Blue & Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “They gave me a stimulant. I’ve been awake for some time. Your drugs will wear off soon.”

  “Did anyone mention what happened to Paul? He was up stairs when the kidnappers broke in.”

  Francesca shook her head. Putting aside her worst fears, Gamay said, “Do you have any idea where we are?”

  “No. Our host didn’t tell us.”

  “You mean you’ve spoken to someone I can thank for these glorious accommodations?”

  “Her name is Brynhild Sigurd. Those were her men who kid napped us.”

  Gamay started to reply, but Francesca pursed her lips and shifted her eyes from left to right. Gamay caught the hint. They were being bugged and probably watched.

  “I only have a few minutes. I just wanted you to know I’ve agreed to work with Ms. Sigurd on my desalting process. We’ll have to stay here until the project is complete. I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “You’re going to work with the person who kidnapped us?”

  “Yes,” Francesca replied with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “I wasted ten years of my life in the jungle. There’s a great deal of money to be made, but beyond that I believe Gogstad has the best chance of bringing my process to the world in an orderly and controlled fashion.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “Yes, I’m absolutely sure,” she said.

  The door slid open, and one of the guards motioned for Francesca to leave. She nodded, then leaned over and gave

  Gamay a hug. Then she stood quickly and went off with the guards. Alone once more, Gamay pondered what had just happened. As their eyes met briefly, Francesca had winked. There was no mistake about it. Gamay was pleased to think there was more to Francesca’s startling announcement that she was working for the enemy, but there were more immediate concerns. She lay back on her cot and closed her eyes. Her first priority was to give her body and brain a rest. Then she would try to figure out how to escape.

  Chapter 35

  The man floated high above the cobalt-blue waters of Lake Tahoe, suspended from the parasail under a red-and-white canopy that billowed over his head like an old-fashioned round parachute. He sat in a reclining Skyrider chair attached by a towline to the moving winch boat two hundred feet below.

  The rider clicked on his handheld radio. “Let’s go around for one more pass, Joe.”

  Zavala, who was at the wheel of the boat, waved to show that he had heard Austin’s instruction. He put the ParaNautique winch boat into a big, slow turn that would take them back along the lake’s California side.

  The maneuver gave Austin a sweeping view of the lake. Lake Tahoe is on the California-Nevada border in the Sierra Nevada about twenty-three miles southwest of Reno. Ringed by rugged mountains that are covered with snow in the winter, Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in the United States. It is more than a mile high, more than sixteen hundred feet deep. The lake is twenty two miles long and about a dozen miles wide and lies in a fault basin created by ancient forces deep in the earth. Two-thirds of its two-hundred-square-mile area is in California. At the north end it empties into the Truckee River. At the south end a river of money empties into the coffers of the high-rise gambling casinos at Stateline. The first white man to discover the lake was John C.

  Freemont who was on a surveying mission. To English speakers the Washoe Indian name for the lake, Da-ow, which means “much water,” sounded like Tahoe, and the pronunciation stuck.

  As the parasail brought Austin around in a wide arc he concentrated his attention on a particular stretch of shoreline and the dark forest rising behind it, imprinting the image on his mind. He would have preferred to use a video or still camera in stead of his imperfect memory, but traffic this close to Gogstad’s lair was sure to come under close scrutiny. Any undue interest on his part, such as pointing a camera lens in the wrong direction, would set off alarms.

  He drifted past a long pier that jutted from the rocky shore. A powerboat was tied up at the pier. Behind a boathouse or storage shed, the black rocks rose at a sharp angle, then leveled off into a heavily wooded natural tableland. Several hundred yards back from shore the land rose again in thick forest. The towers, roofs, and turrets peeking above the tall trees reminded Austin of the castle ramparts in a Grimm fairy tale.

  Austin’s eye was drawn by sudden movement. Several men in dark clothes had run out to the end of the pier. He was too far away to see details, but he wouldn’t be surprised if pictures of him parasailing wound up in a Gogstad family album.

