Polar Shift nf-6

by Clive Cussler

  A phalanx of fins was chasing after him. He kicked his water shoes off and slipped out of his cumbersome flotation vest. He knew that the gesture was a futile one. Even without his vest, he would have needed an outboard motor strapped to his back to outrun an orca. Killer whales can swim at speeds up to thirty miles per hour.

  Austin had faced many human adversaries with an icy coolness, but this was different. He was driven by the primeval horror his Stone Age ancestors must have experienced: the fear of being eaten. As the whales neared, he could hear the soft watery sound they made as air was expelled through their blowholes.

  Souf-souf.

  Just as he expected sharp teeth to sink into his flesh, the chorus of steamy exhalations was drowned out by the roar of powerful engines. Through water-blurred eyes, he saw sun reflecting off a boat's hull. Hands reached down to grab his arms. His knees banged painfully against the hard, plastic side of the boat, and he flopped onto the deck like a landed fish.

  A man was bending over him. "Are you okay?"

  Austin gulped in a lungful of air and thanked the unknown Samaritan for his help.

  "What's going on?" the man said.

  "A whale attacked me."

  "That's impossible," the man said. "They're like big, friendly dogs."

  "Tell that to the whales."

  Austin scrambled to his feet. He was on a well-appointed powerboat around thirty feet long. The man who had pulled him from the water had a shaved bald head with a spider tattoo on the scalp. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses with reflective blue lenses, and he wore black jeans and a black leather jacket.

  Set into the deck behind the man was a strange, cone-shaped, metal framework about six feet high. Thick electrical cables sprouted from the framework like vines. Austin stared at the weird construction for a second, but he was more interested in what was happening out on the water.

  The pod of orcas that had chased him like a pack of hungry sea wolves was swinging away from the boat and was now headed toward the other kayakers. A few people had seen Austin go over, but they had not been close enough to witness the attack. With Austin gone, the racers were in a state of confusion. Some continued to paddle slowly. Most had simply stopped dead in the water, where they sat like rubber ducks in a bathtub.

  The orcas were closing in fast on the bewildered racers. Even more frightening, other pods of whales had appeared around the kayak flotilla and were gathering around for the kill. The racers were unaware of the sharp-toothed danger headed their way. Many of them had paddled the sound and knew that the orcas were harmless.

  Austin grabbed the boat's steering wheel. "Hope you don't mind," he said as he punched up the throttle.

  The man's reply was lost in the roar of twin outboard motors. The boat quickly got up on plane. Austin pointed the bow at the narrowing gap between the kayakers and the moving fins. He hoped that the noise of the engines and hull would disrupt the orcas. His heart sank when the whales split into two groups and went around him, still intent on their targets. He knew orcas communicated with each other to coordinate their attacks. Within seconds, the pod hit the kayak fleet like a spread of torpedoes. They rammed the light boats with their huge bodies. Several kayaks went over and their passengers were thrown into the water.

  Austin slowed the boat's speed and steered between the bobbing heads of children and their parents and the knifelike orca fins. The White Lightning had moved closer to some capsized kayaks, but the situation was too chaotic for it to be of any help. Austin saw one of the tallest fins bearing down on a man who was floating in the water holding his young daughter in his arms. Austin would have to run over the other kayakers to get to them. He turned to the boat's owner.

  "Do you have a rifle speargun on board?"

  The bald man was fiddling frantically with an instrument box that was connected to the framework by a cable. He looked up from what he was doing and shook his head.

  "It's okay," he said. "Look!" He pointed toward the mass of overturned kayaks.

  The big fin had stopped moving. It remained stationary, playfully wobbling in place, only feet from the man and his daughter. Then it began to move away from the broken kayaks and their hapless paddlers.

  The other fins followed. The surrounding pods that had been closing in broke off their attack and meandered back into the open waters. The big bull breached in a high, playful leap. Within minutes, none of the orcas was in sight.

