by Nick Carter
Annotation
While investigating a murder, Nick traces the killer to Argentina-to ex-Nazi General Marc Ziegler With the help of Ziegler's beautiful secretary, Nick penetrates the innermost secrets of Ziegler's empire, down to his deadly nuclear arsenal.
Somehow agent N3 must stop the ruthless general before he carries out his scheme, more terrifying than the horrors of the Third Reich!
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Nick CarterPrologue
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Nine
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Thirteen
Fourteen
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Nick Carter
Killmaster
Earthfire North
Dedicated to the men of the Secret Services of the United States of America
Prologue
Dr. Lydia Coalsworth strode into her small office in the geology lab at the University of Iceland carrying a large pile of photographs. She cleared the coffee cups, files, and other paraphernalia from the desk top and arranged the glossy prints in rows, starting in the upper left-hand corner and working her way down.
The photos were bizarre: the same shot over and over of a craggy finger of rock protruding from what looked to be the mouth of the River Styx, a roiling section of seawater from which mist and vapor poured like steam from a kettle. Occasionally, as she dealt them out, she'd squint down at one of them under the light, tap her finger making note of it, then go on. The experiment was almost completed, she told herself, the last piece of evidence about to fall into place. The conclusion inevitable but impossible, not to be believed.
When she finished, she had six rows of photos, sixty to a row, two complete time-lapse sequences taken one-a-second for three minutes, each sequence twenty-four hours apart. She took a set of calipers from the drawer and, with the deliberate slowness of an experienced scientist, began to take measurements of images in each photo, noting her results in a thick notebook.
The roiling water and steam were the surface phenomena of a volcanic fissure that had opened up in the ocean floor several hundred yards off the coast. It had been discovered only a week earlier, the captain of the passing trawler reporting the incident to the Department of Fisheries, which in turn passed it on to the university for further study.
Dr. Coatsworth had leaped at the opportunity to study this new activity. She was a visitor to Iceland, part of a faculty exchange program with the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and saw in the new volcano a chance to familiarize herself with the unique structure of Icelandic geology. She made it her pet project from the beginning, attacking it with characteristic thoroughness. She took hourly temperature readings at various depths to build heat gradient charts, took seismographic readings to determine the size of the opening and the amount and direction of the lava flow, and chemical analyses of the steam to see if it compared with other volcanic hot spots in and around Iceland.
It was this last series of tests that began to point to something wrong, terribly wrong: so wrong it sent a tremor through the terra firma of her geological knowledge.
Among the trace chemicals mentioned in the lab report was a polymer — di-chloridepolyethanol — a man-made constituent of certain types of anticorrosive plastic pipe joints used in oil production and occasionally to transport live steam. It was never known to occur in nature.
The results were rechecked, of course. There was no mistake. The dcp was definitely in the steam, not in the testing equipment. And Lydia Coatsworth was forced to wonder what the true source of this fissure was.
Then other evidence surfaced. The fissure had a dormant period during which the eruption ceased altogether. It lasted roughly eight hours, from 2340 until 0815, and was so exact she could set her watch by it. Too exact. It was almost as though someone were turning a switch off and on.
Two nights ago she had guided a small rowboat through the churning water, steam, and mist to a tiny rock in the center of the activity, where she set up a camera. She pointed the lens at another rock a dozen yards away, then set the time-lapse trigger for one shot every second for a total of three minutes bracketed around 2340 and again around 0815. Then she'd returned to her car to wait. In the morning she rowed out, collected the film, then rushed back to the lab to develop and analyze it.
By measuring the fluctuations of the height of the water on certain areas of the rock, she was able to determine when the eruption began and ended. From this, two facts emerged. First, the entire cycle was not a gradual process, such as usually occurred in nature; the eruption stopped precisely at 2341:23 and began again at 0815:56. And second, the startup was not accompanied by a constant surge; there was a hesitation in the water flow, such as when a hydraulic pump clears itself, then reprimes.
The conclusion was being forced on her, yet it seemed too fantastic to believe. Better to wait, she thought. Better to corroborate the evidence.
The previous night she'd once again dared the dangers of froth and mist aboard the small boat. She'd taken her photographs and returned, spending an hour in the darkroom. Now, as she pored over them, she tried very hard to be objective about what she was seeing, not letting the weight of past evidence influence her findings. But as she took her measurements and made her tables of differences in water level, her heart beat faster and her tongue clicked noisily in the dryness of her mouth.
The hesitation at the beginning of the cycle was still there. Just as it had been the night before. There was no mistaking it. The eruption ceased at exactly the same time both nights, then started again as if on cue, to the very second. The chances of something like this happening naturally were trillions to one. There was no way to escape the conclusion this time. The fissure was being operated mechanically. But by whom? And why?
She stepped to the window and stared out at the treeless landscape of southern Iceland. In all respects except one — the timing — the fissure and the volcanic release of steam could have been natural. All but the timing, that is, she corrected herself, and the evidence of the polymer.
