Fire Ice nf-3

by Clive Cussler

  "Maria?"

  "Yes, she was the second youngest. Why?"

  Zavala went out to his car and returned with the Perlmutter file. He leafed thorough the contents and pulled out the book excerpt on the little mermaid, which he handed to Dodson. The Englishman donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. As he pored over the file, his expression grew grave.

  "Astounding! If this is accurate, the Romanov line didn’t die out! Maria, or Marie as she's called here, went on to marry and have children."

  "That's my take on it."

  "Do you know what this means? Somewhere there may be a legitimate heir to the tsar's throne." He ran his fingers through his hair. "My God, what a catastrophe!"

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  Dodson composed himself. "Russia is in the midst of great turmoil. It is still seeking its identity. Beneath this bubbling cauldron is a fire of nationalism. Those who would go back to the days of Peter the Great and the tsars have touched a yearning in the Russian people, but all they have had to sell is a memory of a forgotten time. With an actual heir to the tsar, their cause would have focus. It is a country that still controls weapons of mass destruction and a major share of the world's natural resources. It will not be safe for the world if Russia lapses into a civil war and follows the lead of the worst kind of demagogue. British complicity in the plot against the tsar will stir up all those paranoid feelings against the West." He affixed Zavala with a steely gaze. "Tell your superiors that they must be discreet. Otherwise no one may be able to control the consequences."

  Zavala was bowled over by the emotional reaction from this reserved Englishman. "Yes, of course, I'll tell them what you said."

  But Dodson seemed to have forgotten that Zavala was even there. "The tsar is dead," he murmured. "Long live the tsar."

  26

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  LEROY JENKINS CAUGHT his breath as he stepped from the wilting Washington heat into the cool interior of the thirty-story green glass tower overlooking the Potomac. The exterior of the tall tubular building was impressive enough, but nothing could have prepared him for his first glimpse inside NUMA headquarters. He craned his neck to gaze up to the top of the atrium lobby, then swept his eyes around the tumbling waterfalls and aquaria filled with exotic fish, taking in the huge globe of the world that rose from the center of the sea-green marble floor.

  Smiling like a child in a toy shop, he started across the giant lobby, threading his way among the gaggles of tourists who trailed behind impeccably uniformed guides. An attractive woman in her twenties, one of several receptionists at a long information desk, saw Jenkins approach and beamed him in with a pleasant smile.

  "May I help you?" Jenkins was struck dumb. On the flight from Portland, he'd rehearsed what he would say when he got to NUMA. Now his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was overcome by awe at being in the heart of the biggest ocean science agency in the world. He felt like Fred Flintstone visiting the Jetsons. As an oceanographer, he had long contemplated a trip to the Holy Grail of ocean science, but his teaching duties had intervened and later he was consumed by his wife's illness. Now, he'd reached the point where he didn't like to leave Maine, because, as he joked, his gills would close up if he ventured too far from the sea.

  The air seemed to crackle with electrical energy. Every nontourist in view clutched a laptop computer. No one carried anything remotely resembling the battered tan briefcase in his sweaty hand. Jenkins was uncomfortably aware of his wrinkled khaki pants, his worn Hush Puppies and the faded blue chambray work shirt, damp from the heat. He removed the tan fisherman's cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a red bandanna, immediately regretting the move because it made him look even more like a hick. He stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket.

  "Someone in particular you'd like to see?"

  "Yes, but I'm not sure who it might be." Jenkins offered a weak grin. "Sorry to be so vague."

  The receptionist was familiar with the symptoms. "You're not the first person who's been vague. This place can be a bit overwhelming. Let's see what we can work out. Could you tell me your name?"

  "Sure, it's Roy Jenkins. Dr: Leroy Jenkins, I mean. I taught oceanography at the University of Maine before I retired a few years ago."

  "That narrows it down. Would you like to speak to someone in the oceanography division, Dr. Jenkins?"

  Hearing the title before his name gave him courage. He said, "I'm not sure. I've some questions of a specialized nature."

  "Why don't we start in oceanography and go from there?"

