“Then we're stumped.”
“Not exactly.” Jenkins brought the wave profile back onto the computer screen. “I've put together a simulation of our wave. It's pretty crude. Even with the best information, wave calculations can be complicated. You've got to factor in stuff like velocity, wave height and destructive force. Then you've got all the coastal features that cause a wave to deflect or diffract. You've got to calculate the effects of backwash from following waves.”
“Sounds impossible.”
“It nearly is. But not totally. A few years ago, scientists used computer-based mathematical modeling techniques to solve the demise of the civilization on Crete. Look, this is a map chart of the Maine coast. That's the harbor. The hardest hit was several miles from here, where some fishermen saw waves breaking over Newcomb's Rocks.”
The chief whistled. “Those cliffs must be fifty feet high.” Jenkins nodded and indicated the chart on the screen. An arrow pointed toward the land. “The main wave force was just to the north of here, so even with my warning, things could have been worse here at the cove. I don't even know if this house would have been safe.”
The chief went pale. “That would have been the whole town.”
Jenkins leaned forward and peered at the computer. “This is amazing. Look at how straight it came in. Almost like a child creating a wave in a bathtub.”
The chief tapped the screen. “Is this where it started?”
“Yeah. It's only an estimate built on circumstantial evidence.”
“I took a course in accident reconstruction. It's amazing what you can tell about speed and impact from skid marks and broken headlights.”
“I'm pretty confident that it originated about a hundred and fifty miles to the east.”
“What are you going to do now?” Jenkins's shoulders ached from tension. “First I'm going to brew up some tea. Then we're going to have us a slam-bang game of chess.”
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-13- THE BLACK SEA
As THE FISHING boat Turgut approached the Russian coast, Austin swept the deserted shoreline through the lenses of his Fujinon gyro-stabilized binoculars, alert to any feature out of sync with its surroundings. The barren coast seemed peaceful. Wind and tide had scrubbed the sand clean of footprints. Green tufts of new growth sprouted in the fire-blackened patches of dune grass. It was hard to imagine the deadly game he had played over this tranquil setting only days before.
The beach was about a mile wide, flanked by two headlands like the arms of a sofa. Except for the cliff sculpted by wind and sea into the sharp profile of an old man, the shoreline was unremarkable. A misty curtain hung over the dunes. Austin remembered that the land hidden behind the grassy ridge sloped down to the abandoned buildings, then flattened out in a scraggly plain edged by woods, gradually rising to low rolling hills.
A smell like burning rope assaulted Austin's nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he lowered the Stabiscope and turned to see Captain Kemal. The captain removed the twisted black cigar from between his tobacco-stained teeth and jabbed it toward the shore.
“How does it look, Mr. Austin?”
“As quiet as a grave, Captain.”
“I don't think I like it quiet like that.” He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his crooked nose. “When I smuggled, I never liked a beach that was calm like this. Not even birds flying. You sure you want to go there now?”
“Unfortunately, we don't have much choice. I was hoping the fog would burn off, though.”
Kemal squinted toward shore. “Another hour. Two, maybe.”
“That's too long. We'll move soon.”
The captain waved his cigar in the air, discharging a shower of sparks. “The men are ready when you say.”
Austin nodded, thinking about the conversation he'd had with Kemal on the trip from Istanbul. Austin had asked the captain if he knew the Russian sailor who'd sold Kaela Dorn the map that led her to the sub base.
“His name is Valentin,” the captain had replied, with no hesitation. “The other fishermen use him when they need an extra hand. Miss Dorn paid him too much money for this big 'secret,' ” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “All the fishermen know about the submarines.”
“People knew there was a base here?”
“Sure.” Kemal's thin lips had widened in a knowing grin. “Fishermen know everything. We watch the weather, the water, birds, other boats.” He tapped the corner of an eye with his forefinger. “If you don't keep a lookout, you're going to be in trouble.”