  A young boy had become separated from his parent. His flotation vest must have been donned improperly, because his head was slipping below the surface. Austin climbed up on the gunwale and launched his body into the air. He hit the water in a shallow racing dive and stroked his way to the boy. He reached him just before he went under.

  Austin treaded water, holding the youngster's head above the surface. He only had to wait a few moments. The White Lightning had launched its inflatable life rafts, and racers were being plucked from the water. Austin handed the boy up to his rescuers and pivoted in the water. The bald man and his boat had disappeared.

  Kurt Austin Senior was an older mirror image of his son. His broad shoulders had a slight sag, but they still looked fully capable of battering their way through a wall. His thick, platinum-silver hair was worn shorter than that of his son, who tended to be away from barbers for long periods of time.

  Although he was in his mid-seventies, a strict regimen of exercise and diet had kept him trim and fit. He could still put in a workday that would have exhausted men half his age. His face was tanned from sun and sea, and his bronze skin was laced with a fine network of wrinkles. His coral, blue-green eyes could blaze with lionlike ferocity, but, like those of his son, they usually looked out at the world with gentle amusement.

  The two Austins were seated in plush chairs in the White Lightnings luxurious main cabin, nursing oversize shots of Jack Daniel's. Kurt had borrowed a tailored sweat suit from his father. The waters of Puget Sound had been like a bathtub filled with ice cubes, and the liquor trickling down Kurt's throat was replacing the chill in his outer extremities with pleasing warmth.

  The cabin was furnished in leather and brass and decorated with polo and horse racing prints. Kurt felt as if he were in one of those exclusive English men's clubs where a member could die in his overstuffed chair and not be discovered for days. His hard-driving father was not exactly the English gentleman type, and Kurt guessed that the atmosphere was designed to smooth the rough edges brought on by his hardscrabble fight to get to the top in a competitive business.

  The old man replenished their glasses and offered Kurt a Cuban Cohiba Lanceros cigar, which he politely refused. Austin lit up, and puffed out a purple cloud that enveloped his head.

  "What the hell went on out there today?"

  Kurt's mind was still a blur. He reconsidered the cigar offer, and as he went through the manly ritual of lighting up he ordered his thoughts. He took another sip from his glass, and laid out the story.

  "Crazy!" Austin said, summing up his reaction. "Hell, those whales never hurt anyone. You know that. You've sailed the sound since you were a kid. You ever hear of anything like that happening?"

  "Nope," Kurt said. "Orcas seem to like being around humans, which has always puzzled me."

  Austin replied with a loud guffaw. "That's no mystery. They're smart, and they know that we're badass predators just like them."

  "The only difference is that they kill mainly for food."

  "Good point," Austin said. He went to pour another shot, which Kurt waved off. He knew better than to try keeping up with his father.

  "You know everyone in Seattle. Ever come across a bald guy with a spider tattoo on his head? Probably in his thirties. Dresses like a Hell's Angel, in black leather."

  "The only one who meets that description is Spiderman Barrett."

  "Didn't know you were into the comics, Pop."

  Austin's face crinkled in laughter. "Barrett's a whiz kid computer geek who made it big out here. Sort of a minor-league Bill Gates
. Only worth three billion bucks, maybe. He's got a big house overlooking the sound."

  "I feel for him. Do you know him personally?"

  "Only by sight. He was a fixture on the local nightclub circuit. Then he dropped out of circulation."

  "What's with the head art?"

  "Story I heard is that when he was a kid, he was a big Spiderman fan. Cut his hair, had his scalp tattooed and let his hair grow back; As he got older and started to go bald, the tattoo showed, so he shaved his head. Hell, with the kind of money Barrett has he could decorate his body with the Sunday funnies and nobody would blink an eye."

  "Eccentric or not, he saved me from becoming whale bait. I'd like to thank him, and apologize for commandeering his boat."

  Austin was about to tell his father about the metal structure on Barrett's boat, but a crewman came into the cabin and announced, "Someone from Fish and Wildlife is here."

