Fire Ice nf-3

by Clive Cussler

  23

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  THE NIGHTCLUB WAS a short walk from Gorky Park, in a narrow alley that had once been a rat-infested flophouse for vodka-soaked human derelicts who used trash-can covers as their pillows. The drunks had been displaced by swarms of young people who looked as if they had stepped off a UFO. The crowds gathered each night out- side a blue door lit by a single lamp. The unmarked door was the entrance to a Moscow night spot so trendy it didn't even have a name.

  The enterprising young Muscovite who'd founded the club had seen the potential in bringing together Moscow's crass nouveau riche and the tackiest of Western pop culture. He'd modeled his venture on Club 54, the defunct but exclusive New York dive that had made international headlines before it drowned in a sea of tax woes and illegal drugs. The club was located in a cavernous space that had once housed a state-run sweatshop where underpaid workers toiled making ripoffs of American jeans. Clubgoers who were allowed inside found frenetic dance music, stroboscopic lighting and designer drugs supplied by the Russian Mafia, which had taken over the club after the original owner died of acute lead poisoning.

  Petrov stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. The hopeful patrons wore bizarre costumes to attract the attention of the burly doorman in black leather who stood between them and drug-induced ecstasy. Petrov stared at the crowd in wonder for a moment, then shouldered his way between a young woman dressed in a translucent plastic halter and shorts and her male companion, who wore an aluminum foil bikini. The doorman glared at the approaching stranger like a bull mastiff watching a cat move in on its food dish. Petrov stopped short of the entrance and handed the doorman a folded sheet of paper.

  He read the note with small, suspicious eyes, pocketed the hundred-dollar bill inside, then called another guard to take his place. He disappeared through the blue door and returned with a stocky middle-aged man dressed in the uniform of a Soviet naval officer, complete with high-peaked cap. The officer's chest was covered with more medals than anyone could have earned in several lifetimes. The guard pointed out Petrov. The man in uniform scanned the faces, scowling. Recognition flickered in his heavy-lidded eyes and he waved Petrov inside.

  The full impact of the pulsating music almost knocked Petrov over. Out on the huge dance floor, a mass of bodies writhed as one to the monotonous rave beat from dozens of speakers that looked as if they had been used at Woodstock. He was grateful when the naval officer led him down a passageway into a storage room and closed the door so that the sound was a muffled throb.

  "I come here sometimes to get away from that racket," the naval officer said. The commanding voice Petrov remembered had become gravelly, and there was the stale smell of vodka on the man's breath. His thick lips curled in a smile. "I thought you were dead, tovarich."

  "It's a miracle I'm not dead, Admiral," Petrov said, eyeing the uniform from head to toe. "Some things are worse than death."

  The admiral's smile vanished. "You don't have to tell me how low I have fallen. I still have eyes. But no lower than someone who would amuse himself at the expense of an old comrade."

  "I agree, but I am not here for amusement. I came to ask your help and to offer mine."

  The admiral let out with a wet laugh. "What help can I give you? I am nothing but a clown. The human garbage that runs this place keeps me around to entertain their patrons and remind them of the bad old days. Well, they were not bad for everyone."

  "True, my friend. Nor were they good for everyone," Petrov said, bringing his hand up to the scar that disfigured his face.

  "In the old days, we were feared and respected."

  "By our enemies," Petrov said. "Yet we were despised by our government, who quickly forgot our sacrifices when they no longer needed us for their dirty work. Your once proud navy is a joke. Heroes like you are reduced to this."

  The admiral's shoulders sagged under the gaudy epaulets. Petrov realized he had gone too far.

  "I'm sorry, Admiral."

  The admiral pulled a pack of Marlboros from a pocket and offered one to Petrov, who declined. "Yes, I believe you are sorry. So are we all.'' He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. "Well, enough talk about the past. What's done is done. Are you sure you don't want a whore? Not all my job is for show. I get a commission and an employee discount. Capitalism is truly a wonderful thing."