Kemal's revelation was no surprise to Austin. He often worked with fishermen on NUMA assignments and found them to be keen observers of conditions under, on and above the sea. A fisherman had to be a combination biologist, meteorologist, mechanic and mariner. Their livelihood, their very lives, depended on their store of practical knowledge. As a former smuggler, Kemal would have been more vigilant than the average fisherman.
“How long did you fish these waters?” Austin asked.
“Many years. In the old days, you would see many boats from allover. Turkish, Russian, sometimes even Bulgarian. The fishing is good. Big schools of bonito come in close to feed. Nobody bothers us. Then one day the Russians come with patrol boats and men with machine guns. They tell the fishermen this is a science station. They will kill anyone who gets too close. Some fishermen didn't believe them and got shot, so the rest of us stayed away. We work offshore, where nobody bothers us. Sometimes the fishermen see periscopes. Once a big black fin came up near my boat.”
“A submarine conning tower?”
“He wanted to look, I guess,” Kemal said, with a nod. “Then Russia falls apart. The submarines stop coming. Everyone says the Russian navy is broke. One day I take a chance. I follow a school of fish in close.” He held an invisible steering wheel in his hand to demonstrate. “I'm ready to run if they come. But nobody stops me. Since then I fish here with no trouble.” He shrugged. “When the television people want to go in with Mehmet, I think it's no big deal.”
“Did you ever go ashore and look around?”
“No. What's there was not my business. That was before Mehmet got shot.” He spat over the side. “Now it is my business.”
Kemal's story meshed with the report Austin's friend Leahy had sent him. According to the CIA files, construction on the base started in the 1950s. A U-2 plane photographed the site on an overflight. The U.S. kept close tabs on the growing complex. The Turkish counterpart of the CIA confirmed the reports of submarine traffic. U.S. listening posts determined that the base was under the command of the Black Sea Fleet at Sevastopol. The scientific station was built to do ocean research that would help the fleet do its job.
Military activity slowed after the Cold War. The cash-strapped new Russian republic shut the base down, much as obsolete army installations were closed in the U.S. The scientific station was abandoned. The CIA could have saved millions in surveillance expense by talking to Kemal and his friends. Unfortunately, the one point on which the Turk was wrong, his belief that the base was deserted, had cost his cousin's life.
When the Turgut was less than a mile from shore, Austin asked the captain to drop anchor. Kemal yelled an order to his crew, and a minute later the boat coasted to a stop and vibrated with the rattle of the anchor chain. As the anchor splashed into the sea, Kemal excused himself and went off to supervise the setting of the trawls.
Zavala appeared from the other side of the boat, where he had been getting their scuba gear ready for a dive.
Austin eyed the twisted stub of the cheroot clenched between Zavala's teeth. “I see you've been raiding the captain's humidor.”
“He insisted. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.” Zavala removed the stogie from his mouth and held it at arm's length. “I think they make these things out of old tires, but I'm sort of getting used to the taste,” he said with a shrug. “Gear's all set to go.”
Austin followed Zavala to the port side, where the wheelhouse hid them from prying eyes on the mainla
nd. Neatly laid out on the narrow deck were two rows of double air tanks, weight belts, hoods, gloves, boots and fills and two black Viking Pro dry suits manufactured to NUMA specifications. Sunlight glinted off the yellow fiberglass housings of two Torpedo 2000 driver propulsion vehicles. Mounted in tandem, the dual rocket-shaped battery-powered vehicles had a top speed of five miles an hour and a running time of an hour.
They shimmied into their dive suits, helped each other on with their air tanks and did a buddy equipment inspection. Then they waddled to the rail with the shuffling walk divers use out of water and stood at the edge of the deck.
“Any questions before we plunge in?” Austin said.
Zavala flicked the black cigar stub over the side. “Plan the dive and dive the plan. Get in. Take a look. Get out. Stay flexible. Improvise when necessary.”
