Polar Shift nf-6

by Clive Cussler

  He lashed out with the back of his hand. Karla was stunned by the blow, and offered little resistance when he put his foot behind her legs and pushed her down. The back of her head hit the ground and galaxies whirled before her eyes. Her vision cleared, and she saw the man staring down at her with amusement, then lust, in his piglike eyes.

  He had decided to have some fun with his lovely captive. He put his gun safely out of reach and began to unbutton his fly. Karla tried to crawl out of his way. He laughed, and put his boot on her neck. She pounded at his ankle and struggled to escape. She could barely breathe.

  The man coughed suddenly, and the grin on his face changed into a mask of shock. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He pivoted in slow motion, his boot slipped off Karla's neck and she saw the hilt of a hunting knife protruding from between his shoulder blades. Then his legs turned to rubber and he collapsed.

  Karla rolled over to keep from being crushed by the falling body. Her elation was cut short. Another man was coming toward her.

  He was tall, and limped when he walked. The sun slanting into the ravine was behind him and his face was obscured in shadow. She wanted to get up, but she was still dizzy and disoriented from hitting the ground.

  The man called her by her first name. It was a voice she hadn't heard in many years.

  Then she fainted.

  When she came to, the man was bending over her, holding her head in his hands, soothing her bruised lips with water from a canteen. She recognized the long jaw and the pale blue eyes that were filled with concern. She smiled even though it hurt her cracked lips.

  "Uncle Karl?" she asked as if in a dream.

  Schroeder placed his fox-fur hat under her head as a pillow, then went over to retrieve his knife, wiping the blade on the man's coat. He picked up the dead man's assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he took his hat back, placed his arms under her body and lifted her like a fireman carrying a smoke-inhalation victim.

  Voices were coming along the ravine.

  Pain shot up his leg from his ankle, but Schroeder ignored it. Stepping smartly, he carried Karla in the opposite direction, vanishing around a bend only seconds before the Mongol man and the rest of his gang found their companion. It took them only a second to see that he was dead. Crouching low, they advanced along the wall of the ravine with their weapons cocked.

  Schroeder ran for his life. And for Karla's.

  24

  Less than ten hours after leaving Washington, the turquoise executive NUMA jet descended from the skies over Alaska and touched down at Nome airport. Austin and Zavala exchanged their jet for a two-engine propeller plane operated by Bering Air and took off within an hour, heading toward Providenya on the Russian side of the Bering Strait.

  The flight across the strait took less than two hours. Providenya airport was on a scenic bay surrounded by sharp-peaked, gray mountains. The town had been a World War II stopover for lend-lease aircraft being flown to Europe from the United States, but those glory days were in the past. There were only a few charter planes and military helicopters at the airport when the plane taxied up to the combination flight tower and administration building, a tired-looking, two-story structure of corrugated aluminum that looked as if it went back to the time of Peter the Great.

  As the only arriving passengers, Austin and Zavala expected to be processed quickly by customs and immigration. But the attractive young immigration agent checking paperwork seemed to read every word on Austin's passport. Then she asked for Zavala's papers as well. She placed the passports and visas side by side.

  "Together?" she said, looking from face to face.

  Austin nodded. The woman frowned, then she signaled an armed guard who had been standing nearby. "Follow me," she barked like a drill sergeant. Gathering their papers, she led the way to a door on the other side of the lobby, with the guard taking up the rear.

  "I thought you had friends in high places," Zavala said.

  "They probably just want to give us the key to the city," Austin replied.

  "I think they want to give us a shot," Zavala said. "Read the sign over the door."

  Austin glanced at the red letters on the white placard. Written in English and Russian was the word quarantine. They stepped through the door into a small, gray room. The room was bare except for three metal chairs and a table. The guard followed them into the room and posted himself at the door.

  The immigration agent slapped the papers down on the table. "Strip," she said.

  Austin had caught a few hours of sleep on the plane, but he was still bleary-eyed and wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. The woman repeated the order.