  Petrov smiled as he recalled the razor-sharp wit from the days when he and the admiral had served on secret missions together. With the changes in government, the admiral's outspoken criticisms had not been well received by the new generation of thin-skinned bureaucrats. Petrov had survived by allowing himself to sink, undetected, into the governmental morass. The admiral had attempted to stand above the fray, and his demise mirrored that of his beloved navy.

  "Later, maybe. But for now, I need information about a certain naval property."

  The admiral's eyes narrowed behind their thick folds. "That covers a wide range."

  Petrov said one word: "India."

  "The submarine? Well, well. What is your interest?"

  "It's better if you don't know, Admiral."

  "You mean there is some risk involved here? Well, that must be worth something."

  "I'm prepared to pay for the information." The naval officer frowned, and a sad look came into his eyes. "Listen to me. I have become no better than the prostitutes who get their customers to buy them glasses of fake champagne." He sighed. "As for your questions, I'll do my best to answer them."

  "Thank you, Admiral. I once saw an India-class sub at its base, but never went aboard one. I understand it was designed to carry on operations similar to mine."

  "Integration is a swearword in the armed forces any- where in the world. Ask the Americans how much money they've wasted in duplication because the army, navy, air force and marines wanted to have their own versions of virtually the same weapons systems. It was the same with us. The Soviet navy had no desire to share its assets with anyone else, especially a group like yours, which was beyond its control." He smiled. "Beyond anyone s control."

  "Supposedly, the sub was designed for underwater rescue."

  "Now there's a fairy tale! How many submarine crews were rescued by this thing? I'll tell you." He curled his thumb and forefinger in a circle. "Zero. It certainly had the capacity to dive on a sunken sub. The India class could carry two deep submergence recovery vehicles in wells abaft the sail. They could fit onto the rescue hatch of a downed sub, but they weren't there to pull some poor sailor from the bottom of the sea. They were designed for clandestine intelligence gathering and to carry Spetsnaz."

  "Special forces?"

  "Sure. When we did some snooping off Sweden, the subs carried armored tracked amphibious vehicles. They could crawl along the sea bottom like big bugs. It was a sweet ship, the India. Fast and very maneuverable."

  "The public literature said two were built?"

  "That's correct. We had one in the northern fleet and another in the southern. Sometimes one would join the other for special operations."

  "What happened to them?"

  "We lost the Cold War and they were withdrawn from service. They were scheduled for demolition."

  "So they were scrapped?"

  The admiral grinned. "Yes, of course."

  Petrov replied with a hike of an eyebrow.

  "On paper, anyhow," the admiral said. "You know, everyone is worried about our nuclear bombs getting in some madman's hands. But while there's been all that talk, we've sold half our conventional weaponry, which can be as deadly under the proper circumstances. Nobody says anything about that."

  "I'm saying something. Where did the India-class subs go?"

  "One was scrapped. The other was sold to a private buyer."

  "Do you know his name?"

  "Of course, but what difference does it make? He represented a group that was obviously a straw for someone else. There could be many layers in between the buyer and the person who forked over the money."

  "But you have
a suspicion about who bought it?"

  "I'm pretty sure it stayed within the country. The buyer was an outfit called Volga Industries. They had an office in Moscow, but who knows where their parent companies were? Nobody really cared. They paid in cash."

  Petrov shook his head. "How could someone so easily remove a war machine three hundred and fifty feet long?"

  "It's done all the time. All you need is some hard-up officers in the military who haven't been paid in a year. We've got lots of them living on promises. Then you have the collusion of government maggots and it's done. The worst are the former communists."

  "Like us?"

  "Tripe! We waved the red flag, but we were never ideological. I know you didn't believe that bull. We did it because it was exciting and somebody else was paying the bill."

  "I'll need some names."

  "How could I forget? The scum who were making millions selling all this war material asked if I wanted a piece. I said no, that it wasn't right to sell the people's property for personal gain. Next thing I know, I was out of the navy on my ass. Nobody would hire me. So here I am."

