Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

The chief tapped the screen. "Is this where it started?"

"Yeah. It's only an estimate built on circumstantial evidence."

"I took a course in accident reconstruction. It's amazing what you can tell about speed and impact from skid marks and broken headlights."

"I'm pretty confident that it originated about a hundred and fifty miles to the east."

"What are you going to do now?" Jenkins's shoulders ached from tension. "First I'm going to brew up some tea. Then we're going to have us a slam-bang game of chess."

THE BLACK SEA

As THE FISHING boat Turgut approached the Russian coast, Austin swept the deserted shoreline through the lenses of his Fujinon gyro-stabilized binoculars, alert to any feature out of sync with its surroundings. The barren coast seemed peaceful. Wind and tide had scrubbed the sand clean of footprints. Green tufts of new growth sprouted in the fire-blackened patches of dune grass. It was hard to imagine the deadly game he had played over this tranquil setting only days before.

The beach was about a mile wide, flanked by two headlands like the arms of a sofa. Except for the cliff sculpted by wind and sea into the sharp profile of an old man, the shoreline was unremarkable. A misty curtain hung over the dunes. Austin remembered that the land hidden behind the grassy ridge sloped down to the abandoned buildings, then flattened out in a scraggly plain edged by woods, gradually rising to low rolling hills.

A smell like burning rope assaulted Austin's nostrils. Wrinkling his nose, he lowered the Stabiscope and turned to see Captain Kemal. The captain removed the twisted black cigar from between his tobacco-stained teeth and jabbed it toward the shore.

"How does it look, Mr. Austin?"

"As quiet as a grave, Captain."

"I don't think I like it quiet like that." He exhaled twin streams of smoke through his crooked nose. "When I smuggled, I never liked a beach that was calm like this. Not even birds flying. You sure you want to go there now?"

"Unfortunately, we don't have much choice. I was hoping the fog would burn off, though."

Kemal squinted toward shore. "Another hour. Two, maybe."

"That's too long. We'll move soon."

The captain waved his cigar in the air, discharging a shower of sparks. "The men are ready when you say."

Austin nodded, thinking about the conversation he'd had with Kemal on the trip from Istanbul. Austin had asked the captain if he knew the Russian sailor who'd sold Kaela Dorn the map that led her to the sub base.

"His name is Valentin," the captain had replied, with no hesitation. "The other fishermen use him when they need an extra hand. Miss Dorn paid him too much money for this big 'secret,' " he said, with a sad shake of his head. "All the fishermen know about the submarines."

"People knew there was a base here?"

"Sure." Kemal's thin lips had widened in a knowing grin. "Fishermen know everything. We watch the weather, the water, birds, other boats." He tapped the corner of an eye with his forefinger. "If you don't keep a lookout, you're going to be in trouble."

Kemal's revelation was no surprise to Austin. He often worked with fishermen on NUMA assignments and found them to be keen observers of conditions under, on and above the sea. A fisherman had to be a combination biologist, meteorologist, mechanic and mariner. Their livelihood, their very lives, depended on their store of practical knowledge. As a former smuggler, Kemal would have been more vigilant than the average fisherman.

"How long did you fish these waters?" Austin asked.

"Many years. In the old days, you would see many boats from allover. Turkish, Russian, sometimes even Bulgarian. The fishing is good. Big schools of bonito come in close to feed. Nobody bothers us. Then one day the Russians come with patrol boats and men with machine guns. They tell the fishermen this is a science station. They will kill anyone who gets too close. Some fishermen didn't believe them and got shot, so the rest of us stayed away. We work offshore, where nobody bothers us. Sometimes the fishermen see periscopes. Once a big black fin came up near my boat."

"A submarine conning tower?"

"He wanted to look, I guess," Kemal said, with a nod. "Then Russia falls apart. The submarines stop coming. Everyone says the Russian navy is broke. One day I take a chance. I follow a school of fish in close." He held an invisible steering wheel in his hand to demonstrate. "I'm ready to run if they come. But nobody stops me. Since then I fish here with no trouble." He shrugged. "When the television people want to go in with Mehmet, I think it's no big deal."

"Did you ever go ashore and look around?"

"No. What's there was not my business. That was before Mehmet got shot." He spat over the side. "Now it is my business."

Kemal's story meshed with the report Austin's friend Leahy had sent him. According to the CIA files, construction on the base started in the 1950s. A U-2 plane photographed the site on an overflight. The U.S. kept close tabs on the growing complex. The Turkish counterpart of the CIA confirmed the reports of submarine traffic. U.S. listening posts determined that the base was under the command of the Black Sea Fleet at Sevastopol. The scientific station was built to do ocean research that would help the fleet do its job.

Military activity slowed after the Cold War. The cash-strapped new Russian republic shut the base down, much as obsolete army installations were closed in the U.S. The scientific station was abandoned. The CIA could have saved millions in surveillance expense by talking to Kemal and his friends. Unfortunately, the one point on which the Turk was wrong, his belief that the base was deserted, had cost his cousin's life.

When the Turgut was less than a mile from shore, Austin asked the captain to drop anchor. Kemal yelled an order to his crew, and a minute later the boat coasted to a stop and vibrated with the rattle of the anchor chain. As the anchor splashed into the sea, Kemal excused himself and went off to supervise the setting of the trawls.

Zavala appeared from the other side of the boat, where he had been getting their scuba gear ready for a dive.

Austin eyed the twisted stub of the cheroot clenched between Zavala's teeth. "I see you've been raiding the captain's humidor."

"He insisted. I didn't want to hurt his feelings." Zavala removed the stogie from his mouth and held it at arm's length. "I think they make these things out of old tires, but I'm sort of getting used to the taste," he said with a shrug. "Gear's all set to go."

Austin followed Zavala to the port side, where the wheelhouse hid them from prying eyes on the mainland. Neatly laid out on the narrow deck were two rows of double air tanks, weight belts, hoods, gloves, boots and fills and two black Viking Pro dry suits manufactured to NUMA specifications. Sunlight glinted off the yellow fiberglass housings of two Torpedo 2000 driver propulsion vehicles. Mounted in tandem, the dual rocket-shaped battery-powered vehicles had a top speed of five miles an hour and a running time of an hour.

They shimmied into their dive suits, helped each other on with their air tanks and did a buddy equipment inspection. Then they waddled to the rail with the shuffling walk divers use out of water and stood at the edge of the deck.

"Any questions before we plunge in?" Austin said.

Zavala flicked the black cigar stub over the side. "Plan the dive and dive the plan. Get in. Take a look. Get out. Stay flexible. Improvise when necessary."

Zavala's succinct summation could have applied to any mission Austin led. Austin was a staunch believer in simplicity of execution because the more elements in a plan, the greater the chance for a screwup. He knew from experience that it was impossible to anticipate every situation when the details were sparse. His muscular body was marked with scars that were stark reminders that even the most carefully laid scheme could unravel in the face of the unexpected. As insurance, though, they carried guns and extra ammunition in their chest packs. They also had communications equipment, although it would be of limited value. They were invading the soil of a foreign country. If he and Zavala encountered trouble, they were on their own.