White Death nf-4

by Clive Cussler

  "Then kill the power," Ryan said.

  "I'm trying, but the diesels are work ing harder

  "Keep trying, Cal."

  Ryan slammed the phone in its cradle. This was insanity! The ship seemed to have a mind of her own. Ryan's eyes swept the sea ahead of the ship. Good news. No vessels or land masses in the way. The worst that could happen would be to run out of fuel in the At- lantic. Ryan picked up the radio microphone to inform the cruiser of their predicament. But he was interrupted by a yell from Mercer.

  "The wheel's turning!"

  Mercer was trying to hold on to the wheel, which was gradually spinning slowly to the right, bringing the ship around toward the cruiser. Ryan grabbed the rim, then he and Mercer tried to bring the ship back on course. They used every ounce of strength they could muster, but the wheel slipped out of their sweaty hands and the Sea Sentinel moved closer to the warship.

  The Danish ship had taken notice of the course change. A famil- iar voice crackled over the radio.

  "Come in, Sea Sentinel. This is Captain Petersen. What is the in- tention of your course change?"

  "We're having problems with our steering. The wheel is locked and we can't shut down our engines."

  "That's impossible," Petersen said.

  "Tell that to the ship!"

  A pause. Then Petersen said, "We'll bear off to give you plenty of sea room. We'll issue a warning as to any ships in your way."

  "Thanks. Looks like you'll get your wish about us leaving the Faroes."

  The cruiser began to peel away.

  But before the Danish ship could veer off, the Sea Sentinel made a sharp turn and drove toward the cruiser's exposed side like a water- borne guided missile.

  Sailors lined the cruiser's decks and frantically tried to wave off the advancing ship. The cruiser blew short, rapid warning bursts of its horn. Voices squawked over the radio in Danish and English.

  Seeing that the ships were within seconds of disaster, the sailors ran for their lives.

  In a last desperate attempt to avert a certain collision, Ryan put all his weight into the wheel. He was still hanging on when the ship smashed into the side of the cruiser. The Sea Sentinel's sharp bow pen- etrated the steel hull plates like a bayonet, then slid off the moving ship in a horrendous shriek of tearing metal.

  The Sea Sentinel wallowed in the ocean like a dazed boxer who had just taken a hard right to the nose. The cruiser was struggling to keep afloat, as thousands of gallons of water poured in through the gaping hole in the hull. Crewmen scrambled into the lifeboats and prepared to lower them into the cold sea.

  Therri had been thrown to her knees by the impact. Ryan helped her to her feet, and he and the others in the pilothouse dashed down to the deck. The panicked TV people, seeing that they were now part of the story rather than covering it, were trying to get someone to tell them what to do. People were bruised and limping.

  Someone was screaming for help, and crew and press people were extracting a bloody body from the metal mush that was all that was left of the bow section.

  Ryan shouted orders to abandon ship.

  With all the yelling and confusion, no one looked up to see the hel- icopter wheeling high above the ships. The chopper circled a few times like a hungry buzzard, then headed off along the coast.

  3

  Off the northern coast of Russia

  TWELVE HUNDRED MILE S southeast of the Faroe Islands, the search-and-survey ship William Beebe lay at anchor in the frigid waters of the Barents Sea. The letters NUMA were embla- zoned on the 250-foot-long turquoise hull. Named after one of the pioneers in deep-sea exploration, the Beebe bristled with muscular cranes and winches capable of hoisting entire boats off the ocean floor.

  Four crewmen dressed in Neoprene wetsuits stood on the stern deck, eyes fixed on a patch of ocean where the surface roiled like a bubbling cauldron. The surface grew paler and mounded into a foamy white dome, and the submersible rescue vehicle Sea Lamprey burst from the water like a mutant leviathan coming up for air. With the precision of a navy assault team, the ready crew pushed an outboard-powered inflatable down the stern ramp into the water, scrambled aboard and raced toward the wallowing submersible.

  The ready team attached a towline to the bright-orange vehicle, and a winch on board the Beebe hauled in the submersible until it was under the tall A-frame that angled out over the ship's stern. Kevlar cables were fastened to eyebolts on the submersible's abbreviated deck. The powerful A-frame motor growled, and the submersible was hoisted from the sea. As it dangled from the cables, the Sea Lam- prey offered a full view of its unlovely cylindrical hull and strangely truncated accordion bow.

