Clive Cussler - White Death

Unfortunately, all did not go as planned. Their boat was missing to begin with. Thinking that they may have misjudged the distance in the dark, Ryan sent the others down the beach to look for the boat while he stood watch. When five minutes had passed and they hadn't returned, he struck out after them, and he found Therri and Mercer standing side by side looking out toward the lake.

"Did you find it?" he said.

No answer. They remained motionless. When he moved in closer, he saw why. Their wrists were bound behind their backs with wire, and they had tape across their mouths. Before he could free his friends, the bushes behind the beach erupted and they were sur- rounded by a dozen burly figures.

One man took Ryan's gun away and another came closer and flicked on a flashlight, its beam illuminating the man's hand. Dan- gling in his fingers was one of the charges Ryan had set in the fish house. The man threw the explosives into the lake and put the beam on his own face so that Ryan could be sure to see the pockmarked jack-o'-lantern features and the fierce grin.

He drew a white-bladed knife from his belt and put it under Ryan's chin so that the point dimpled his skin and drew a droplet of blood. Then he uttered something in a strange language and re- turned the knife to its scabbard. Together, they began to march back toward the airship hangar.

AUSTIN EXAMINED THE satellite photograph through the magnifying glass and shook his head. He slid the picture and magnifier across his desk to Zavala. After studying the photo for a moment, Zavala said, "I can see a lake with a clearing on one side and some houses. Could be Nighthawk's village. There's a pier and some boats on the other side, but no airship hangar. Maybe it's hidden." "Maybe we're setting off on a fool's mission, old chum." "Wouldn't be the first time. Look at it this way: Max said this is the place, and I'd trust Max with my life."

"You may have to," Austin said. He checked his watch. "Our plane will be ready in a couple of hours. We'd better get packed."

"I never packed from my last trip," Zavala said. "See you at the airport."

Austin did a quick turnaround at his boathouse and was heading out the door, when he saw the light blinking on his telephone an- swering machine. He debated whether to listen to the message, but when he pushed the button, he was glad he did. Ben Nighthawk had called and left a phone number.

Austin dropped his duffel bag and quickly punched out the num- ber. "Man, am I glad to hear from you," Nighthawk said. "I've been waiting by the phone hoping you'd call."

"I tried to get in touch with you a couple of times."

"Sorry for being such a jerk. That guy would have killed me if you hadn't stepped in. I wandered around and hung out with some pals feeling sorry for myself. When I got back to my apartment, there was a message from Therri. She said that SOS was going off on its own. Ryan talked her into it, I guess."

"Damned fools. They'll get themselves killed."

"I feel the same way. I'm worried about my family, too. We've got to stop them."

"I'm willing to try, but I need your help."

You ve got it.

"How soon can you leave?" "Whenever you want me to."

"How about now? I'll pick you up on the way to the airport.' "I'll be ready."

After Zavala left the NUMA building, he drove his 1961 Corvette convertible to his home in Arlington, Virginia. While the upstairs was spotless, as would be expected of someone who routinely dealt in microscopic tolerances, Zavala's basement looked like a cross be- tween Captain Nemo's workshop and a redneck gas station. It was crammed with models of undersea craft, metal-cutting tools and piles of diagrams marked with greasy fingerprints.

The one exception to the jumble was a locked metal cabinet where Zavala kept his collection of weaponry. Technically, Zavala was a marine engineer, but his duties on the Special Assignments Team sometimes required firepower. Unlike Austin, who favored a custom-made Bowen revolver, Zavala employed whatever weapon was handy, usually with deadly efficiency. He eyed the collection of firearms in the cabinet-wondering what, short of a neutron bomb, would be effective against a ruthless multinational organization with its own private army-and reached for an Ithaca Model 37 repeat- ins shotgun, the primary weapon used by the SEALs in Vietnam. He liked the idea that the shotgun could be fired almost like an automatic weapon.

Zavala carefully packed the shotgun and an ample supply of am- munition into a case, and before long he was on his way to Dulles Air- port. He drove with the top down, savoring the ride because he knew it would be his last in the 'Vette until his assignment was over. He pulled up to a hangar in an out-of-the-way corner of the airport where a crew of mechanics was doing last-minute checks on a NUMA executive jet. He kissed the Corvette's fender and said a sad good-bye, then climbed aboard the plane.

Zavala was going over his flight plan when Austin arrived a short time later with Ben Nighthawk in tow. Austin introduced the young Indian to Zavala. Nighthawk glanced around as if he were looking for something.

"Don't worry," Austin said, noting the expression of consternation on Nighthawk's face. "Joe just looks like a bandit. He really does know how to fly a plane."

"That's right," Zavala said, looking up from his clipboard. "I've passed a correspondence course, all except for the part about the landing."

The last thing Austin wanted was to have Ben bolt from the plane in fright. "Joe likes to kid around," he said.

"I wasn't worried about that, it's-well, is this all there is? I mean just?"

Zavala's lips turned up in a smile. "We hear a lot of that sort of thing," he said, recalling Becker's skepticism when he and Austin had

arrived to rescue the Danish sailors. "I'm starting to get an inferior- ity complex."

"This isn't a suicide squadron," Austin said. "We'll pick up some extra muscle on the way. In the meantime, make yourself comfort- able. There's coffee in that carafe. I'll assist Joe in the cockpit."

They were quickly cleared for takeoff, and the plane headed north. At a cruising speed of five hundred miles an hour, they were over the waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence in a little over three hours. They touched down at a small coastal airport. Rudi Gunn had checked earlier and found that there was a NUMA survey ship working in the gulf. The way had been smooth through Canadian customs, and before long Austin, Zavala and Ben were climbing aboard the ship, which had come into port. By previous arrangement, the Navarra was waiting ten miles offshore.

As they approached the yacht, Zavala eyed the long, sleek vessel with appreciation. "Pretty," he said. "And from her lines, I'd say she's fast, too, but she doesn't look tough enough to take on Oceanus."

"Wait," Austin said, with a knowing smile.

The Navarra sent over a launch to pick them up. Aguirrez was waiting on deck, his black beret, as usual, perched at a jaunty angle on his head. By his side were the two brawny men who had escorted

Austin after he was plucked from the waters outside the Mermaid's Gate.

"Good to see you again, Mr. Austin," Aguirrez said, pumping Kurt's hand. "Glad you and your friends could make it aboard. These are my two sons, Diego and Pablo."

It was the first time Austin had seen the two men smile, and he noted the resemblance to their father. He introduced Zavala and Nighthawk. The yacht was already underway by that time, and he and the others followed Aguirrez to his grand salon. Aguirrez mo- tioned for the men to take a seat, and a steward appeared with hot drinks and sandwiches. Aguirrez asked them about their trip and waited patiently for them to finish their lunch before he picked up a remote control. At a click of a button, a section of wall slid up to re- veal a giant screen. Another click, and an aerial photograph filled the space. The photograph showed forest and water.