  Austin smirked. "Gosh. We hardly know each other."

  "I've heard the Russians were friendly. But I didn't know they were that friendly," Zavala said.

  "Strip or you will be made to strip," the woman said, glancing at the armed guard to emphasize her point.

  "I'll be glad to," Austin said. "But in our country, ladies go first."

  To his amazement, the woman smiled. "I was told that you were a hard case, Mr. Austin."

  Austin was beginning to smell a rat. He cocked his head. "Who would have told you something like that?"

  The words were barely out of his mouth when the door opened. The guard stood aside and Petrov stepped into the room. His handsome face was wreathed in a wide grin that looked lopsided because of the curved scar on his cheek.

  "Welcome to Siberia," he said. "I'm glad to see that you are enjoying our hospitality."

  "Ivan," Austin said with a groan. "I should have known."

  Petrov was carrying a bottle of vodka and three shot glasses, which he placed on the table. He came over and threw his arms around Austin, and then crushed Zavala in a bone-crunching bear hug. "I see you have met Dimitri and Veronika. They are two of my most trusted agents."

  "Joe and I never expected such a warm welcome in a cold place like Siberia," Austin said.

  Petrov thanked his agents and dismissed them. He pulled up a chair and told the others to do the same. He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of vodka, poured the glasses full and passed them around.

  Raising his glass high, he said, "Here's to old enemies."

  They clinked glasses and downed their drinks. The vodka tasted like liquid fire, but it had more wake-up power than pure caffeine. When Petrov went to pour another round, Austin put his hand over the glass. "This will have to wait. We have got some serious matters to deal with."

  "I'm pleased you said we. I felt excluded after our call." He poured himself another shot. "Please explain why you found it necessary to hop onto a plane and fly halfway across the world to this lovely garden spot."

  "It's a long story," Austin said with a weariness that wasn't all due to the hours on a plane. "It begins and it ends with a brilliant Hungarian scientist named Kovacs."

  He laid the story out chronologically, going back to Kovacs's escape from Prussia, bringing it to the recent past, with the giant waves and whirlpool and his talk with Barrett.

  Petrov listened in silence, and, when Austin was done, he pushed away his untouched glass of vodka.

  "This is a fantastic story. Do you truly believe that these people have the capacity to create this polar reversal?"

  "You know everything we know. What do you think?"

  Petrov pondered the question for a moment. "Did you ever hear of the Russian 'woodpecker' project? It was an effort to control weather for military purposes, using electromagnetic radiation. Your country followed the same line of research for similar purposes."

  "How successful were these projects?"

  "Over a period of time, there was a series of unusual weather events in both countries. They ranged from high winds and torrential rains to drought. Even earthquakes. I'm told the research ended with the Cold War."

  "Interesting. That would fit in with what we know."

  A slight smile cracked the ends of Zavala's lips. "Are we sure it ended?"

&n
bsp; "What do you mean?"

  "Have you looked out the window lately?"

  Petrov glanced around the windowless room before he realized that Zavala was speaking metaphorically. He chuckled, and said, "I have a tendency to take statements literally. It's a Russian thing. I'm well aware that there the world has experienced a number of weather extremes."

  Austin nodded. "Joe makes a good point. I don't have the statistics in front of me, but the empirical evidence seems to be pretty strong. Tsunamis. Floods. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. Quakes. They all seem to be on the rise. Maybe this is a hangover from the early experiments."

  "But from what you say, these electromagnetic efforts are causing disturbances in the ocean. What has changed?"

  "I don't think it's that difficult to understand. Whoever is behind this has seen a reason to focus on a specific end with a specific goal in mind."

  "But you don't know what that goal is?"

  "You're the former KGB guy. I'm just a simple marine engineer."

