Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

Austin shrugged and replied with an innocent look. Still laughing, the guard continued along the hall until he was out of sight. Austin reached down and helped Logan up.

"Sorry, Captain," he said, with obvious embarrassment. was getting a fix on Paul, and I had to divert his attention."

Logan dusted off the seat of his pants. "I've had my command hijacked, my crew kidnapped, and been forced by these seagoing thugs to use a U.S. Navy vessel for their purposes," he said with a grin. "I'll suffer whatever it takes to get off this ship."

Trout stopped and examined another wall diagram. "It looks as if the moon pool hold is divided into a smaller and larger section. I'd advise going in the smaller end to avoid crew quarters here."

Austin told him to lead the way. With long, loping strides, Trout led them along a series of passageways until they came to an unlocked door. On the other side was a catwalk that ran along the wall of a high-ceiling chamber about a third the size of the moon pool.

"What the hell is that thing?" the captain said. He was looking at a huge cylindrical object suspended from the ceiling. It was at least four feet across and fifty feet long. The bottom end was cone shaped and several projections were clustered around the top, where a complex set of cables and hoses snaked into the ceiling.

"Looks like an ICBM," the pilot said, "only it's pointing wrong way."

"That's not all that's wrong with it," Trout said. "Those thrusters around the top, not fins."

Austin was as fascinated as the others, but time was short. "Take a good look at it now, gentlemen, and we'll compare notes later."

They continued along the walkway through another door and found themselves outside the changing room, where they found dry suits that fit the navy men. Austin and Trout carefully folded their borrowed coveralls and replaced them on the shelves. Then they all moved on to the decompression chamber. The dive gear was undisturbed. They descended a short stairway that led to a room with the smaller moon pool. Set into the deck was a depressed twelve-by-twelve-foot-square section outlining the pool that was used for launching ROVs. Trout studied the controls on the wall, then hit a button and the floor of the shallow wall slid back.

Water lapped over the top of the well and a damp, briny chill filled the room.

The pilot looked into the dark square of ocean and gulped. "You're kidding."

"Sorry it isn't a hot tub," Austin said. "But unless you can figure a way to open the main floodgates so we can use the NR-1, this is the only way off the ship."

"Hell, this should be no different from the escape training tank at Groton," the captain said with bravado, although his face was pale.

"We don't have any spare air tanks, so we'll buddy-breathe. It's about a hundred-yard swim to our pickup. The open hatch probably sets off an alarm up in the wheelhouse, so we don't have much time."

Despite his bluster, the captain didn't look enthusiastic about the prospect ahead, but he gritted his teeth, pulled the hood down and the face mask over his eyes. "Let's go before I change my mind," he growled.

Austin handed the pilot the auxiliary air hose, called the octopus. Trout did the same with the captain. When all were ready, Austin linked arms with the pilot, stepped to the edge of the pool and jumped in.

They sank in a cloud of bubbles until their buoyancy overcame their downward momentum. The bubbles quickly cleared, and Austin saw Trout's light waving in the gloom from several feet away. Austin started swimming. The submariners' kicking technique was uneven and the Siamese-twin arrangement was awkward, but they managed to claw their way out from under the ship's massive bulk.

Austin felt himself rising and falling. Sea conditions must be deteriorating. Austin's compass was useless so close to the huge metal mass of the Ataman ship. He relied on dead reckoning to move them in the general direction of the rendezvous.

When Austin gauged they were a hundred yards from the ship, he stopped and signaled for the others to do the same. While they hovered thirty feet below the surface, he undid a small self-inflating buoy from his belt and looped a nylon line tied to the buoy over his wrist. He released the buoy and let it rise to the surface, where the miniature transponder it carried would start broadcasting their location.

The next few minutes were excruciating. Despite their suits, the cold numbed the exposed areas around their hands and masks. The NR-1 men were courageous, but being held prisoner had sapped their strength and they were simply out of shape from spending long idle hours in their cabin. Austin wondered what they would do if the Kestrel failed to show up. He was savoring the bleak possibilities when Jenkins's voice came through his earphones.

"Got a lock on your position marker. You boys okay?"

"We're fine. We picked up a couple of hitchhikers, and they're turning six shades of blue from the cold."

"On my way."

Austin signaled to the others to get ready. The NR-1 men responded with okay hand signals, but the slowness of their movements indicated that they were becoming fatigued. For the plan to work, they would need energy. All four men looked up as they heard the muffled grumble of an engine. The noise grew louder until it was right overhead.

Austin jerked his thumb up. Then he and Trout rose, pulling their exhausted companions with them. Austin kept his free arm extended straight above his head until his fingers closed on the moving net being towed behind the slow-moving Kestrel. The others all managed to grab onto the cod end, the tapering pocket where the fish are actually caught.

When Austin saw that everyone had a grip on the net, he shouted to Jenkins. "All aboard!"

The boat's speed picked up and they felt as if their arms were being pulled out of their sockets. But after the initial shock, the ride smoothed out and they were flying through the water. The water pressure tried to brush them off, but they held on gamely until they were well away from the ship. Jenkins hove to.

"Hauling back," he said in warning.

Austin and Trout got a firm grip on their charges as the net pulled them to the surface. Their troubles weren't over, however. They were tossed around in the heaving seas and hampered by their scuba gear, until, finally, they jettisoned their air tanks and belts. Without the awkward weight, they could work with the waves rather than fight them.

Jenkins was leaning over the stern controlling the hauler, the big metal drum that the net was wound upon when not in the water. The net had drawn Austin and the pilot within a few feet of safety, but the boat pitched and yawed violently and the seas lifted them one second, dropped them the next. Choking fumes from the exhaust rose from the water. To make matters worse, Austin's right arm had become entangled in the net.

Jenkins saw their predicament, and the narrow blade of a razor-sharp filleting knife flashed dangerously close to Austin's biceps. With his arm free, he reached up to Jenkins, who grabbed his wrist in an iron grip. Working the hauler with the other hand, he pulled Austin, then the pilot, closer.

"Damn funny-looking fish we're catching these days," he yelled over the rumble of the engine.

Howes was manning the helm and doing his best to keep the boat steady. "Those fellas are a bit small," he shouted back. "Maybe we should throw them back."

"Not on your life," Austin said, as he got one leg over the transom and practically fell into the boat.

Jenkins helped the pilot on board. With three of them working, they got Trout and Logan onto the boat in short order. The submariners staggered drunkenly across the pitching deck into the wheelhouse. The net had caught several hundred pounds of fish; and the weight threatened to drag the ship down. Jenkins hated to lose the fish and let the net loose in the sea where it might catch on a propeller, but he had no choice. He cut the lines and watched the net drift off into the foamy sea. Then he took over the helm and gunned the boat through the white-capped seas that splashed over the bow.