Her hands were shaking. She lit a cigarette, the action calming her somewhat. A large portion of the population of Iceland, which numbered almost a quarter of a million, were dependent for their heat and hot water on geothermal sources. Years ago, natural steam jets had been tapped in a lava field south of Reykjavik, the capital city. Since then, the island had enjoyed abundant, pollution-free energy at a very cheap rate. But in the last week, since this new fissure had opened, the level and intensity of the steam had decreased dramatically. Petur Tomasson, a colleague in her department at the university, had been asked by the government to investigate this latest fluctuation. There had been no official announcement, of course; such fluctuations, although not common, were certainly not rare. So far, all they had were theories. Except now for this…
The exactness with which the eruption occurred, the existence of the polymer — which strongly suggested a man-made pipeline — and the sudden decrease in the steam jets outside Reykjavik were all too much of a mysterious coincidence for her. Obviously someone was diverting water and steam from the city's supply and sending it through the fissure in the ocean. But who? And why?
Whoever it was had vast resources. Pipelines had to be dug, a pumping station erected. It had to have taken extensive planning and engineering as well as the cooperation of hundreds of people. How had something like this been kept under wraps in a country as barren and sparsely populated as Iceland? How was it that the authorities did not know?
She had to make certain, absolutely certain she was right. She went back to the desk and pulled a thick sh
eaf of maps from the top drawer. These were survey maps, the most detailed cartography available up here. They depicted the land formations and water tables for several hundred square kilometers of the Reykjanes Peninsula south of Reykjavik.
She found the map she wanted, men took out a pad and made some hasty calculations. Given the maximum diameter of a pipe, and the amount of water and steam to be moved, a pumping relay had to be located somewhere along an arc about six miles south of the city. She drew the arc on the map, men she folded it, stuffed it into her pocket, pulled her coat off the hook by the door, and left.
It was a Sunday, and the university was mostly empty, her heels echoing loudly on the tiled floor. She got as far as the parking lot at the front of the building when she realized she had left the photos on her desk. She went back, stuffed them into a large manila envelope that she threw in the bottom drawer of her desk, and locked the drawer. She took out her pad again and quickly scribbled a note to a very dear friend. She had no real reason for writing the note to him in particular… just something at the back of her mind told her it might be wise.
"Dear Nick," she wrote. "Have discovered something up here that is truly incredible. I'm afraid I'm about to get mixed up in some nasty local politics. Will tell you more when I see you in Washington next month. Love, Lydia."
She put the note into an envelope, addressed it to Nick Carter, care of a post office box in Washington, D.C., then put a stamp on it and stuffed it into her pocket.
* * *
The land south of Reykjavik is covered with a layer of black ash, fallout from an eruption of Mount Hekla in 1948. Not a twig or stick grows in the field, and the overall effect is a landscape as bleak and as barren as the far side of the moon. As Lydia Coatsworth's small rented car putted into this black area, leaving the city behind, she felt a sudden chill, as though she were entering the Land of the Dead. She always felt this way when she came up here. It was silly, she told herself. The sun was shining, and she'd been on this road dozens of times in her trips between the lab and the observation post at the fissure. Still, for some reason, the place gave her the creeps, especially today.
She drove slowly, examining every rock formation and dip in the landscape as if she were seeing it for the first time. If the pumping station were out here somewhere, it was well hidden, for she'd never seen it. Never even seen anyone on this road.
No, she thought. That wasn't quite true. There was a man she encountered from time to time. He drove a rusted-out Saab, she remembered now. He was a large man. She'd waved the first time she had seen him, but he had not returned the greeting. The second time, she did not wave; in fact she barely even noticed him. A taciturn local, nothing more.
She was wondering about him when something caught her eye and made her slam down hard on the brake pedal, bringing the car to a sliding hall. A power line running parallel to the highway, which she had seen and ignored a dozen times, now seemed odd to her. Something was wrong. Suddenly she realized what had struck her as being out of place. From one of the large insulators above, a cable ran down the girder and disappeared into a conduit underground. She got out of the car and let her eyes scan the horizon. There were no houses, no buildings. No need for electricity out here.
A pump would need a source of power, she told herself. A gas generator would eat gallons of gasoline or diesel fuel, and make a lot of noise. She pulled up the collar of her coat against the chill wind and headed for a large, dark mound on the horizon in the distance. It was the only possible place something could be hidden from view of passing motorists.
* * *
It took nearly an hour to hike across the field of cinders and ash. Half the leather had been scuffed from the toes of her boots and her feet felt like lead. Twice she'd told herself she was chasing shadows. No matter what the physical evidence, a project this big was impossible to hide in Iceland.
She rounded the far side of the huge mound, and her previous qualms about the long, probably fruitless walk and the improbability of her theory suddenly evaporated. Nestled between two hills of cinder, painted black for camouflage from the air, was a hooked drainage pipe. Probably an overload unit of some sort for the pipeline that certainly was below.