  The young woman picked up the phone, pressed a button and spoke a few words. "Go right up, Dr. Jenkins. The receptionist on the ninth floor is expecting you." She flashed her fabulous smile again and directed her eyes to the next person in line.

  Jenkins made his way toward the ranks of elevators off to one side of the lobby. Still wondering if he had come all this way to make a fool of himself in front of some young Ph.D. with a pocket protector and a condescending attitude, he stepped into an elevator and pushed a button. Too late now, he thought as the elevator whisked him skyward.

  ON THE TENTH floor of the NUMA building, Hiram Yaeger sat in front of a horseshoe-shaped console and stared at an immense computer monitor that looked as if it were suspended in space. Displayed on the screen was the image of a narrow-faced man with beetling brows bent over a chessboard. Yaeger watched the man move the white rook two spaces. He studied the board a moment and said, "Bishop to queen five. Check and checkmate."

  The man on the screen nodded and tipped his king over with a forefinger. In a thick accent, he said, "Thank you for the game, Hiram. We must play again." The screen went blank except for a pale green afterglow.

  The middle-aged man sitting next to Yaeger said, "Very impressive. Victor Karpov isn't exactly a slouch."

  "I cheated, Hank. When I programmed all of Karpov's games into Max's data banks, I set up an array of responses based on Bobby Fischer's strategy. Fischer simply overrode any dumb move I made."

  "It all sounds like magic to me," Hank Reed replied. "Speaking of vanishing acts, I wonder where our pastrami sandwiches are." He licked his lips. "I think I'd work for NUMA even if they didn't pay me, just so I could use the cafeteria."

  Yaeger nodded in agreement. "Let's get back to work. If the delivery guy doesn't arrive in five minutes, I'll call again."

  "Sounds good," Hank said. "Did Austin ever say why he wanted this stuff?"

  Yaeger chuckled knowingly. "Kurt's the ultimate poker player. He never shows his cards until he lays down his hand."

  Austin had called Yaeger earlier in the day with a cheery "Good morning." Getting right to the point, he'd said, "I need some help from Max. Is she in a good mood?"

  "Max is always in a good mood, Kurt. As long as I ply her with electronic cocktails, she'll do anything I ask." In a stage whisper, he said, "She thinks I want her for her mind and not her body."

  "I didn't know Max had a body."

  "She has her pick of bodies. Mae West. Betty Grable. Marilyn Monroe. Jennifer Lopez. Whatever I program in."

  "Please soften her up with a few drinks and ask her to dig up what she can on the subject of methane hydrates."

  Austin had been thinking about methane hydrates since the Trouts had told him Ataman Industries was attempting to mine them from the ocean floor.

  "I'll have a package for you later today, if that's okay."

  "Fine. I'll be pretty much tied up with Admiral Sandecker this morning."

  Yaeger made no attempt to ask when Austin wanted the information. If Austin wanted it, it was important. And if it was important, he wanted it immediately.

  People who met Yaeger for the first time sometimes found it difficult to reconcile the scruffy-Levis-and-T-shirt look with his reputation as a computer whiz. It only took a few minutes of watching him at work to see why Admiral Sandecker had made him the head of NUMA's oceans data center. From his console, he had access to vast resources of data on
ocean technology and history and every related bit of information on and under the seas.

  Finding his way through the massive amount of data at his command required a deft hand. Yaeger knew that if Max searched out every mention of methane hydrates recorded, he would drown in the digital deluge. He needed someone to point the way. Hank Reed immediately came to mind.

  Reed was in his lab when Yaeger called. "Hi, Hank. I could use your geochemical expertise. Any chance you could break away from your Bunsen burners for a few minutes?”

  "Don't tell me NUMA's resident computer whiz needs the help of a mere human being. What's wrong, did your know-it-all machine blow a fuse?"

  "Nope. Max truly does know it all, which is why I need someone on the slow side to bird-dog the data. Tell you what, I'll buy lunch."

  "Flattery and food. An irresistible combination. I'll be right up."

