Lost City

by Clive Cussler

  "Of course." As Lessard led the way back to the control room, he decided he liked this American. Austin was thorough and methodical, qualities Lessard prized above all others.

  Back in the main nerve center, Austin glanced at the wall clock and saw that precious minutes had gone by since the tour began. Lessard went over to a metal cabinet, slid open a wide shallow drawer and pulled out a set of blueprints.

  "Here is the main entrance to the research tunnel. It's not much more than a culvert. These rectangles are the living quarters for the scientists. The lab is about a mile from the main entrance. As you can see in this side view, there are stairs that run up through the ceiling to another level, where there is a passage that leads to the subglacial observatory itself."

  "Do we know how many people could be trapped?"

  "There were three in the scientific team most recently. Sometimes, when they get sick of being underground, we get together to drink a few glasses of wine. Then there is the woman from your ship. A float plane brought some people in before the accident, but I don't know how many it had aboard when it took off a short while ago."

  Austin leaned over the diagram, his eyes taking in every detail.

  "Suppose the people under the glacier made it to the observatory. The air trapped in this passageway would keep the water from inundating the observatory area."

  "That's true," Lessard said with little enthusiasm.

  "If there is air, they could still be alive."

  "Also true, but their supply of air is limited. This may be a case of the living envying the dead."

  Austin didn't have to be reminded of the gruesome fate that awaited Skye and the others. Even if they had survived the flood, they faced a slow and uneasy death from lack of oxygen. He concentrated on the diagram and noticed that the main tunnel continued on for some distance beyond the observatory. "Where does this go?"

  "It continues about 1.5 kilometers, rising gradually to another entrance."

  "Another culvert?"

  "No. There is an opening like a mine entrance in the side of the mountain."

  "I'd like to see it," Austin said. A plan was forming in his mind. It was based on conjecture and assumption, and would need a healthy dose of luck to work, but it was all he had.

  "It's on the other side of the glacier. The only way to get to it is by air, but I can show you where it is from here."

  Minutes later, they were on the flat roof of the power plant. Lessard pointed to a ravine on the far side of the glacier. "It's right near that little valley."

  Austin followed the pointing finger with his eyes, and then glanced toward the sky. A big helicopter was lumbering toward the power plant.

  "Thank God!" Lessard said. "At last, someone has answered my call for help."

  Hurrying downstairs, the two men emerged from the power plant as the helicopter dropped out of the sky. The truck driver and another man Austin assumed to be the plant's third shift were outside, watching the helicopter touch down on a landing pad a few hundred feet from the plant's front door. As the rotors whirled to a halt, three men emerged from the chopper. Austin frowned. This was no rescue party. All three men were wearing dark suits that had middle management written all over them.

  "It is my superior, Monsieur Drouet. He never comes here," Lessard said, unable to contain the awe in his voice.

  Drouet was a portly man with a Hercule Poirot mustache. He hustled over and in an accusatory tone said, "What is going on, Lessard?"

  While the plant supervisor explained the situation, Austin checked his watch. The hands seemed to be flying around the dial.

  "What effect has this incident had on production?" Drouet said.

  Austin's smoldering temper erupted. "You might be more interested in what effect it has on the people trapped inside that glacier."

  The man tilted his chin, managing to look down his nose at Austin even though he was shorter by several inches.

  "Who are you?" he said, like the caterpillar addressing Alice from the mushroom.

  Lessard intervened. "This is Mr. Austin with the American government."

  "American?" Austin could swear he heard the man sniff. "This is none of your business," Drouet said.

  "You're wrong. It is very much my business," Austin replied in a level voice that cloaked his anger. "My friend is in that tunnel."

  Drouet was unmoved. "I have to wait for orders from my superior after I report to him. I'm not without sympathy. I'll order a rescue attempt immediately."

  "That's not soon enough," Austin said. "We have to do something now."

  "Nevertheless, it's the best I can do. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  With that, he and the other suited men filed into the power plant.

