The egg-shaped engine housing was about the size of an SUV and attached to the fuselage by metal struts. The spinning propeller was the height of two men. Austin grabbed onto a strut and pulled him- self onto the top of the nacelle. He could feel the vibration from the powerful engine through the soles of his boots. As the propeller picked up speed, it created a backwash, and he had to hold on tightly to prevent being blown off. He reached down to lend a hand to Zavala, who was still scrambling onto the engine housing, when the launch crew slacked the lines and the zeppelin began to rise. Zavala's legs dangled as he tried to get a foot up on the rounded side of the nacelle. Holding on with one hand, Austin used the considerable strength in his shoulders to give Zavala the lift he needed.
By then, the zeppelin was halfway to the roof. From their position atop the nacelle, they were shielded from eyes below. But the prop wash was picking up, and it was becoming harder to hold on to the slick, rounded surface. Austin looked up and saw a rectangular open- ing where the struts disappeared into the fuselage. He yelled at Zavala, but his words were blown away by the wind, so he simply pointed. Zavala answered, and although Austin couldn't hear his partner's reply, he was sure Joe was saying, “After you.”
Austin began to climb. The strut had been made with ladder rungs to allow an engineer access to the engine pod for midair repairs. With the prop turning and the zeppelin rising, the journey of several feet was the ultimate challenge. Austin's progress wasn't pretty, but he made it through the rectangular opening in the zeppelin's belly.
Once out of the main force of the prop wash, he hung on the lad- der and looked back. Zavala was right behind him. The zeppelin had risen through the top of the dome, and the doors in the roof were closing. The people in the dome looked to be the size of ants. By the time Zavala made it into the fuselage, the dome was closed completely. Having made their decision to stow away, he and Zavala had no other choice. They began to climb into the darkness.
NUMA 4 - White Death
37
THE NIETZSCHE WAS a miracle of aeronautical design. Twice as long as a Booing 747 Jumbo Jet, it had been built in an age before computers and space-age materials. The Nietzsche had been modeled after the Graf Zeppelin, the 776-foot-long silver cigar built in 1928 by airship pioneer Hugo Eckener, but innovations that would later be part of the Hindenburg had also been incorporated into the design. In the Graf, passenger quarters were behind the control room. But the Nietzsche had been designed with living space within the fuselage itself.
Once inside the fuselage, Austin and Zavala found themselves in a small room, after their perilous climb from the nacelle. Hanging on the wall were machinists' tools and spare parts and long black leather coats like those favored by aviators of a bygone era. The room was unheated, and the coats would come in handy for those who worked there. Austin tried a coat on and found that it fit.
“You look like the Red Baron,” Zavala said.
Austin slipped a leather cap down on his head. “I prefer to think of myself as a master of disguise.” Seeing the skepticism in his part- ner's face, Austin said: “Maybe you've noticed that we're somewhat different in appearance from the Eskimo gentlemen we've seen on this little adventure. If these ridiculous outfits give us a second's edge, they might be worth it.”
“The sacrifices I make for NUMA,” Zavala said, searching for a coat that fit him.
The room's single door opened onto a long corridor. The walls of the plushly carpeted passageway were decorated with fanciful scenes of men in top hats flying a variety of odd-shaped hot-air balloons and flying machines. Antique crystal lamps hung from the ceiling. At the end of the corridor was a passenger area of comfortably appointed staterooms, each with two berths and its own unique pattern of flow- ery wallpaper.
A short walk led to an elegant dining salon. There were about a dozen small rectangular tables, each covered with a white tablecloth, neatly creased napkins set in place. Two upholstered chairs with ma- hogany arms and legs were pulled slightly back from each table, as if guests were to arrive momentarily.
Tall curtained windows would have given the diners a God's-eye view of the world below. Next to the dining room was a lounge, complete with bar and bandstand, and a dance floor of highly pol- ished wood. Like the dining salon, the lounge was decorated in Art Deco motif. Geometric patterns prevailed. The wall behind the bar was an art gallery ofzeppelin photos.
