Fire Ice nf-3

by Clive Cussler

  AS THE OVAL Office emptied, Sandecker touched Sparkman's sleeve. "I wonder if I might have a word with you in private." Sparkman gave him a troubled look. "Sure, why don't we go outside and get some air? We can talk about how to keep the White House liaison with NUMA close to our vest."

  They walked out of the executive mansion to the south portico. Sandecker gazed around the manicured grounds. "Beautiful setting, isn't it?"

  "The prettiest sight in all of Washington."

  "A pity you will never get to live here."

  Sparkman laughed, but there was an edge to it. "I have no intention of moving from the naval observatory. Couldn't t afford the heating bills for this place."

  "Don't be modest, Sid. Everyone in Washington knows that you are the heir apparent after this president's term has expired."

  "There's no guarantee I'd be elected or even nominated." There was something in his tone.

  "You're being disingenuous. It's not a sin to have political ambitions."

  "We're all politically motivated in this town, even you."

  "No argument there." Sandecker swung around to face him. "But my ambitions aren't funded by a Russian madman, Sid. Tell me, what did Razov promise you? And don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about. You've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar."

  Sandecker's bluff was convincing. Sparkman looked for a moment like he was going to bluster – and then he caved in completely, his face a mask of misery.

  "I was going to get a big cut of the methane hydrates production off the United States. It would have been worth billions," he said, his voice shaky.

  "Now that you've heard the real reason behind those explorations, have you changed your mind?"

  "Of course I have! You heard me in the Oval Office. I'm the one who took the hard line. I wanted to go after Razov tooth and nail."

  "I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that if Razov were blown out of the water, your secret would be safe."

  A wan smile crossed Sparkman's lips. "You're not a man known to dillydally, are you, Admiral? All right. What do you want?"

  "First of all, I want you to know that if one word of what transpired in the Oval Office this morning gets back to Razov, I'll see that you are pursued by the hounds of hell."

  "I may be greedy, but I'm not a traitor, Admiral. There is no way I would aid and abet Razov after what I've learned of his plans."

  "Good. Second, as soon as this is over, I want you to submit your resignation."

  "I can't – "

  "You can and you will. Or else your role in this scheme will be played out on CNN twenty-four hours a day. Agreed?"

  Sparkman's face had a haunted look. "Agreed," he whispered.

  "There's one other thing. Tell Razov that the U.S. is still trying to figure out why the NR-1 was hijacked. A little disinformation couldn't hurt."

  Sparkman nodded.

  "Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I won't waste any more of your time. I know you've got a lot to do carrying out the president's orders."

  Sparkman squared his shoulders. "I'll have someone from my office stay in close contact so we can coordinate our planning."

  The two men parted without shaking hands, with Sparkman heading back to the White House. Sandecker strode to the parking lot, where the others awaited him. He was angry at having to destroy a man's career, angry that Sparkman had been such a fool. His blue eyes blazed with a cold fire as he slid behind the wheel of the Jeep and said, "Gentlemen, I think it's time we put Mr. Razov's wolfhounds in the dog pound."

  34

  OFF THE COAST OF BOSTON

  IN THE EVENT I ever write my memoirs," Zavala said, "What exactly is going on?"

  "This is a scientific mission being undertaken by Siberian Pest Control on a U.S. Navy submarine, supervised by NUMA," Austin said. "Officially, it doesn't exist."

  "Maybe I won't write my memoirs," Zavala said, with a shake of his head.

  "Cheer up," Austin said, glancing around the spacious wardroom. "No one would believe you anyhow."

  Austin had to raise his voice to be heard above the raucous voices of a dozen tough-faced men dressed in black commando uniforms. They were at the far end of the room smearing black and green camouflage paint on their faces. The exercise produced laughter and jokes that rose in decibel level, stoked by slugs from the vodka bottle being passed around. Petrov, who was dressed for combat like the others, dabbed paint on his cheek, hiding his scar, and made a remark in Russian that provoked great hilarity among his men. One man started to howl and pounded him on the back with sufficient force to break the rib cage of an average person.