  The pier disappeared in his wake as the winch boat towed him another mile south. When they were safely out of view he gave Zavala the okay to haul him in. The winch pulled the Skyrider in like a boy reeling in a kite. The reclining chair splashed down and floated in the water. Austin was grateful he wasn’t using the old harness-style rig which would have dunked him in the lake. Even in summer the water temperature was in the sixties.

  “See anything interesting?” Zavala asked as he helped Austin back into the winch boat.

  “There’s no welcome mat on the doorstep, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I think I saw a welcoming committee on the dock.”

  “They came charging out the minute we did our second fly by. We were right about the tight security.”

  They had assumed the compound would be well guarded and that there would be no point sneaking around. Reasoning that the obvious was often the most innocuous, they had flashed a wad of bills and their NUMA IDs and persuaded the owner of the parasail and the winch boat to spare his equipment for a few hours. They implied that they were investigating the Mafia, which was not implausible given the nearness to the gambling casinos. Since business was off and he stood to make more in the deal than he earned in a week, he went along with the deal.

  Austin helped Zavala stow the Skyrider and parasail, then he opened a waterproof bag and dug out a sketch pad and pen. Apologizing for his draftsmanship, which was really quite good, he drew several sketches of what he had seen from the air. He had brought along the satellite photos Yaeger provided and com pared the sketches to them. At the top of the bluff the staircase from the dock connected with a walkway. This in turn widened into a road that led to the main complex. A spur from the road shot off to a helicopter pad.

  “A full frontal waterborne assault is out of the question,” he said.

  “Can’t say I’m disappointed. I haven’t forgotten our shoot out in Alaska,” Zavala said.

  “I had hoped to see down into the water. In the old days the lake was as clear as crystal, but the runoff from all the development around the shores has clouded up the water with algae growth.”

  Zavala had been studying another photo. After their strategy meeting at NUMA headquarters, Austin called up a NOAA satellite photo of Lake Tahoe. The shot showed the water temperature of the lake in colors. The lake was almost entirely blue except for one spot along the western shore where the red shade denoted high temperatures. The heated water was practically under the Gogstad pier. It was similar to the heat pulse in the ocean off the Baja coast.

  “Pictures don’t lie,” Zavala said. “There’s always the possibility of a hot spring.”

  Austin frowned.

  “Okay, say you’re right, that there’s an underwater facility like the one in the Baja. There’s one thing I don’t understand. We’re talking about a desalting plant. This is a freshwater lake.”

  “I agree, it doesn’t make sense. But there’s only one way to find out for sure. Let’s head back and see if our package has arrived.”

  Austin started the engine and pointed the winch boat toward South Lake Tahoe. They skimmed over the intense blue waters, and before long they were pulling into a marina. A lanky figure stood at the end of a finger pier waving at them. Paul had stayed on shore. His wound was still too tender to allow him to bounce around in a boat. As they pulled up to the slip he grabbed the line with his good hand and tied them off.

  “Your package has arrived,” he an
nounced. “It’s in the parking lot.”

  “That was fast,” Austin said. “Let’s take a look.” He and Zavala set off toward the parking lot.

  “Wait,” Paul said.

  Austin was eager to check out the delivery. “We’ll fill you in later,” he said over his shoulder.

  Paul shook his head. “Can’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” he muttered.

  The flatbed truck was pulled up off to the side. The object on the trailer was about the shape and size of two cars, one be hind the other. It was covered with padding and dark plastic. Austin had moved in for a closer look when the passenger door of the truck opened and a familiar figure stepped out. Jim Contos, skipper of the Sea Robin, strolled over with a grin on his face.

  “Uh-oh,” Zavala said.

  “Jim,” Austin said. “What a nice surprise.”

  “What the hell is going on, Kurt?” The grin had vanished.

  “It was an emergency, Jim.”