  A moment later, a petite, young, dark-haired woman dressed in the green uniform of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service entered the cabin. She was in her mid-twenties, although her black-rimmed glasses and serious expression made her look more mature. She identified herself as Sheila Rowland, and said she wanted to ask Kurt about his whale encounter.

  "Sorry to barge in on you," she said in apology. "We've closed off further kayak expeditions in Puget Sound until we can get to the bottom of this incident. Whale watching is a big part of the local economy, so we've put the investigation on the fast track. The vendors are starting to scream about the ban, but we can't take chances."

  Austin told her to take a seat, and Kurt went through his story for a second time.

  "That's so strange," she said with a shake of her head. "I've never known orcas to hurt anyone."

  "What about attacks in marine parks?" Kurt said.

  "Those are whales that are held in captivity and put under pressure to perform. They get angry at being cooped up and overworked, and sometimes they take out their frustrations on the trainers. There have been a few cases in the wild where an orca has grabbed a surfboard, thinking it's a seal. Once they discover their mistake, they've spit the surfer out."

  "I guess the whale I encountered didn't like my face," Austin said with dry humor.

  Rowland smiled, thinking that with his bronzed features and intense, light blue eyes, Austin was one of the most attractive men she had ever met. "I don't think that's the case. If an orca didn't like your face, you wouldn't have one. I've seen a whale toss round a five-hundred-pound sea lion as if it were a rag doll. I'll see if there is any video coverage of the incident."

  "That shouldn't be a problem, with all the cameras focused on the race," Kurt said, "Is there anything you could think of that would stir up the whales and make them more aggressive?"

  She shook her head. "Orcas have extremely fine-tuned sensing systems. If something gets out of whack, they might want to take it out on the nearest object."

  "Like the overworked whales in the marine parks?"

  "Maybe. I'll talk to some cetologists and see what they have to say." She rose and thanked the two men for their time. After she left, Austin's father went to pour another round, but Kurt put his hand over the glass.

  "I know what you're doing, you old fox. You're trying to shanghai me onto one of your salvage ships."

  Kurt Senior had made no secret of his desire to lure his son from NUMA and bring him back into the family business. Kurt's decision to stay with NUMA rather than take over the reins of the business had been a sore point between the two men. Through the years, what had been a bitter source of friction became a family joke.

  "You're turning into a sissy," Austin said with mock disgust. "You've got to admit that NUMA hasn't cornered the market on excitement."

  "I've told you before, Pop. It's not all about excitement."

  "Yeah, I know. Duty to country and all that. Worst thing is, I can't blame Sandecker anymore for keeping you in Washington now that he's vice president. What are your plans?"

  "I'll stick around a couple more days. I've got to order a new kayak. What about you?"

  "Got a big job raising a sunken fishing boat off Hanes, Alaska. Want to come along? I could use you."

  "Thanks, but I'm sure you can handle the project yourself."

  "Can't blame me for trying. Okay, then, I'll buy dinner."

  Austin was sawing through a manhole-sized slab of beef at his father's favorite steak house when he felt his cell phone vibrating. He excused himself and took the call in the lobby. Looking at Austin from the video phone's tiny display screen was a dark-complexioned man with thick black hair combed straight back. Joe Zavala was a member of Austin's Special Assignments Team who had been recruited by Sandecker right out of the New York Maritime College. He was a brilliant marine engineer whose expertise in designing submersibles had found a ready niche at NUMA.

  "Glad to see you're still in once piece," Zavala said. "The orca attack on your kayak race is all over the news. Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. In fact, you might say I had a whale of a time."

  Zavala cracked the tips of his lips in a slight smile. "I lead such a dull life. Who else but Kurt Austin could turn a charity kayak race into a life-and-death struggle with a bunch of loco killer whales?"

  "The last time I looked you were well along in your goal of dating every eligible woman in Washington. I'd hardly call that dull."

  The gregarious Zavala was much in demand by many of the single women around Washington who were attracted by his charm, his soulful dark brown eyes and Latin good looks.

