“Where’s your delivery system?” he said.
“I think I see it coming in now,” Austin said.
Contos looked out at the lake, and his eyes grew wider as the old-fashioned paddle-wheel tour boat made its way in their direction. The vessel was painted red, white, and blue and decorated with bunting and fluttering flags.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “You’re going to launch from that? It looks like a waterborne wedding cake.”
“It is pretty festive. The old girl makes the trip from one end of the lake to the other every day. No one gives it a second look anymore. It’s the perfect cover for a covert operation, don’t you think, Joe?”
“I’ve heard they serve a pretty good breakfast aboard,” Zavala said with a straight face.
Contos stared grimly at the approaching vessel. Then, without warning, he wheeled about and headed for the parking lot.
“Hey, captain, where are you going?” Austin called after him.
“Back to the truck to get my banjo.”
36
FRANCESCA STOOD ON the deck of the Viking ship taking in its long, sweeping lines, its graceful, upturned bow and stern, the painted square sail. Even with the thick planking and massive keel it seemed almost delicate in its construction. She looked around at the huge chamber, with its vaulted ceiling, the flaming torches, and high stone walls hung with medieval weapons, and she wondered how anything so beautiful could be in a setting so bizarre and ugly.
Standing by the tiller, Brynhild Sigurd mistook Francesca’s silence for appreciative awe.
“It’s a masterpiece, isn’t it? The Norsemen called this a skuta when they built the original nearly two thousand years ago. It was not the biggest of their boats, like the dragon ship, but it was the fastest. I have had her duplicated in every way, from the oak planking to the spun cow’s hair that was used as caulking. She is more than seventy-nine feet long and sixteen feet wide. The original is in Oslo, Norway. An earlier replica actually sailed across the Atlantic. You must be wondering why I went through the trouble to have her built and placed in the great hall.”
“Some people collect old stamps, others old cars. There’s no accounting for tastes.”
“This goes beyond a collector’s whim.” Brynhild took her hand off the tiller and came over to stand before Francesca, who shuddered at their physical proximity. Although Brynhild’s towering body was hard and muscular, the menace she projected went beyond the physical. She seemed capable of reaching up and wringing the power from a lightning bolt. “I chose this ship as the symbol of my vast holdings because it embodies the Viking spirit. It was sailed by those who seized what they wanted. I come here often for inspiration. So shall it be with you, Dr. Cabral. Come, I will show you where you will be working.”
Francesca had been escorted back to Brynhild’s aerie after the brief visit with Gamay. Brynhild had led the way through a bewildering maze of passageways that reminded Francesca of being on a cruise ship. They were unguarded at all times, but the thought of escape never crossed Francesca’s mind. Even if she were able to disable the giant woman, an unlikely prospect, she would have become lost in minutes. And she suspected the guards were not far away.
Now they got into an elevator that dropped with knee-bending swiftness. The door opened on a room where a monorail car awaited. Brynhild motioned for Francesca to get into the front, then got in the back, sitting in a space especially made for her tall form. Their weight activated the accelerator. The tram went through an opening and sped along a lighted tunnel. When it seemed the car would go rocketing out of control the computers controlling its speed decelerated it to a comfortable stop in a room very much like the one they had just left.
This room, too, had an elevator, but unlike the more conventional box on a cable, its transparent plastic walls were egg-shaped. There were seats for four people of ordinary stature. The door hissed shut, and the elevator passed through blackness, then descended into a deep blue. Watching the fluid interplay of light and shadow through the transparent walls, Francesca realized they were sinking into water. The blue became darker until, all at once, it was as if they were caught in the beam of a searchlight.
The door opened, and they stepped out. Francesca could hardly believe her eyes. They were in a brightly lit, circular space hundreds of feet across. A curving roof arched overhead. The exact size of the room was difficult to estimate because it was filled with thick pipes, coils, and vats of all sizes. A dozen or so white-frocked technicians moved quietly among the conduits and tanks or were bent over computer monitors.
“Well, what do you think?” Brynhild said with obvious pride.
“It’s incredible.” The awe in her voice was real. “Where are we, at the bottom of the sea?”
The giantess smiled. “This is where you’ll do your work. Come, I’ll show you around.”
Francesca’s scientific mind quickly made order out of her chaotic first impression. Although the pipes went off at different angles, there was definitely a scientific organization to the madness. No matter which way the pipes went, they eventually led toward the center of the room.
“This controls the various conditions that affect the core material,” Brynhild said, pointing to the blinking lights on a control board. “This underwater facility stands on four legs. Two of the support legs double as intake pipes, and the other two as outflow. Since we are on a fresh body of water, we first infuse the liquid we pump in with salt and sea minerals from those containers. It is indistinguishable from actual seawater.”
They walked toward the center of the chamber. It was occupied by a massive cylindrical tank some twenty feet across and ten feet high.
“This must contain the anasazium,” Francesca said.
“That’s right. The water is circulated around the core, then returned to the lake through the other two supports.”
They walked back to the master control console.
“Well, how close are we to duplicating the Cabral process?”
Francesca examined the gauges. “Refrigeration, electrical current, heat monitoring, all good. You were close, very close.”