The lounge was hushed except for the muted rumble of engines.
Zavala looked around in wonder. “This is like being on an old ocean liner.”
“Just pray that it isn't the Titanic,” Austin said.
Austin led the way toward a room furnished with leather sofas and chairs. His knowledge of German was limited, but he guessed that the sign on the wall designated the area as the smoking room. They left the room and followed another corridor that led to an expansive space that seemed to be a work area. They could see a large functional table illuminated by halogen lamps, computers and several chairs that were designed more for function than comfort. Part of the room was in shadow. Austin found a wall light switch and flicked it on. The entire room was flooded with light, and both men tensed when they discovered that they were not alone. Two figures stood against the far wall, and Zavala swore in Spanish. Out of the corner of his eye, Austin saw the shotgun coming to bear.
“Wait!” he said.
Zavala lowered the gun and smiled as he studied the figures. He was looking at the mummified bodies of two men, propped up on metal stands. They stood in a natural position, arms hanging down by their sides. Their skin was as dark as leather and stretched tightly against their skulls. The eye sockets were empty, but the faces were remarkably well preserved. Austin and Zavala moved in for a closer look.
Zavala said, “I don't think these guys are the Blues Brothers.”
“I don't think they're brothers at all. Judging from their clothing, I'd say they come from different eras.”
One man was dressed in a heavy shirt and leggings of coarse ma- terial. His dark hair hung down to his shoulders. The taller man had short blond hair and wore a pro-World War II leather coat, not unlike the ones Austin and Zavala were wearing. Hanging above the mummies was a large, ragged-edged piece of aluminum. The word Nietzsche was printed on it.
Next to the mummies was a glass display case like those found in museums. Inside the case were a Leica 35mm still camera and sev- eral lenses, a Zeiss movie camera, charts of the northern hemisphere and a leather-bound book. Austin opened the case and leafed through the pages of the book. It was filled with entries in German, stopping in 1935. He stuffed the book into his pocket. He was examining a dis- play of Eskimo harpoons and knives, when Zavala called him over.
“Kurt. You've got to see this.”
Zavala had wandered over to the long ebony chest that rested on a waist-high platform. On top of the chest was a horn that looked as if it had been made from an elephant's tusk. The instrument was studded with gems and banded in gold. Austin carefully removed the horn and handed it to Zavala, who marveled at the detail of the bat- tle scenes carved into the ivory.
Austin opened the chest and pushed back the lid. Lying on pur- ple velvet inside the chest was a sword in its scabbard. He lifted the leather scabbard from the chest and inspected the gold-clad hilt and hand guard. Set into the heavy triangular pommel was a huge ruby. The elaborate hand guard was etched with flowers. He mused at the incongruity of the beautiful decoration on a weapon with such deadly potential.
He hefted the two-edged sword, feeling the perfect balance, then gingerly drew the weapon from the scabbard. An electric thrill seemed to run through his arm. Could this be Durendal, the fabled weapon that Roland swung against the Saracens? The blade was chipped here and there. A picture flitted through his mind of Roland banging the sword against a stone so that it wouldn't fall into the hands of the enemy.
Zavala whistled. “That thing must be worth a fortune.” Austin thought about all the time and money Balthazar Aguirrez had
expended in his search for the object in his hand. “It's worth a lot more than that,” he said.
He removed his coat and buckled the scabbard around his waist. He took a few steps as an experiment and found that the scabbard slapped against his leg. The thick leather belt hindered access to his revolver holster as well. He tried another position, slipping the scab- bard belt over his shoulder so that the sword hung down by his left side. Then he got back into his coat.
“Planning to do some fencing?” Zavala said. “Maybe. You must admit it beats your army knife.” “My knife has a corkscrew,” Zavala reminded him. “What about the overgrown bugle?”
“We'd better put it back. I don't want to advertise the fact that I've absconded with the toothpick under my coat.”
