His light outlined the contours of a submarine on the far side of the pool.
They stacked their scuba gear in neat piles for quick retrieval and stripped down to their lightweight black insulated liners. They were traveling light, taking only their weapons, extra ammunition and lights and, in Austin's case, a belt radio. He tried to call Kemal, but the thick concrete walls made radio contact impossible. Setting off to explore the high-ceilinged chamber, they followed a set of narrow-gauge tracks that ran around the pool's perimeter, making their way past fuel pumps and conduits for water and electricity.
Gantries and cranes hung from the ceiling to service heavy loads. Sideways-traversing machinery could move a sub to the dry side for maintenance. Austin and Zavala went around the pool to where the submarine lay in dry dock. The sub was between three hundred and four hundred feet long, Austin estimated. They climbed aboard and explored the sub from end to end. The deck behind the conning tower was of an unusual design, long and flat and recessed. They climbed the sail and opened the entry hatch. The stale smell of food, unwashed bodies and fuel issued from the opening.
As the expert on underwater vehicles, Zavala volunteered to go inside the sub while Austin stood watch. A short while later, Zavala emerged.
“Nobody home,” he said, his voice echoing in the great chamber.
“Nothing?”
“I didn't say that.” Zavala handed Austin a navy baseball cap. “I found this in a bunk room.”
Austin examined the white lettering on the front of the cap. NR-1. “This raises more questions than it answers.”
“The boat itself is less of a mystery,” Zavala said. “It's a diesel, built for a specialized purpose. No torpedoes. She's probably pretty fast on the surface, from the looks of her, and those hydroplanes on the sail would give her good maneuverability under water. The deck is modified to carry something. Cargo. Submersibles maybe.”
“Something like the NR-1?”
“Easily. But why block off the entrance doors to the pen?”
“They don't need this baby anymore. What better way to hide the evidence? Let's see if we can find the owner of this cap,” he said, tucking the cap inside his suit.
Satisfied that the sub could yield no further clues, they walked the rest of the way around the pool until they carne back to their dive gear. Railroad tracks led to a set of double steel doors about twelve feet high. Next to the doors was an entryway to allow passage without having to open and close the big doors. Zavala tried the handle.
“It's unlocked,” he said. “We're in luck.”
“Don't be too sure about that. This may be a case of the spider welcoming the flies.”
“No problem,” Zavala said, fitting the holster to the butt of his Heckler and Koch.9-mm VP70M to form a shoulder stock, giving the pistol the capability of firing three-round bursts. “I brought spider repellent.”
Austin slipped his own brand of pesticide out of its leather holster. His Ruger Redhawk, custom-built by the Bowen Classic Arms Company, was a heavy-duty revolver chambered for the.50 special cartridge. His hand was filled with grips made of snake wood, a rare South American wood. The fat barrel was only four inches long, but the gun packed a deadly wallop.
They opened the door and stepped into a chamber half the size of the sub pen. A railroad spur extended from the main chamber. Sitting on the tracks were a half-dozen car-sized freight carriers powered by propane. The tracks ran down the center of the room, with tributaries branching out on both sides to a series of arched portals that allowed entrance into side chambers.
Entering the nearest room, they found shelves filled with spare parts. The other storerooms contained tools, firefighting equipment and workshops. One room, separated from the others by a heavy steel blast door, contained demolition charges and small arms.
They returned to the main chamber and walked over to an elevator. Next to the elevator was a door that led to a stairwell. The smell of cooked cabbage drifted from above. They climbed the stairs to the next landing and saw light coming from beneath a door that led off the landing.
Austin put his ear up to the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he cracked the door a few inches. Then he gently pushed the door open and stepped through, motioning for Zavala to follow. They were in a corridor lit by lights recessed in the ceiling. It was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. The passageway echoed the poured-concrete, bomb-shelter motif of the lower level.