Zavala's succinct summation could have applied to any mission Austin led. Austin was a staunch believer in simplicity of execution because the more elements in a plan, the greater the chance for a screwup. He knew from experience that it was impossible to anticipate every situation when the details were sparse. His muscular body was marked with scars that were stark reminders that even the most carefully laid scheme could unravel in the face of the unexpected. As insurance, though, they carried guns and extra ammunition in their chest packs. They also had communications equipment, although it would be of limited value. They were invading the soil of a foreign country. If he and Zavala encountered trouble, they were on their own.
“You forgot one thing,” Austin said.
Zavala looked behind him. "Cover your ass?”
“CYA is always a good idea. But what I was thinking was this: We're not Mission Impossible. We're not the Suicide Squadron. We're simply a couple of nosy guys who want to come back, preferably with our skin in one piece.”
“That suits me fine,” Zavala said. “I'm very attached to my skin.”
Austin winced at Zavala's joke and gave the captain the thumb's-up sign. He held on to his mask and chest pack so they wouldn't fly up, and jumped fins first into the dark blue sea, sinking several feet before his automatic buoyancy control lifted him back to the surface. Zavala bobbed up a few feet away. As they floated in the mild swell, they made sure their regulators were working, then Austin signaled Kemal.
The captain lowered the bright yellow Torpedo 2000s down to the water. The crewmen were setting trawls on the land side. From shore, the Turgut looked like any other fishing boat harvesting the sea. Austin reminded Kemal to keep his radio on and to leave quickly at the first sign of trouble. He didn't want more funerals in the captain's family.
Kemal gave him a smile that showed he had no intention of following Austin's advice and wished them good luck in Turkish and in English. Austin bit down on his regulator mouthpiece, folded his body in a surface dive and with a flip of his fins disappeared below the surface. Zavala was only a moment behind. At twenty feet, they hovered and tested their voice-activated Divelink wireless underwater communications systems.
“Ready to invade Russia?” Austin asked.
“Can't wait!” Zavala said, sounding like Donald Duck in Austin's earphones. "Russia has some of the most beautiful women in the world. Green eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips- ”
“Keep a lid on your raging libido, José. This isn't Club Med we're going to. When we get home, you can order a Russian bride over the Internet.”
“Thanks for dashing cold water on my lustful thoughts.”
“Speaking of cold water, we've got about a mile of the stuff ahead of us, so I suggest we get moving.” Austin checked his wrist compass and jerked his thumb toward shore. They flicked on the switches of their propulsion vehicles, the battery-powered motors hummed into life, and the Torpedo 2000s surged ahead, smoothly pulling the divers through the pale green water. Their approach sent schools of fish flying off to either side, making it evident why Kemal and his fellow fishermen had risked their necks to work these waters.
Near the surf line, the water became turbid from floating particles of vegetation kicked up by the crashing waves. Austin angled the Torpedo 2000 down to the sandy sea bottom, with Zavala a few feet behind him.
“Any idea what we're looking for?” Zavala said, squinting toward the gravelly banking that rose sharply from the sea floor to meet the beach.
“A neon sign saying THIS IS IT would help. But I'll settle for something that looks like a big garage door.”
Zavala switched on his powerful Phantom dive light and played the bull's-eye across the slope.
“I don't even see a doorknob.”
“We're wasting our time here. They wouldn't build on the beach. They'd want solid rock over their heads. Let's check out the cliffs. I'll take the one to the right.”
Zavala waved, and with the ease of a natural pilot he put his propulsion vehicle in a graceful turn and shot off, quickly disappearing into the murk. Austin headed in the opposite direction. A moment later, the voice of a singing duck filled Austin's earphones as Zavala rendered an off-tune version of “Guantanamera.”
Austin moved parallel to the undersea embankment until the sand and gravel gave over to solid rock. Zavala's quacking became fainter as they expanded their range. Austin was grateful for this development, but he didn't want too much space separating them. He saw nothing that resembled an entrance, and was about to tell Zavala to head back, but Joe broke off his serenade with a loud “Whoa!”