They carefully replaced the horn the way it was found and moved to the other side of the room, where a map of the world was spread out on the worktable. Austin bent over the map and saw that coastal areas on all the continents were blocked out in red pen. Noted next to each red section was a date and a listing of various species offish. A large star marked the lake site where they had boarded the airship. He drew his finger from the star along a pencil line due east into the North Atlantic. The notation above the line was that day's date.
He straightened and said, “We've got to stop this ship before it gets to the Atlantic. This isn't a test run.”
“Fine with me. I might point out that this thing is almost a thou- sand feet long and full of heavily armed thugs who might have other ideas.”
"We don't have to take over the whole ship, just the control cabin.'
“Why didn't you say so? It's as good as done.”
“Think you can fly this old gasbag?”
“Can't be that hard,” Zavala said. “You hit the throttle and point the nose where you want to go.”
Despite the casual reply, Austin never doubted Zavala's words. His partner had hundreds of hours under his belt flying practically every aircraft built. Austin tried to picture where they were in the zeppelin. He guessed that they were about midway along the length of the great airship. If they kept moving forward and down, they would come to the control cabin.
They left the room and its strange museum display and followed a maze of passageways totally unlike those they had encountered when they first came aboard. Their surroundings were newer and more functional. They came to a set of stairs leading down. Austin thought they had come to the control cabin, but he changed his mind when his nose picked up a whiff of brine and fish. He was reminded uncomfortably of his first breath inside the Oceanus fish nursery in the Faroe Islands.
He hesitated at the top of the stairs, drew his Bowen, and slowly descended into the blackness below. His ears picked up the sound of motors and bubbling aerators, further convincing him that his fish- nursery theory was correct. He was about halfway down the stairs, when the lights went on and he saw that he had more than biofish to contend with.
Dr. Barker stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him, a cheerful smile on his thin face. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“Hello, Mr. Austin,” Barker said. "We've been expecting you.
Won't you join us?"
Any inclination to refuse Barker's offer was tempered by the sight of the stone-faced guards who surrounded the man, and the assault rifle muzzles pointed up the stairwell. The touch of a finger on even a single trigger would be enough to reduce Austin and Zavala to their basic molecules. Even more persuasive was the expression on the face of Barker's scarfaced henchman, who had tried on several occa- sions to kill Austin. His liver-colored lips were stretched in a wide grin that told Austin he was still the top target in the man's sights.
“I would be a fool to refuse such a warm invitation,” Austin said, as he descended the rest of the way.
"Now drop your guns and kick them over/' Barker said. Austin and Zavala did as they were told. The guards picked the weapons up. One man came over and frisked Zavala. Scarface stepped up to Austin and ran his hands roughly down the front of the leather coat.
“I'm going to enjoy watching you die,” he growled.
Durendal seemed to glow red hot against Austin's ribs. “I know a dentist who could do wonders for your teeth,” he said.
Scarface stopped his search and grabbed Austin's lapel in a chok- ing hold, only to back off at an order from Barker.
“That's no way to treat our guests,” Barker said. Turning to Joe, he said, “You're Mr. Zavala, I presume?”
Zavala's mouth turned up slightly at the ends, and the softness of his dark brown eyes couldn't disguise the contempt in his voice. “And you're Dr. Barker, the mad scientist, I presume. Kurt has told me a lot about you.”
“All good, I'm sure,” Barker said. He seemed amused as he glanced back to Austin. “Are you gentlemen on your way to a cos- tume ball?”
"Yes, as a matter of fact. If you don't mind, we'll be on our way/ Austin said.
“Don't run off so soon. You just got here.”
“If you insist. We'd like to lower our hands, if you don't mind.” “Go right ahead, but don't give my men an excuse to kill you on the spot.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Austin glanced around. “How did you know we were aboard, hidden surveillance cameras?”