  Petro grabbed the bottle and came over to Austin and Zavala.

  Austin said, "Sounds like amateur night at the Kremlin Comedy Club. What was the big joke?"

  Petrov laughed and offered the vodka.

  Austin declined and Zavala said, "Thanks, I'm a tequila man."

  Petrov seemed more in his element than Austin had ever seen him. "I reminded my men of an old Russian proverb: 'Live with wolves, howl like a wolf.' " Noting Austin's blank look, he said, "It's like your saying about birds of a feather." Seeing that his explanation still fell short, Petrov said, "I'll explain later." He daubed Austin's forehead and cheeks with paint, Indian fashion. "Now you're properly prepared for action."

  "Thanks, Ivan," Austin said, completing the job. "Sure you're up to a field operation?"

  "Are you implying that I'm too old? As I recall, I'm a month younger than – "

  "I know," Austin said. "My dossier: Don't be so touchy. I was thinking about your injuries from our fun night in Boston Harbor."

  "A wonderful battle. I will never forget the way you swung over the deck like Tarzan of the apes. I have a few scratches. Nothing that would slow me down."

  Austin jerked his head toward Petrov's men. "Hope the same goes for your men. Maybe we should give them Breathalyzer tests."

  Petrov dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. "I would trust any of those men with my life, drunk or sober. You worry too much. A few shots of vodka before battle is a tradition in the Russian military. It was the secret weapon we used to defeat Napoleon and Hitler. When the time comes, my bandits will carry out the mission with precision and courage."

  Austin glanced toward a young sailor who had stepped through the door. "Looks like that time is now, Ivan."

  The seeds of the joint operation had been hatched after Austin had returned to his office following the White House meeting. Petrov had been waiting for him. When Austin described the plan, Petrov immediately volunteered his men to board the yacht. Austin checked with Sandecker, who liked the idea and got an okay from the vice-president. Russians boarding a Russian yacht would add another layer of insulation between the mission and the president.

  The sailor surveyed the painted faces, trying to pick out someone in command. Austin waved him over.

  "Captain says we're ready anytime you are."

  Petrov barked a command to his men. The transformation was startling. The horseplay came to a halt and the bottle of vodka vanished. The grins were replaced by firm jaws and stony expressions of determination. Hands reached for automatic weapons, and a chorus of metallic clicks echoed throughout the room as loads were checked. Within seconds, the ragtag gang had changed into a fierce-eyed fighting force.

  Ivan gave Austin an I-told-you-so smirk. "After you," he said.

  Austin grabbed the pack holding his Bowen, and with Zavala and the others behind him, followed the sailor to the control room. Captain Madison lifted his eyes from the periscope and said, "We surface in exactly three minutes. The target is one hundred yards away. Seas look fairly calm. You're in luck, the clouds are covering the moon."

  "Thank you for allowing my men the use of your vessel, Captain," Petrov said.

  Madison scratched his head. "This is a first for me, but if your country and mine can cooperate in space, why not under the sea?" He turned to Austin. "Someone at NUMA's got a lot of pull. It's not anyon
e who can yank a U.S. Navy missile sub off its usual patrol for what seems to be, if you'll pardon the expression, a renegade special-ops mission."

  The four-hundred-twenty-five-foot Benjamin Franklin was one of four subs in its class that had been recruited because it was equipped for special operations. Even Sandecker's considerable influence wouldn't have superseded naval orders without approval, however masked, from the highest level.

  Austin said, "This mission wouldn't have gotten off the ground if it weren't crucial."

  "Good luck, then," the captain said. "We'll standby as long as we have to. Call us when you need a lift home."

  "You'll be the first to know." Austin went over to a bank of computer screens.

  "We're heading out, Hiram," he said.

  Yaeger sat in front of a keyboard where one of the sub's electronics people was explaining the vessel's computer setup. Sandecker had been reluctant to let Yaeger go on the mission, but Austin had pressed his case, saying that Hiram's computer expertise could be vital. The admiral relented after Austin had said he would bring Yaeger aboard only if the yacht's control center had been secured.