Several doors opened off one side. The first led to a cold-storage room stocked with meats and vegetables. The cold room was connected to food lockers provisioned with canned goods and groceries. Next to the pantry were a large kitchen and bakery. They moved from the kitchen into the adjacent mess hall, which was furnished with long benches and tables. The smell of cooked food was strong.
Austin went over to a table, brushed some crumbs off the top and dabbed his finger into a circle of water.
“Keep a sharp eye out,” he said. “Some of the regular customers may still be around.”
A door led from the mess hall to another passageway and a deserted dormitory fitted out with fifty bunks. The beds were unmade and the footlockers were empty. Next to the dormitory was a small game room with a few tables and chairs. Austin walked over to a chessboard, studied the pieces for a moment, then moved a black knight to a different square.
“Checkmate,” he said. With Austin in the lead, they headed back to the main corridor and climbed the stairs to the next floor. In contrast to the spartan barracks, the floors were covered with thick wall-to-wall carpeting and the walls were paneled in dark wood. They explored half a dozen offices and conference rooms. On the walls were a few yellowed charts, but the desks were cleaned out and the filing cabinets were empty.
“This must have been the command post for the submarine base,” Austin said.
Zavala glanced around the haunted precincts. “It's been a while since they did any commanding. Spooky. Maybe we should call Ghostbusters.”
Austin grunted. “The guys who shot me out of the air a few days ago weren't made out of ectoplasm.”
From the command post, they went back to the main passageway, poked into several rooms, each with two beds, that could have been officers' quarters, and followed another connector that led to a large and luxurious suite. The polished oak floors were covered with finely woven oriental rugs. The ornate furniture was made from heavy dark wood. The decor was a blend of Byzantine and Middle Eastern, with a liberal use of red cloth and gold fringe.
Zavala looked at the painting of a voluptuous woman, one of several that decorated the walls. “Remind me when I get home to redo my place in harem modern.”
Austin was having a problem imagining a bulldog-jowled Soviet sub commander in these decadent surroundings. “It looks like someone's idea of a Victorian bordello.”
Despite their bantering, both men were uneasy. Austin recalled the violence that had greeted his first visit to these shores. The quiet gave him the jitters. They explored the rest of the suite, eventually coming to a thick wooden door built with rivets and ornamental straps as if it guarded the portal to a medieval keep. Carved in the door was a large stylized letter R.
Zavala examined the antique keyhole, then he reached into his pack and pulled out a soft leather case that he unfolded to display an array of lock picks that would have gotten him arrested in most states. He selected a particularly large pick.
“The basic skeleton key should do the job.” He ran his fingers over the door carving and strong steel hinges. “There must be something valuable on the other side. I'm surprised they didn't use a better lock.” Bending to his task, he inserted the pick in the keyhole, jiggled the tool, then turned it. The lock had been well-lubricated and the deadbolt opened with a loud clunk.
Austin put his ear up against the dark wood. Hearing nothing, he tried the ornamental knob. He paused, wondering if hidden cameras had watched them every step of the way into the labyrinth. A gang of cutthroats could be lurking on the o
ther side of the door. The thought of a bullet or dagger in the eye made him squeamish. His lips tightened in a grim smile. Being shot or stabbed in the heart would leave him just as dead as a poke in the eye.
Austin couldn't remember who'd said the best defense is a good offense, but he had always considered it good advice. He cocked his Bowen, motioned to Zavala to back him up, then turned the knob, threw the door open and stepped inside.
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-14-
THE DENTED BLACK Lada taxi clattered down the dirt road, with every bolt in its ancient chassis rattling in protest. The potholed ruts led through thick pines and ended at an encampment of rustic chalets clustered near the Black Sea. The cab bounced on its worn shock absorbers even after Paul and Gamay Trout extricated themselves from the cramped backseat like clowns in a circus skit. They removed their duffel bags from the roof rack and paid the driver. The cab drove off in a cloud of dust, and the door to a nearby chalet flew open with a bang. A bearlike man charged out, roaring in a voice that practically shook the cones off the trees.
“Trout! I can't believe you're here.” He wrapped Paul in a bear hug. “How good to see you, my friend!” He pounded Trout on the back.