  The A-frame swung slowly over the deck and lowered the vehi- cle into a custom-made steel cradle, while the waiting deck crew placed a ladder against the cradle. Then the hatch at the top of the low conning tower opened and clanged back on its hinges. Kurt Austin poked his head out and blinked like a mole. His steel-gray, almost platinum, hair was radiant in the intense metallic light of the overcast sky.

  Austin greeted the deck crew with a wave, then squeezed his

  broad shoulders through the narrow hatchway, climbed out and stood next to the conning tower. Seconds later, his partner, Joe Zavala, stuck his head out into the fresh air and handed his partner a shiny aluminum case.

  Austin tossed the case down to a stocky, middle-aged man who stood at the base of the ladder. The man was dressed in a wool turtleneck sweater, yellow rainproof pants and a slicker. Only the high-peaked cap on his head identified him as Russian navy. When he saw the case go airborne, he let out a yell of despair. He caught the container, hobbled it for an instant, then hugged it close to his chest.

  As Austin and Zavala descended the ladder, the Russian opened the case and removed a paper-wrapped object cushioned in protec- tive plastic foam, then he unwrapped the paper to reveal a heavy square bottle. Holding it like a newborn, he mumbled in Russian.

  Noticing the perplexed looks on the faces of the NUMA men, he said, "Pardon me gentlemen. I was offering a prayer of thanks that the contents of the container were undamaged."

  Austin eyed the label and grimaced. "We just dove three hundred feet and cracked into a submarine to retrieve a bottle ofvodla?"

  "Oh no,ff Vlasov replied, digging into the case. "Three bottles. The finest vodka made in Russia." He carefully unwrapped the other containers and planted a noisy kiss on each one before laying it back in the case. "Jewel of Russia is one of our finest and Moskovska is su- perb. Charodei is the best chilled."

  Austin wondered if he would ever understand the Russian mind- set. "Of course," he said cheerfully. "Sinking a submarine to keep your booze cool makes perfect sense when you explain it that way."

  "The submarine was an old Foxtrot-class boat used for training," Vlasov said. "It hadn't seen service for more than thirty years." He gave Austin a 14-karat-gold smile. "You must admit it was your idea to place objects on the sub to test your ability to retrieve them."

  "Mea culpa. It didn't seem like a bad idea at the time."

  Vlasov closed the cover of the case. "Your dive was a success, then?"

  "By and large," Zavala said. "We've got a few technical problems. Nothing major."

  "Then we must celebrate with a drink," Vlasov said.

  Austin reached over and took the case from the Russian's hand. "No time like the present."

  They picked up three plastic cups from the mess hall, then headed for the ready room. Vlasov opened the bottle of Charodei and poured a healthy portion into each cup. He raised his drink in toast. "Here's to the brave young men who died on the Kursk.

  Vlasov slugged down the vodka as if he were drinking herbal tea.

  Austin sipped his drink. He knew from past experience that demons lurked in the potent Russian firewater.

  "And here's to something like the Kursk never happening again," Austin said.

  The Kursk sinking had been one of the worst submarine disasters on record. More than a hundred crewmen had
died in 2000 when the Oscar II-class cruise missile sub had sunk in the Barents Sea after an explosion in the torpedo compartment.

  Vlasov said, "With your submersible, no young man serving his country in any nation need die such a horrible death. Thanks to the ingenuity of NUMA, we have a way to get into a sunken vessel whether the escape hatch is operable or accessible, or not. The inno- vations you came up with for this vehicle are revolutionary."

  "That's kind of you to say, Commander Vlasov. Joe deserves the credit for hammering some odds and ends together and applying good old American common sense."

  "Thanks for the praise, but I stole the idea from Mother Nature," Zavala said with typical modesty. A graduate in marine engineering from the New York Maritime College, Zavala possessed a brilliant mechanical mind. He'd been recruited by NUMA Director James Sandecker right out of college, and in addition to his duties on the Special Assignments Team led by Austin, he had designed numer- ous manned and unmanned underwater vehicles.

  "Nonsense!" Vlasov said. "It's a long way from the lamprey eel to your submersible."