  "I'll admit that life can get interesting when I run into an old date when I'm out with a new one, but that's nothing compared to your race. What happened?"

  "I'm having dinner with my father, so I'll have to fill you in when I get back in a couple of days."

  "Looks like you'll be back in Washington sooner than that. We've been ordered to sail out of Norfolk tomorrow night. Do you know Joe Adler?"

  "The name sounds familiar. Isn't he a wave guy out at Scripps?"

  "He's one of the foremost ocean wave experts in the world. We're going to help him find the Southern Belle."

  "I remember reading about the Belle. She's the big containership that went down last March."

  "That's right. Rudi called me. Adler wants you on the project. Apparently, he's got some clout, because Rudi agreed to his request." Rudi Gunn was in charge of NUMA's day-to-day operations.

  "That's odd. I've never even met Adler. Sure he didn't make a mistake? There are a dozen guys at NUMA who've worked searches. Why me?"

  "Rudi said he didn't have a clue. But Adler has an international reputation, so he went along with his request to help find the ship."

  "Interesting. The Belle went down off the mid-Atlantic coast. How close is the search area to where the Trouts are working?" Paul and Gamay Trout, the other members of the Special Assignments Team, were in the midst of an ocean survey.

  "Close enough so that we can raft up and have a party," Zavala said. "I've already packed the tequila."

  "While you line up a caterer, I'll change my plane reservations, and let you know when I'm coming in."

  "I'll meet you at the airport. We'll have a plane waiting to fly us to Norfolk."

  They discussed a few more details and hung up. Kurt pondered the request from Adler, then went back to his table to tell his father he would be leaving in the morning. If Austin was annoyed about his son's change in plans, he didn't show it. He thanked Kurt for coming to Seattle for the kayak race, and they vowed to get together again when they had more time.

  Kurt caught an early flight out of Seattle the next morning. As the plane took off and headed east, he thought about his father's muted reaction to his change in plans. He wondered if Austin Senior really wanted him to join the family business. To the old man, it would be admitting that he was on the road to retirement. Both men tended to have strong opinions, and it would be like having two captains on a rowboat.

  In any case, his father was plain
wrong about Kurt's attachment to his NUMA work. It wasn't the excitement that kept him at the huge ocean science agency. Every opportunity for an adrenaline rush meant many long hours of reports, paperwork and meetings, which he tried to avoid by staying in the field. The siren call that lured him back again and again was the unfathomed mystery of the sea.

  Mysteries like the strange encounter with the killer whales. He pondered the incident with the orcas. He wondered, too, about the man with the weird tattoo and the purpose of the electrical setup he'd seen on Barrett's boat. After a few minutes, he put his formless thoughts aside, picked up a pad and a ballpoint pen and began to sketch out specifications for a new kayak.

  3

  New York CITY

  Before Frank Malloy had become a high-priced consultant to the nation's police departments, he'd been the quintessential cop. He loathed disorder of any kind. His uniforms were always pressed and sharply creased. In a holdover from his Marine Corps days, his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to the scalp military style. Frequent workouts kept his compact body fit and muscular.

  Unlike many police officers who found stakeout tedious, Malloy enjoyed sitting for hours in a car, watching the ebb and flow of traffic and pedestrians, ever alert for the slightest rent in the fabric of society. It also helped that he had an iron bladder.

  Malloy was parked on Broadway, checking out the steady parade of fast-walking pedestrians and gawking tourists, when a man cut away from the crowd and made his way straight for the unmarked NYPD cruiser.

  The man was tall and slim, and looked to be in his thirties. He wore a tan, lightweight suit, wrinkled at the knees, and scuffed New Balance running shoes. He had red hair and beard, and his goatee was cut to a point. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loose. Years as a beat cop had honed Malloy's ability to size up people at a quick glance. Malloy pegged the man as a reporter.

  The man came over to the car, bent down so his face was level with the window and flashed his photo ID.

  "My name is Lance Barnes. I'm a reporter with the Times. Are you Frank Malloy?"