Fire Ice

by Clive Cussler

  “Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But this is pretty complicated, Admiral,” the president said. “We think it will jeopardize their welfare.”

  “Perhaps,” Sandecker said, without conviction. He pinioned Wallace with an unwavering gaze. “I assume you have a plan.”

  The president shifted uneasily in his chair. “Sid, you got an answer for the admiral?”

  “We're trying to be optimistic, but it is possible that all the crew are dead,” Sparkman said.

  “You have evidence to support that conclusion?”

  “None, but it's a strong possibility.”

  “I can't accept 'possibility' as a reason for sitting on our hands.”

  The secretary of state had been simmering like a pot on a hot stove. At the presumed insult, he boiled over.

  “We are not 'sitting on our hands,' Admiral. The Russian government has requested that we stay out of this for the time being. They have the contacts to chase this down. We'd stir things up, especially with nationalism riding so high. Isn't that right, Mr. President?”

  “Don't tell me you think the Russians took the sub?” Sandecker said, ignoring the secretary and directing his question at the president.

  Wallace again turned to his vice president. “Sid, you've been on top of this since day one. Can you explain to the admiral?”

  “Of course, Mr. President. I'd be happy to. It relates to our earlier topic, Admiral. Shortly after the NR-1 disappeared, we were contacted by sources within the Russian government who said they might be able to retrieve the sub and its crew. They believe its disappearance ties in with the turmoil in their country. Beyond that, I can't say for now. I can only ask your forbearance and patience.”

  “I fail to follow that line of logic,” Sandecker said, boring in. “Are you saying we should rely upon a government that could fall at any moment to protect our people? It seems to me that the Russian top brass are going to be concentrating more on saving their butts than looking for an American research submarine.”

  The vice president nodded in agreement. “Nonetheless, we have agreed to hold off. Even with their problems, the Russians are in the best position to handle something that's happened in their backyard.”

  CIA Director LeGrand had been silent up to now. “I'm afraid he's got a point, James.”

  Sandecker smiled. LeGrand must have been brought in as the “good cop” to playoff “bad cop” Tingley. The admiral could play games, too. He furrowed his brow as if he were making a tough decision. “It appears my good friend Erwin i concurs with your caution. Very well, then, I won't press the point further.”

  There was heavy silence in the Cabinet Room, as if no one could believe Sandecker would give in after only a skirmish.

  “Thank you, James,” President Wallace said. “We had a chance to chat before you arrived. We know there's a big temptation, especially with your personal interest in this, to bring NUMA in.”

  “You're asking me to keep NUMA at arm's length from the sub's disappearance, then.”

  “For now, Admiral.”

  “I can assure you that NUMA will not search for the NR-1. However, please let me know if and when we can be of help.”

  “Of course we will, Admiral.” The president thanked everyone for coming and rose from his chair. Sandecker wished him good fishing and left the room, allowing the others to hash over the meeting, as he knew they would. An aide was waiting to escort him to a side door. As he drove through the gate a few moments later, the guard grinned. “Hot enough for you today, sir?”

  “It must be my imagination, Norman,” Sandecker said, with a grin. “The temperature always seems to be a few degrees warmer in this part of Washington.” He gave a jaunty wave and drove out into the traffic.

  ON THE WAY back to NUMA headquarters, Sandecker punched out a number on his cell phone. “Rudi, please meet me in my office in ten minutes.” Sandecker drove into the garage under the thirty-story tubular building that served as the nerve center for NUMA's worldwide operations and took the elevator to his top-floor office. He was behind the immense desk made from the hatch cover of a Confederate blockade runner when Rudi Gunn arrived carrying a briefcase.

  Sandecker waved his second-in-command to a chair. Gunn, a short thin man with narrow shoulders, thinning hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, listened intently while Sandecker described his White House meeting.

  “Then we're pulling out of the search?” Gunn said.

  Sandecker's eyes blazed. “Hell, no! The fact that they put a shot across my bow doesn't mean I'm going to heave to and run up the white flag. What have you learned?”