  Lessard glanced at Austin, shook his head sadly and trailed after them.

  Austin was trying to stifle the impulse to drag the bureaucrat back by the collar when he heard the sound of an engine and saw a dot in the sky. The dot grew larger and became a helicopter, smaller than the first. It shot across the lake, circled once around the power plant, then set down next to the other chopper in a cloud of dust.

  Even before the rotors stopped, a slim, dark-complexioned man hopped out and gave Austin a wave. Joe Zavala strode over with an easy lope and a slight athletic swing to his shoulders, his relaxed walk a holdover from his boxing days, when he fought professionally as a middleweight to earn his way through college. His handsome, un-marred features testified to the success of his time in the ring.

  The gregarious, soft-spoken Zavala had been recruited by Admiral Sandecker as soon as he graduated from the New York Maritime College, and he had been an invaluable member of the Special Assignments Team, working with Austin on many jobs. He had a brilliant mechanical mind and was a skilled pilot, with thousands of hours flying helicopters, small jets and turboprop aircraft.

  Several days earlier, they had traveled to France together. While Austin flew on to the Alps to hook up with the Mummichug, Joe had stopped in Paris. As an expert in the design and building of underwater vehicles, he had been asked to join a panel on manned versus unmanned submersibles sponsored by IFREMER, the French Institute of Marine Research and Exploration.

  Austin had called Zavala on his cell phone after learning about the tunnel accident. "Sorry to break up your trip to Paris," he had said.

  "You broke up more than that. I met a member of the National Assembly who showed me the town."

  "What's his name?"

  "Her name is Denise. After a tour of Paris, we decided to head for the mountains where the young lady has a chalet. I'm in Chamonix." Austin was not surprised to hear Zavala's story. With his soulful eyes and thick black hair combed straight back, Joe resembled a younger version of screen and TV actor Ricardo Montalban. The combination of good looks, good-humored charm and intelligence made him an object of desire to many of the single women around Washington, and the same qualities attracted females wherever he went. Sometimes it could be a distraction, especially on a mission, but in this case it was a godsend. Chamonix was only a few mountains away. "Even better. I need your help."

  Zavala could tell by the urgency in his friend's voice that the situation was serious. "I'm on my way," Zavala said.

  Reunited on the barren hill overlooking the lake, they shook hands and Austin apologized again for putting a damper on his friend's love life.

  A slight smile cracked the ends of Zavala's lips.

  "No problem, pal. Denise is a fellow public servant and understood completely when I said duty called." He glanced at the helicopter.

  "She also pulled strings to get me transportation."

  "I owe your young lady a bottle of champagne and some flowers."

  "I always knew that you were a true romantic at heart." Zavala gazed around and said, "Beautiful scenery, even if it's a little bleak.

  What's going on?"

  Austin headed for the helicopter. "I'll fill you in on the way."

  Moments later, they were airborne. As they flew o
ver the glacier, Austin gave Zavala a Reader's Digest-style condensed version of events.

  "Hell of a mess," Zavala said when he heard the story. "Sorry about your friend. Skye sounds like someone I'd like to meet."

  "I hope you'll have that pleasure," Austin said, although he knew the odds were long and becoming longer with every passing minute.

  He directed Zavala to the valley Lessard had pointed out from the roof of the power plant. Zavala landed at a spot of ground that was more or less level among the ledges and crags. They took an electric torch from the helicopter's emergency kit and walked up a gradual slope. The damp cold radiating from the glacier penetrated their thick jackets. A concrete casing framed the entrance to the tunnel. The area in front of the opening was washed out and dozens of miniature canyons ran down the slope. They stepped into a tunnel similar in size to those Austin had seen behind the power plant. The slanting floor was wet, and after they had gone in a few yards, water lapped at their toes.

  "Not exactly the tunnel of love, is it?" Zavala said, peering into the darkness.

