Clive Cussler - Lost City

"Don't look now, but one of the guards is watching," MacLean said. "I'm going to gesture and wave my arms as if I'm angry and frustrated. Don't be alarmed." "Be my guest." MacLean pointed to the spectrometer screen and scowled. He picked the notebook up, slammed it down, muttered a few curses,

then stalked off across the room. Trout stood and stared at MacLean back with a frown on his face. The guard laughed at the confrontation, then pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stepped outside for a smoke.

Trout got up and walked across the lab to break the good news to Gamay and Sandy.

AUSTIN STEPPED through the front door of a noisy pub called the Bloody Sea Serpent and walked across the smoke-filled room to the corner table, where Zavala was, chatting with a toothless man who looked like a Scottish version of the Old Man of the Sea. Zavala saw Austin enter and shook hands with the man, who then rejoined the crowd at the bar.

Austin sat down in the now-vacant chair and said, "Glad to see that you're making friends."

"It's not easy for a Mexican American boy like me. Their accents are as thick as chili, and as if things weren't tough enough, there isn't a single ounce of tequila in the whole town." He lifted his pint of lager to emphasize the terrible state of affairs.

"Appalling," Austin said, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He signaled a waitress, and a minute later he was sipping on a pint of stout. "How did your mission go?" Zavala said.

In reply, Austin reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a key ring and dropped it on the table. "You see before you the

key for the newest addition to NUMA's worldwide fleet of state-of-the-art vessels."

"Did you run into any problems?" Zavala said. Austin shook his head. "I strolled along the fish pier and picked out the worst-looking boat I could find. Then I made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse." "He wasn't suspicious?"

"I said I was an American TV producer doing a program on the Outcasts mystery and that we needed the boat right away. After I showed him the money, I could have told him I was from the Planet NUMA, for all he cared. He'll be able to buy a new boat with this windfall. We executed a quick bill of sale to make it legal. I pledged him to silence and promised him a bit part in the show."

"Did he have any theories about the disappearance of the missing Outcasts crew?"

"Lots of them. Mostly waterfront gossip. He said the police combed the island but the authorities have been keeping a tight lid on information. According to the scuttlebutt around the waterfront, the investigators found traces of blood and body parts. People don't seem overly disturbed about the whole thing. There's a rumor that it was all a publicity stunt and the missing crew will pop up on a tropical isle somewhere for a new show. They figure the lone survivor is an actress being paid big bucks to pony up a story about the red-eyed cannibals. What about your sources?"

"I picked up some of the same stuff from the guy I was just talking to. He's been around since kilts were invented and knows everyone and everything. I said I was a sport diver and bought a few rounds," Zavala said.

"Did your friend mention any connection between the Outcasts incident and the island?" Austin said.

"There was talk at first," Zavala said. "Then the publicity stunt rumor began to circulate and that was that."

"How far is the island from the Outcasts set?" "About five miles. The locals think it's a semiofficial operation, and that it's still owned by the government," Zavala said. "Given the place's history, it isn't far-fetched. The fishermen avoid the place. Armed patrol boats pop out the minute anyone even thinks of getting close. Some fishermen swear they've been tailed by miniature subs." "That would fit in with what we know from the satellite photos," said Austin. "They must have encountered the AUV watchdog."

The pub's door opened and the fisherman who'd sold Austin his boat stepped inside. Austin figured the man would buy everyone in the house a drink, and didn't want to get drawn into any good luck celebration and the inevitable questions that would arise. He drained his mug and suggested that Zavala do the same. They left by the pub's back door and stopped off at their rooming house to pick up their gear bags. Minutes later, they were walking along a narrow cobblestone lane that took them to the fog-shrouded harbor.

Austin led the way along the line of boats and stepped in front of a vessel about twenty-five feet long. The lapstrake, or "clinker-built" wooden hull of overlapping planking, had an up swept bow built for rough seas. The deck was open except for a small wheelhouse near the bow. Even in the gauzy mists, they could see that the boat was being held together by numerous coats of paint.

"She's what the local fishermen call a 'creeler," " Austin said. "The former owner says she was built in '71."

"Is that 1871 or 1971?" Zavala said, chuckling. "Can't wait to see Pitt's face when he gets the bill for this little luxury yacht." "Knowing Pitt, I think he'd understand," Austin said. Zavala read the name on the stern. "Spooter?" "It's the local term for a razor clam. Spoot is supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities."

"Really," Zavala said, his interest piqued. "I suppose it makes about as much sense as rhino horn."

They climbed aboard the boat, and Zavala surveyed the deck while Austin poked his head into a wheelhouse about as big as two telephone booths put together. The cabin reeked of stale cigarette smoke and diesel fumes. When Austin came back out, Zavala stomped his foot on the planking.

"Feels solid enough."

"This old rust bucket is actually more seaworthy than she looks. Let's see if she has a chart."

Austin rummaged around in the wheelhouse and found a grease-smeared map that showed the island to be ten miles across the bay from the boatyard. Austin pointed to the island's harbor and explained the plan he had been mulling over to Zavala.

"What do you think of it?"

"A low-tech solution to a high-tech challenge. I think it can work. When do we go?"

"No time like the present," Austin said. "I persuaded the former owner to throw in a full tank of fuel."

He went into the pilothouse. In short order, they had the engine warming up, gear stowed and a compass course set. The boat had seen some hard times, but its electronics were fairly new and would allow them to navigate the unfamiliar waters in the night fog.

Zavala cast off the mooring lines while Austin took the helm and pointed the bow out of the harbor. The engine chortled and gasped as if it were on its last legs, but the Spooler pushed its way through the swirling mists and began its voyage to the mysterious island.

FOR A MAN who was nearly seven feet tall, Trout moved with uncommon stealth. Only the sharpest eye would have seen him slip out of the prisoners' compound shortly after midnight. He darted from shadow to shadow, staying away from the floodlights. His excessive caution proved to be unnecessary. No guards patrolled the compound and the watchtowers were unoccupied. Drunken laughter and loud music drifted from the bunkhouse, where the guards were having a party. Trout surmised that the guards were celebrating the end of their boring duty on this lonely outpost. The raucous noise grew fainter as Trout trotted along a dirt road away from the bunkhouse. No longer making an attempt to conceal himself, he covered the distance rapidly with his long-legged stride. He knew he was nearing his goal when the stench hit his nostrils. His resolve faltered as he considered the task he had set himself, but he set his jaw and pressed on toward the chamber of horrors Colonel Strega had facetiously referred to as the "Zoo."

Trout slowed to a walk as he entered the floodlit area around the concrete building and went directly to the front door. He ran the