  “I went right to work on the premise we had discussed. That the only thing with the ability to hijack the NR-1 from under the nose of its support ship would be a bigger sub. Any number of countries have submarines large enough to carry off the NR-1,” Gunn said. “I asked Yaeger to run some profiles.” Hiram Yaeger was NUMA's computer whiz and head of its vast data network. “We concentrated on the USSR because of their preference for building monster boats. My first thought was something like the Typhoon.”

  Sandecker sat back in his chair and cradled his chin in one hand. “With a length of more than five hundred feet, a Typhoon could easily piggyback our missing minisub.”

  “I agree. They were designed to fire missiles from the Arctic Circle. The flat missile deck could have been converted for carrying cargo. But there was a problem when I checked further. All six Typhoons were accounted for.”

  “All right. But I've never known you to give up easily, Rudi. What else do you have?”

  Gunn reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. He handed a picture from the folder to Sandecker.

  “This shows a Soviet India-class sub photographed on its way to the Pacific from the Northern Fleet.” He passed over several sheets of paper. “These are schematic diagrams. She's a diesel-electric, nearly three hundred fifty feet long, and was designed supposedly for underwater rescue. That semirecessed area abaft the sail was fitted out to carry a couple of deep-diving minisubs. In wartime they could be used for clandestine ops with Spetsnaz special forces brigades. Only two India-class subs were built. They were to have been broken up after the end of the Cold War. We've been able to verify that one was indeed scrapped. We don't know the fate of the other. I think it was used to hijack the NR-1.”

  “You sound quite sure of this, Rudi. Remember, our premise is still only a theory.”

  Gunn smiled. “May I borrow your VCR?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Gunn dug into his case again and pulled out a videocassette, went over to the paneled wall, opened a door to a cabinet and popped the cassette into the VCR.

  “As you know, the NR-1 had the capability to broadcast a television picture from the ocean floor,” Gunn said.

  “I approved the NUMA funds myself. Great educational program. The pictures bounce off a satellite and into classrooms around the world. Teaches youngsters that the ocean is a lot more interesting than MTV. I understand the program has worked out well.”

  “Extremely well, in this case. This picture was sent from the NR-1 the day she disappeared.”

  Gunn pressed the Play button on the remote control. The screen went fuzzy, then turned seawater green. Bright floodlights illuminated a slender black hull. There was no sound. The time and date showed in the corner.

  Sandecker was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms folded. “Looks like the bow view from the sail cam,” he said.

  “That's right. Keep on watching. Right about now...”

  A sharklike shadow loomed below the hull. Something much bigger than the NR-1 had come up from below. After a few minutes, the sub began to move forward at great speed until it was obscured by bubbles. The screen went fuzzy again.

  “This picture was sent from the sub via satellite at exactly the time of her disappearance. It only ran a short while, as you can see, before it was shut down.”

  “Fascinating,” Sandecker said. “Run it again, pleas
e.”

  Gunn replayed the tape.

  “Does the White House have a copy of this video?” Sandecker said.

  “The transmission came directly to NUMA. My guess is they haven't seen it.”

  “Good work, Rudi,” the admiral said. “There's an important piece of the puzzle missing, however.” He reached into the desk humidor and pulled out two cigars - he had them personally selected and rolled for him by the owner of a Dominican Republic plantation - and held one cigar above the other. “Assume the bottom stogie is much larger than the one on top. It comes up under the smaller boat. Then what?” He moved the top cigar away. “You see what I'm getting at. There might be a problem getting the smaller sub to play piggyback.”

  “It wouldn't be easy unless - ”

  “Unless the NR-1 were cooperating. Which Captain Logan wouldn't do unless he were forced to.”

  “Exactly my thoughts.” Sandecker tossed Gunn a cigar and clamped the other in his teeth. They lit up and sat in the cloud of fragrant smoke.

