Lost City

by Clive Cussler

  The guards swept the oncoming vehicle with automatic gunfire. Two of the creatures dropped off the hood and rolled on the ground, splitting the night with their fearful screams, but the others hung on. The car made a violent turn, went out of control, and smashed broadside into the guardhouse. The impact dislodged the creatures, and the driver's door flew open. Colonel Strega emerged from the driver's side, pistol in hand. His razor-creased uniform way bloodstained and in tatters. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds to his head and body.

  He staggered a few feet and fired off a wild round that killed one of the attackers, but before he could get off another shot the remaining creatures knocked the colonel to the ground. Trout could see his arms and legs flailing from under the thrashing bodies that swarmed over him and then the colonel stiffened and went still. The creatures dragged what was left of him into the shadows. The two guards had had enough. They fired a few shots, killing one or two of the creatures, and ran for their lives with a pack of red-eyed demons on their heels.

  Trout rallied Gamay and the others and led them out into the open, stepping past the twitching bodies to the Mercedes. He got behind the wheel and threw the shift into reverse, but the vehicle was hung up on the wreckage of the guardhouse. He instructed the scientists to push and pull, and after a lot of grunts, the wheels were clear and they all piled into the convertible.

  Trout practically stood on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward and smashed through the gates as if they didn't exist and barreled along the road that would take them to the sea, and what Trout hoped was freedom.

  32

  THE NEWEST ADDITION to the NUMA fleet began to spout leaks within minutes of clearing the harbor. The transition from virtually flat calm to seas of two feet in open water was not a severe change, but it was enough to open seams in the boat's elderly hull. Austin, who was at the helm, noticed that the wheel was responding sluggishly and that the boat was settling. He clicked the bilge pump switch, but the motor refused to start.

  "They should have named this boat the Busted Flush," Austin grumbled.

  "I'll check it out," Zavala said. At the heart of every brilliant engineer is a mechanic, and Zavala was no different. He was happiest when getting his fingers into grease. He slipped below through a deck hatch, and after a minute or two yelled up to Austin, "Try again." The pump started with a series of chortles and gasps. When he emerged, he looked like a dipstick, but he had a smile on his oil-smeared face.

  "Engine repair 101. When all else fails, look for a loose wire," he said.

  The repair hadn't come a minute too soon. The boat was listing as if it had a flat tire. But the bilge pump worked heroically, keeping ahead of the leaks, and after a few minutes the Spooter got back on an even keel, more or less, and continued on its heading.

  By then, Austin had discovered that when the Spooter wasn't sinking it handled quite well. The creeler was built for local conditions and its graceful, raised bow cut through the washboard sea as easily as a canoe on a pond. With a wind at their back, and the engine chugging along and only missing occasionally, they made good time across the bay.

  Austin gave the radar screen a glance and saw that they were on course. He squinted through the spray-streaked windshield but saw only blackness. While Zavala took the helm, he stepped outside the wheelhouse. The cold damp air hit him in the face. He sensed rather than saw a dark mass rising from the darker sea. He went back into the warm wheelhouse.

  "The island should be dead ahead," he said.

  The boat chugged through the night, and before long the looming presence Austin had sensed earlier began to assume an outline. The island's silhouette was clearly visible against the blue-black of the sky. Austin moved the wheel over slightly to starboard and sheared off a few compass points. Odds were good that the boat had been under surveillance for some time and he wanted to create the impression for any watchers that the Spooter was going around the island.

  The AUV's electronic eyes and ears would be less easy to fool with a feint. But it would not be impossible. Austin had studied the images on the satellite photos taken over several hours and he had computed the vehicle's timing, well aware that the formula was subject to natural and human vagaries. He had tracked the vehicle's position and figured the AUV's schedule. Periodically, the AUV went back to recharge its batteries.

  He checked the time. The AUV should be on the far side of the island. Hoping to come in under the radar, he eased the wheel over, moving the boat closer to the sea cliffs, and prayed that his computations were right.

  The command center that protected the security of the island from nosy outsiders was housed in a squat, flat-roof, cinder-block building situated at the mouth of the inlet. Fifty percent of the building was crammed with electronic surveillance equipment. The other half served as a barracks for the twelve guards who manned the post.

  The contingent had been broken up into four-man teams that worked three shifts. During the day, three guards patrolled the perimeter of the island by boat, while the fourth man stayed in the command center.

  At night the routine changed. The patrol boat stayed on shore during the graveyard shift because the dangerous knife-edged rocks that lurked in the waters around the island were tricky to navigate in the dark. The boat was kept on standby, ready to respond if the AUV or radar picked up intruders. The night crew took turns recharging the AUV from an electrical station on the deck. The radar operator had seen the blip on his screen long before the boat approached the island and had watched it change course and come nearer.

  The radar man was a German mercenary named Max. From experience, he knew that fishing boats rarely went out at night, but he relaxed when the blip moved past the island. He lit up a cigarette and leafed through the well-turned pages of a skin magazine for a few minutes, and then his eyes drifted back to the screen. It was blank. He let out a curse, mashed the cigarette into an ashtray and leaned forward, his nose practically touching the screen. He even tapped the glass with his knuckles as if it would do some good.

