Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

Novikov nodded. “So be it,” he said. “You will have the last transfer of funds.”

“And your turbines,” Ms. Tunstall added.

“And your tankers for transporting the catalyst,” Liang insisted.

Ryland nodded to each of them in gratitude, then stood tall and proud. “And each of us will have our own end of the Earth.”

22

From his spot up in the rafters, Kurt listened intently. He kept his breathing shallow and steady and his body completely still.

By the sounds of it, Ryland hadn’t given up on his fantasy. Instead, he’d found a way to remove the snow and ice that made it so difficult to get at.

Down below, Novikov found a chunk of ice on the pool deck. He kicked it back into the water. It bobbed up and down before breaking in half and shrinking away like the rest of the ice had.

After staring at this last chunk for a moment, Ryland motioned to his technician. “Drain the pool.”

The technician opened several valves and a pair of circular grates appeared in the bottom of the pool. The water began to flow out, pouring through the drains so quickly that small whirlpools could be seen extending down from the surface into the opening.

As it swirled away to an unknown end, Ryland gathered up his guests, led them out of the pool house and back toward the waiting Mercedes.

“We need to get a sample of that algae,” Kurt said.

“You better act fast,” Joe said. “At the rate that water is going down the drain, the pool will be empty in a matter of minutes.”

Kurt looked for a way down, preferably one that would make it easy to remain unnoticed by the technician. He settled on using one of the girders that supported the roof. It had the advantage of being sturdy and located behind the man and his control panel.

Kurt moved toward it, stretching from one truss to the next. He twisted his body to climb around a bundle of electrical cables and reached the girder without being noticed.

Putting his hands and feet on either side of the I beam, Kurt began to descend. He’d made it halfway down when Joe held up a clenched fist, signaling him to stop.

Footsteps on the concrete told Kurt the technician was moving, but he couldn’t see around the beam. He looked back at Joe. The fist remained clenched, but Joe’s eyes were on the target below, turning and tracking until . . .

Joe looked at Kurt, released his fist and pointed downward repeatedly and rapidly. Go now.

Kurt all but slid the rest of the way down, landing solidly and bending his knees to absorb the shock.

The touchdown was surprisingly quiet. He glanced around. The technician had vanished down the hall. Kurt let him go and moved toward the pool.

By now, the water had drained appreciably. No more than a foot of liquid was left at the bottom—and that would be gone in another minute.

Kurt needed a container to collect a sample. He opened a cabinet beside the control console and found tools, work lights and extension cords. A second cabinet stored paint cans and sealant. None of which helped.

A bottle of chlorine sat nearby, but even if Kurt dumped the contents the residual bleach inside would kill the algae and make the sample worthless. He needed something else, something sterile.

His eyes darted around the room, spotting a plastic water bottle that someone had placed on a shelf and forgotten about. Kurt grabbed it, dumped the water remaining in it and hopped down into the rapidly emptying pool.

The pool was four feet deep at the shallow end, with a six-foot depth at the other end where the twin drains were sucking the water down. The shallow end was dry with only a thin film of water clinging to the surface under Kurt’s feet.

Kurt sprinted to the deep end, dropping to one knee and submerging the bottle under the last few inches of water. Bubbles streamed from the opening as the greenish fluid filled it.

A sound from above got Kurt’s attention. Joe had banged his fist on the hopper and was gesturing madly. He looked like an NFL quarterback trying to change the play at the last second. He pointed to a spot behind Kurt, following that with a walking motion using two fingers. The technician was coming back.

Kurt pulled the bottle from the water, capped it and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He threw himself against the wall and crouched low as the sound of footsteps and something being dragged along the concrete floor approached from behind him.

Kurt looked up as a shadow fell over him. He saw the toe of a boot sticking out over the edge. A jet of water appeared, firing across the pool and blasting the far wall with a high-pressure stream of liquid.

Kurt noticed a hand attached to the brass nozzle and the pressurized curve of a narrow-gauge fire hose. The technician was using it to wash down the last of the residue, directing the spray in a side-to-side motion. He couldn’t see Kurt unless he looked straight down and Kurt couldn’t move without revealing himself.

As the technician finished washing down one section, he shuffled a few inches to the left. Once the next section had been rinsed, he moved again.

Each time the technician repositioned himself, Kurt moved along with him. But this maneuver had its limits.

Still pressed flat against the wall, Kurt glanced up at Joe, thinking now would be a good time to do something.

Joe stared for a moment, held up a finger . . . and then promptly disappeared.

Kurt shook his head. Retreat was not what he had in mind.

—

Up in the rafters, Joe was planning anything but a retreat. He’d been watching and calculating. By his own rough estimate, he had a sixty percent chance of success.

Climbing into the ice hopper, he crawled toward the stainless steel chute, which remained pointed toward the pool.

Inching forward, Joe lay down on his stomach. To make this plan work, he would need to time his slide just right.

He saw the jet of water come into view as the technician continued to move in side steps.

“Just a little farther,” Joe whispered.

The technician took another step to the right. Joe released his grip and slid forward, picking up speed as he raced down the chute. The technician stepped directly in front of him as Joe flew off the end.

Joe crashed into the man waist-high, taking him to ground in a crunching tackle.

—

Kurt heard the crash and saw the water jet veer off target. He knew Joe had sprung into action. Popping up, he climbed out of the pool, ready to lend his assistance.

He found Joe pinning the technician down, but the man wasn’t fighting. He looked groggy, like he didn’t know what hit him.

“Nice trick,” Kurt said.

“Chutes and ladders,” Joe said. “You took the slow way down. I took the express.”

“There are advantages to that,” Kurt admitted.

At that exact moment, the far door opened and one of the men who’d shoveled the ice onto the ramp appeared. “What’s all the noise about?”

“And disadvantages,” Joe said.

The new arrival was big and burly. At six foot five, with a substantial gut and arms like pythons, he looked like the type who might wade into a bar fight with a grin on his face. But instead of attacking with his fists, he reached for a pistol on his belt.

Kurt and Joe dove in opposite directions. A gunshot rang out, followed by its ricochet.

Kurt found himself by the nozzle of the fire hose. He turned it toward the big guy, blinding him with a blast of high-pressure water and then yanking the hose to the side, twisting his body as hard as he could in the effort.

The armed man had ducked out of the surging stream, bringing an arm up to shield his face. He never saw the second hit coming, as Kurt’s strenuous effort brought the length of the hose up off the ground and whipped it forward.