  “I understand there was a guest scientist aboard the NR-1,” Sandecker said, after a moment's thought.

  “That's right. I have the whole roster.”

  “Go over their backgrounds with a fine-tooth comb, especially the scientist's. In the meantime, let's try to find the India-class submarine. The navy keeps track of all operational Russian submarines, but I don't want to alert anyone to the fact that NUMA is still in this.”

  “I'll see if Yaeger can tap into the navy computer system.”

  “Why, Rudi,” Sandecker said, studying the glowing ash on his cigar, “what a surprising thing to hear from a navy man. First in his class at the academy, too.”

  Gunn tried without success to look angelic. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “I'm glad to hear you say that. Austin called me from Istanbul. He's assembling the Special Assignments Team to take another look at that abandoned submarine base.”

  “Does he think it has a connection with the NR-1?”

  “He didn't know about the missing sub until I told him. No, apparently he's been in contact with someone, an old Russian friend, who indicated that the base may have something to do with a supposed threat against the U.S.”

  “Terrorist activity?”

  “I asked Kurt the same question. He only knows what the Russian told him, that the U.S. is in danger. A mining magnate named Razov seems to be involved, and the old base may hold the key to what is going on. Kurt's instincts are usually sound. This threat of his is all the more reason for NUMA to get involved.”

  “We can take a look at the area by satellite.”

  “We still need eyes on the ground.”

  “What about your promise to the president?”

  “I only promised not to look for the NR-1. I never said anything about a Soviet sub base. Besides,” Sandecker said, with a twinkle in his eye, “Austin is probably out of reach by now.”

  “I've heard that sunspot activity has been interrupting communications.”

  “We'll keep trying to establish contact, of course. The president is going fly-fishing in Montana, but I expect he'll return in a hurry if the Russian government falls.”

  Gunn looked worried. “If there really is a threat, don't you think we should tell the president?”

  Sandecker walked over to the window and looked out over the Potomac. Afer a moment, he turned and said, “Do you know how Sid Sparkman made his fortune?”

  “Sure, he made millions in mining.”

  “Correct. As did Razov.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. There's often a worldwide good ol' boy network in certain areas of industry. It's not out of the question that they know each other. Unless we learn that the threat is imminent - I suggest we keep this conversation to ourselves for now.”

  “Are you suggesting that - ”

  “There's a connection? I'm not prepared to go that far. Yet.”

  Gunn pursed his lips, a grave look in his eyes. “I hope Kurt and his team aren't getting in over their heads.”

  Sandecker smiled grimly, his eyes as hard as topaz. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

  NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

  -11- THE BLACK SEA

  AUSTIN STROLLED ALONG the Bosporus past the ferry terminal and sleek tour vessels until the smell of decaying fish told his nostrils he was near the working waterfront. Raucous squadrons of gulls grew more numerous as he approached the ragtag fleet of fishing boats nuzzled up to the dock. With their paint-flaked woodwork and corroded metal, the sea-beaten rust buckets seemed to remain afloat by a miracle of levitation. Austin stopped at one exception, a solid-looking wooden boat that appeared to have under- gone heroic maintenance. The black hull and white wheelhouse gleamed with many coats of paint, and the brightwork was liberally soaked with oil.

  Reaching into his pocket, Austin pulled out a folded piece of notepaper and matched the scrawled word Turgut with the name painted in white on the stem. He smiled approvingly. He liked Captain Kemal without having met him. Turgut was a renowned sixteenth-century admiral in the reign of Süleyman the Magnificent. Anyone who would name an ancient fishing vessel after such a towering naval figure displayed a sense story and humor.

  The deck was deserted except for a man in a double-breasted black suit. He sat on a coil of thick rope mending a net spread across his knees.

  Austin called out a greeting in Turkish. “Meraba. May I come aboard?”

  The man looked up. “Meraba,” he said, and beckoned Austin aboard.