  The admiral was wandering into a bitter swamp. "The names, please, Admiral."

  "Sorry," he said, composing himself. "The years haven't been easy. There were five principals in the deal." He rattled off the names.

  "I know all of them," Petrov said. "They were petty functionaries in the party who have flourished by picking the bones of the Soviet Union."

  "What can I say, my friend? Well, is that enough? It's all I've got. The people who come here don't talk about military secrets. Anyway, it was good to see you. My employers expect me to make the rounds of the tables every few minutes. So excuse me, I must get back to work."

  "Maybe not," Petrov said. He reached into his suit pocket and extracted a brown envelope. "If you could make a wish, what would it be?"

  "Aside from making my wife alive again and persuading my children that it is worth their time to talk to me?" He thought about it for a moment. "I would like to move to the United States. To Florida. I would sit in the sun and talk only to those I wanted to talk to."

  "What a coincidence," Petrov said. "Within this envelope is a one-way plane ticket to Fort Lauderdale, leaving tomorrow, a passport and visa, and the immigration paperwork that will ensure your stay there. There is also some money to live on and the name of a gentleman who is looking for an investor to buy into his fishing company. He especially wants someone who has experience on the sea It would be a much smaller fleet than you have been used to."

  A defeated expression came onto the admiral's face. "Please don't toy with me. We were once comrades."

  "We still are," Petrov said, handing over the envelope. "Consider this a delayed payment from your country for past services."

  The admiral took the envelope and examined the contents. When he looked up, tears brimmed in his eyes.

  "How did you know?"

  "About Florida? Word gets around. It was not hard to find out."

  "I don't know how I can repay you."

  "You already have. Now I must be on my way, and you have to inform your employers of your wish to end your services here."

  "Inform them? I'll leave as soon as I can change my clothes."

  "That might be a good idea, considering the amount of cash you're carrying. Oh, I forgot. One thing."

  The admiral froze, wondering if strings were attached after all. "What's that?"

  "Don't forget to use sunscreen when you're out on the water," Petrov said.

  The admiral threw his arms around Petrov and embraced him in a bone-cracking bear hug. Then he tossed his cap across the room. His jacket, with medals clattering, followed.

  Petrov slipped away. He allowed himself a rare smile as he stepped through the outside door. He shook hands with the doorman, passing along another hundred-dollar bill. He was feeling generous tonight. The doorman shoved his way through the crowd to make a path for Petrov, who quickly limped through the alley and disappeared into the night.

  24

  THE BLACK SEA

  THE CALL FROM Captain Atwood came in as the NUMA helicopter sped across the Black Sea toward the Turkish mainland. Austin had been jotting down his thoughts in a notebook when he heard the familiar voice crackle in his earphones.

  "Kurt, are you there? Come in, please," Captain Atwood urged.

  "Miss me already, Captain?" Austin said. "I'm truly touched."

  "I'll admit things are a lot quieter here since you left, but that's not why I'm calling. I've tried to get in touch with the Sea Hunter and still can't raise her."

  "When was the last time you talked to her?"

  "I called last night to say you'd be on your way in the morning. Everything was okay. Then I tried again after you took off, to let them know you were in the air. No answer. We've been calling at regular intervals. I called again a few minutes ago. Still no reply."

  “That's odd," Austin said, glancing down at the water-tight bucket sitting on the floor at his feet. Inside the bucket, soaking in seawater, was the silver jewelry box plucked from the Odessa Star. At Gamay's suggestion, the Argo had called the Sea Hunter and asked if a conservator could take a look at the box and its contents. The Sea Hunter's captain said the ship had finished its project in the Black Sea and was on its way to Istanbul, where he would be happy to hook up with Austin.

  "It's more than odd; it's crazy. What the hell do you make of it?"

  Austin went down a mental checklist of possible reasons for the ship's silence, but none of them held water. All NUMA vessels carried the latest in communications, and their systems were redundant several times over. They kept inconstant contact with other ships.

