Clive Cussler - White Death

Austin's eyes were blurred with the sweat running down his fore- head. He wiped away the moisture with the sleeve of his tux and glanced over his shoulder. Scarface had cut the distance in half. Austin dodged another pedestrian and looked ahead. He could see the white spike of the Washington Monument in the distance. There might be armed security guards around the monument, but he would never make it that far. The dogs were becoming weary. He could feel them slow their pace slightly, and the sled was acting like a car run- ning out of gas. He urged the team on with the kissing sound he had heard the drivers use during the race.

Cars were moving along the street ahead of him. With luck and timing, he could put the traffic between him and his pursuers. The sled emerged from the Mall onto the sidewalk. Austin saw an open- ing between two moving vehicles and steered for it, hoping to whisk through to the other side of the street. The dogs hesitated, but he urged them on. The paws of the lead dog had left the curb when one of the ubiquitous limos that prowled the streets of Washington came out of nowhere and cut him off.

Austin cut the steering wheel hard. The lead dog was way ahead of him and had already changed directions, dashing off to the right with the team and the sled behind him. The sled heeled over at an angle like a boat sailing close to the wind. Austin compensated with his body, and the sled slammed back down on all four wheels and straightened out. The dogs were pulling the sled along the sidewalk. Scarface had cut the angle and was pacing Austin along the side- walk a few yards away.

The two sleds raced along the sidewalk like the chariot racers in Ben-Hur. The dogs swerved around pedestrians. Austin had just about relinquished control, conceding that the dogs could steer the ed far better than he could, and simply concentrated on hanging on. Even at top form, his skills would have been no match for the other driver. The sleds were running side by side, almost close enough to touch. Then Scarface upped the ante and aimed a pistol at Austin from a few feet away.

Austin had the feeling that someone had just painted a bull's-eye on his forehead. But getting a clean shot wouldn't be easy. Scarface held the wheel with his left hand and the pistol in his right. Without the stability of two hands holding on to the wheel, the sled wavered from side to side, and Scarface was finding it impossible to keep the pistol barrel leveled. He tried a shot anyhow.

The bullet missed Austin and went high. Austin took little com- fort from the wild shot. Scarface would keep trying until he emptied his gun. Even if the flying lead missed Austin, someone else could be hurt or killed. Acting more on instinct than intellect, Austin quickly touched his brakes. The Eskimo's sled pulled slightly ahead of him. Borrowing a page from Umealiq's book of dirty race tactics, Austin angled his sled to the right. His front wheel slammed into the rear wheel of the other sled, and Scarface fought to maintain control.

The maneuver was risky, but it had the desired effect. With only one sweat-soaked hand gripping the steering wheel, Scarface was unable to stop the rim from spinning. The sled's front wheels jack- knifed. The sled itself fishtailed, then flipped, and Scarface tumbled off, the pistol flying out of his hand and clattering onto the sidewalk. He rolled several times before coming to a stop. His dog team kept on running, dragging the sled on its side, before they figured out it was a waste of time.

Austin was in no position to celebrate. His team was pulling the sled toward Constitution Avenue. He yelled a command to stop and jammed his foot down on the brakes, but it was no use. The dogs had been spooked by the gunshot and unnerved by Austin's erratic driv- ing, and he realized he was simply along for the ride. They plunged into the busy boulevard without looking.

The sled flew off the curb, became airborne and slammed down on all four wheels. Austin's teeth rattled in his skull. There was a ban- shee screech as an SUV as big as a house slammed on its brakes, its massive chrome grille only inches away. Austin caught a glimpse of the horrified face behind the wheel, the driver's eyes popping out of his head as he watched a man in a tux drive a sled team across Wash- ington's busiest boulevard.

The best Austin could do was to hang on and try to keep the sled upright. His ears were filled with the squeal of brakes, and then he heard a thud as someone rear-ended another car. There were several more thuds as the chain reaction continued. The air reeked of the smell of burnt rubber. Then he was safely across the avenue, and the dogs were scrambling onto the opposite sidewalk. The sled was mov- ing slow enough for him to jump off before it hit the curb. The dogs were exhausted from running in the unaccustomed heat and had no desire to keep moving. They simply plopped down where they were, their sides heaving and their tongues dripping like faucets.

Austin looked back across the trail of chaos he had left on Con- stitution Avenue. Traffic on his side had come to a stop, and angry people were getting out of their cars to trade registration and license numbers. Scarface stood on the opposite curb, blood streaming down his face. He pulled his knife from his belt. Holding it close to his chest, he stepped off the curb, only to pause at the sound of sirens. Then one of the kennel trucks Austin had seen near the racecourse screeched to a stop, hiding the Eskimo from view for a few seconds. When it took off a second later, the man had vanished.

Austin went over to the panting dogs and patted each one on the head.

"We'll have to do this again, but not too soon," he said.

He brushed the knees and elbows of his tuxedo, but he knew he must look as if he were coming off a weekend binge. Shrugging in resignation, he walked back to the museum. Therri was standing on the Constitution Avenue side of the four-story granite edifice. The expression of anxiety on her face disappeared when she saw Austin

trudging toward her, and she ran over to throw her arms around him.

"Thank goodness you're all right," she said, hugging him in a tight embrace. "What happened to that awful man?"

"He got thrown for a loop by the Washington traffic and called it a night. Sorry I had to kick you off back there."

"That's all right. I've been dumped by guys before, although this is the first time it's been off a moving dogsled."

Therri said that after she had been unceremoniously kicked off the sled, she had found a police cruiser parked near the Castle. She'd told the police that her friend was in danger of being murdered on the Mall, and though the police had looked at her as if she were crazy, they did go to investigate. She had come back to the museum to look for Ben, but there'd been no sign of him. She was trying to decide what to do next when she heard the sirens, walked onto the boule- vard and saw Austin plodding down the avenue. They shared a cab back to their cars and parted with a lingering kiss and the promise to get in touch the next day.

A turquoise NUMA vehicle was in Austin's driveway when he got home, and the front door was unlocked. He walked into the house and heard the Dave Brubeck Quartet playing "Take Five" on the stereo. Sitting in Austin's favorite black leather chair with a drink in his hand was Rudi Gunn, second in command at NUMA. Gunn was a wiry little man, slim with narrow shoulders and matching hips. He was a master of logistics, a graduate of Annapolis and a former com- mander in the navy.

"Hope you don't mind my breaking into your house," Gunn said. "Not at all. That's why I gave you the lock code." Gunn pointed to the glass. "You're getting a little low on your Highland malt scotch whiskey," he said, his lips turning up in his typ- ical mischievous grin.

"I'll talk to the butler about it." Austin recognized the book that