  Austin climbed a short gangway and stepped onto the deck. The boat was about fifty feet long, with a wide beam to provide stability as a fishing platform. His eyes swept the Turgut, taking in the extraordinary efforts that had been made to maintain a vessel that looked as if it went back to the Ottoman Empire itself. He went over to the seated man and said, “I'm looking for Captain Kemal.”

  “I'm Kemal,” the man said. His fingers flew over the mesh without missing a loop.

  The captain was a slightly built man in his fifties. His face was narrow, his olive skin burnished to a reddish glow by sun and wind. He wore a woven skullcap over dark brown hair going to gray, and he was clean-shaven except for a toothbrush mustache that seemed to be held in place by the curve of his prominent nose. The soft wail of Turkish music came from a portable radio at his feet.

  “My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I was on the NUMA ship Argo when we found your cousin Mehmet's body.”

  Kemal nodded solemnly and put the net aside. “Mehmet's funeral was this morning,” he said in well-spoken English. He plucked at his sleeve to show that he was wearing his best and only suit.

  “They told me on the Argo. I hope I'm not intruding by coming by so soon.”

  The captain shook his head and indicated a nearby waist-high stack of netting.

  “Sit, please, Mr. Austin.”

  “You speak English very well.”

  “Thank you. When I was younger, I worked as a cook for the American air base near Ankara.” He smiled, displaying a brilliant gold tooth. “The pay was good, I worked very hard and saved the money to buy this boat.”

  “I noticed you named it after a great admiral.”

  Kemal raised a bushy eyebrow, impressed. “Turgut was a big hero to my people.”

  “I know. I read a biography about him.”

  The captain studied Kurt with deep-set liquid brown eyes. “Thank your NUMA people for me. It would be very hard for Mehmet's family if they did not have his body to bury.”

  “I'll be sure to tell Captain Atwood and the Argo's crew of your appreciation. Miss Dorn mentioned your name.”

  The captain smiled. “The beautiful television woman came by last night. She said Mehmet's widow will be well provided for. It will not bring Mehmet back, but it is more than he could have earned in his whole life.” He shook his head in wonder. “God is great.”

  “I called the hotel earlie
r, and they told me Miss Dorn had checked out.”

  “She has gone to Paris. She wants to hire my boat again, but must get permission from her bosses.”

  Austin received the news of Kaela's departure with mixed feelings. He regretted not having had the chance to get to know Kaela better, but the lovely TV reporter would have been a distraction.

  “What else did Miss Dorn say?”

  “She told me what happened to Mehmet. She said men on horses shot at the TV people and killed my cousin.” He frowned. “They are very bad men. Mehmet never hurt anyone.”

  “Yes, they are. Very bad men.”

  “She told me how you shot at them with your little plane. How many did you kill?”

  “I'm not sure. There was one body.”

  “Good. Do you know who these people are who killed him?”

  “No, but I intend to find out.”

  Kemal raised his eyebrows. "You are going back to that place?”

  “If I can find a boat to take me there.”

  “But you have the big NUMA ship.”

  “It wouldn't be a good idea to use a government vessel.” Austin glanced around at the Turgut. “I need something that won't attract attention.”

  The light of understanding dawned in the dark eyes. “Something like a fishing boat maybe?”

  Austin smiled. “Yes, something very much like a fishing boat.”

  The captain studied Austin's face, then got up and went into the wheelhouse. He reappeared with a large bottle and two chipped coffee mugs. He uncorked the bottle, poured liberal quantities into the mugs and handed one to Austin.

  “To Mehmet,” he said, raising his drink high in toast. They clinked the mugs and Kemal took a generous swallow, gulping the strong drink down as if it were water. Austin knew from the licorice smell that the mug held the potent Turkish firewater known as raki. Although he did not ordinarily drink alcohol before the sun appeared over the yardarm, he didn't want to be impolite. He took a tentative sip and let the fiery liquor trickle down his throat, thinking that this is what it must be like to swallow broken glass.

  Kemal took another healthy swig, and to Austin's relief set his mug aside.