the room flooded with light, a chorus of snarls filled the air and the creatures retreated to the back of their cages. Perceiving after a moment that Trout was no threat, they crept back and pressed their nightmarish faces against the bars.

  Trout sensed that these creatures were regarding him with more than feral hunger. They were curious, and their low growls and mutterings were a form of communication. He reminded himself that they had carried off a murderous raid on a neighboring island and it would be a mistake to think of these creatures as mere animals. They were once human, and they could think.

  Trout tried to ignore their unwavering gazes and went about his inspection of the room. He found what he was looking for behind a metal wall panel and his fingers played over a rank of switches with numbers that corresponded to those painted over each cage. The numbers were labeled Alpha and Beta. He hesitated, thinking about

  the hell forces he was about to unleash. Now or never. He hit a switch labeled alpha as an experiment. A motor hummed and a cage door slid open with a metallic clank. The creature occupying the cell dashed to the back of his cage, and then it inched forward, pausing at the open door as if suspecting a trick.

  Trout hit the other switches in rapid succession. Door after door clanged. Still, none of the creatures ventured out. They were gibbering and gesturing at each other in a primitive communication. Trout didn't hang around to tune in on the conversation. Having unleashed the demons, he ran for the door.

  MACLEAN WAS waiting with Gamay and Sandy in a thick stand of trees about a hundred yards from the compound's gate. In outlining his plan, Trout had told them to slip away from their cottages as soon as he was on his way and to stay hidden until he rejoined them. MacLean had heard the drunken party going on at the bunkhouse, but he was still nervous, having known the unpredictable guards longer than Trout. His worst fears were realized when he heard the sound of pounding feet. Someone was running toward him. He strained his eyes against the darkness, not knowing whether to run or fight.

  Then someone called out "Mac." It was Trout. Gamay stepped from the trees and grabbed him in a tight hug. "I am so glad to see you," she said.

  "For god sakes man," MacLean said. "I thought something had happened."

  Trout caught his breath. "It was easier than I thought." Trout tensed as a figure emerged from the trees, then another, until all six of their fellow scientists were gathered around. "I'm sorry," MacLean said. "I couldn't leave them." "It was my idea," Gamay said.

  "Don't worry. I changed my mind and was about to go back for them myself. Is everybody here?"

  "Yes," one of the scientists said. "No one saw us. But what do we do now?"

  "We wait," Trout replied. He made his way through the trees and took up a post behind an oak where he had a clear view of the main gate. Two guards lounged in front of the sentry house. He returned to the others and told them to be patient.

  Trout knew he had taken a calculated risk in releasing the creatures from their cages. Once they tasted freedom, they might simply bolt for the hills. He gambled that their urge to run would be tempered by an all-too-human emotion, a thirst for revenge against those who had tormented and imprisoned them.

  He checked the gate again. The guards were smoking cigarettes and passing a bottl
e back and forth. If they couldn't join the party, at least they could have one of their own. He eased his way back through to the other side of the copse, where he had an unobstructed view of the Zoo.

  In his hasty exit, he had left the doors of the blockhouse partially open. A sliver of light came from inside the building. He saw dark shapes begin to emerge from the building. They paused, went on, moving like a skirmish line toward the guards' quarters, and vanished into the shadows.

  From the sounds of coarse laughter and music, the party was in full tilt, and for a moment Trout feared that he had miscalculated. Then, quite suddenly, the laughter stopped. It was replaced by shouted curses, a couple of gunshots, then screams of pain and terror.

  Trout could only imagine the blood bath that was going on, and he couldn't help but feel some pity for the guards. But he reminded himself that the guards were prepared to wipe out their prisoners at a word from Strega.

  The sentries at the gate had heard the strange racket coming from

  their quarters. They conferred with each other, unsure of what to do. They seemed to be arguing. They halted their heated discussion when they saw headlights moving their way. They raised their automatic weapons and aimed at the fast-approaching vehicle, which was zigzagging and blowing its horn.

  The vehicle entered the floodlit area near the gate and Trout saw that it was Strega's convertible and the front and back seats were hidden under a mass of writhing bodies. More creatures hung onto the hood. Others dangled from the sides, resisting the driver's efforts to dislodge them with violent swerves.

  The guards swept the oncoming vehicle with automatic gunfire. Two of the creatures dropped off the hood and rolled on the ground, splitting the night with their fearful screams, but the others hung on. The car made a violent turn, went out of control, and smashed broadside into the guardhouse. The impact dislodged the creatures, and the driver's door flew open. Colonel Strega emerged from the driver's side, pistol in hand. His razor-creased uniform way bloodstained and in tatters. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds to his head and body.