Her heart leaped into her mouth. She approached the pipe very slowly, half expecting something or someone to jump out at her. She ran her hand along the smooth surface. The metal was vibrating. The pump was not far away, and it was working.
She should go back, she told herself. Get someone. Petur Tomasson. He'd know whom to contact. He could come out here with a crew.
A door slammed somewhere close, the sound very distinct out in the open. Boots crunched across the cinders. She froze next to the pipe, her pulse beating in her throat.
A car door slammed, and an engine started. In the cleavage between the two hills she caught a glimpse of a rusted-out Saab heading for the road, and then it was gone.
A flood of relief washed over her, but in the next instant she realized the man — whoever he was — would see her car parked down on the road. He'd have to wonder where she had gone.
It was terribly important for her at this moment not to be seen. She decided it would be better if she waited up there. Behind the mounds, out of sight of the road. If he came back, she could run the other way. But if he hadn't returned within fifteen minutes or so, it would probably mean he wasn't coming back. Maybe he hadn't seen her car. Maybe he hadn't even noticed it.
She brushed the ash off the pipe and leaned back against it. The wind made an odd moan as it swept unimpeded over the hills from the ocean that was not too far away. There was no movement out here. No life… other than the man. Even the sun seemed to stand still in the sky.
But Lydia Coatsworth was, among other things, an impatient woman when she was nervous, and she began to see the absurdity of her situation here. Damnit. She was a scientist, after all, with an international reputation. There weren't any No Trespassing signs posted here. She was within her rights to explore the countryside off the road.
She dusted herself off and headed around the hill. She had heard a door slamming. A heavy, metal door. About fifty yards around the far edge of the hill she came upon what at first appeared to be an old-fashioned fallout shelter, a steel door was set into a steel bulwark of cinder block. In front of it a section of land had been leveled off to accommodate several vehicles.
Her mouth started to go dry again, and she began to have second thoughts about what she was doing. She didn't need this, she told herself. She was a scientist, not a private eye. A quiet life of study — wasn't that why she had gotten into this business? Nobody said anything about ferreting out energy thieves.
Still, there was the door and behind it… what? Proof? Summoning up her courage, she walked up and found it was unlocked. She gave a little push, and the door fell open.
Inside, it was pitch-dark. She groped along the wall for a light switch, found one, and a caged bulb flashed on overhead.
She was standing in a large, immaculately clean tiled room with a concrete floor. On the wall in front of her was a series of dials and wheel valves set into a burnished metal control panel. The constant humming told her that a gigantic engine of some sort was at work somewhere beneath her.
Two doors led off this main room. She chose the one to the left, opened it, and switched on the light. She found herself on a catwalk above two stories of pipe maze, all seemingly color-coded, gleaming as though this were a brand-new installation.
She killed the light, walked back into the control room, closed the door, and crossed to the second door. As she opened it a cloud of cement dust rose to meet her. She flipped on the switch.
The room was huge, bigger than the other two combined, and only half-finished. Scaffolding towered overhead, and the floor was strewn with construction debris and plastic drop cloths. From the size of it, it looked as though they'd hollowed out the entire inside of the mound. Whoever they were, they were up to something much bigger than just siphoning off a little
geothermal energy.
A piece of machinery the size of a small house stood in one corner on a bed of massive timbers. She walked over and threw back a piece of the protective plastic covering. It looked familiar somehow. The tag dangling from the valve wheel was in German. It gave the port of origin as Mainz. Mainz… what did she know about Mainz? Then it struck her. Mainz was where Steuben and Sons had their foundry. They were the largest manufacturers of nuclear reactor components in the world. She had done a paper on the subject in her first year of graduate school. Her professor had believed that if students wanted to study geology, they might just as well understand the significance of their finds… such as the uses of nuclear fuels. And he never allowed any of his students to do anything by half. She had learned her subject well.
She threw back more of the cover. It was coming back to her now. All of it. This was a type of water pump that regulated the amount of coolant to a reactor's core. A nuclear reactor. What on earth would anyone want with a nuclear reactor in Iceland?
Tires crunched on the cinders outside, the sound coming in through a ventilation shaft. A car door slammed.
Quickly she tried to cover the pump, but she could not get the plastic sheet completely over the valves. She gave up and ran for the door.
She dashed through the control room, then ran down the stairway from the catwalk to the lower floor of the maze of pipes. Maybe here among the multicolored metal she would be able to conceal herself until it was safe to leave. She hadn't done anything illegal, yet she had a very odd feeling about this place. To begin with, who would run off leaving the door to a nuclear reactor building site open?
It was dark, the only illumination coming from a pair of lighted dials on a large control panel at the room's center. She threaded her way through the maze of plumbing until she reached a wall. She followed it for several feet until she found an elbow joint in a large pipe. She crawled behind it.