  Reed walked into the data center wearing a warm smile. Despite their playful insults, they were the best of friends, bound by their eccentricities. With his graying ponytail and wire-rimmed granny glasses, Yaeger looked like he belonged in the cast of Hair: Dr. Henry Reed had a round cherub's face and a high thatch of wheat-colored hair that added a few inches to his five-foot height and looked like it could have been combed with a pitchfork. The thick round glasses perched on his small nose gave him the expression of a benign owl. He took the chair Yaeger offered and rubbed his pudgy hands together.

  "Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy."

  Yaeger looked over the tops of his granny glasses. "Huh?"

  "It's from an old program, I can't remember which it was. Froggy was a – Never mind. You probably never even heard of radio."

  Yaeger grinned. "Sure I have. My grandmother told me about it. Television without pictures." He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and said, "Max, say hello to my pal, Dr. Reed."

  A feminine voice purred through the speakers placed strategically around the room.

  "Hello, Dr. Reed. How nice to see you again…"

  AS THE DOORS hissed shut behind him, Roy Jenkins thought it strange that he was the only one getting off the elevator. He looked at the numerals on the wall and swore to himself. He'd become the absentminded professor he had always scorned. The receptionist had said the ninth floor. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he had pushed the button for the tenth.

  Instead of the standard office architecture of hallways, cubicles and offices, a vast glass-enclosed area took up the entire floor. Jenkins should have turned back to the elevator, but scientific curiosity got the best of him. He walked past banks of blinking computers, glancing from left to right, listening to the electronic whisperings. He could have landed on an alien planet peopled only by machines. With some relief he came upon the two men behind the large glowing console at the center of the computer complex. They were looking at a large screen that seemed to hang by invisible wires, and was dominated by the image of a woman in vivid color. She had topaz brown eyes, auburn hair and the bottom of the monitor barely hid her ample cleavage.

  The woman was talking, but even more odd, one of the men, who wore his long hair in a ponytail, was talking back to her. Thinking he had stumbled into a showing of a very private nature, Jenkins was about to back out, but the other man, who sported a hairdo like a wheat plant gone to seed, saw him and grinned.

  "At last, our pastrami sandwiches," he said.

  "Pardon me?"

  Reed saw that Jenkins was carrying a briefcase instead of f a white paper bag, studied Jenkins's weathered and tanned face and then took in the workshirt and cap.

  "Guess you're not from the cafeteria," he said sadly.

  "My name is Leroy Jenkins. I'm sorry to bother you. I got off at the wrong floor and sort of wandered in here." He looked around. "What is this place?"

  "NUMA's computer center," said the ponytailed man. He was boyish, clean-shaven face with a narrow nose and gray eyes. "Max can answer just about any question you throw her way."

  "Max?"

  Yaeger gestured to the screen. "I'm Hiram Yaeger. This is Hank Reed. That lovely lady up there is a holographic illusion. Her voice is a feminine version of my own. I used my own face originally, but I got tired of looking at myself and dreamed up a pretty woman, my own wife."

  Max smiled. "Thank you for the compliment, Hiram."

  "You're welcome. Max is smart as well as beautiful. Ask her any question you'd like. Max, this is Mr. Jenkins."

  The image smiled and said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jenkins."

  I've been in the wilds of Maine for too long, Jenkins thought. "Actually, it's Dr. Jenkins. I'm an oceanologist." He drew a breath in. "I'm afraid my questions are rather complicated. They've got to do with methane hydrates."

  Yaeger and Reed looked at each other, then at Jenkins.

  Max said, with a sigh that was more than human, "Is it really necessary to repeat myself?"

  "Nothing personal, Dr. Jenkins. Max has been working on the same subject for the last hour or so," Yaeger said. He punched out the cafeteria number on the phone and turned to Jenkins. "We'd like you to join us for lunch."

  Reed leaned forward. "I recommend the pastrami. It's an existential experience."

  THE SANDWICH WAS as tasty as promised. Jenkins realized that with the exception of the bag of peanuts he'd had on the plane, his stomach was empty. He took a swig of root beer to wash his lunch down and looked at the other men, who were waiting expectantly.

  "This is going to sound crazy," he said.

