Clive Cussler: Fire Ice

"The Star is an old, old lady with a great heart."

"Your old lady still stinks," the Cossack said.

"When you're my age, you learn to hold your nose and take what you can get."

The major roared with laughter and slapped Tovrov on the back so hard that sharp daggers of pain stabbed his ravaged lungs and set him coughing. The Cossack offered Tovrov his flask. The captain managed a swallow. It was high-quality vodka, not the rotgut he was used to. The fiery liquid dampened the cough, and he handed the flask back and took the helm.

Yakelev tucked the flask away. "What did Federoff tell you?" he said.

"Only that we're carrying cargo and passengers of great importance to Russia."

"You're not curious?"

Tovrov shrugged. "I have heard what is going on in the west. I assume these are bureaucrats running away from the Bolsheviks with their families and what few belongings they can bring."

Yakelev smiled. "Yes, that is a good story."

Emboldened, Tovrov said, "If I may ask, why did you choose the Odessa Star? Surely there were newer ships fitted out for passenger service."

"Use your brain, Captain," Yakelev said with contempt. "Nobody would expect this old scow to carry passengers of importance." He glanced out the window into the night. "How long to Constantinople?"

"Two days and two nights, if all goes well."

"Make sure it does go well."

"I'll do my best. Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell your crew to stay away from the passengers. A cook will come into the kitchen and prepare meals. No one will talk to her. There are six guards, including myself, and we will be on duty at all times. Anyone who comes to the cabins without permission will be shot." He put his hand on the butt of his pistol in emphasis.

"I will make sure the crew is informed," the captain said. "The only ones normally on the bridge are the first mate and myself. His name is Sergei."

"The drunk?"

Tovrov nodded. The Cossack shook his head in disbelief, his good eye sweeping the wheelhouse, then he left as suddenly as he had appeared.

Tovrov stared at the open door and scratched his chin. Passengers who bring their armed guards are not petty bureaucrats, he thought. He must be carrying someone high up in the hierarchy, maybe even members of the court. But it was none of his business, he decided, and went back to his duties. He checked the compass heading, set the helm, then stepped out onto the port wing to clear his head.

The damp air carried a perfume laden with scents from the ancient lands that surrounded the sea. He cocked his ear, straining to hear over the erratic thrum-thrum of the Star's engines. Decades at sea had honed his senses to a sharp edge. Another boat was moving through the fog. Who else would be so foolish as to sail on such a terrible night? Maybe it was the vodka at work.

A new sound drowned out the boat noise. Music was coming from the passengers' quarters. Someone was playing a concertina and male voices sang in chorus. It was the Russian national anthem, "Baje Tsaria Krani." "God Save the Tsar." The melancholy voices made him sad, and he went back into the wheelhouse and closed the door so he could no longer hear the haunting strains.

The fog vanished with the dawn, and the bleary-eyed mate stumbled in to relieve the captain. Tovrov gave him the course orders, then stepped outside and yawned in the early-morning sunlight. He swept his eyes over the blue satin sea and saw that his instincts had been right. A fishing boat was running parallel to the Star's long wake. He watched the boat for a few minutes, then shrugged and made the rounds, warning every crewman that the officers' quarters were off-limits.

Satisfied that all was well, the captain crawled into his bunk and slept in his clothes. His first mate was under strict orders to awaken him at the first sign of anything unusual. Nevertheless, Tovrov, who had mastered the art of the cat-nap, rose several times and returned to a deep slumber in between. Around midday, he awoke and went into the mess, where he ate bread and cheese, plus sausage purchased with his newfound wealth. A stout woman was there, bending over the stove, and standing by was a tough-looking Cossack who helped her carry the steaming pots back to the passenger section. After his meal, Tovrov relieved the mate for a lunch break. As the day wore on, the fishing boat fell back until it could have been anyone of the dots visible on the horizon.

The Star seemed to shed years as she glided over the mirrored surface of the sunlit sea. Eager to reach Constantinople, Tovrov ordered the ship kept at nearly top speed, but finally, the ship paid for its coltish behavior. Around dinner-time, an engine broke down, and though the first mate and the engineer tinkered with the engine for hours, their only accomplishment was to coat themselves with grease. The captain saw that further effort was futile and ordered them to push forward on one engine.

The major was waiting in the wheelhouse and roared like a wounded bull when the captain laid out the problem. Tovrov said they would get to Constantinople, only not as soon. An extra day, perhaps.

Yakelev raised his fists in the air and affixed the captain with his baleful eye. Tovrov expected to be smashed to goulash, but the major suddenly whirled and swept from the cabin. The captain exhaled the breath he had been holding and returned to his charts. The ship was moving at half speed, but at least it was moving. The captain prayed to the icon of Saint Basil on the wall that the good engine would hold out.

Yakelev was calmer when he returned. The captain asked how the passengers were doing. They were fine, the major said, but they would do better if the stinking rust bucket they were on got to where it was going. Fog moved in later, and Tovrov had to reduce speed by a couple of knots. He hoped Yakelev was asleep and wouldn't notice.

Tovrov had the nervous mental tic that comes to men who have spent their lives on the water, his eyes constantly darting here and there, checking the compass and barometer dozens of times in an hour. In between, he walked from wing to wing to observe weather and sea conditions. About one o'clock in the morning, he went out onto the port wing… and his neck began to tingle. A vessel was overtaking them. He listened intently. It was closing fast.

Tovrov was a simple man, but he was not stupid. He cranked the phone that connected the bridge to the officers' cabin.

Yakelev answered. "What do you want?" he snapped.

"We must talk," Tovrov said.

"I will come by later."

"No, it is very important. We must talk now."

"All right. Come down to the passengers' quarters. Don't worry," Yakelev said with an evil chuckle, "I'll try not to shoot you."

The captain hung up and woke Sergei, who reeked of alcohol. He poured the mate a mug of the strong black coffee.

"Keep a heading due south. I will be back in a few minutes. Any mistakes and I will take away your vodka until we reach Constantinople."

Tovrov hurried below and cautiously pushed open the door, half expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. Yakelev was waiting. He stood with his legs wide apart and his hands on his hips. Four other Cossacks were asleep on the floor. Another sat cross-legged with his back to the cabin door and a rifle balanced on his knees.

Yakelev glared accusingly. "You woke me up."

"Come with me, please," the captain said, leading the way outside. They descended to the fog-shrouded main deck and made their way to the stem. The captain leaned over the fantail and peered into the wooly darkness that swallowed their broad wake. He listened a few seconds, blocking out the burble and hiss of the water.

"A boat is following us," he said.

Yakelev looked at him with suspicion and cupped his hand to his ear. "You're crazy. I hear nothing but the noise from this stupid ship."