  "The principle's the same," Zavala said. "Lampreys are superbly engineered creatures. They latch on to a moving fish, sink their ring of teeth into the skin and suck the blood out of it. We use suction and lasers rather than teeth. The main problem was coming up with a flexible watertight seal that would attach to any surface and allow us to make the cut. With the use of space-age materials and computers, we put together a pretty good package."

  Vlasov raised his vodka glass again. "I hold the proof of your in- genuity in my hand. When will the Sea Lamprey be fully operational?" "Soon." Zavala said. "I hope."

  "The sooner the better. I shudder to think of the potential for dis- aster. The Soviets built some magnificent boats. But my countrymen have always leaned toward gigantism over quality." Vlasov finished his drink and rose from his chair. "Now I must go back to my cabin to prepare a report for my superiors. They should be very pleased. I'm grateful for all your hard work. I will thank Admiral Sandecker per- sonally."

  As Vlasov left, one of the ship's officers came into the room and told Austin he had a telephone call. Austin picked up the telephone,

  listened a few moments, asked some questions, then said, "Stand by. I'll get right back to you."

  He hung up and said, "That was NATO's East Atlantic subma- rine disaster office. They need our help on a rescue mission." "Someone's lost a sub?" Zavala said.

  "A Danish cruiser went down off the Faroe Islands, and some of the crew were trapped inside. They're still alive, apparently. The Swedes and the Brits are on their way, but the cruiser doesn't have an escape hatch. The Danes need someone who can go directly through the hull and get the guys out. They heard we were out here making test dives."

  "How long do we have?" "A few hours, the way they tell it."

  Zavala shook his head. "The Faroes must be more than a thousand miles from here. The Beebe is a fast ship for her size, but she'd need wings to get there in time."

  Austin thought about it a minute, then said, "You're a genius." "Glad you finally realized it. Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion? It would make a great pick-up line in a bar."

  "First, let me ask: Is the Sea Lamprey in any shape to use on a real- life rescue operation? I detected a note ofCYA when Vlasov asked when it would be ready."

  "We civil service types automatically take Cover Your Ass 101 when we sign on," Zavala said.

  "You must have passed the course with flying colors. Well?" Zavala pondered the question for a moment. "You saw how she handled coming up."

  "Sure, like a Brahma bull, but we made it okay. You'd pay big bucks for a ride like that at Disney World."

  Zavala slowly shook his head. "You do have a talent for present- ing the possibility of a horrible death in a lighthearted way."

  "My death wish isn't any stronger than yours. You told me the Sea Lamprey is built like a brick outhouse."

  "Okay, I was bragging. Structurally, she's extremely sound. Op- erationally, she could do better."

  "On balance, how do the odds of a successful mission stack up?"

  "About fifty-fifty. I can jury-rig some repairs to increase the odds slightly in our favor."

  "I'm not pushing you, Joe."

  "You don't have to. I'd never sleep again if we didn't try to help these guys. But we've still got to get the submersible to that Danish cruiser. You've figured it out, haven't you, you old fox?" Zavala said, noting Austin's grin.

  Maybe," Austin replied. "I've got a few details to work through with Vlasov."

  Since I'm about to risk my life on a typical spur-of-the-moment Austin scheme, I wonder if you could tell me whats cooking under that prematurely silver-gray hair of yours?"

  – Not at all/5 Austm said. "Do you recall what Vlasov said about Soviet gigantism?"

  "Yeah, but-" "Think – Austin said, heading for the door. -Think real big."

  4

  KARL BECKER RESTLESSLY paced the deck of the Dan- ish research vessel Thor. Shoulders hunched, hands thrust into the pockets of his great coat, the navy bureaucrat looked like a large wingless bird. Becker wore several layers of clothing, yet he shivered as his thoughts went back to the collision. He had been shoved into a lifeboat, only to be thrown into the freezing water when the over- loaded craft capsized during launch. If a Faroese trawler had not plucked his semiconscious body to safety, he would have been dead within minutes.

  He stopped to light a cigarette, cupping his hands around the name, and leaned on the rail. As he stared bleakly at the red plastic sphere that marked the grave of the sunken cruiser, he heard his name being called. The Thor's captain, Nils Larsen, was striding across the deck in his direction.

  Where are those damned Americans?" Becker growled.