  "It's what I would expect the river Styx to look like." Austin stared at the black water for a moment, and then a bolt of energy seemed to pass through his body. "Let's get back to the power plant."

  Drouet and his companions emerged from the plant building after Zavala's helicopter touched down. Drouet hurried over to greet Austin.

  "I must apologize for my earlier behavior," he said. "I didn't have all the facts about this horrible situation. I have since talked to my superiors and the American embassy, which told me about you and NUMA, Monsieur Austin. I didn't know there were French citizens trapped under the glacier."

  "Should their nationality have made any difference?"

  "No, of course not. Inexcusable. You will be happy to know I have sent for help. A rescue team is on its way."

  "That's a start. How long before they get here?"

  Drouet hesitated, knowing the answer was unsatisfactory. "Three or four hours."

  "You must know that will be too late."

  Drouet wrung his hands in anguish. He was obviously distressed. "At least we can recover the bodies. It's the best I can do."

  "It's not the best I can do, Monsieur Drouet. We're going to try to bring them back alive, but we'll need your help."

  "You're not serious! Those poor people are trapped under eight hundred feet of ice." He studied the silent determination in Austin's face and arched an eyebrow. "Very well. I'll knock heads together to get you anything you need. Tell me what I must do."

  Austin was pleasantly surprised to learn that Drouet's plump exterior hid a layer of steel.

  "Thank you for your offer. First, I'd like to borrow your helicopter and pilot."

  "Yes, of course, but I see your friend has a helicopter."

  "I'll need a bigger one."

  "I don't understand. These unfortunate people are trapped in the ground, not the air."

  "Nevertheless." Austin gave Drouet a hard look that said he was through wasting time.

  Drouet nodded vigorously. "Very well. You have my full cooperation."

  While Drouet scurried over to talk to his pilot, Austin called the NUMA vessel's captain on a hand radio and spent several minutes sketching out his plan. Fortier listened carefully.

  "I'll get right on it," he said. Austin thanked him and gazed at the glacier, sizing up the adversary he was about to tackle. He had no room in his scheme of things for self-doubt. He knew plans could go awry, and had scars all over his body to prove it. He also knew that problems could be fixed. He was certain that, with luck, his scheme would work. What he wasn't sure of was whether Skye was still alive.

  8

  SKYE WAS VERY much alive. Renaud, who was feeling the full force of her fury, could attest to that. After Renaud had made one of his self-serving comments, Skye had snapped. She had laced into the hapless Frenchman, her eyes bright with tears of rage as she tongue-lashed him for ruining the biggest discovery of her career.

  Renaud finally summoned up the courage to croak a protest. Skye had exhausted her repertoire and lung power by then and cut him short with a withering glare and a well-chosen word.

  "Idiot!"

  Renaud tried to play on her sympathy. "Can't you see I'm injured?" He held his bruised and lacerated hand.

  "It's your own stupid fault," she said coldly. "How in God's name could you allow a man with a gun to come into this place?"

  "I thought he was a reporter."

  "You have the brain of an amoeba. Amoebas don't think. They ooze."

  "Mademoiselle, please," LeBlanc entreated. "We have only so much air to breathe. Save your strength."

  "Save it for what!" She pointed to the ceiling. "It may have escaped your attention, but we are stuck under a very large glacier."

  LeBlanc put his finger to his lips.

  Skye glanced around at the cold and frightened faces and saw she was making the others even more miserable. She realized, too, that her tirade against Renaud was a product of her fear and frustration. She apologized to LeBlanc and clamped her lips tightly together, but before she did so, she muttered, "He is an idiot."

  Then she went over and plunked down next to Rawlins, the magazine writer, who was sitting with his back against a wall, writing in a notebook. He had bunched a plastic tarp together and was using it to insulate his posterior from contact with the wet floor. She snuggled close for warmth, saying, "Pardon me for being forward, but I'm freezing."

  Rawlins blinked in surprise, set the notebook aside and then gallantly wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

  "You were pretty hot a minute ago," he said.