  Petrov's hand went to the scar. "You're far from simple, my friend, but you're right about my conspiratorial twist of mind. While we talked, I remembered something one of your government officials, Zbigniew Brzezinski, said many years ago. He predicted that an elite class would arise, using modern technology to influence public behavior and keep society under close surveillance and control. They would use social crises and the mass media to achieve their ends through secret warfare, including weather modification. These people you talked about, Margrave and Gant. Do they fit this role?"

  "I don't know. It seems unlikely. Margrave is a rich neo-anarchist, and Gant runs a foundation that does battle with the multinationals."

  "Maybe you are a simple engineer. If you were part of an elite class that had conceived a plot against the world, would you advertise it?"

  "I see your point. No, I would lead people to believe that I opposed the elite."

  Petrov clapped his hands. "You don't know how pleased I am to learn that the latest plot against the world is being hatched by Americans rather than a mad Russian nationalist with czarist pretensions."

  "I'm glad to know that this is making you warm and bubbly, but we should get down to business."

  "I'm completely at your service. You obviously have a plan or you wouldn't be here."

  "Since we're not sure of who, and don't know why, we're stuck with what. Polar reversal. We have to stop it."

  "I agree. Tell me more about this so-called antidote you mentioned."

  "Joe's the technical guy on our team. He can explain it better than can.

  "I'll do my best," Zavala said. "From what I understand, the idea is to cause a polar shift using electromagnetic transmissions beamed into the earth's mantle, creating sympathetic vibrations in the inner core. You can compare these transmissions to sound waves. If you're in a hotel and you want to mask loud voices from the next room, you could turn on a fan and the vibrations would neutralize the racket. If you wanted to mask a higher tone, like a hair dryer, you would need a different set of frequencies. It's called white noise, or white sound. You might hear it as a hiss or something like rustling leaves. This antidote is comparable. But it wouldn't work unless you had the exact frequencies."

  "And you think this woman, Karla Janos, knows about these frequencies?"

  "She may not know it, but the evidence seems to point that way," Austin said. "Aside from the global implications, there is an innocent young woman here who could lose her life."

  Petrov's somber expression remained the same, but his eyes crinkled in amusement. "That is one of the many reasons I like you, Austin. You are the embodiment of gallantry. A knight in shining armor."

  "Thanks for the compliment, but we don't have much time, Petrov."

  "I agree. Do you have any questions?"

  "Yeah," Zavala said. "Does Veronika have a phone number?"

  "You can ask her yourself," Petrov said.

  He downed the shot of vodka, screwed the cap back on the bottle and tucked it under his arm, then led the way from the room and through the exit. A car and driver were waiting for them.

  "We had some special luggage," Austin said. He pointed to two oversize bags. "Please give them special attention."

  "Everything has been transferred."

  They got in the car, which drove them to the water side of the airport and onto a wide, sagging dock. A boat about sixty feet long was tied up at the end of the dock. Several men were waiting at the gangway.

  Austin got out of the car and asked about the words painted in Cyrillic on the white hull.

  "Arctic Tours. It's a real tourist company that takes wealthy Americans into godforsaken places for obscene sums of money. I have chartered the boat for a few days. If anyone asks, we are taking some Boy Scouts on a nature tour."

  As Petrov escorted the two men up the gangway, Austin was glad to see that their luggage had appeared magically on the deck. They were traveling light, with one duffel bag apiece, and the two bags that Austin asked be given special attention.

  Petrov led them into the main cabin. Austin had only to take a quick glance around to see that this was no tourist boat. Most of the built-in furniture had been removed, leaving a stationary table in the center and padded benches along the perimeter. Dimitri and Veronika sat on the bench with four men in camouflage uniforms. They were busy cleaning an impressive array of automatic weapons.

  "I see your Boy Scouts are preparing for their merit badges in marksmanship. What do you think, Joe?"

  "I'm more interested in the Girl Scout," Zavala said. He went over and struck up a conversation with the young Russian woman.

  Austin gave Petrov a questioning look.

