Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

Despite being made of plastic and only five inches in diameter, each section of PVC pipe weighed more than a hundred pounds. Lifting and moving it without breaking the improvised connections took leverage and patience. Gamay knew the seams would never pass inspection, but she felt they would hold as long as needed here.

With Paul’s help, she fitted the PVC pipe into the X, then they lifted the first curved section over the nearest exhaust stack. It was awkward and strenuous work because of the length and weight of the now interlocked contraption, but they had to do it in this order or otherwise they’d be trying to connect the X while scalding steam was blasting out of the pipes onto their hands.

The second curved section went on easier. The third was more difficult and the fourth a serious problem.

Gamay heaved and pulled, trying to get the plastic pipe to cover the steel exhaust stack. No matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t line up.

“It’s no good,” she said, looking over at Paul, who was now shaking.

“I’ll help you,” Paul said, limping her way. “I’ll heave, you pull.”

If Paul could have seen her face through the balaclava, he would have known instantly what she thought of that plan.

He got into position and pushed upward. Gamay pulled with all her might, but they could move the section only so far. The two ends still would not slot together.

Paul slipped when the weight became too much. As he got back up off the ground, Gamay noticed a bright stain of blood on the snow.

“Paul.”

“I know,” he replied. “Let’s just hurry.”

“Three is enough,” she replied, pointing to the steam surging out from underneath the X. A vast curtain of fog was forming, the ice already melting beneath it.

“If we don’t do all of them, there’s no point,” he replied. “There won’t be enough heat.”

“Paul Trout,” she snapped. “You are so damned stubborn. You know I’m right.”

“The sooner we get this done,” he said, “the sooner we go back to the lodge and get a hot toddy.”

“Fine,” she said. “One more try.”

Paul dropped down and put his shoulder to the bottom of the pipe, forcing it upward and toward Gamay. Gamay grasped the connector and pulled, leaning back into it. It covered but wouldn’t slide into place.

“A little more,” she urged.

Paul shoved harder and Gamay put her weight against the top of the contraption, shoving it downward. This time, it locked into place.

She stepped back, breathing hard but ecstatic. She turned to Paul, who offered a weak thumbs-up before he staggered backward and fell over into the snow.

She raced to his side and dropped down next to him. His arms were limp and she could see through his goggles that his eyes had rolled back.

“No, no, no,” she insisted. “Don’t you do this to me.”

She had to get him inside. She stood up and dragged him unceremoniously by the arms. Reaching the sled that they’d used to bring out the sections of pipe, she rolled him onto it and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Don’t you die on me,” she said, taking up the strap reins. “Don’t you dare die.”

With the strap diagonally across her chest, she leaned forward and began dragging Paul toward the habitat. She dug in with each step, working her legs like pistons.

Her heart was pounding, her chest heaving, as she breathed the frigid air. She pushed forward, oblivious to the wind and the snow and the cold. Even though the whiteout made it almost impossible to see the habitat and the danger of getting lost was very real, she kept the trench in sight and plowed her way forward.

After what felt like an eternity, the silhouette of the habitat finally appeared in the distance. Gamay kept moving, as even now it seemed so desperately far away.

62

ICE SHIP GOLIATH

FIMBUL BAY

Navigating the corridors of the ice ship was nothing like moving around in a regular vessel. To begin with, the spaces were vast. So vast, it was hard to tell if one was near the bow, stern or amidships. Or even if such terms mattered.

The halls were long and angled. Every fifty feet, they turned slightly. The effect was such that one could look down a corridor in either direction and never see the end. Between the strange layout and dim lighting, it began to seem like a maze.

Finally, Kurt and Joe reached an intersection. It led to a ship’s ladder that dropped them down another deck. They rounded a turn and continued dropping. Eight levels down, they heard footfalls.

“Someone’s coming up,” Joe said.

They stepped away from the stairwell and hid behind the nearest wall. Voices and boots on the metal steps’ rungs told them the men climbing upward were nearing their floor.

Kurt poked his head out just as the two men made the turn to go up to the next level. Lunging forward, he grabbed both men from behind by their coveralls and heaved backward.

The men tumbled off the stairs, landing on the metal deck. They popped up, cursing, only to see Joe holding the submachine gun on them.

“Who are you?” one of the men asked. He had a mane of strawberry blond hair, a thin brown beard and a Norwegian accent. The coveralls had no rank or insignia on them, but they were stained with ball bearing grease.

“I’m from the health department,” Kurt said. “I need to see the pump room. Care to show us where it is?”

The two men set their jaws but stared at the weapons.

“They’re not going to talk,” Kurt said. “Might as well kill them.”

Joe raised the MP5.

“Wait,” the Norwegian said. “We’ll show you.”

With his hands raised above his head, he got to his feet. His partner followed suit and they turned back down the stairwell in the direction they’d just come.

Kurt and Joe followed and the four of them descended another six levels.

On the bottom deck, the Norwegian pointed down the corridor.

“Go on,” Kurt said.

The crewmen continued down the hall, with Kurt and Joe a few paces behind.

“How many crew in the pump room?” Kurt asked their prisoner.

“Five or six.”

“Is it automated?”

“Most of it.”

Like any other ship, especially one this vast, there were markers and numbers to help the crew understand where they were. They stepped off the stairs and onto E-15—Deck 15, Section E. Unlike cruise ships, most merchant and military vessels were numbered from the main deck, up and down, so one deck above the main would be 1-A. Kurt, Joe and their prisoners were now fifteen decks below the main.

“We’re underwater here,” Joe said.

Kurt nodded. He estimated they’d been below the waterline for the last seven decks.

Section E led to F and then to G.

They passed multiple compartments and storage areas, finally arriving at a hatchway that read Pump Room .

“After you,” Kurt said, nudging their prisoners forward with the barrel of the gun.

The Norwegian pulled the door open and stepped inside. He’d just gone three paces when he shouted something and broke into a run. His friend lunged for Joe’s weapon but got a knee to the gut instead and fell to the floor.

Kurt charged into the pump room, firing in the air and shouting at the top of his lungs, “Everyone on the floor. Facedown.”

He triggered off several shots for emphasis. Activity ceased. The Norwegian man stopped running. One by one, the crew sat down in front of him.

Joe dragged the other engineer into the room, tossed him to the ground and then dogged the hatch down tight. “We’re secure.”

Kurt studied the captives. The six of them were from all over the world. Random selection or part of Ryland’s plan, Kurt didn’t know. One look told Kurt none of them were gunmen or killers. Not one had tried to fight. Even the Norwegian had run. It didn’t matter at this point. Kurt did wonder if any of them really knew what they’d become a part of.