Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

Kurt nodded, looking on with everyone else.

“We’re in the Southern Hemisphere,” Joe added. “Storms spin clockwise down here, not counterclockwise like they do up north.” As he spoke, Joe drew circles around the mug. “That means if we leave now and track west for about thirty minutes, we’ll get ourselves a tailwind for the rest of the journey.”

He reached down and moved the mug. “If we wait and the storm gets to here, we’ll be fighting a crosswind. Not fun to fly in and not helpful to get us where we’re going.”

Reaching down, Joe moved the mug again. “Six hours from now, when the storm gets to this point, it will be blowing across the continent and back toward the coast. That’s a hundred-knot headwind at our altitude. Meaning six hours from now, we’ll actually be farther out of range than we are now, even with the distance we gain by continuing to sail south.”

Kurt looked the chart over. It made sense. “Ride the wind and hope it holds. That’s your plan?”

Joe tossed the pen onto the chart. “You got a better idea?”

Kurt did not. He glanced around the room as the ship pitched forward once more. “And what if the storm doesn’t follow the expected track?”

Joe hesitated. “Then we might still make the ice shelf.”

Kurt had a sense that was wishful thinking. He turned to Paul and Gamay. “We can save weight by leaving you two behind.”

Gamay and Paul shared a look. Gamay spoke for both of them. “Much as I love the aroma of fish guts,” she said, “you’re not leaving us on this rusting tub. If we do get there, you’re going to need my help identifying the algae.”

“And my help with figuring out their geothermal setup,” Paul said. “You blow up the wrong thing, you might just make it worse.”

Kurt appreciated their bravery almost as much as the thin attempt to make it seem as if they were doing anything but volunteering. Truth was, they would need all the help they could get.

43

Unshackling the Jayhawk’s chains proved to be the most dangerous task so far. They were driving through twenty-foot seas now, with the occasional thirty-foot swell every five or ten minutes.

With Joe and the Trouts secured inside the helicopter, Kurt and Zama worked in the wind and the rain. The deck was rising and falling like a slow-motion roller coaster. Spray was blasting up over the bow of the ship and pelting them with each passing wave.

Once Kurt released the bear trap, only two straps remained. They were anchored to a single point. The safest way to launch was to allow the Jayhawk to build up to full power and then cut both straps loose.

Kurt turned to Zama, shouting to be heard over the wind. “These last two have to stay hooked until we’re lifting off. Otherwise we might go over the side before we can get airborne.”

“Understood,” Zama said.

Another wave rolled under the ship. The trawler rose up, balanced on the crest for a moment and then slid back down the far side.

“We’ll launch at the top of a swell,” Kurt said. “That will give us a boost.” He handed Zama a fire ax. “When you see the straps pulled tight, cut them at the base. One chop. Hit it hard and strong.”

Zama took the ax and gripped it. “Are we close enough for you?” he asked. “Does this plan of yours stand a chance of getting you to your destination?”

“If Joe says we can get there, we’ll get there,” Kurt replied. “We have to try. I’m just hoping you and the crew can get safely out of the storm.”

“We’ll head east once you launch,” Zama said. “With the waves behind us, it’ll be an easy ride. In a few hours we’ll begin a turn back to the north. That will keep us clear of the worst problems.”

“Good to hear.” Kurt extended a hand.

Zama grasped it firmly. “Things always seem to get interesting when you are around, my friend. I wish you good fortune. And a safe return.”

“You as well,” Kurt said. “Thanks for your help. Drinks are on me when I get back to Cape Town.”

“That I will not allow,” Zama said. “But we can argue about it at the bar.”

“Fair enough,” Kurt said.

He released Zama’s hand and turned toward the helicopter. The rotors were spinning now, the navigation lights were on, while the rotating red beacon beneath the fuselage flashed every few seconds.

Climbing into the Jayhawk, Kurt pulled the door shut. Only now, out of the driving rain and spray, did the feeling of being soaking wet sink in.

“Strap yourself in,” Joe said. “This is gonna be a wild one.”

Kurt dried his face with a hand towel and buckled the harness as Joe brought the helicopter up to full power.

With the rotors howling above them, the ship bottomed in the trough of a wave and began to rise. Joe angled the cyclic so the helicopter would lean into the wind and pulled back on the collective. The Jayhawk strained against the last of the straps, the engine running at full takeoff power.

Outside on the deck, Zama felt the ship begin rising toward the top of the swell. He saw the helicopter pulling on its leash. He stepped forward, leaning into the wind as he brought the ax up. He felt the trawler begin to level off. Now, he thought.

With a twist of his torso and the leverage of his powerful arms, Zama brought the ax down on the target. The blade severed the straps and bit into the steel deck beneath. The taut nylon snapped like a rubber band, vanishing in both directions, and the helicopter broke free, rising as the ship fell in the back of the wave.

Zama watched it climb and turn off toward the west, wondering if he would ever see the men and woman aboard it again.

44

The first part of the flight went smoothly—if being slammed around inside a metal box was one’s definition of smooth. Joe controlled the helicopter with great skill, his focus so intense that he didn’t seem to notice the constant jolts that felt as if they’d hit something midair.

The passengers were not so lucky. With less to focus on, they felt every bump, twist and turn. The Trouts had gone stone silent in the back of the Jayhawk. Even Kurt, who wasn’t prone to motion sickness, found himself looking forward to the moment they would turn and ride with the wind instead of fighting across it.

“Are we there yet?” he joked.

“I’m not sure,” Joe said.

“Do not tell me we’re lost,” Gamay warned from the backseat.

The Jayhawk had a moving map display on a touch screen. It linked to the precision military version of the GPS system, accurate to within sixteen inches. They weren’t lost.

The Jayhawk continued to barrel through the storm. The hardy little helicopter had been designed for all weather conditions and upgraded per NUMA’s specific requirements. Kurt wondered if the designers had something like this in mind.

Finally, Joe detected what he was looking for and altered course. He made a fifteen-degree turn initially and several minutes later turned almost due south, on course to the target zone.

Kurt noticed the fuel computer estimating a range of four hundred and ninety miles. He said nothing. They had over six hundred miles to go.

Much like the trawler with the following sea, the helicopter had a smoother flight with the wind pushing them. And while the buffeting continued, the severity was greatly reduced.

“You two okay back there?” Kurt asked.

“Feeling better now,” Paul said.

“Gamay?”

No response.

“She’d rather not talk right now,” Paul advised. “For fear she might say something that would be used against her later.”

An hour went by, one that started in a heavy rain squall and ended with them flying though a swirl of snow.

Joe had every de-icing system on the aircraft set to full power and the Jayhawk never missed a beat. After another hour, he made an announcement. “You can take off those life jackets. We’re over the ice shelf. We can always skate from there.”