“Nothing so sophisticated in this old relic. Purely as a safety meas- ure, we installed sensors around the ship. A light in the control cabin indicated a change in air temperature in the starboard engine- maintenance room. When we went to investigate, we found the hatch open. We thought it was an accident until we noticed that the coats were missing.”
“How careless of us.” “It's the kind of carelessness that can get you killed. That was a dangerous way to come aboard. If you wanted a tour, we would have been glad to accommodate you.”
“Maybe next time.”
“There won't be a next time.” Barker stepped forward and re- moved his sunglasses, revealing the pale eyes Austin had first seen at the Smithsonian reception. The irises were almost as white as the rest of his eyes and reminded Austin of a venomous snake he had once seen. “You and NUMA have caused me a great deal of trouble,” Barker said.
“Your troubles are just beginning,” Austin said.
“Brave words for someone in your position. But not unexpected. Umealiq was disappointed when you foiled his plans for you in Washington.”
“Umealiq?” said Zavala, who was hearing the name for the first time.
“That's Scarface's real name,” Austin said. “It supposedly means 'stone lance.' ”
Zavala's lips curled in a slight smile.
“You find something humorous in the situation?” Barker said. “That's funny,” Zavala said. “I thought it was Kiolyan for 'seal ma- nure/ ”
Scarface's hand went to the ivory knife at his belt, and he took a step forward. Barker stopped him with an outstretched arm. He gazed thoughtfully at the NUMA men.
“What do you know about the Kiolya?”
“I know that the Inuit consider you to be the scum of the Arctic,” Austin said.
Barker's bloodless face flushed scarlet. “The Inuit are in no posi- tion to judge. They have let the world think that the people of the north are nothing but a bunch of blubber-chewing caricatures who run around in furs and live in ice houses.”
Austin was pleased to see that he could get under Barker's cold skin. “I've heard the Kiolyan women smell like rancid whale blub- ber,” he said.
Zavala sensed the opening and joined in. “Actually, they smell worse,” he said. “That's why these goons prefer their own male com- pany.”
“Insult us all you want,” Barker said. “Your feeble repartee is the ranting of the doomed. My men are a brotherhood, like the warrior monks of the past.”
Austin's mind was racing madly. Barker was right. He and Joe could summon up every insult possible, but they were still two un- armed men against several well-armed guards. He would have to try to change the equation. It took some willpower to do so, but he ya
wned and said, “What about that tour you promised?”
“How rude of me to forget.”
Barker led the way onto a raised catwalk running down the mid- dle of the chamber. The sound of bubbling water came from both sides, but the source of the noise was hidden by darkness. Barker re- placed the sunglasses on his head and gave an order to one of his men. A second later, the chamber was flooded in a blue light that came from fish tanks on both sides and a couple of feet below the catwalk. The tanks were flush to the floor and were covered with sliding transparent plastic lids that allowed a view of the huge fish swim- ming inside.
“You look puzzled, Mr. Austin.”
“Another miscalculation on my part. I thought your fish were being held at your coastal operation where they would have access to salt water.”
“These are no ordinary fish,” Barker said with pride in his voice. “They are designed to survive in salt or fresh water. The seed fish are improvements on the models I developed with Dr. Throckmorton. They are slightly larger and more aggressive than ordinary fish. Per- fect breeding machines. The airship will fly within feet of the ocean's surface, and they will slide down special chutes built into the belly of the zeppelin.” He spread his arms the way he had done at his pep rally. “Behold my creations. Soon, these beautiful creatures will be swimming in the sea.”
“Where your monsters will create incredible havoc,” Austin said.
“Monsters? I think not. I've simply used my genetic-engineering skills to produce a better commercial product. There's nothing ille- gal about it.”
“Murder is illegal.” “Spare us your pitiful indignation. There were many casualties before you came onto the scene. There will be many more obstacles to be removed.” He crossed to the tanks on the other side of the fish hold. “These are my special pets. I wanted to see how large and hun- gry I could make an ordinary fish. They are too aggressive for breed- ing purposes. They are separated by sluice gates now so they don't at- tack each other.”