  Yaeger shook hands with Austin and wished him good luck. "I'm still working to decipher the last piece of code," he said. "I'll let you know if I break through the wall."

  At a signal from Austin, Petrov gave his men a series of commands. The boarding party made its way through the sub and crowded into the space under the loading hatch. A crewman climbed a ladder and opened the hatch cover, letting in a cold spray. Austin and Zavala went first, climbing through the hatch to emerge on the deck behind the sail. Petrov's men joined them and passed up two large plastic canisters. The canisters were opened, and compressed air hissed into the inflatable boats inside. The sub's crewman whispered, "Good luck," and the hatch cover closed with a soft clunk.

  Moonlight, filtered by the clouds, gave the sea a dark pewter cast. The tall sail, with its horizontal hydroplanes, looked like a giant robot from a science-fiction movie. Austin squinted through the gloom at the silhouetted yacht. Unlike its appearance in Boston Harbor, where it had been lit up like a Mississippi riverboat, the yacht was dark, except for a few lights on its radio masts and the yellow glow of cabin windows.

  The satellites had watched the yacht change its course along the coast of Maine and head south, until it finally stopped off the coast of Massachusetts about fifty miles from the Ataman Explorer /, which was due-east of Boston. The other two Ataman ships had halted eastward of Charleston and Miami.

  The men grabbed their paddles, pushed the boats off the slippery deck into the water and clambered aboard. Donning their night-vision goggles, they silently dipped their paddles, using precise strokes that propelled the bobbing craft through the mounding seas.

  The cool air stabbed like an ice pick through Austin's layers of clothing and he almost regretted not taking a slug of vodka himself to warm his innards. He turned and looked back at the sub, which had slipped under the sea with hardly a gurgle. The sub would remain on station with only a few feet of its conning tower above the surface.

  Within minutes, the boats were nudging the towering steel walls that formed the ship's sides. Austin felt like a minnow next to a whale. Ordinarily, he would say that the odds against the mission were considerable, but Max had leveled the playing field. As Yaeger had poked around in the yacht's electronic nervous system, he'd come across two very important connections. The first was the vessel's troubleshooting program. It was similar to the visual displays used in cars, only far more sophisticated. The system could tell the people running the yacht the status of the watertight doors, and the performance of the gas turbines, power flow and the other electronic veins and sinews that kept the ship running. Most important, Yaeger had located the central control room. Everyone in the raiding party carried a water- proof map of the ship, based on Max's snooping.

  The second breakthrough was more prosaic but equally important. The yacht's payroll records had the names and titles of practically everyone on board. Since the yacht served as Razov's home and corporate center, he had a full complement of housekeeping staff, cooks, bookkeepers, accountants and secretaries. The ship's crew was unexpectedly small, indicating that the vessel was loaded with automated systems. Austin's interest had centered on a category that Petrov had translated to mean: "nonregular crew." In other words, Razov's private shipboard army of thugs, like those who had come after Austin in Boston Harbor. There were fifty of them, and their ruthlessness and loyalty were not to I be ignored. Petrov insisted that the odds were nothing his men couldn't handle.

  Stealth would be their primary weapon. They would silently slip aboard the yacht and race to the control center, which they would destroy with well-placed explosives. Opposition would be quietly neutralized. If they had to fight their way out, they had enough firepower and the element of surprise to put them on an even footing. At the same time, Austin and Petrov were realists. They knew that the odds of discovery were high, and casualties were likely on both sides. But given the stakes involved, it would be worth the losses.

  The night-vision goggles the boarding party wore gave the ship and the sea a greenish tinge. Austin could see the water-level door he and Kaela had entered to attend Razov's party. It would be too risky trying to gain access through that door because the open portal would show up on the ship's visual display. Instead, they would employ the time-tested method used by pirates, castle stormers arid commandos alike. Grappling hooks. In their folded position, the hooks were tucked into metal tubes. When the grapple was launched like a mortar round, the hooks opened. The prongs were covered with foam rubber so that even someone standing a few yards away wouldn’t hear them grab onto the rail of a ship.

