Clive Cussler - Lost City

He returned to the bridge and sent Austin's message off to NUMA. He had just finished filing a report with the Coast Guard command when the medic called on the intercom. The captain listened to the medic's excited voice, then left the bridge and went down to the dispensary. Two body bags were lying on gurneys. The medic gave Captain Bruce scented petroleum jelly to dab under his nostrils.

"Brace yourself," the medic said and unzipped one of the body bags.

The captain had seen and smelled dead bodies in various levels of sea decomposition, and the strong animal odor that issued from the bag didn't bother him as much as the sight that greeted his eyes. His ruddy face turned ash gray. The captain was a good Presbyterian who neither drank nor swore. This was one of those times when he wished he were less devout.

"What in God's name is that thing?" he said in a hoarse whisper.

"The stuff of nightmares," the medic said. "I've never seen anything like it."

"What about the other one?" the captain said.

The medic unzipped the second bag. The body was that of a handsome gray-haired man in his fifties or sixties.

"Zip them both up," the captain ordered. When the medic complied, the captain said, "What did they die of?"

"Both these, er, men were killed by gunshots."

Captain Bruce thanked the medic and then headed to the mess hall. The frightened faces he had seen earlier were smiling, thanks to generous infusions of food and rum. Austin sat at a table talking with Paul and Gamay.

Austin had been listening, deep in thought, as they took turns filling him in on their kidnapping and imprisonment. He saw Captain Bruce and gave him a warm smile. "Hello, Captain. As you can see, your hospitality has not gone unappreciated."

"Glad to hear that," the captain said. "I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, Mr. Austin."

Austin took in the seriousness of the captain's expression. He had a good idea of why the captain wanted to see him. "Of course."

The captain led him to a ready room near the mess hall and told him to take a seat.

"I've got some questions to ask you."

"Go right ahead."

"It's about those bodies. Who or what are they?"

"One of them is a Scottish chemist named MacLean Angus MacLean I'm not sure who the other one is, or was. I've been told that he is a mutant, the result of a scientific experiment gone wrong."

"What kind of experiment could produce a monster like that poor devil?"

"I'm not privy to the details."

The captain shook his head in disbelief. "Who shot them?"

"They were killed trying escape from an island, where they were being held prisoner." He gave the position.

"The forbidden island} I've patrolled these waters for two decades and have never set foot on the place. What in God's name were you doing there?"

"My colleague Paul Trout and the pilot of the submersible Alvin were being held against their will. We went ashore on a rescue mission and ran into a little trouble."

"Who was keeping them prisoner?"

"I don't know. I suggest that we straighten it all out when we get back to shore."

A young crewman came into the room and handed Captain Bruce a sheet of folded paper. "These just came in, sir."

"Thank you," the captain said. He excused himself and read the messages and handed one to Kurt. It was from Rudi Gunn.

"Glad all are well. Details soon? Rudi."

The captain read the other note and raised his eyebrows.

"It seems that you have what Americans call 'clout," Mr. Austin. The central Coast Guard command has been contacted by the Admiralty. We are to treat you with the utmost courtesy, and to give you anything you want."

"Do British vessels still stock grog?" Austin said.

"I don't have any grog, but I have a bottle of fine Scotch whiskey in my cabin."

"That will do just fine," Austin said.

A WELCOME OF A different sort greeted the Scapa as it sidled up to the dock at Kirkwall, Orkney's capital. Lined up on shore, waiting for the Coast Guard boat to arrrve, were a bus, a hearse and about two dozen figures dressed in white hooded contamination suits.

Austin stood at the rail of the boat with Captain Bruce. He eyed the welcoming committee and said, "That's either a decontamination team or the latest in British fashion."

"From the looks of things, my crew won't be going on shore leave anytime soon," the captain said. "The Scapa and its crew have been quarantined in case you and your friends have left any nasty bugs behind."

"Sorry to cause you all this trouble, Captain."

"Nonsense," Captain Bruce said. "Your visit has certainly enlivened what would have been a routine patrol. And as I say, it's what we do."

Austin shook hands with the captain, then he and the other

refugees from the island walked down the gangway. As each passenger set foot on land, he or she was asked to don a clear plastic suit and cap and a surgical mask. Then they were escorted onto the bus and the dead were loaded into the hearse. The passengers were asked not to raise the window blinds. After a ride of five minutes, they stepped off the bus in front of the large brick building that once could have served as a warehouse.

A huge bubble tent had been set up inside the building to serve as a decontamination lab staffed by more people in white suits. Everyone who had been on the island was asked to shower and their clothes were stuffed in plastic bags and taken off to be analyzed. When they were finished showering, they were given cotton hospital outfits that made them look like mental patients, poked and prodded by a phalanx of plastic-wrapped doctors and pronounced fit to rejoin the human race. Despite the indignities, they were treated with the utmost politeness.

After being examined, Austin and his NUMA colleagues were given back their neatly folded and newly laundered clothes. Then they were taken into a small, mostly bare room furnished with several chairs and a table. At their entry, the man in the pin-striped suit who sat behind the table stood and introduced himself as Anthony Mayhew. He said he was with MI5, the British domestic intelligence service, and asked them to take a seat. Mayhew had finely chiseled features, and an upper-class accent that led Austin to say, "Oxford?"

"Cambridge, actually," he said with a smile. Mayhew talked in clipped sentences, as if he had taken verbal shears to extraneous words. "Distinction is hard to catch. My apologies for the folderol with the sawbones and those lab people in the space suits. Hope you weren't inconvenienced."

"Not all. We were badly in need of showers," Austin said.

"Please tell whoever does our laundry to use a little less starch in our collars," Zavala added.

A chuckle escaped Mayhew's thin lips. "I'll do that. MI5 are well acquainted with the work of NUMA's Special Assignments Team. But once the brass heard from Captain Bruce about dead bodies, secret experiments and mutants, they simply panicked like the good civil servants they are. They wanted to make sure you wouldn't contaminate the British Isles."

Austin grimaced. "I didn't think we smelled that bad."

Mayhew gave Austin a blank look, and then broke into laughter. "American humor. I should have known. I spent several years on assignment in the States. My superiors were less worried about odor than having a deadly virus be unleashed."

"We wouldn't dream of contaminating our English cousins," Austin said. "Please assure your superiors that this has nothing to do with biological warfare."

"I'll do that as well," Mayhew said. He looked from face to face. "Please, could someone please explain what the devil is going on?"

Austin turned to Trout. "Paul is in the best position to fill you in on island life. The rest of us were only there for a few hours."

Trout's lips tightened in a wry grin. "Let me start by saying that the island is not exactly a Club Med."