  He felt as if someone were walking on his grave. "I don't know, Captain. Have you called NUMA headquarters to see if anyone there has heard from the ship?"

  "Yes. They said the Sea Hunter called in yesterday, saying they had found some significant Bronze Age relics and were heading into port."

  "Hold on, Captain," Austin said. He hailed the pilot over the intercom. "How far can we fly on our current fuel supply?"

  "We're corning up on the Turkish mainland now. We're carrying a light load, so we can go another forty-five minutes or so before we drop out of the sky. Planning a side trip?"

  "Maybe." Austin looked over at Rudi Gunn, who had been listening to the exchange with Captain Atwood. Gunn nodded slightly, like someone bidding at an auction. Do what has to be done. Austin got back to Captain Atwood and said they would try to find the Sea Hunter. Then he relayed the ship's last known position to the pilot. The chopper banked and headed off at a tangent.

  Zavala sat up and his eyes snapped open. He had been plugged into a Walkman, completely absorbed in a Latin American CD. Zavala was an experienced pilot who flew by the seat of his pants like an old barnstormer. Sensing the course change, he removed his earphones and peered out the window, a quizzical expression on his face.

  "We're making a detour," Austin said, explaining the situation. Then he called the Argo and asked the captain to advise the Trouts of the change in plan. Paul and Gamay had stayed aboard the ship to map out the sea bottom in the area of the sunken cargo vessel and planned to return to port with the ship in a few days.

  Austin closed his eyes and tried to picture the Sea Hunter as he remembered her from two years before, when he had sailed on the research vessel during a survey in the Caribbean. He visualized the vessel as if he were looking at a computer-rendered image. It was a relatively easy task because it was practically identical to the Argo, having been built at the same shipyard in Bath, Maine. The two-hundred-foot-long hull was painted the familiar turquoise hue, like all NUMA research vessels. An A-frame hung over the stem, a hydraulic crane towered over the raised deck behind the I bridge and there was a smaller boom on the starboard side.

  A single tapering -funnel stuck out through the roof of the cream-colored bridge superstructure and a tall radio mast rose like a flagpole from the bow. His mental camera floa
ted from the aft deck into the ship, through the winch-operation station, the main lab, library and mess hall. Below this deck would be scientific stores, the lower lab and crew and scientists' accommodations. The ship normally traveled with a crew of twelve and room for a dozen scientists. In the wheelhouse, he could picture the Hunter's good-natured skipper, Captain Lloyd Brewer, a highly competent sailor-scientist who would not have ignored a call from another NUMA vessel.

  The pilot flew a dead-reckoning course, following a line between the ship's last-known position and her destination. Austin took a post on one side of the helicopter, and Zavala pressed his nose against a window on the other. Gunn went up to the cockpit to scan the sea ahead. They saw fishing boats, commercial vessels and cruise ships. Sightings thinned as they moved away from the more heavily traveled traffic lanes.

  Austin checked his watch and called the pilot on the intercom. "How are we doing?"

  "We'll have to turn back pretty soon."

  "Can you give us five more minutes?" Austin pleaded.

  A pause. "I'll give you ten, but one second more and we learn to walk on water."

  Austin asked the pilot to do his best and squinted into the glare, thinking about the line from the old sailors' prayer: Oh Lord, Thy sea is so great and my boat so small. Zavala's voice broke into his reverie. "Kurt. Check this out at two o'clock."

  Austin shifted to the opposite side of the cabin and followed Zavala's finger with his eyes. A large, dark object was silhouetted against the sea's surface a couple of miles away. The pilot had picked up Zavala's alert and pointed the chopper's sharp nose at the object. Soon the full light of the sun fell upon a blue-green hull and the letters NUMA painted in black amidships.

  "It's the Sea Hunter," Austin said, recognizing the ship's features.

  "I don't see a wake," Gunn observed from the cockpit. "She seems to be dead in the water."