  “Yeah, I figured it was an emergency when Rudi Gunn called in the middle of sea trials and told me to ship the SeaBus out to Tahoe ASAP. So I just tagged along on the ride in from San Diego to see who was on the receiving end.”

  Austin noticed a picnic table and suggested they sit down. Then he laid out the situation, using the photos and drawings as visual aids. Contos sat silently through the entire explanation, his dark features growing graver with each added detail.

  “So there you have it,” Austin said. “When we saw that there might be only one way in, we checked on the nearest submersible to do the job. Unfortunately it happened to be the one you were testing.”

  “Why play Blind Man’s Bluff?” Contos said, referring to daring covert underwater operations during the cold war. “Why not just go in?”

  “First of all, the place has better security than Fort Knox. We checked on land access. The complex is surrounded by razor-wire fence rigged to set off alarms if you so much as breathe on it. The perimeter is heavily patrolled. There is only one access road in and out. It runs through dense forest and is heavily guarded. If we send a SWAT team in with guns blazing it’s likely someone would get hurt. Beyond that, what if we’re wrong about the whole thing, that the women are not being held there, and what’s behind all those fences is perfectly legal?”

  “You don’t think that’s the case, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Contos gazed out at the sailboats peacefully gliding across the lake, then turned to Paul, who had joined them at the table.

  “Do you think your wife is in there?”

  “Yep. I have every intention of getting her out.”

  Contos noted Trout’s arm in its sling. “I’d say you could use an extra hand. And your friends here will need some help launching the SeaBus.”

  “I designed it,” Zavala said.

  “I’m well aware of that, but you haven’t been the one testing it, so you don’t know the quirks. For instance, the batteries are supposed to be good for six hours. They barely make it past four. From what you say, this facility is quite a way from here. Have you given any thought to how you’re going to get it to the launch point?”

  Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance.

  ‘As a matter of fact, we have already lined up a delivery sys tem,” Austin said. “Would you like to see it?”

  Contos nodded, and they got up from the table and walked through the parking lot to the dock. The closer they got to the water the more puzzled was the expression on Contos’s face. Used to NUMA’s state-of-the-art equipment, he was looking for something like a high-tech barge fitted out with cranes. There was nothing like that.

  “Where’s your delivery system?” he said.

  “I think I see it coming in now,” Austin said.

  Contos looked out at the lake, and his eyes grew wider as the old-fashioned paddle-wheel tour boat made its way in their direction. The vessel was painted red, white, and blue and deco rated with bunting and fluttering flags.

  “You’re kidding,” he said. “You’re going to launch from that? It looks like a waterborne wedding cake.”

  “It is pretty festive. The old girl makes the trip from one end of the lake to the other every day. No one gives it a second look anymore. It’s the perfect cover for a covert operation, don’t you think, Joe?”

  “I’ve heard they serve a pretty good breakfast aboard,” Zavala said with a straight face.

  Contos stared grimly at the approaching vessel. Then, with out warning, he wheeled about and headed for the parking lot.

  “Hey, captain, where are you going?” Austin called after him.

  “Back to the truck to get my banjo.”

  Chapter 36

  Francesca stood on the deck of the Viking ship taking in its long, sweeping lines, its graceful, upturned bow and stern, the painted square sail. Even with the thick planking and massive keel it seemed almost delicate in its construction. She looked around at the huge chamber, with its vaulted ceiling, the flaming torches, and high stone walls hung with medieval weapons, and she wondered how anything so beautiful could be in a setting so bizarre and ugly.

  Standing by the tiller, Brynhild Sigurd mistook Francesca’s silence for appreciative awe.

  “It’s a masterpiece, isn’t it? The Norsemen called this a skuta when they built the original nearly two thousand years ago. It was not the biggest of their boats, like the dragon ship, but it was the fastest. I have had her duplicated in every way, from the oak planking to the spun cow’s hair that was used as caulking. She is more than seventy-nine feet long and sixteen feet wide. The original is in Oslo, Norway. An earlier replica actually sailed across the Atlantic. You must be wondering why I went through the trouble to have her built and placed in the great hall.”