  "Crazy is our middle name," Yaeger said. Reed nodded his head in agreement. Although the two men looked like an overaged hippie and a munchkin with a Don King hairdo, they appeared very bright. More important, they were interested in hearing his story.

  "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said. "Okay," he began. "I retired from teaching college a few years ago and bought a lobster boat in Rocky Point, my hometown."

  "Aha! A fisherman," Reed said. "I knew it."

  Jenkins smiled, then resumed. "You probably read about the tsunami that hit there not too long ago."

  "Yes, it was an awful tragedy," Reed said.

  "It could have been worse." Jenkins explained his role in warning the town.

  "Lucky you were there," Yaeger said. "Something puzzles me, though. First time I've heard of something like that happening. New England isn't at the edge of a major fault like Japan or California."

  "The only comparable precedent I found was the big wave caused by the Grand Banks earthquake in 1929. The quake's epicenter was under the ocean on the continental slope south of Newfoundland and east of Nova Scotia. The tremor was felt in Canada and New England, but the source was two hundred and fifty miles from the nearest land, so damage was negligible. Roads were blocked by landslides, chimneys broken and dishes rattled. Otherwise, the shock had little impact. The biggest effect was on the sea."

  "In what way?" Reed said.

  "There were two ships near the epicenter. The vibrations were so violent they thought they'd lost a propeller or hit an uncharted wreck or sandbar. The quake created a great wave that struck the south coast of Newfoundland three hours later, running up into rivers and inlets in the little fishing villages along sixty miles of coastline. The worst damage was at a wedge-shaped bay on the Burin Peninsula. The tsunami rose to thirty feet at the apex of the bay, damaged docks and buildings and killed more than twenty-five people."

  "Very similar to what happened at Rocky Point."

  "Almost a mirror image. The fatality and injury rate was lower in my town, thank goodness. There was another important similarity. Both waves seem to have been caused by huge underwater slides. There was no doubt that an earthquake caused the Grand Banks disaster. The oceanic cables were broken in dozens of places." He paused. "Here's where they were different: The Rocky Point slide seems to have been caused without a quake."

  "Interesting. Were there any seismic readings?"

  "I checked with the Weston Observatory outside of Boston. The Grand Banks quake had a ma
gnitude of 7.2. So we know something of that magnitude will cause a tsunami. The Rocky Point readings were more muddled." He paused. "There was a shock, but it didn't fit the classic pattern for a quake."

  "Let me see if I'm clear on this. Are you really saying the Rocky Point slump was not from an earthquake?"

  "I think that can be fairly well established. What I can't say is what actually caused the landslide." Yaeger looked over the tops of his granny glasses. "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

  "Something like that. I had read about the methane- hydrate deposits found off the continental slope and wondered if instability in those pockets of gas could have caused the slump."

  "It's certainly possible," Reed said. "There are huge pockets of the stuff off both coasts. We've found major deposits off of Oregon and New Jersey, for instance. You've heard of the Blake Ridge?"

  "Sure. It's an undersea promontory a couple of hundred miles southeast of the U.S."

  "Off the North Carolina coast, to be exact. The ridge is loaded with methane hydrate. Some people think the ridge is a 'pressure cooker.' Surveys have found craters pockmarking the ocean floor where the stuff has melted and seeped out, releasing methane gas."

  Jenkins scratched his head. "I'm sorry to say I don't know a lot about hydrates. I try to keep up through the professional journals since leaving the university, but what with the lobstering and so on, I never seem to have enough time."

  "It's a comparatively new area. You're familiar with chemical composition of hydrate?"

  "It's made up of natural gas molecules trapped in ice."

  "That's right. Someone dubbed it 'fire ice.' It was discovered in the nineteenth century, but our knowledge has been pretty sketchy. The first natural deposits were under the permafrost in Siberia and North America -they called it marsh gas – then in the 1970s, a couple of scientists from Columbia University found pockets under the seafloor when they were doing seismological studies at the Blake Ridge. In the 1980s, the Woods Hole submersible Alvin found stone undersea chimneys formed by escaping methane. I was on the first big survey back in the mid-1990s. That's when we discovered the deposits in the Blake Ridge. They're only a fraction of what's out there. The potential is vast.”