  "Sorry for losing my temper in front of everyone," she murmured.

  "I don't blame you, but try to look on the bright side. At least we've got lights."

  The floodwaters must have missed the wires that ran along the top of the tunnel to the power plant. Although the lights had flickered a few times, the power was still on. The wet and weary survivors were crowded into the stretch of tunnel that ran between the ice cave and the stairs.

  Despite his optimistic observation, Rawlins knew they were short on time. He and the others were finding it more difficult to breathe. He attempted to divert his thoughts.

  "What was that scientific discovery you were talking about?" he asked Skye.

  A dreamy look came into her eyes. "I found an ancient tomb under the waters of the lake. I think it may have had something to do with the Amber Route, which means that trade contacts between Europe and the Mediterranean countries go further back than anyone has ever imagined.

  To Minoan or Mycenaean times maybe." Rawlins groaned. "Are you all right?" Skye said.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. Oh hell, no, I'm not. The only reason I'm here was to do a story on the subglacial observatory. Then they found the body in the ice, which would have been a major exclusive. Then a thug posing as a reporter pistol-whips your pal Renaud and floods the tunnel. Wow! My stuff would have been picked up all over the world. I would have been the next Jon Krakauer. Publishers would be pounding on my door with book deals. Now, you tell me about the Minoan angle."

  "I don't know that it's Minoan," Skye said, trying to ease his distress. "I could be wrong."

  He shook his head sadly.

  The TV reporter, who had been listening to the conversation, said, "Don't blame you for feeling bad, but put yourself in my place. I've got video of the body and the French guy getting smacked with the gun."

  The other reporter tapped his tape recorder. "Yeah, and I got the voices all on tape."

  Rawlins stared at the fire hose snaking past their feet. "I wonder if we could use a water jet to melt a tunnel through the glacier."

  Thurston was sitting next to Rawlins. He chuckled and said, "I've already done some calculations in my head. It will take us about three months if we work steadily."

  "Do we get time off for Sundays and holidays?" Rawlins asked.

  Everyone laughed, except for Renaud.

 
Rawlins's offbeat humor reminded Skye of Austin. How long had it been since she left the ship? She glanced at her watch and realized that only a few hours had elapsed. She had been eagerly looking forward to their date. She'd been entranced by the rugged profile, the pale, almost white hair, but it went beyond physical attraction. He was interesting, a study in contrasts. Austin had a quick sense of humor and he could be warm and gentle, but she detected diamond hardness behind the twinkle in those blue eyes. And, of course, there were those magnificent shoulders. She wouldn't be surprised if he could walk on the bottom of the sea.

  Her eyes shifted to Renaud, who was at the far end of the attractiveness spectrum. He sat on the other side of the tunnel, nursing his swollen hand. She frowned, thinking that the worst part of this whole affair was being entombed with an insect like Renaud. The thought depressed her, so she rose and walked to the staircase that led down to the main tunnel. Black water lapped over the top of the staircase. Not a chance of escape. She became depressed again.

  Looking for a diversion, she sloshed through puddles and climbed the ladder to the ice cave.

  The glacier was already starting to retake its lost territory. New ice had formed in jagged icicles where there was none before. The ice had thickened and the body was no longer visible in its tomb. The helmet was still in its container. She picked it up and held it under a light where she could see the etchings. They were intricate and finely executed. The work of a master. The design struck her as not being simply decorative. There was a rhythm to it, as if it were telling a story. The metal seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. She got a grip on her rampaging thoughts. Lack of air was making her imagine things. If only she had more time, she could figure it out. Damn that Renaud.

  She carried the helmet back into the tunnel. The walk in the thin air had exhausted her. She found a spot against the wall, propped the helmet beside her and sat down. The others had stopped talking. She could see their chests heaving as they sucked the anorexic air into their lungs. She found that she was doing the same, gulping like a fish out of water, but still not meeting the demands of her lungs. Her chin dropped, and she fell asleep.