“Say again?”
“Got something, Kurt,” he said excitedly.
Austin wheeled the Torpedo 2000 around in a tight arc. He glided past the beach and homed in on a silvery pinpoint that blinked like a firefly on a summer night. Zavala was hovering at midwater and flashing his light as a homing beacon. When Austin got closer, Zavala adjusted his light to flood pattern and pointed the beam toward the face of the undersea wall that rose to become the chin of Imam's Point.
Austin was looking at a huge pile of rubble that resembled a landslide one might see in a mountain valley. The sea bottom below the slide was littered with hundreds of chunks of rock and concrete obviously flung there with great force, most likely by an explosion.
“Not exactly what I'd call a welcome mat,” Austin said. With short fluttering fin strokes, he swam up the face of the rubble pile. If this was the entrance to the pen, no submarines would be using it soon. He swam back and forth searching for an opening, but the blockage was complete.
Zavala floated up beside him. “So much for my dreams of beautiful Russian women.”
Austin scanned the rubble, then swam over to a slab about six feet tall and half as wide that stood like a giant l gravestone in a more or less vertical position. A pair of steel rods protruded from the top, like antennae on an insect.
“If we could topple this slab, maybe we could start a slide that would open up this mess.”
“Not a bad idea. Too bad we forgot to pack dynamite.”
“We may not need it. Remember what Archimedes said?”
“Sure, he's the guy who runs the Greek restaurant down the street, He said 'Eat here or to go?' ”
“I'm talking about the other Archimedes.”
“Oh, that one, He said, 'Eureka!' ”
“He also said, 'Give me a place to stand and I will move the earth.' ”
Zavala stared at the steel rods. “Archimedes was into levers and fulcrums, as I recall.”
“Eureka,” Austin said, swimming up the rock slide until he was above the slab. He squeezed in between the concrete and the cliff, braced his back against the wall and placed his feet on one of the rods. Zavala took a position beside Austin with his feet on the other rod.
“Let's see if we can move a smaIl piece of the world,” Austin said, “On three.”
They pushed against the rods and the slab tilted a few inches before settling back into place. The air tanks got in the way, so they adjusted them and tried again. The slab tipped precariously this time. For a moment, it seemed as if the block would go over, but despite their s
hoving and grunting, it rocked back into place.
Zavala suggested that they push higher for more leverage. They slid their feet to the ends of the rods, planted their backs and tried again. This time the slab went over so fast that they almost tumbled down with it. It crashed in slow motion off a big boulder, breaking in half, then bounced a few more times before landing in a muddy cloud. Several other chunks followed it down in a secondary landslide.
“Crude but effective,” Austin said, as he drifted down the face of the pile and stopped in front of a newly created opening in the rubble. He probed the hole with his light, then tried to squeeze through only to have his air tanks get in the way again. He removed the tanks. Keeping the regulator in his mouth, he backed into the opening feet first and pulled his tanks in after him. Zavala followed using the same procedure.
They were wedged in a tight space between the pile of boulders and two massive steel blast doors. The armored doors were sealed, but near the top of one was a shadow where the force of the explosion had peeled back a comer like a page in a book. The gap was big enough for them and their tanks. They slipped through the hole and flashed their lights around. The beams faded into nothingness except for a grayish reflection over their heads. They swam up several feet until their tanks scraped against concrete. Swimming a few feet below the ceiling, they proceeded through the murky water.
After a few minutes, the ceiling disappeared and they swam up until their heads emerged into the open. They were in complete darkness. Austin removed the regulator from his mouth and took a tentative breath. The air was musty but breathable. They switched on their lights and saw that they were near the edge of a man-made pool. They swam to a ladder, pulled themselves up on the side of the pool and flashed their lights around, probing the perimeter of the rectangular basin.
“Hel-Io,” Austin murmured. “Someone left their rubber ducky in the bathtub.”