  Still no sign of the target. The boat must have entered the radar's blind spot along the base of the cliffs while he was studying female anatomy. It was an annoyance, but not a catastrophe. There was still the AUV. He turned to another monitor that kept tabs on the AUV. As it made its rounds, the vehicle bounced signals off a series of floating transponders that ringed the island. The transponders relayed the hits to the command center, and the vehicle's location could be pinpointed at any time along its route.

  The vehicle was twelve feet long, flat and wide, a combination of a manta and a shark in shape, and topped with a tall dorsal fin. One of the guards had said the menacing profile reminded him of his former mother-in-law, whose name was Gertrude, and the name had stuck. Gertrude cruised a few feet below the surface, its sonar scanning the water for one hundred feet on each side. Its TV cameras took in the underwater scene.

  Commands could be transmitted back to the AUV as well. This was an invaluable asset, given the vehicle's dual function as an underwater watchdog and weapons carrier. The AUV carried four miniature torpedoes, each with the power to sink a destroyer.

  Max commanded Gertrude to return at top speed to the area where he had last seen the boat. Then he punched an intercom button.

  "Sorry to break up your game, boys," he said into the microphone.

  "We've got a boat inside the security zone."

  The boat crew had been playing poker in the barracks when the wall speaker crackled with the news of an intruder. Two of the men were former French Legionnaires and the other a South African mercenary. The South African threw his cards down in disgust and went over to the intercom.

  "Where's the target?"

  "It entered the security perimeter on the north side, then slipped into the radar blind spot. I've sent Gertrude over to sniff around."

  "What the hell," the mercenary said. "My luck stinks tonight."

  The three men pulled on their jackets and boots and grabbed their compact FAMA
S assault rifles. A moment later they trotted to the end of the fog-draped pier and climbed into a thirty-foot rigid inflatable boat. The twin diesels roared to life. The crew cast off the mooring lines, and before long the water jet system was kicking the boat along at nearly forty knots.

  The boat had barely been at sea for a few minutes when the man in the command center reported that the target had reappeared on radar outside the mouth of the inlet. He guided the patrol boat to the target and watched as the two blips merged on the screen.

  While two guards stood ready to blast anything that moved, the helmsman brought the patrol boat in close, until its spotlight could pick out every square inch of peeling paint. The South African lowered his rifle and began to laugh. The others joined in.

  "Spooter," he said. "We broke up our poker game for a Spooter?"

  "What are you complaining about? You were losing your ass."

  They roared with laughter again.

  "Better board the old scow," the helmsman said.

  The guards were all trained military men who didn't let their amusement get in the way of their caution. Their levity ended and their training came into play. The patrol boat edged up to the creeler and two men went aboard with weapons drawn while the other covered them with his rifle. They checked out the deserted wheelhouse, opened the hatch and looked below.

  "Nothing," one of the mercenaries called back to the man on the boat. He leaned against the rail and lit up a cigarette.

  His companion said, "I wouldn't perch there for too long, if I were you."

  "Hell," said the other man. "Who died and made you king?"

  The Legionnaire grinned and climbed back onto the patrol boat. "Suit yourself," he said. "Don't get your feet wet."

  The South African looked at his boots. Water was rapidly flowing from the engine hatch and flooding the deck. The boat was sinking. He let out a yell, which got his colleagues laughing. The helmsman pulled the patrol boat off a few yards, as if he were leaving his companion to his own devices, but he came back when the South African gave forth with a string of curses in Afrikaans.

  The South African practically fell into the patrol boat, then he and the others watched as the water reached the gunwales. Then only the mast was visible and a few minutes later that was gone and the only evidence of a boat was a patch of bubbling water.

  "Okay, so you bastards had a little joke," said the South African.

  "Let's go back and break open another bottle."

  The helmsman got on the radio and reported to the command center.

  "Doesn't make sense," the radar man said. "That thing was moving on a straight-line course when I picked it up on the radar."

  "You been drinking?"

  "Of course I've been drinking."

  The shore patrol had been celebrating after hearing scuttlebutt from the guards at the complex that they might be closing down the island's operation.

  "That explains it."

  "But…."

  "Currents are strong around the bloody island. She could have been caught up."

  "I guess so," Max said.

  "Can't help you there, mate. She's deep-sixed. We're coming in."

  The voice from the command center said, "Watch out for Gertrude. She's in the area."

  Seconds later, the huge fin cut the water near the boat. The men on the patrol boat were used to seeing Gertrude, but they had never felt comfortable when the AUV was in the area. They were nervous about its destructive potential and the fact that it operated largely on its own. The AUV stopped fifty feet away. It was matching the sound profile of the patrol boat with the information stored in its database.

  "Make damned sure she's not armed."

  Laughter. "I'll have the fish check around."

  "You do that. We're getting the hell out of here."

  The diesel engines rumbled, and the boat did a banking turn and headed back to its dock.

