Clive Cussler - White Death

Vlasov said, "With your submersible, no young man serving his country in any nation need die such a horrible death. Thanks to the ingenuity of NUMA, we have a way to get into a sunken vessel whether the escape hatch is operable or accessible, or not. The inno- vations you came up with for this vehicle are revolutionary."

"That's kind of you to say, Commander Vlasov. Joe deserves the credit for hammering some odds and ends together and applying good old American common sense."

"Thanks for the praise, but I stole the idea from Mother Nature," Zavala said with typical modesty. A graduate in marine engineering from the New York Maritime College, Zavala possessed a brilliant mechanical mind. He'd been recruited by NUMA Director James Sandecker right out of college, and in addition to his duties on the Special Assignments Team led by Austin, he had designed numer- ous manned and unmanned underwater vehicles.

"Nonsense!" Vlasov said. "It's a long way from the lamprey eel to your submersible."

"The principle's the same," Zavala said. "Lampreys are superbly engineered creatures. They latch on to a moving fish, sink their ring of teeth into the skin and suck the blood out of it. We use suction and lasers rather than teeth. The main problem was coming up with a flexible watertight seal that would attach to any surface and allow us to make the cut. With the use of space-age materials and computers, we put together a pretty good package."

Vlasov raised his vodka glass again. "I hold the proof of your in- genuity in my hand. When will the Sea Lamprey be fully operational?" "Soon." Zavala said. "I hope."

"The sooner the better. I shudder to think of the potential for dis- aster. The Soviets built some magnificent boats. But my countrymen have always leaned toward gigantism over quality." Vlasov finished his drink and rose from his chair. "Now I must go back to my cabin to prepare a report for my superiors. They should be very pleased. I'm grateful for all your hard work. I will thank Admiral Sandecker per- sonally."

As Vlasov left, one of the ship's officers came into the room and told Austin he had a telephone call. Austin picked up the telephone,

listened a few moments, asked some questions, then said, "Stand by. I'll get right back to you."

He hung up and said, "That was NATO's East Atlantic subma- rine disaster office. They need our help on a rescue mission." "Someone's lost a sub?" Zavala said.

"A Danish cruiser went down off the Faroe Islands, and some of the crew were trapped inside. They're still alive, apparently. The Swedes and the Brits are on their way, but the cruiser doesn't have an escape hatch. The Danes need someone who can go directly through the hull and get the guys out. They heard we were out here making test dives."

"How long do we have?" "A few hours, the way they tell it."

Zavala shook his head. "The Faroes must be more than a thousand miles from here. The Beebe is a fast ship for her size, but she'd need wings to get there in time."

Austin thought about it a minute, then said, "You're a genius." "Glad you finally realized it. Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion? It would make a great pick-up line in a bar."

"First, let me ask: Is the Sea Lamprey in any shape to use on a real- life rescue operation? I detected a note ofCYA when Vlasov asked when it would be ready."

"We civil service types automatically take Cover Your Ass 101 when we sign on," Zavala said.

"You must have passed the course with flying colors. Well?" Zavala pondered the question for a moment. "You saw how she handled coming up."

"Sure, like a Brahma bull, but we made it okay. You'd pay big bucks for a ride like that at Disney World."

Zavala slowly shook his head. "You do have a talent for present- ing the possibility of a horrible death in a lighthearted way."

"My death wish isn't any stronger than yours. You told me the Sea Lamprey is built like a brick outhouse."

"Okay, I was bragging. Structurally, she's extremely sound. Op- erationally, she could do better."

"On balance, how do the odds of a successful mission stack up?"

"About fifty-fifty. I can jury-rig some repairs to increase the odds slightly in our favor."

"I'm not pushing you, Joe."

"You don't have to. I'd never sleep again if we didn't try to help these guys. But we've still got to get the submersible to that Danish cruiser. You've figured it out, haven't you, you old fox?" Zavala said, noting Austin's grin.

Maybe," Austin replied. "I've got a few details to work through with Vlasov."

Since I'm about to risk my life on a typical spur-of-the-moment Austin scheme, I wonder if you could tell me whats cooking under that prematurely silver-gray hair of yours?"

– Not at all/5 Austm said. "Do you recall what Vlasov said about Soviet gigantism?"

"Yeah, but-" "Think – Austin said, heading for the door. -Think real big."

KARL BECKER RESTLESSLY paced the deck of the Dan- ish research vessel Thor. Shoulders hunched, hands thrust into the pockets of his great coat, the navy bureaucrat looked like a large wingless bird. Becker wore several layers of clothing, yet he shivered as his thoughts went back to the collision. He had been shoved into a lifeboat, only to be thrown into the freezing water when the over- loaded craft capsized during launch. If a Faroese trawler had not plucked his semiconscious body to safety, he would have been dead within minutes.

He stopped to light a cigarette, cupping his hands around the name, and leaned on the rail. As he stared bleakly at the red plastic sphere that marked the grave of the sunken cruiser, he heard his name being called. The Thor's captain, Nils Larsen, was striding across the deck in his direction.

Where are those damned Americans?" Becker growled.

"Good news. They just called," said the captain. "They expect to be here in five minutes."

"About time, Becker said.

Like his colleague on the LeifErifsson, Captain Larsen was tall and blond with a craggy profile. "In all fairness," he said, "it's only been a matter of hours since the cruiser went down. The NATO response team needed a minimum of seventy-two hours to place a mother ship, crew and rescue vehicle on site. The NUMA people have lived up to their pledge to get here within eight hours. They deserve some lee- way."

"I know, I know," Becker said, more in exasperation than anger. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but every minute counts." He flicked the cigarette butt into the sea and jammed his hands even further into his pockets. "Too bad Denmark no longer has capital punishment," he fumed. "I'd like to see that whole murderous SOS bunch swing- ing from the end of a rope."

"You're sure they deliberately rammed you?"

"No doubt of it! They changed course and came directly at us. Bang! Like a torpedo." He glanced at his watch. "You're sure the Americans said five minutes? I don't see any ships approaching."

"That is puzzling," the captain said. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon. "I don't see any vessels, either." Hearing a noise, he pointed the lenses toward the overcast sky. "Wait. There's a heli- copter coming this way. It's moving very fast."

The pencil-point speck grew rapidly larger against the slate-gray cloud cover, and before long the thrump-thrump of rotors was audi- ble. The aircraft made directly for the Thor and buzzed the ship slightly higher than mast-level, then it banked and went into a wide circle around the research vessel. The letters NUMA were clearly visible in big bold letters on the side of the turquoise Bell 212.

The ship's first mate trotted across the deck toward the captain and pointed to the circling chopper. "It's the Americans. They're asking permission to land."

The captain replied in the affirmative, and the crewman relayed the okay into a squawking hand radio. The helicopter swooped in, hovered above the stern deck and descended in slow motion, mak- ing a gentle landing at the exact center of the white circle that marked the helipad.