  "I know you said that a quiet approach was necessary," Petrov said. "I am in complete agreement. These people are only here in reserve. Look, there are only six of them. Not a whole army."

  "They're packing more firepower than both sides at the battle of Gettysburg," Austin observed.

  "We may need it," Petrov said. "Come to my cabin and I'll bring you up to date on the situation."

  Petrov led the way to a compact stateroom and picked up a large envelope on the bunk. He extracted a number of photographs from the envelope and handed them to Austin, who held them close to the light streaming in through the porthole. The photos showed various views of a long, grayish island with a doughnut-shaped mountain in the center of the landmass.

  "Ivory Island?" he said.

  "The views were taken by satellite over the last several days." Petrov produced a small magnifying glass from his pocket. He pointed to an indentation in the south side of the island. "This is the natural, deepwater harbor that the icebreaker, which supplies and transports the expedition, uses in coming and going. The ship dropped Karla Janos off here two days ago to join an expedition already in progress."

  "What's the nature of this expedition?"

  "Science fiction. Some crazy Russians and Japanese hope to find DNA from a woolly mammoth that can be cloned into a live creature. Look, here on the other side of the island, where the permafrost had been eroded, there are natural inlets."

  Austin saw an elongated shape lying in a cove. "A boat?"

  "Whoever owns it didn't want to be seen or they would have come into the main harbor. I think the assassins have arrived."

  "How soon can we get there?"

  "Ten hours. The boat will do forty knots, but the distances here are vast, and we may be slowed by ice."

  "We don't have that long."

  "I agree. That's why I have made contingency plans." He glanced at his watch. "In forty-five minutes, a seaplane will arrive here from the mainland. After it refuels, it will take you and Zavala to a rendezvous with the icebreaker Kotelny, which is between Wrangel Island and the polar ice. A trip of about three hours by air. The icebreaker will transport you to Ivory Island."

  "What about you and your friends?"

  "We will leave as soon as you do, and, with any luck, we'll arrive sometime tomorrow."

 
; Austin reached out and gripped Petrov's hand. "I can't thank you enough, Ivan."

  "I should be the one thanking you. Yesterday, I was rotting in my Moscow office. Today, I am rushing to save a damsel in distress."

  "I may have a problem prying Zavala away," Austin said.

  His fears were unfounded, as it turned out. When he returned to the main cabin, Zavala was chatting with one of Petrov's men about his weapon. Veronika and Dimitri were sitting off by themselves engaged in animated conversation.

  "Sorry to take you away from your budding romance," Austin said.

  "Don't be. Petrov failed to tell me that Veronika and Dimitri are married. To each other. Where are we going?"

  Austin explained Petrov's plans, and they went out on the dock to wait. The seaplane was fifteen minutes early. It taxied up to the fuel pump at the end of the pier. Austin supervised the handling of his luggage while the plane was being refueled, then he and Zavala boarded the plane. Within minutes, it skimmed across the bay, lifted its nose and climbed at a sharp angle over the jagged peaks of the gray mountains that flanked the bay, then headed north into the unknown.

  25

  Karla's eyelids fluttered open. She saw only blackness, but senses that had been temporarily put on hold stirred to life. She had a coppery taste of old blood in her mouth. Her back felt as if it were resting on a bed of nails. Then she heard a rustling noise close by. She remembered the yellow-toothed attacker. Still only half conscious, she put her arms up and flailed away in the dark, defending herself against an unseen assailant.

  "No!" she called out in fear and defiance.

  Her thrashing arms struck soft flesh. A big hand with fingers like steel clamped down over her mouth. A light flashed on. Its beam illuminated a disembodied face floating in the darkness.

  She stopped fighting. The long-jawed face had aged dramatically since the last time she had seen it. There were more wrinkles, and a general droopiness to skin that was once as taut as a drumhead. The watchful eyes were framed by crow's-feet, pouches and white brows, but the irises were the same piercing blue she remembered. He removed his hand from her mouth.