“Go-od to see you-oo, Vlad,” Trout replied, in between the breath-stealing thumps. “Thi-is is my wife, Gamay-may. Gamay, meet Professor Vladimir Orlov.”
Orlov extended a ham-sized hand and attempted to click the heels of his rubber sandals together. “A pleasure to meet you, Gamay. Your husband often talked about his brilliant and lovely wife as we drank beer at the Captain Kidd.”
“No less than he talked about you, Professor Orlov. Paul has often said how much he enjoyed your time together at Woods Hole.”
“We have many fond memories, your husband and I.” He turned to Paul. “She is as beautiful and charming as I imagined. You are a lucky man.”
“Thank you. And you will be pleased to know that your barstool awaits your return.”
“Then it is only a question of when. Tell me how things are at the Oceanographic?”
“I was there only a few days ago. I try to get back home in between NUMA assignments. Woods Hole hasn't changed since the year you spent there.”
“I envy you. As a pauper nation, Russia is stingy with money for pure scientific research. Even a well-thought-of institution such as Rostov State University must beg for funding. We're fortunate that the government allows the university to use this place as a fieldwork center.” Gamay looked around at the rustic cottages and the water sparkling through the trees. “It's wonderful! Reminds me of the old cottage colonies on the Great Lakes where I grew up.”
“The Soviet navy used it as a getaway for middle-level officers and their wives. There's a tennis court, but the macadam looks like the face of the moon. We've brought in students and they have done a good job fixing up the chalets. It's perfect for seminars or retreats like this one where we academics simply come to think.” He grabbed the duffel bags. “Come, I'll show you where you're staying.” Orlov led the way along a soft pine-needle path to a chalet that gleamed with new green-and-white trim. He climbed onto the porch, dropped the bags and held the door open for the Trouts. The one-room cottage had up-and-down bunks for four people, a rough-hewn table in the middle, a sink with a pump and a gas camp stove on the other side. Orlov went to the sink and pumped the handle.
“The water is pure and cold. Be sure to save some in this coffee can to prime the pump. There's a shower outside. The WC is just behind the house. It's a bit primitive, I'm afraid.”
Gamay looked around the room. “Looks quite cozy to me.”
Paul said, “We invited ourselves, Professor. We should be grateful we're not sleeping in a tent.”
“Nonsense! I'll have no more such talk, You'll probably want to unpack and get into something more comfortable,” The professor was wearing baggy black shorts and a red tank top. “As you see, we're very informal, When you're ready, follow the path back to the main clearing. I'll be waiting with some refreshment.”
After Orlov left, they filled the sink and washed up. Gamay traded her stylish cotton slacks and sweater for blue shorts and a T-shirt from the Scripps Oceanographic Institute, where she'd first met Paul, who was studying there, Paul was wearing an L.L. Bean nonwrinkle navy blazer and tan slacks and one of the wildly colored bow ties he favored. He put on new tan shorts, navy polo shirt and Teva sandals, Then they strolled back through the pines to the main clearing.
Orlov sat at a picnic table in the shade of an arbor. He was talking to a middle-aged couple he introduced as Natasha and Leo Arbikov, both physicists. They spoke little English but communicated with sunny smiles. Orlov said that there were a number of other academicians and students from various fields scattered about in the woods working on experiments or simply reading. From an oversized cooler, he produced plastic containers of fresh fruit, caviar, smoked fish, cold borscht, a jug of water and a bottle of vodka. The Trouts sampled the food, but drank water, putting off the hard stuff until later. Orlov had no such hesitation, drinking his vodka with apparently little effect.
“It helps my concentration,” he said with good cheer, washing down a mouthful of caviar. He gave Trout another teeth-rattling pound on the back. “This is so incredible to see you, my friend, I'm glad you called to say you would be in the neighborhood.”
“It's wonderful to see you again, Vlad, although it was a little difficult getting through to you.”