  "Good news. They just called," said the captain. "They expect to be here in five minutes."

  "About time, Becker said.

  Like his colleague on the LeifErifsson, Captain Larsen was tall and blond with a craggy profile. "In all fairness," he said, "it's only been a matter of hours since the cruiser went down. The NATO response team needed a minimum of seventy-two hours to place a mother ship, crew and rescue vehicle on site. The NUMA people have lived up to their pledge to get here within eight hours. They deserve some lee- way."

  "I know, I know," Becker said, more in exasperation than anger. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but every minute counts." He flicked the cigarette butt into the sea and jammed his hands even further into his pockets. "Too bad Denmark no longer has capital punishment," he fumed. "I'd like to see that whole murderous SOS bunch swing- ing from the end of a rope."

  "You're sure they deliberately rammed you?"

  "No doubt of it! They changed course and came directly at us. Bang! Like a torpedo." He glanced at his watch. "You're sure the Americans said five minutes? I don't see any ships approaching."

  "That is puzzling," the captain said. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. "I don't see any vessels, either." Hearing a noise, he pointed the lenses toward the overcast sky. "Wait. There's a heli- copter coming this way. It's moving very fast."

  The pencil-point speck grew rapidly larger against the slate-gray cloud cover, and before long the thrump-thrump of rotors was audi- ble. The aircraft made directly for the Thor and buzzed the ship slightly higher than mast-level, then it banked and went into a wide circle around the research vessel. The letters NUMA were clearly visible in big bold letters on the side of the turquoise Bell 212.

  The ship's first mate trotted across the deck toward the captain and pointed to the circling chopper. "It's the Americans. They're asking permission to land."

  The captain replied in the affirmative, and the crewman relayed the okay into a squawking hand radio. The helicopter swooped in, hovered above the stern deck and descended in slow motion, mak- ing a gentle landing at the exact center of the white circle that marked the helipad.

  The door flew open, and two men emerged under the spinning ro- tor
s and made their way across the deck. As a politician, Becker was an acute observer of people. The men moved with the casual easiness that he had seen in other Americans, but their determined stride and the way they carried themselves projected an air of supreme confi- dence.

  The broad-shouldered man leading the way was just over six feet tall and around two hundred pounds, Becker estimated. His hair was gray, but as the man drew near, Becker saw that he was young, probably around forty. His dark-complexioned companion was slightly shorter, younger and slimmer. He walked with the panther- like grace of a boxer; it would not have surprised Becker if he'd known that the man had financed his way through college fighting as a middleweight. His movements were relaxed, but with the in- herent energy of a coiled spring.

  The captain stepped forward to greet the Americans. "Welcome to the Thor/' he said.

  "Thanks. I'm Kurt Austin from the National Underwater and Marine Agency," said the husky man, who looked as if he could walk through a wall. "And this is my partner, Joe Zavala." He shook hands Wth the captain, then Becker, almost bringing tears to the Dane's eyes Wth a crushing handshake. Zavala pulverized those bones Austin had missed.

  You made good time," the captain said.

  "We're a few minutes behind schedule," Austin said. "The logis- tics were somewhat complicated."

  "That's all right. Thank God you came!" Becker said, rubbing his hand. He glanced toward the helicopter. "Where's the rescue team?"

  Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance. "You're looking at it," Austin said.

  Becker's astonishment gave way to barely restrained fury. He whirled around to face the captain. "How in God's name are these two… gentlemen going to rescue Captain Petersen and his men?"

  Captain Larsen was wondering the same thing, but was more re- served. "I suggest you ask them," he replied, with obvious embar- rassment at Becker's outburst.

  "Well?" Becker said, glaring first at Austin, then at Zavala. Becker could not have known that the two men who had stepped off the helicopter equaled a shipload of rescuers. Born in Seattle, Austin had been raised in and around the sea, which was not sur- prising, since his father was the owner of a marine salvage company. While studying for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington, he'd attended a highly rated Seattle dive school, where he'd attained proficiency in a number of specialized areas. He'd put his expertise to work on North Sea oil rigs, had worked for his father awhile, then had been hired by the CIA to conduct underwater intelligence. When the Cold War ended, he'd been recruited by Sandecker to head the Special Assignments Team.