  The fin went back and forth for several minutes, following parallel lines in a mow-the-lawn search pattern. The probing sonar picked up the fishing boat now lying on the bottom and transmitted a picture. The radar man watched the screen for several minutes and then commanded the AUV to resume its normal patrol.

  Moments after the AUV moved off, two figures emerged from the cabin of the sunken boat. With strong rhythmic kicks that ate up the distance, they began to swim in the direction of the island.

  33

  TROUT HAD MASHED the accelerator to the floor after he blasted Strega's Mercedes through the compound gate. MacLean, who was in the passenger's seat with Gamay between them, had been staring at the speedometer as the car hurtled through the pass.

  "Dr. Trout!" he said in a voice that was calm but assertive. "There's a sharp turn in the road ahead. If you don't slow down, we'll have to sprout wings."

  Gamay put a hand on her husband's arm.

  Trout glanced at the speedometer. They were doing more than seventy miles per hour. He pumped the brakes and switched the headlights on in time to see that the turn was more than sharp; it was angular. Off to the right was a drop-off with no guardrail.

  The tires skidded close to the ragged edge of the cliff, but the Mercedes stayed on the road, which straightened and began a gradual descent. Trout let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel one finger at a time.

  "Thanks for the warning, Mac."

  MacLean compressed his lips in a tight smile. "I wouldn't want us to get stopped for speeding."

  Trout glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of arms and legs in the backseat.

  "Is everyone still with us?" he asked.

  "We're not going anywhere unless you pry us out with a crowbar," Sandy said.

  Trout allowed himself the luxury of a hearty laugh. In spite of his outer calm, he was wound as tight as a clock spring. MacLean's composed demeanor brought Trout back down to earth. The adrenaline pumping through his veins had helped him pull off the escape from the compound, but if they were to survive, he needed to be cool and deliberate. The road continued to descend until it was at sea level and ended at a junction with two roads.

  Trout brought the Mercedes to a halt and pointed to the road on the left. "Is this the way we came in?"

  "That's right," MacLean said. "The road runs along the edge of the inlet to the submarine pen. There's a garrison and guards' quarters there. If we turn right, we'll come to the mouth of the harbor. There's a command center and a dock there for the boat patrols."

  Trout said, "You've done your homework."

  "You're not the only one who's tried to figure out how to get off this blasted rock."

  "Seems like a pretty clear choice. The patrol boat could be our ticket off the island."

  "I agree," Gamay said. "Besides, if we're going to stir up a hornet's nest, the fewer hornets the better."

  Trout nodded and wheeled the Mercedes to the right. The road ran for another half mile alongside a beach that bordered the inlet. He saw lights glowing in the distance and pulled off the road. He told the others where he was going and suggested that they get out and stretch, but to stay near the car. Then he started walking. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea and it felt good to be out of the compound. He had no illusions. His freedom was as ephemeral as the waves lapping the beach.

  Trout saw that the lights were coming from a concrete-block building. The window shades were down. He gave the building a wide berth and kept on going until he came to a wooden pier that jutted out into the water. There was no patrol boat. Not even a rowboat. The cool breeze from off the sea was nothing to the cold he felt in the pit of his stomach. He trudged back to the Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel.

  "The patrol boat is gone," he announced. "We can wait and hope it comes back, but once the sun comes up, all bets are off. I suggest that we scout out the submarine pen."

  "It's the last place they'd expect us to be," Gamay said in support.

  "It's the last place I'd expect us to be," MacLean said. "We're not w
hat one would call a Special Forces contingent."

  "There were only a hundred or so misfits at the Alamo."

  "I know my American history, Paul. The Alamo defenders were massacred. And don't tell me about the Scots at Culloden. They were massacred, too."

  Trout grinned. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

  "That's something I can understand. But I'm still not clear what measures you have in mind."

  "I'll try to get aboard the sub and look for a radio. If that doesn't work, I'll figure out something else."

  "I believe you will," MacLean said, examining Trout as if he were an interesting lab specimen. "You're a very resourceful man for a deep-ocean geologist."

  "I try to be," Trout said, and turned the ignition key.

  He drove the vehicle along the edge of the inlet until he came to the abandoned church and cemetery. He parked behind the ruined building and told the others to sit tight. Gamay insisted on going with him this time. They followed a gravel road that led to where the inlet narrowed to a rounded point.

  Floodlights lit the perimeter around the barracks. The Trouts went to within a hundred feet or so of the barracks and studied the layout. The building was situated near the edge of the cliff with an observation platform cantilevered out over the inlet from the main structure. An enclosed ladder led down from the underside of the platform.

  "Let's check out that ladder," he said.

  "I don't think we'll have to worry. It sounds like a Klingon stag party is in progress," Gamay said.

  Like the men in the compound, the sub guards must have learned that their duty was about to come to an end because a similar drunken celebration was under way in the guardhouse. Apparently, they hadn't learned the fate of their comrades in the lab compound area.

  Gamay and Trout moved in until they were under the platform. The ladder dropped off the edge of the bluff. They climbed down the face of the cliff onto a narrow metal catwalk that was built a few feet above water level and followed a line of ankle-high lights into the yawning entrance of the sub pen.