Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“It’s gone full reverse,” he said. “It’s trying to pull free.”

“Get off,” Kurt suggested. “Once that thing breaks out, the ship’s going to sink like a stone.”

Joe raced for the stern and the canisters for the inflatable lifeboat he’d seen earlier. Halfway there, he slid to a stop. He’d run right past the Grishka ’s helicopter before an idea occurred to him.

Rushing up to the helicopter, Joe pulled the heated covers from the rotors overhead. They slid off with ease, slamming to the deck and revealing the clean black surface of the protected airfoil underneath.

He pulled a heavy plastic cover from the tail rotor and cleared the engine intake and exhaust as well. Next, he went for the tie-down chains. He yanked one free, and then felt the deck tilting beneath him once again. “What’s happening?”

“The submarine is trying to break free,” Kurt said. “It’s surging forward and then pulling back.”

Joe worked quickly. With the chains released, the helicopter was a free bird. Now he just had to make it fly.

He grabbed the helicopter’s door and pulled it open. Jumping into the pilot’s seat, he flipped several switches. The instrument panel came to life. The gyros began to spool up.

Joe thanked his lucky stars that the helicopter had been hooked to the solar array all this time. The battery registered a full charge.

“AC power on,” Joe said, running through the bare minimum of a checklist. “Fuel pumps on . . . Starter, engage.”

Joe held the starter switch down as whining above him announced the rotors were turning on battery power. The rapid tick-tick-tick of the igniters joined in.

“Come on, baby,” Joe said to the helicopter. “Don’t let me down.”

After several additional seconds, the engine roared to life. Joe released the starter as the rotors began to spin. But at almost the same time, the Grishka swayed once more. It rolled to port, briefly back to starboard and then back to port again.

Kurt gave him the bad news. “The submarine has broken free. I can see a huge gash in the hull. Whatever you’re planning to do, now would be a good time to do it. I’d say you’ve got thirty seconds, no more.”

Joe was amazed by how calmly Kurt reported this disaster.

“My plan is to hail a cab,” Joe said.

“A cab ?”

“Air taxi. How’s that sound to you?”

“Better than treading water until the Providence gets here.”

With the rotor blades picking up speed, Joe flexed the controls, finding all systems were operational.

As Joe counted the seconds, a bulkhead in the front part of the ship gave way. Water surged into the next compartment and the Grishka ’s list worsened.

The helicopter, which was no longer chained down, began sliding on the ice-covered landing pad. It caught on the rail, threatening to tumble over it.

Joe pulled back on the cyclic, applying maximum takeoff power. The helicopter left the deck at an angle, pulling free from the railing and peeling off to starboard like a drunken sailor stumbling in the dark.

Joe leveled the craft quickly and continued away from the ship, climbing and turning to the east.

“You’re clear,” Kurt told him. “Good work.”

“What about you?” Joe asked.

As Kurt began to reply, his words were drowned out by a rumbling sound, complete with high-pitched hissing and chaotic reverberations. It was the Grishka ’s death rattle, picked up by Kurt’s microphone. The ship had capsized and gone down at the bow.

10

Knowing the Grishka was going to sink, Kurt had prudently swum away from the hull, putting as much space between himself and the ship to be safe from any undertow.

But as the vessel rolled and twisted, a guide wire running from the superstructure to the bow snapped. It whipped outward, cutting across the water like an eel and wrapping itself around his leg. It pulled tight as the ship went down and dragged Kurt along for the ride.

Kurt didn’t bother reaching for it in some foolish attempt to pull it loose. He knew from the pressure on his calf that no human hands would have enough strength to loosen the cable. Instead, he ignited the acetylene torch and brought it toward the braided metal line.

With the blue light from the torch’s flame illuminating the dark water, Kurt twisted around and made contact with the cable. The torch burned hot for several seconds but then began to dim.

The flame was dying, the victim of the icy cold and the higher pressure caused by the increasing depth. Kurt shook the tanks to stir up the liquid inside, banging them against his thigh until the blue flame grew once again.

With fire holding steady, Kurt brought it back up against the cable. The metal strands turned red and flaked away. With a twang that echoed through the water, the cable snapped, vanishing into the darkness.

The sudden release was almost painful. Kurt pulled the remaining section of the cable away from his leg. His calf throbbed, but a gash in the drysuit was letting enough frigid water in to numb the pain.

Kurt turned his attention toward the surface. While the silver light seemed a long way above him, the buoyancy of the drysuit was already lifting him. With a few strong kicks, he accelerated upward, emerging amid the churning waters where the Grishka had once been.

Turning from point to point, he spotted Joe in the helicopter and then the hull of the submarine. The menacing vessel was a long way off, but Kurt was a bright orange target in the middle of the sea. If they were looking, it wouldn’t take long for them to spot him.

“Joe,” he called out. “Do you read?”

“Ever since third grade,” Joe’s cheerful voice replied. “Where’ve you been?”

“Riding a metal horse to the bottom,” Kurt replied. “I wouldn’t recommend it. Can you pick me up?”

“As soon as I can see through this windshield,” Joe said . “It’s still frosted over.”

Kurt glanced over his shoulder. The submarine was changing direction, coming back his way. As it turned head-on, Kurt noticed a pair of protruding globes sticking up above the bow. These “eyes” almost certainly were cameras and they were looking directly at him.

“I’m not sure I have time for your defroster to kick in,” he said. “That mechanical shark is circling back toward me.”

“Give me your bearing.”

Kurt looked at the helicopter, estimating Joe’s heading. “Turn left forty degrees.”

The helicopter pivoted, rotating slowly.

“Too far,” Kurt said. “Come back about ten degrees . . . Perfect. You’re pointed right at me.”

“What’s the distance?”

“Half a mile,” Kurt said.

Joe dipped the nose of the helicopter and began moving the craft toward Kurt.

With Joe on the way, Kurt switched his focus to the submarine that was coming from the other direction. It was going to be close.

He glanced back at Joe. “You’re three hundred yards from my position. Fifty feet off the deck. Turn five degrees to the left.”

Kurt admired the skill with which Joe piloted the helicopter, watching as his friend brought it within ten feet of the water while correcting his course, closing in and slowing down.

“A hundred yards,” Kurt said.

The whirling blades grew louder. The water began whipping outward from Kurt in circles. Kurt swam toward the helicopter as it hovered, reaching for the right skid as Joe dipped it into the water.

He pulled himself up, suddenly feeling the weight of the acetylene torch dragging him down. He disconnected the tanks and swung a leg over the skid. “Go.”