  “Some people collect old stamps, others old cars. There’s no accounting for tastes.”

  “This goes beyond a collector’s whim.” Brynhild took her hand off the tiller and came over to stand before Francesca, who shuddered at their physical proximity. Although Brynhild’s towering body was hard and muscular, the menace she projected went beyond the physical. She seemed capable of reaching up and wringing the power from a lightning bolt. “I chose this ship as the symbol of my vast holdings because it embodies the Viking spirit. It was sailed by those who seized what they wanted. I come here often for inspiration. So shall it be with you, Dr. Cabral. Come, I will show you where you will be working.”

  Francesca had been escorted back to Brynhild’s aerie after the brief visit with Gamay. Brynhild had led the way through a bewildering maze of passageways that reminded Francesca of being on a cruise ship. They were unguarded at all times, but the thought of escape never crossed Francesca’s mind. Even if she were able to disable the giant woman, an unlikely prospect, she would have become lost in minutes. And she suspected the guards were not far away.

  Now they got into an elevator that dropped with knee-bending swiftness. The door opened on a room where a monorail car awaited. Brynhild motioned for Francesca to get into the front, then got in the back, sitting in a space especially made for her tall form. Their weight activated the accelerator. The tram went through an opening and sped along a lighted tunnel. When it seemed the car would go rocketing out of control the computers controlling its speed decelerated it to a comfortable stop in a room very much like the one they had just left.

  This room, too, had an elevator, but unlike the more conventional box on a cable, its transparent plastic walls were egg shaped. There were seats for four people of ordinary stature. The door hissed shut, and the elevator passed through blackness, then descended into a deep blue. Watching the fluid interplay of light and shadow through the transparent walls, Francesca realized they were sinking into water. The blue became darker until, all at once, it was as if they were caught in the beam of a searchlight.

  The door opened, and they stepped out. Francesca could hardly believe her eyes. They were in a brightly lit, circular space hundreds of feet across. A curving roof arched over
head. The exact size of the room was difficult to estimate because it was filled with thick pipes, coils, and vats of all sizes. A dozen or so white-frocked technicians moved quietly among the conduits and tanks or were bent over computer monitors.

  “Well, what do you think?” Brynhild said with obvious pride.

  “It’s incredible.” The awe in her voice was real. “Where are we, at the bottom of the sea?”

  The giantess smiled. “This is where you’ll do your work. Come, I’ll show you around.”

  Francesca’s scientific mind quickly made order out of her chaotic first impression. Although the pipes went off at different angles, there was definitely a scientific organization to the mad ness. No matter which way the pipes went, they eventually led toward the center of the room.

  “This controls the various conditions that affect the core material,” Brynhild said, pointing to the blinking lights on a control board. “This underwater facility stands on four legs. Two of the support legs double as intake pipes, and the other two as out flow. Since we are on a fresh body of water, we first infuse the liquid we pump in with salt and sea minerals from those containers. It is indistinguishable from actual seawater.”

  They walked toward the center of the chamber. It was occupied by a massive cylindrical tank some twenty feet across and ten feet high.

  “This must contain the anasazium,” Francesca said.

  “That’s right. The water is circulated around the core, then returned to the lake through the other two supports.”

  They walked back to the master control console.

  “Well, how close are we to duplicating the Cabral process?”

  Francesca examined the gauges. “Refrigeration, electrical cur rent, heat monitoring, all good. You were close, very close.”

  “We have subjected the anasazium to heat, cold, and electrical current, but with only limited success.”

  “I’m not surprised. The sonic component is missing.”

  “Of course. Sound vibrations.”

  “You have the right idea, but the process won’t work unless the material is subjected to a certain level of sound waves in con cert with the other forces. It’s like removing the cello from a string quartet.”