Clive Cussler - Lost City

"I don't think we'll have to worry. It sounds like a Klingon stag party is in progress," Gamay said.

Like the men in the compound, the sub guards must have learned that their duty was about to come to an end because a similar drunken celebration was under way in the guardhouse. Apparently, they hadn't learned the fate of their comrades in the lab. compound area. Gamay and Trout moved in until they were under the platform. The ladder dropped off the edge of the bluff. They climbed down the face of the cliff onto a narrow metal catwalk that was built a few feet above water level and followed a line of ankle-high lights into the yawning entrance of the sub pen.

The giant submarine that had kidnapped them loomed ahead. A few deck lights had been left on, so they were able to find the gangway and walk along the deck to the entry hatch. Trout lifted the hatch cover and poked his head inside. Low-level lights illuminated the sub's interior.

They descended a ladder and began to make their way through the sub as silently as shadows. Trout, who was in the lead, paused to peer around every corner, but he encountered no one. The control room was in semidarkness, lit by lights glowing on the various instrument

panels. The radio shack was a small space off the control room. While Gamay kept watch, Trout sat in front of the communications console, picked up the radiophone, dialed the main number for NUMA and held his breath, not sure what would happen.

"National Underwater and ... Agency," said a friendly female voice.

The faint transmission was broken up, probably by the walls and ceiling of the sub pen.

"Rudi Gunn, please. Tell him this is Paul Trout calling."

"One ... ment."

The moment seemed like a day. In his mind's eye, he pictured the lobby of the NUMA building with its centerpiece globe. Then the voice of NUMA's assistant director came on the phone. He could picture the slightly built Gunn sitting in his big office, probably applying his genius to a complex logistical problem.

"Trout? Where in God's name ... you? We've been looking ... over Creation. Are you okay?"

"Fine, Rudi. Gamay's here, too. Got to talk fast. The Alvin was hijacked. We're on an island I think it's in Scottish or Scandinavian waters. There are seven other scientists also being held prisoner. We've been working on some nutty experiment. We've escaped, but it might not last long."

"Having trouble hear ... you, but understand. Can you stay on ... radio?"

"We've got to get back to the others."

"Leave the radio phone on. We'll try to track you down through ... signal."

Trout's reply was cut short by a whispered warning from Gamay. Someone was whistling a mindless tune. He carefully replaced the mike in its cradle and shut off the radiophone. Then he and Gamay dropped to their hands and knees and tried with limited success to

cram their bodies under the console. The whistle came nearer. The whistler paused to peer through the glass pane in the door and apparently saw nothing amiss because the whistling grew fainter.

The Trouts pried themselves out of their hiding place. Paul called Gunn again and told him they were leaving the radio on. He checked the passageway, saw it was empty and they started back the way they came. They moved with even greater caution, keeping their ears cocked for a telltale whistle. They emerged from the deck hatchway, trotted along the catwalk and climbed the ladder that would take them back to the access road.

They returned to the church and were making their way through the graveyard when the night blazed with light. Beyond the blinding glare, several forms could be seen rising from behind the gravestones like restless spirits. Then rough hands grabbed Trout and Gamay and guards hustled them into the church. A tough-looking guard stood in front of the altar, a grin on his face that didn't match the machine pistol held at waist level, its muzzle pointing toward Trout's belly button.

"Hello, mate," the man said, with a quick glance at Gamay. "This is the end of the road for you and your friends."

THE OWL had been perched in a withered tree near the edge of the sea, its keen hearing attuned to the scampering of a mouse darting among clumps of grass. The bird was about to swoop down upon the hapless creature when its round yellow eyes caught a movement on the beach. Something large and shiny had broken from a wave and climbed out onto the wet sand. The owl spread its wings and silently flew inland. The mouse scurried into the grass, unmindful of its reprieve.

A second figure with black skin emerged from the surf like a

primitive creature crawling out of the primordial ooze. Austin and Zavala pushed their face masks up, unzipped their watertight packs and pulled out the SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter pistols the ill-fated SEAL team had left on board the research vessel. Seeing that they were alone, they took off their air tanks and stepped out of their dry suits.

They had slipped over the side of the Spooler as the patrol boat approached, first opening the pet cocks to send the fishing boat to the bottom. They had watched from inside the wheelhouse as the AUV checked out the sunken boat. When the AUV had left, they'd started swimming for land. Currents had thrown them off course, but Austin was reasonably sure they had landed close to where they were supposed to be.

A glance at his watch told Austin they had six hours until daylight. He signaled to Zavala. After a five-minute walk in the sand, their feet crunched hard gravel. Austin took a minicomputer from his pack and examined the image the satellite photo had taken of the island.

"If we stay on this road, we'll come to the compound. It's about two miles through what looks like a pass."

Without another word, they started walking along the darkened road.

THE MAN pointing the gun at Trout had a face like a lizard, all teeth and no lips.

"We've been waiting for you," the man said in an Australian accent.

"How'd you know where we were?" Trout said.

The man laughed. "Guess you didn't know we've got surveillance cameras scattered around the island. If the boys hadn't been so drunk, we might have seen you earlier."

"Sorry to interrupt your party."

"Your friends didn't feel like talking," he said. "Where'd you get Strega's car?"

"The colonel wasn't using it, so we thought we'd take it out for a drive."

The man swung his rifle around and thrust the butt into Trout's midsection. Trout felt as if his heart had stopped. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, and dropped to his knees. When the waves of nausea had subsided, he staggered painfully to his feet. The man grabbed the front of Trout's jumpsuit and pulled him close. He reeked of whiskey.

"I don't like wiseass answers," he said. He pushed Trout away and leveled his gun at Gamay. "Where did you get the car?" "Strega's dead," Trout said, still gasping for breath. "Dead!" The eyes narrowed. "How'd he get dead?" Trout knew that even if he told the truth, the man wouldn't believe him. "It's better if I show you." . The guard hesitated.

"What are you up to?" he said, raising his weapon. "Nothing. We're in no position to hurt you." The comment went to the man's ego, as Trout hoped it would. "Right about that, mate."

He and the other guards marched Trout and Gamay around to the back of the church where the Mercedes was parked. Sandy, MacLean and the other scientists were huddled near the vehicle under the watchful eyes of two more armed men. A long-bed pickup truck was parked next to the Mercedes. The prisoners including Gamay were ordered into the back of the truck. Some of the guards went with the truck while two others got into the backseat of the Mercedes. The Aussie told Trout to drive the car. Then he slid in next to Trout and ordered him back to the compound. "This better be good," he said.