Clive Cussler - Polar Shift

The steamer raced across the open field. Austin remembered that in a steamer, it was necessary to accelerate slowly to get steam up. He had to use all his concentration to deal with the gauges and controls for a half-dozen different functions.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The motorcycles were a hundred feet behind the car and closing fast. They were spread out at the start of a flanking maneuver that would squeeze the car between two lines of bikers. The car and its two-wheeled pursuers were approaching the crowd of spectators watching the military demonstration.

Austin leaned on the horn. A few people looked his way, but the horn was drowned out by the musket and cannon fire. He braked the Stanley and blew his horn again. Someone finally noticed him. The crowd began to part. By then, the bikers were coming up on both sides of the Stanley.

The steamer and its motorcycle escort raced across the smoke-filled open field between the Union and Confederate troops, who were drawn out in long lines facing each other. The musket and cannon fire halted. Austin heard a sound he hadn't expected. Applause.

"Why are those idiots clapping?" Karla said.

"They must think it's part of the act." Austin let out a bloodcurdling screech as they passed between the opposing armies.

There was alarm in Karla's face. "Are you all right?"

Austin flashed a grin. "Hell, yes. I've always wanted to do a rebel yell. Hold on."

They were through the battlefield and headed toward a line of cannon brought in for the occasion. Austin braked so he could veer sharply off without a rollover. The bikers maintained their speed, and saw an opportunity to close in. The two leading bikers were only a few yards from the steamer's left and right fenders.

Karla looked at the rider on the right and shouted, "He's got a gun!

The biker was steering with one hand, and with the other he rested a gun on his arm with the muzzle pointed at Karla's head. Austin didn't think; he simply reacted. He jerked the wheel over and back.

The heavy bumper crunched the rider's right leg. The bike wobbled as it fought to remain upright. Then the motorcycle flipped, tossing the biker like an angry steer. Austin tried to nail the other motorcycle, but the rider saw what had happened to his pal and easily skated off beyond reach.

The car flew up a hill without slowing, then down the other side. Austin could see cars ahead, moving along a road that skirted the perimeter of the field. He had to dodge a stone wall and split-rail fencing, but, a moment later, the Stanley leaped over the berm and landed across two lanes of highway.

He straightened the steering wheel and increased throttle. On the hard pavement, the car changed into a playful young filly that wanted to run. The hard rubber tires whirred on the macadam. He passed a couple of cars with the bikers hot on his tail, and once he was clear of traffic let the car's speed creep up to eighty. He saw a sign warning of a turnoff and feathered the brakes. The bikers fell back, suspecting a ploy.

Austin wheeled the car onto an access ramp. The Stanley shot onto the main highway. Austin weaved in and out, but each time he tried the maneuver the more agile bikers stayed with him. He tried to shake them by increasing speed. He was doing ninety, then one hundred miles an hour. He could barely see with the wind blowing in his face.

"Where's a traffic cop when you need one?" he yelled.

Karla was scrunched down in her seat, trying to avoid the full blast of air.

"What?"

"Do you have a cell phone?"

"You want to make a telephone call?" she said in disbelief.

"No, I want you to make one. Call the state police and tell them there's a maniac in an old red car being chased by a bunch of bikers in Civil War uniforms. That should get their attention."

Karla nodded and dug in her pocket for a phone. She punched out an emergency number. When she got through to the police, she conveyed Austin's message. "They say they'll have someone check it out," she said. "I'm not sure they believed me."

The bikers were moving up again. Austin was pushing the car's envelope. He should have been dealing with the various controls governing water level, fuel pressure, pilot and other functions, but he was too busy staying on the road.

A moving shadow appeared suddenly on the highway. Austin glanced up and to the side. A helicopter was pacing them. "That was fast!"

"It's not the police," Karla said. "It's a television station traffic helicopter."

The helicopter appeared overhead and easily kept up with the chase. Austin frantically scoured his brain for a plan, but he had exhausted all his options. The car flew past an off-ramp. Austin glanced in the mirror and saw the bikes slow, then make a turn onto the ramp.

"Our friends have deserted us," he said.

Karla turned just as the last Rebel soldier turned off the highway. "Why?" she said.

"Camera shy. They don't want to be on the six o'clock news."

He slowed the car down to a manageable sixty. He and Karla waved up at the helicopter.

They were still waving when three Virginia State Police cruisers caught up with them. Austin heeded the phalanx of flashing lights and the wail of sirens and pulled off the highway. The Stanley was immediately surrounded by armed police officers. Austin suggested to Karla that she keep her hands where the police could see them. Once the police got past their nervousness and checked Austin's license and NUMA ID, they seemed more interested in the steamer than its occupants.

Austin told them about the six bikers who had tried to force them off the road. At his suggestion, they talked with someone at NUMA, who vouched for Austin. The television station backed up the biker story. After about an hour, Austin got his license back, and was told he and Karla were free to go.

They stopped at a car wash to clean the grass and dirt off the car body. Austin was amazed to see that the car hadn't been damaged. People who were leaving the battlefield smiled and waved when they saw the steamer drive up a short while later. A tall man with dark hair and opaline eyes was waiting patiently for them.

Austin braked the car to a halt and smiled. "Hi, Dirk. Thanks for the car loan."

"I saw you go flying between the battlefield lines with the Hell's Angels on your tail. What's going on?"

"This is Karla Janos. Karla, Dirk Pitt."

Pitt gave Karla his best smile. "I was looking forward to meeting you, Miss Janos."

"Thank you," she said.

"How fast did you have her up to?" he asked Austin.

"Around a hundred."

"Impressive," Pitt said. "I've only had her up to ninety."

"Sorry to borrow your car without asking. We needed transportation in a hurry. Someone tried to kill us."

"It's only a replica. Don't worry about it." Pitt checked the car for damage, and, seeing none, said, "Not everyone owns a car that was in the third battle of Bull Run."

Austin's cell phone started playing the blues. He excused himself and put the phone up to his ear. Barrett was calling, and he sounded excited. There was a muffled engine roar in the background.

"I can barely hear you," Austin said. "What's that noise?"

"I always think better when I'm riding. I think I've got it."

"Got what?"

"The nursery rhyme. It was code. I've got the formula for the antidote."

Austin couldn't believe his ears. "Say that again."

"The antidote," Barrett yelled, thinking Austin was simply not hearing over the noise of the motorcycle. "I've got Lazlo Kovacs's antidote for polar shift."

Shortly after the hot Brazilian sun dropped below the mountains, the handsome, 350-foot-long expedition vessel Polar Adventure slipped out of Rio de Janeiro harbor and headed on a southerly course toward the open waters of the Atlantic at its cruising speed of fifteen knots.