Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

Austin scanned the deck and focused on a cargo container. "How low can you get us?" he said.

"Maybe thirty or forty feet. Any lower and the rotor might hit a mast. It could be tricky."

"Does this aircraft have a winch hoist?"

"Sure. We use it on short hops for carrying stuff that's too big to fit in the chopper."

Zavala was listening intently to the discussion. From long experience with his partner's thought processes, Joe knew exactly what Austin had in mind. Zavala reached over and grabbed his rucksack from the adjoining seat. Austin told the pilot what they planned to do, then he checked the load in the Bowen, stuck it in his rucksack and slung the pack over his shoulder.

The copilot came back from the cockpit and opened the side door, bringing a blast of sea air into the cabin. Gunn helped the copilot uncoil cable from a winch drum and feed it through the doorway. Austin sat in the doorway with legs dangling. When the chopper was as low as it was going to be, he grabbed onto the cable and swung his body out of the helicopter. He slid down the cable, wedged one foot in the hook on the end and hung on as the cable swung back and forth like a twisting pendulum, buffeted by the powerful downdraft from the rotors.

From his perch, the pilot could not see Austin and relied on the copilot, who was crouched at the open door where he shouted directions. The chopper inched lower. The deck whirled under Austin's feet. The main hydraulic crane took up a major portion of the aft deck, along with coils of chain and rope, orange plastic containers holding various instruments, cartons, bollards and air vents.

Hanging on to the twisting cable with one hand, Austin pointed to the nearest cargo container and jabbed the air with his finger. The chopper moved several feet until it was directly over the container. Austin gave a thumbs-down signal. Released from its drum by the slow-turning winch, the cable unwound until the container was barely a yard below Austin's feet. Waiting for the right moment, he decided it wasn't going to come. He dropped onto the metal roof and rolled over a couple of times to absorb the shock and to avoid being bashed in the head by the hook swinging wildly inches above his head.

The cable was winched up, and Austin scrambled to his feet and waved to the faces peering down at him to show he was all right. Zavala lost no time exiting the helicopter. He dropped to the roof of the cargo container, but his timing was wrong and he would have fallen off if Austin hadn't grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Seeing them both on board, the pilot headed off. Watching the aircraft as it sped toward the horizon, Austin prayed that the fuel supply would hold out.

As the chopper receded to the size of a mosquito, Austin and Zavala dabbed antiseptic from their first-aid kit onto hands rubbed raw by the cable. From their elevated perch, they had a good view of the ship, and from what they could see the vessel was completely deserted.

They climbed down to the deck and Austin suggested that they move forward on each side of the boat, keeping their weapons at the ready. Austin took the starboard deck and Zavala the port. They advanced cautiously, guns in hand. The only sound was the snap of pennants and flags in the warm breeze. They came out onto the foredeck at the same time.

Zavala's face wore an expression of astonishment. "Nothing, Kurt. It's like the Mary Celeste," he said, referring to the famous old sailing ship that had been found adrift with no one on board. "Did you find anything?"

Austin gestured for Zavala to follow and led the way back along the starboard deck. He knelt next to a dark streak on the metal deck between the railing and a doorway into the ship. Austin gingerly touched the sticky stain and sniffed the coppery odor on his finger.

"I hope that isn't what I think it is," Zavala said.

"If you said blood, you'd be right. Someone dragged a body, maybe more than one from the looks of it, across the deck and threw the corpse overboard. There's more blood on the rail."

With a heavy heart, Austin took the lead and stepped through the door out of the hot sun into the cool interior of the ship. Moving methodically, he and Zavala checked out the mess hall, library and the main lab, then climbed to the upper lab and the bridge. The farther into the ship they got, the more apparent it became that the Sea Hunter had been transformed into a charnel house. Everywhere they looked they saw spatters or puddles of blood. Austin's jaw grew rock hard. He had known many of the crew and scientists on board.

By the time they got to the wheelhouse, their nerves were as taut as piano strings. The floor was littered with charts and paper and broken glass from the windows. Austin picked up the radio microphone that had been ripped from its connection. The mike would have been of little use, since the communications console was riddled with bullet holes.

"Now we know why they didn't answer their calls," he said.

Zavala murmured softly in Spanish. "It looks like the Manson gang was here."

"We'd better check the ship's quarters," Austin said. They made their way down two levels in the tomblike silence and worked their way through the accommodations for the crew, officers and the scientists, finding more evidence of violence but no one alive, finally stopping outside a door marked STORES.

Austin pushed the door open, slipped his hand around the jamb and flicked on the lights. Cardboard cartons stacked several levels high were arranged in a rectangle on wooden palettes with a narrow aisle running around the outside. In one corner of the room was a service elevator used to haul supplies up to the galley.

Austin heard a soft muffled sound, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He signaled to Zavala to take one side of the room while he took the other. Zavala nodded and started off, moving as silently as a ghost. Austin edged along the other wall, then peered around a stack of canned-tomato cartons. The noise was repeated, louder now, sounding more animal than human. Zavala peered around the far corner, then they both stepped into the clear. Austin put his finger to his lips and pointed toward a narrow cleft between stacked boxes. A low moan issued from the alcove.

Austin waved Zavala off. Holding his gun in front of him with both hands, he stepped forward, and swung the Bowen around, pointing it between the boxes. He let out a robust curse, thinking how close he had come to shooting the young woman who cowered in the tight space.

She was a pitiful sight. Her dark curly hair hung over her face, her red-rimmed eyes brimmed with tears, her nose was wet and runny. She had crammed herself into a space less than two feet wide, her legs tight together, her arms around her knees. Her clenched fists were white-knuckled. When she saw Austin, a toneless ululating sound escaped her lips.

“Nunununu."

Austin realized the woman was repeating the word "no" again and again. He holstered his gun and squatted down so their faces were level.

"It's okay," he said. "We're from NUMA. Do you understand?"

She stared at Austin and mouthed the word NUMA.

"That's right. I'm Kurt Austin." Joe had come up behind him. "This is Joe Zavala. We're from the Argo. We tried to call your ship on the radio. Can you tell us what happened?"

She replied with a vigorous shake of her head.

"Maybe we should go on deck where there's fresh air," Zavala suggested.

She shook her head again. This wasn't going to be easy. The woman was wedged tightly in her space and they would hurt her, and maybe themselves, if they tried to pull her out by force. She was in a state of shock.

Austin extended his hand palm up. She stared at it for a minute, then reached out and brushed his fingers as if she wanted to make sure he was real. The physical contact seemed to bring her back into the world.