Polar Shift

by Clive Cussler

  KARLA JANOS came out of the tunnel blinking like a mole. Her face was dirty, and her one-piece jump suit was covered with dust. She shook her head in wonder, still impressed by the scene that confronted her eyes. A temporary village had sprung up on the grassy bowl at the bottom of the caldera. At least two dozen large tents housing facilities for sleeping, cooking and research were laid out in neat rows. Several helicopters were parked nearby.

  The area around the tents bustled with activity. Access to the crystal city had been improved by drilling a tunnel and clearing away the rocky debris that was in the way. Cables snaked into the tunnel from gas-powered electrical generators. A steady stream of scientists and assistants was moving in and out of the city.

  Karla was elated and exhausted at the same time. The scientific crews had been working twenty-four hours a day on three shifts. Some, like Karla, had become so involved in their work that they had worked more than one shift. She tilted her chin back and gulped several breaths of fresh air. In the blue-gray light, she saw a speck come into view over the rim and begin a descent into the valley.

  As the object neared, she could see that it was a large, colorful canopy with a human dangling below. It couldn’t be. Hoping against hope, she walked away from the tents to a clear area and madly waved her baseball cap in the air.

  The paraglider had been descending in a spiral, but it turned in her direction, swooped in low and landed only yards away. Kurt Austin unbuckled himself from the harness and rolled up the canopy. He walked over with a grin on his face and said, “Good morning.”

  She had thought about Austin a lot in the past few weeks. Their encounter had been short and sweet. Then she was off to Siberia. But there were many times she wished that she had gotten to know the handsome NUMA man better.

  “What are you doing here?” Karla asked with a combination of joy and awe.

  “I’ve come to take you to lunch.”

  She glanced at her watch. “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”

  “It’s lunchtime somewhere. I didn’t come all this way to have my invitation rejected.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

  Austin’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Insanity is part of the NUMA job description.” He took her hand. “As the old Sinatra song goes, ‘Come fly with me.’”

  She brushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been working all night. I’m a mess.”

  “There’s no dress code at the joint I have in mind,” Austin said. “Come on.”

  He asked her to help him carry his new paraglider to an open area, where he gave Karla a quick lesson. They spread the canopy on the ground, buckled themselves into the tandem seat, inflated the canopy with the prop wash and jumped into the wind. Karla was a natural flier, and the takeoff was far smoother than the first one he had made with Zavala. Once they were airborne, Austin circled above the tent village and put the paraglider into an ascent.

  “Quite the change in scenery in a few weeks,” Austin said as the earth slipped away below them.

  “It’s hard to believe that the world’s leading paleontologists, archaeologists and biologists are down there working on the scientific discovery of the century.”

  “A discovery you can claim credit for.”

  “There were others involved, but thanks anyhow. And thank you for the ride. This is marvelous.”

  “Yes, it is,” Austin said for entirely different and very male reasons. He was in close proximity to a beautiful and intelligent young woman, and he could feel the warmth of her body close to his.

  The paraglider and its two passengers rose out of the caldera. Austin gave Karla some quick landing instructions, and he steered toward a relatively flat area on the rim. The landing was slightly rough but not bad. Karla slipped out of the harness and went over to where a checkered red tablecloth was spread out on the ground, anchored at each corner with a rock. In the center of the tablecloth was a miniature vase with a wildflower in it, and a waist pack.

  Austin made a sweep of his hand. “Table with a view, made-moiselle.”

  She shook her head. “You are crazy. But in a very nice way.”

  Austin opened the pack and lined up several jars, cans and bottles. “Courtesy of Captain Ivanov. Mosliak mushroom appetizer, beef tushonka and red caviar on rye bread for dessert. All washed down with a good Georgian red wine.”

  “How did you get here?” she said.

  “I heard that Captain Ivanov was bringing in a batch of scientists, including some from NUMA. I hitched a ride with them on the Kotelny. Austin opened the jars and cans, and poured two glasses of wine. “Now that you’ve had a chance to study things, what’s your take on the crystal city?”

  “It will be decades of study before we know the whole story, but I think the city was built during the Stone Age in the magma chamber after the volcano had been long dead.”

  “Why go underground?”

  “The usual reasons. For defense, or because of climate changes. They used mammoths for beasts of burden, which allowed them to move the cyclopean blocks.”

  “What happened to the inhabitants?”

  “Climate changes could have dried up their ability to grow food. A polar shift could have caused a flood or earthquake that created the partial collapse of the chamber roof, giving the caldera its odd shape. That road up the side of the mountain indicates that the usual city access might have been blocked for one reason or another.”