“We have subjected the anasazium to heat, cold, and electrical current, but with only limited success.”
“I’m not surprised. The sonic component is missing.”
“Of course. Sound vibrations.”
“You have the right idea, but the process won’t work unless the material is subjected to a certain level of sound waves in concert with the other forces. It’s like removing the cello from a string quartet.”
“Ingenious. How did you come up with that technique?”
“It was simply a matter of thinking in unconventional terms. As you know, there have been three main methods of desalting before this. In electrodialysis and reverse osmosis, electrified water passes through membranes that remove the salt. The third method is distillation, which evaporates the water the way the sun’s heat turns the ocean to vapor. All require tremendous expenditures of energy that made the cost of desalting prohibitive. My method changes molecular and atomic structure. In the process it creates energy and becomes self-sustaining. The combination of forces must be exactly right. The process won’t work if it is off by a hair.”
“Now that you’ve seen it, how long do you think it would take to modify this facility to your standards?”
She shrugged. “A week.”
“Three days,” Brynhild said flatly.
“Why the time limit?”
“The Gogstad board of directors is due to meet here. I am bringing people in from all parts of the world. I want to give them a demonstration of your process. Once they have seen it work they will go home and we can implement the greater plan.”
Francesca thought about it a moment and said, “I can have it working for you within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s quite a difference from a week.”
“I work faster with incentive. There is a price.”
“You’re in no positio
n to bargain.”
“I realize that. But I want you to let your prisoner go. She was drugged. She has no idea where she is or how she got here. She could never identify or cause you any trouble. You keep her prisoner to make sure I make this plant work. Once the process is working you have no need of her.”
“Agreed,” Brynhild said. “I will let her go as soon as you show me the first ounce of pure water.”
“What guarantees can you give me that you will stand by your word?”
“None. But you have no alternative.”
Francesca nodded. “I will need certain equipment and unquestioning assistance.”
“Anything you want,” Brynhild said. She waved over several technicians. “Dr. Cabral is to have whatever she requests, do you understand?” She barked an order, and another technician came over carrying a battered aluminum suitcase. Brynhild took it from the man and handed it to Francesca. “I believe this belongs to you. We found it at your friends’ house. I must leave you now. Call when you are about to run a test.”
As Francesca ran her hand lovingly over the suitcase that contained the original working model for her process, Brynhild strode off toward the elevator. Within minutes she was back in her turret room. She had summoned the Kradzik brothers on a portable phone, and they were waiting for her when she returned.
“After all these years of waiting and disappointments, the Cabral process will soon be ours,” she announced with triumph.
“How long?” one of the twins asked.
“It should be up and running within twenty-four hours.”
“No,” said the other twin, the light glittering on his metal teeth. “How long before we can have the women to play with?”
She should have known. The brothers were programmed like malevolent computers to carry out torture and murder. Brynhild had no intention of letting Francesca live after she had delivered the process. Part of her treachery stemmed from her envy of Francesca’s scientific prowess and beauty. Part was pure vindictiveness. The Brazilian woman had cost her in time and money. She had nothing in particular against Gamay. Brynhild simply didn’t like loose ends.
Her smile brought the already low temperature in the room down another ten degrees.
“Soon,” she said.
37
THE NIGHT SHIFT GUARD was having a cigarette at the end of the Valhalla pier when his relief man arrived and asked for a report. The swarthy ex-Marine squinted out at the sun-sparkled lake and flicked the butt into the water. “It’s been busier’n a one-legged man at a kick-ass contest,” he replied in an Alabama drawl. “Choppers coming and going all night.”
The relief guard, a former Green Beret, looked up at the whup-whup sound of an approaching helicopter. “Looks like more guests are arriving.”
“What’s going on?” the Alabaman said. “I don’t hear much working nights and sleeping days.”
“Bunch of big shots are coming in for a meeting. We got the full crew on, and security around the compound’s tight as a tick’s ass.” He glanced toward the lake. “There’s the ol’ Tahoe Queen, right on time.”
He brought his binoculars up and focused on the stern wheeler as it crawled toward the north end of the lake. The Tahoe Queen looked like something out of Showboat. The boat was painted white, like vanilla frosting, with light blue trim that marked the divide between the enclosed first and second decks. Two tall black smokestacks were located at the front. The paddle wheels that churned up the placid lake water and gave the boat its forward motion were painted fire-engine red. The top deck rail was overhung with red, white, and blue bunting. Flags fluttered in the breeze.
“Hmm,” the guard said, surveying the deck. “Not many tourists aboard today.”
The guard would have been less sanguine if he knew the same coral-green eyes that had scrutinized him the day before from the parasail were watching him again. Austin stood inside the pilothouse that was perched like a cigar box on the top forward deck. He was studying the guards and assessing their state of alertness. Austin could see that the men were armed, but their lackadaisical posture suggested a bored attitude.
The boat’s captain, a weathered lake veteran from Emerald Bay, was at the helm. “Want me to drop the Queen’s speed down a couple of knots?” the captain asked.