“We're connected to the outside by a single telephone. That's the beauty of this place. It's the Lost World. Only we are the dinosaurs.” He roared with laughter at his own joke. “We are paid practically nothing, but we can pursue our work with little in the way of expenses.” He lifted the bottle, smacked his lips and poured himself another two fingers of vodka. “Enough about me. Tell me what brought you to the Black Sea.”
“You've heard of the NUMA research vessel, Argo?”
“Oh, yes. I've been on her, in fact. A few years ago. She's a wonderful ship. I would expect nothing less from NUMA.”
Paul nodded in agreement. “Garnay and I are doing some research in connection with the Argo's most recent survey. I remembered you were at the university and thought I'd give you a call to let you know we were in the neighborhood.”
Austin had asked the Trouts to look into Ataman Indus- tries while he and Zavala checked out the submarine base. Ataman's headquarters were in the port city of Novorossiysk, on the northeast comer of the Black Sea. Trout immediately thought of Orlov, who had been a visiting professor at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, because he remembered that the professor taught at the university in Rostov near Novorossiysk. When he'd called Orlov, the professor said he would never forgive Paul if he and Gamay didn't come to visit him.
“You had no problem getting here?” the professor inquired.
“Not at all. We were lucky to catch a commercial flight to Novorossiysk on short notice. The university arranged for a cab to pick us up at the airport, and here we are.” He looked around at the bucolic setting. “Let me get my bearings. We're between Rostov and Novorossiysk?”
“That's right. Novorossiysk is the port for the oil fields in I the Caucasus. It's also a Hero City full of large ugly monuments commemorating the heroic resistance of the people during the Great Patriotic War.” Orlov turned to Gamay. “Paul has lauded your skills as a marine biologist. What sort of work have you been doing?”
“Before coming to the Black Sea, I was in the Florida Keys looking at coral damage from industrial runoff.”
Orlov gave a shake of his head. “It seems that we Russians are not the only environmental barbarians. I am involved in a study of Black Sea pollution. What about you, Paul?”
“I was at Woods Hole doing some consulting work on a study of ocean mining. I think one of the ocean mining concerns I read about is in Novorossiysk, as a matter of fact.”
Guile was not one of Trout's strong suits. He had a blunt Yankee openness and felt uncomfortable skirting th
e truth, especially with an old friend. Trout figured that if he threw out a few conversational seeds, one of them would sprout. This seed fell on fertile soil.
“Ocean mining? You must mean Ataman Industries.”
“Sounds familiar. I'm sure I read about it somewhere.”
“I'd be surprised if you hadn't. Ataman is huge. They started as a land-mining conglomerate, but they saw the potential under the sea and now their fleet ranges allover the world.”
“Smart move, with the worldwide demand for fuel.”
“Yes, that is true, but less commonly known is that Ataman has been in the forefront in devising ways to extract methane hydrate from the sea bottom.”
“I don't remember any mention of that in the corporate literature.”
“Ataman tends to be secretive. Russian capitalism is still in its Wild West phase. We don't have all the disclosure laws your country does. I doubt if they'd make that much difference, anyway. With the thousands employed by Ataman, it's very difficult to keep a secret. Ataman has built an entire fleet of monstrous ships that will be used in the extraction of fire ice.”
“Fire ice?” Gamay said.
“It's a term someone came up with for methane hydrate, a compound of methane gas,” Paul explained. “Pockets of the stuff are trapped under the sea bottom allover the world. Looks like icy snow, only it's flammable.”
Orlov chimed in. “Everyone knows that Soviet scientists claim to have invented everything, from the electric light-bulb to the computer, but in this case I must give them credit. The first natural deposits were found in Siberia, where it was known as marsh gas. Some American scientists picked up on the work of our glorious scientists and discovered hydrates under the ocean.”
“Off the South Carolina coast, as I recall,” Trout said. “Woods Hole did some dives with the deep-water submersible Alvin and found the plumes escaping from the sediment along faults in the ocean floor.”
“What are the commercial applications?” Gamay said.