  “Have you figured out how the mammoths managed to survive?”

  “Sheer adaptability. As the food source diminished, they became smaller to adjust to the change in environment. They seem to have the capability to hibernate during the coldest part of the year.”

  “What about the city’s inhabitants? Who were they?”

  “An enigma. It could take decades of research before we figure out who they were and what happened to them.”

  “How are the little woollies doing?”

  “The mammoths? Just fine. They seem content in the corral we built for them as long as we feed them. Maria Arbatov is in charge. The hardest part will be protecting them from the outside world. We’re getting lots of press attention as you can imagine, and we’re trying to control it.”

  He swept the island with his eyes. “I hope this all survives our aggressive inquiry.”

  “I think it will. These seem to be purer research endeavors than trying to clone mammoths.”

  “What next?”

  “I’ll spend a few weeks here, and then head back to see Uncle Karl in Montana. I’ll be coming to Washington next month to give a speech at the Smithsonian.”

  “That’s good news. When you get to Washington, how about getting together for cocktails, dinner and whatever?”

  The smoky gray eyes gazed over the glass. “I’m particularly intrigued over the whatever.”

  “Then it’s a date. I think it’s time to propose a toast. Ladies first.”

  She only had to think about it for a second.

  “To Uncle Karl. If he hadn’t saved my grandfather, none of this would have been possible.”

  “I’ll drink to that. Without Uncle Karl, you would not have been possible.”

  She gave Austin a smile full of promise. Then, in the light of the arctic dusk, they raised their glasses high and toasted each other.

  ALTHOUGH DEATH had been a close companion for much of his life, Schroeder couldn’t remember the last time he had gone to a funeral. He wanted to bury Schatsky in fine style. The little dachshund who’d been killed by one of Gant’s gunmen had been a great companion. Luckily, the temperature at his mountain log cabin had stayed low so Schatsky’s body had been preserved while he’d been away.

  He took the stiff little body, washed the blood away as best he could and wrapped the dog in its favorite blanket. Using the dog’s bed as its casket, he carried it out to the woods behind his house. He dug a deep hole, wrapped the dog and its bed in a canvas, and then buried it with a bo
x of dog bones and Schatsky’s favorite chew toys.

  Schroeder marked the grave with a boulder. He went back into the cabin and lugged a wooden crate back to the woods and dug another hole not far from the dog’s grave. He dumped the load of automatic and semi-automatic weapons into the hole and covered them up. He had kept a shotgun back at the cabin, just in case, but he no longer needed the deadly weapons he had kept hidden under his floor.

  It was his way of marking an end to one chapter of his life. There was always a chance that something unpleasant from out of the past would catch up with him, but that would become less likely as he grew older. Karla would be coming to visit soon, and he had plenty of work to do getting kayaks and canoes ready for his guide business. But without the little dog padding around after him the cabin seemed very lonely.

  He got into his pickup truck and drove off the mountain to his usual watering hole. It was still early in the day, and the bar was relatively quiet. Without some of the regulars to greet him, he felt even lonelier.

  What the hell. He sat at the near-empty bar and ordered a beer. Then another. He was feeling sorry for himself when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw a woman, probably in her sixties, standing behind him. She had long, silvery hair, large brown eyes, and her tanned skin was barely wrinkled.

  She introduced herself as an artist who had moved to Montana from New York. She had a bright smile and infectious laugh and a keen sense of humor, which she displayed in describing the cultural differences between the two places. Schroeder was so taken with her that he forgot to introduce himself.

  “I detect a slight accent,” she said.

  Schroeder was about to go into his usual reply, that he was a Swede named Arne Svensen, but he stopped himself. There would have to come a time when he began to trust other human beings, and it might as well be now. “You have a good ear. I am Austrian. My name is Karl Schroeder.”

  “Nice to meet you, Karl,” she said with a demure smile. “I’d like to go trout fishing, but I don’t know where. Could you recommend a reliable guide?”

  Schroeder gave her a big-toothed grin.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know just the man for you.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IN RE-CREATING THE EVENTS surrounding one of history’s worst sea disasters, the U-boat sinking of the German refugee ship Wilhelm Gustloff, this book relied heavily on The Cruelest Night by Christopher Dobson, John Miller and Ronald Payne. A number of sources provided inspiration for the chapters on giant waves, but perhaps the most dramatic was the BBC production Freak Wave, which included interviews with scientists and mariners alike. Our thanks as well to Sue Davis, president and CEO of the Stanley Museum, Kingfield, Maine.