The paddle wheeler was a charming anachronism built more for comfort than for speed. Any slower and it would stop, Austin thought. “I’d keep it steady, captain. Launch shouldn’t be a problem.” He checked out the pier again and saw that one of the guards was leaving and the other ducked into the shade of a shelter. Austin hoped the man would take a nap.
He extended his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation, captain. Hope we didn’t disappoint your regular customers by chartering your boat at the last minute.”
“I just drive this old girl back and forth no matter who’s on it. Besides, this is a lot more exciting than a boatload of daytrippers.”
The captain’s excitement had come at a price. The boat line was reluctant to lose a day’s revenue, and it took deep pockets and high-level calls from Washington to persuade it to charter the paddle wheeler for official business.
“Glad to help make your day,” Austin said. “Got to go. Just keep steaming after you drop us off.”
“How will you get back?”
“We’re working on that,” Austin said with a grin.
Austin left the pilothouse and descended to the spacious salon on the lowest deck. On a normal day the salon would be crowded with tourists eating and drinking as they took in the magnificent scenery. Only two people were in the salon, Joe and Paul. Zavala was already in his black-hooded Viking Pro military dry suit, and Trout was going over a checklist. Austin lost no time suiting up. Then he and Zavala went through an opening in the side of the boat that was used to let passengers on and off.
They would have stepped directly into the lake if not for a wooden platform slung alongside the stern wheeler. The raft floated on ocean salvage tubes, elongated pontoons made of tough nylon fabric and capable of lifting several tons of weight. The assembly had been cobbled together in the late hours of the morning. Contos was on the raft making sure they hadn’t made any major mistakes in hastily putting the thing together.
“How’s she look?” Austin said.
“Not quite as good as the one Huckleberry Finn used on the Mississippi,” Contos said with a shake of his head. “But she’ll do in a pinch, I think.”
“Thanks for your unqualified endorsement of our building skills,” Zavala said.
As he stepped off the raft, Contos rolled his eyes. “Look guys, please try not to lose the SeaBus. It’s tough as hell to run a test program without something to test.”
Without its protective covering, the SeaBus looked like a fat plastic sausage. It was a small workhorse version of a tourist sub working in Florida, designed to take crews to and from underwater jobs of moderate depth. It carried up to six passengers and their gear in a transparent pressure hull of acrylic plastic. The hull rested on fat, round skids that carried the hard ballast, trim, drop weights, and thrusters. Higher on the sides were additional ballast tanks and compressed air containers. The external structures were attached to the pressure hull by a tough ring frame. The two-seat cockpit was at the front. In the aft section was the electrical, hydraulic, and mechanical heart of the sub and an airlock that allowed divers to go in and out while the SeaBus was submerged.
Trout stuck his head out of the stern wheeler. “We’re coming up on target,” he said, checking his watch. “Three minutes to launch.”
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Austin said. “How about you, Paul?”
“Finest kind, cap,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Trout was far from fine. Despite his stolid Yankee façade, he was worried about Gamay and desperately wanted to go on the mission. He knew that with his bad arm he would just get in the way. Austin convinced Trout that they needed someone with a level head above water to call in the troops in case the s
ituation got dicey.
A crane had been brought in to lift the submersible from the truck onto the raft. The stern wheeler left early in the morning before the waterfront got busy. The boat hunkered offshore until it was time to make its usual crossing. Even with its heavy load the raft pitched and yawed as it was towed along. Austin and Zavala had to brace themselves as they knelt at the rear, each man above one of the lift bags. On signal they simultaneously stabbed the rubber pontoons with their dive knives. The air shot out in a loud hiss that rapidly turned to a flatulent bubbling. Squeezed between the water and the raft, the pontoons rapidly deflated. As the back of the raft settled into the water, they unhooked the tie lines securing the SeaBus. Then they scrambled through the aft hatch, made sure all was tight, and settled into the cockpit.
The front of the raft tilted upward at an angle. Then, as the lift bags deflated, it leveled out and began to sink. It was a primitive launching system for such a sophisticated craft, but it worked. The SeaBus maintained its buoyancy as the raft sank and was pulled out by the forward motion of the paddle wheeler. The submersible danced in the larger boat’s wake and sank into the foam kicked up by the stern paddles. As they gained depth the water changed from blue-green to blue-black.
Austin adjusted the ballast, and the sub attained neutral buoyancy at fifty feet. The battery-driven motors whined as Zavala goosed the throttle and pointed the submersible toward shore. They were lucky to have no current pushing against the round, almost blunt bow of the submersible and could keep it at a steady ten knots. Within half an hour they had covered the five miles to land.
As Zavala steered, Austin consulted the sonar screen. The rocky shore continued its vertical drop into the water for more than a hundred feet before jutting out in a wide ledge. The sonar picked up an extremely large object resting on the ledge directly under the floating pier. Moments later they looked up and saw the long shape of the pier and its floats silhouetted against the shimmer of surface light. Austin hoped his earlier assessment was correct, that the guard was too numb from boredom to notice any disturbance the submersible might cause. Zavala took the SeaBus down in a shallow spiral while Austin alternated between radar and visual checks.