  Two grapples shot out of their mortars with quiet coughs of compressed air. The lines were tested. The ropes were taut, indicating that the grapples had engaged. Petrov's men pointed guns equipped with silencers toward the rail where anyone looking over would get a rude surprise. All was quiet, and they moved on to the next phase of the operation.

  Austin and Petrov made the first ascent, not an easy task with their packs. They lunged awkwardly over the rail, surveyed the deck and saw it was deserted, then signaled the others to come aboard. Within minutes they were squatting on the deck like a flock of black and heavily armed ducks. Two men stayed with the boats.

  The raiding party split in half. The group led by Austin took the starboard side. Those under Petrov's command crossed to the port side. Both units would advance and meet at a ladder at the base of the bridge. From there, the plan was to climb three decks to the control center located in a small room behind the wheelhouse. At this hour, only a skeleton crew should be manning the bridge. Austin gave Petrov the okay sign. Crouching low, their guns at the ready, both groups began to move forward.

  Austin was encouraged at their swift progress, but they had just passed the grand salon where Razov had held his Boston bash, when a door opened without warning. Light spilled onto the deck, flaring in their night-vision goggles, Austin pushed the goggles back on his head and saw one of Razov's guards standing like a deer frozen in the headlights. The man clutched a bottle of vodka and his arm was around the shoulders of a young woman in a maid's uniform, his hand under the unbuttoned front of her dress. Her dyed red hair hung down over her face, and her bright lipstick was smeared. Austin realized he had provided for every eventuality except the human libido.

  The man's drunken grin faded at the sight of the intruders with their painted faces and automatic weapons. As a professional gunman he knew exactly what was expected of him: silence. His female companion had no such restraint. Her mouth opened wide, and she let out an ear-piercing scream. Her lung power was opera-star level. Her second shriek was even louder, the howl easily drowning Austin's curses. She finally ran out of breath, her eyes rolled up and she crumpled to the deck in a faint.

  As the echoes faded, the ship lit up like a pinball machine. Doors flew open at every level, and yells seemed to come from a
ll directions. There was the sound of running feet and rough voices shouting orders, with a few more high-pitched screams thrown in for variety. Those were only the preliminaries. A second later, all hell broke loose.

  35

  THE SIKORSKY HH 60-H Seahawk helicopters raced side by side over the ocean like twin Valkyries, skimming so low their landing gear was splashed with spume from the cresting wave tops. The aircraft were painted in low-visibility gray, their insignia and markings toned down and almost invisible.

  As he stared out the window of the right-hand helicopter, the platoon commander, Navy Lieutenant Zack Mason, reflected on the urgent phone call from Washington and the orders to scramble a special warfare task unit for a secret mission.

  With his classic profile and soft-spoken manner, Mason could have passed for an investment banker. Under the patrician looks was a tough and competent warrior who had not simply survived the rugged SEAL training, but thrived on it. Still only in his thirties, Mason had been involved in missions that ranged from an aborted plan to shoot down Saddam Hussein's helicopter to security at the Olympics in Atlanta.

  Officially, he was the leader of a SEAL group on the East Coast. Unofficially, he was liaison to the Joint Special Operations Command, an amalgam of SEALs, Delta Force and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment known as SOAR. The shadow force maintained its own helicopter support. The assault teams specialized in attacking at-sea targets such as shipping or oil rigs. The joint command was authorized to conduct preemptive strikes against terrorists and terrorism.

  The orders for the mission had bypassed the normal links in the chain of command. This job had been directly authorized by the secretary of the navy, who had handed the problem off to the admiral in command of the Naval Special Warfare Command in Coronado, California. The admiral had been told to avoid the usual red tape, and have the operations decisions made at the lowest possible level. Mason would report directly to Coronado from the field.