Fire Ice.

by Clive Cussler.

PROLOGUE

ODESSA, RUSSIA, 1918.

THE DENSE FOG rolled into the harbor late in the afternoon, nudged by a sudden change in wind direction. The damp gray billows washed over the stone quays, swirled up the Odessa Steps and brought an early nightfall to the busy Black Sea port. Pa.s.senger ferries and freighters canceled their runs, idling dozens of sailors. As Captain Anatoly Tovrov groped his way through the bone-chilling mists that enveloped the waterfront, he could hear bursts of drunken laughter from the crowded dives and brothels. He walked past the main concentration of bars, turned down an alley and opened an unmarked door. Warm air, heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke and vodka, invaded his nostrils. A portly man sitting at a comer table beckoned the captain over.Alexei Federoff was in charge of Odessa Customs. When the captain was in port, he and Federoff made it a habit to meet at the secluded watering hole, frequented mostly by retired mariners, where the vodka was cheap and not usually lethal. The bureaucrat satisfied the captain's need for human companionship without friendship. Tovrov had steered a lonely course since his wife and young daughter had been killed years before in one of Russia's senseless outbursts of violence.Federoff seemed strangely subdued. Normally a boisterous man who could be counted on to accuse the waiter jokingly of overcharging, he ordered a round by silently raising two fingers. Even more surprising, the frugal customs man paid for the drinks. He kept his voice low, nervously tugging at his pointed little black beard, and glanced nervously at other tables where weather-beaten seamen hunched over their gla.s.ses. Satisfied that their conversation was private, Federoff raised his drink and they clinked gla.s.ses."My dear Captain," Federoff said. "I regret that I have little time and must get directly to the point. I would like you to take a group of pa.s.sengers and a small amount of cargo to Constantinople, no questions asked.""I knew something was odd when you paid for my drink," the captain said, with his usual bluntness.Federoff chuckled. He had always been intrigued by the captain's honesty, even if he couldn't comprehend it. "Well, Captain, we poor government servants must exist on the pittance they pay us."The captain's lips tightened in a thin smile as he eyed the corpulent belly that strained the b.u.t.tons of Federoff's expensive French-made waistcoat. The customs man often complained about his job. Tovrov would listen politely. He knew the official had powerful connections in Saint Petersburg and that he spent his days soliciting bribes from shipowners to "smooth the seas" of bureaucracy, as he put it."You know my ship," Tovrov said, with a shrug. "It is not what you would call a luxury liner.""No matter. It will suit our purposes admirably." The captain paused in thought, wondering why anyone would want to sail on an old coal carrier when more appealing alternatives were available. Federoff mistook the captain's hesitation for the opening round of a bargaining session. Reaching into his breast pocket, he withdrew a thick envelope and placed it on the table. He opened the envelope slightly so the captain could see that it held thousands of rubles."You would be well compensated." Tovrov swallowed hard. With shaking fingers, he dug a cigarette from its pack and lit up. "I don't understand," he said.Federoff noted the captain's bewilderment. "What do you know about the political state of our country?"The captain relied on scuttleb.u.t.t and out-of-date papers for his news. "I am a simple sailor," he replied. "I rarely set foot on Russian soil.""Even so, you are a man of vast practical experience. Please be frank, my friend. I have always valued your opinion."Tovrov pondered what he knew about Russia's tribulations and put it in a nautical context. "If a ship were in the same condition as our country, I would wonder why it is not at the bottom of the sea.""I have always admired your candor," Federoff replied, with a hearty laugh. "It seems you have a gift for metaphor as well." He grew serious again. "Your reply is entirely to the point. Russia is indeed in a perilous state. Our young men are dying in the Great War, the tsar has abdicated, the Bolsheviks are ruthlessly a.s.suming power, the Germans occupy our southern flank and we have called upon other nations to s.n.a.t.c.h our chestnuts from the fire.""I had no idea things were that bad." "They are getting worse, if you can believe it. Which brings me back to you and your ship." Federoff locked his eyes on the captain's. "We loyal patriots here in Odessa have our backs to the sea. The White Army holds territory, but the Reds are pressing from the north and will soon overwhelm them. The German army's ten-mile military zone will dissolve like sugar in water. By taking on these pa.s.sengers, you would be doing a great service for Russia."The captain considered himself a citizen of the world, but deep down he was no different from the rest of his countrymen, with their deep attachment to the motherland. He knew that the Bolsheviks were arresting and executing the old guard and that many refugees had escaped to the south. He had talked with other captains who whispered tales of taking on important pa.s.sengers in the dead of night.Pa.s.senger s.p.a.ce was no problem. The ship was practically empty. The Odessa Star was the last choice of sailors looking for a berth. She smelled of leaky fuel, rusting metal and low-end cargo. Sailors called it the stench of death and avoided the ship as if it carried the plague. The crew was mostly wharf rats no other ship would hire. Tovrov could move the first mate into his quarters, freeing up the officers' cabins for pa.s.sengers. He glanced at the thick envelope. The money would make the difference between dying in an old sailors' home or retiring to a comfortable cottage by the sea."We sail in three days with the evening tide," the captain said."You are a true patriot," Federoff said, his eyes glistening with tears. He thrust the envelope across the table. "This is half. I will pay you the balance when the pa.s.sengers arrive."The captain slid the money into his coat, where it seemed to throw off heat. "How many pa.s.sengers will there be?"Federoff glanced at two sailors who entered the cafe and sat at a table. Lowering his voice, he said, "About a dozen. There is extra money in the envelope to buy food. Purchase the supplies at different markets to avoid suspicion. I must go now." He rose from his seat, and, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, said sternly, "Well, my good Captain, I hope you have a better understanding of our customs, rules and regulations! Good day."On the afternoon of departure, Federoff came to the ship to tell the captain the plans were unchanged. The pa.s.sengers would arrive late in the evening. Only the captain was to be on deck. Shortly before midnight, as Tovrov paced the fog-shrouded deck alone, a vehicle squealed to a halt at the bottom of the gangplank. From the guttural sound of the motor, he guessed it was a truck. The headlights and engine were turned off. Doors opened and closed, and there was the murmur of voices and the scuffle of boots on wet cobblestones.A tall figure wearing a hooded cloak climbed the gang- way, stepped onto the deck and came over to the captain.Tovrov felt unseen eyes boring into his. Then a deep male voice spoke from the dark hole under the cowling."Where are the pa.s.sengers' quarters?""I'll show you," Tovrov said."No, tell me.""Very well. The cabins are on the bridge one deck up. The ladder is over there.""Where are your crew?""They are all in their bunks.""See that they stay there. Wait here."The man silently made his way to the ladder and climbed to the officers' cabins on the deck below the wheelhouse. Minutes later, he returned from his inspection. "Better than a stable, but not much," he said. "We're coming aboard. Stay out of the way. Over there." He pointed toward the bow, then descended to the quay.Tovrov was ruffled at being ordered about on his own ship, but then thought of the money locked safe in his cabin smoothed his feathers. He was also wise enough not to argue with a man who towered above him. He took up a post on the bow as instructed.The group huddled on the quay filed onto the ship.Tovrov heard the sleepy voice of a young girl or boy being shushed by an adult as the pa.s.sengers made their way to their quarters. Others followed, lugging boxes or steamer trunks. From the grunts and curses, he guessed that the baggage was heavy. The last person onto the ship was Federoff, who huffed with unaccustomed exertion from the short climb."Well, my good fellow," he said cheerily, clapping his gloves together for warmth. "That's the last of it. Is everything ready?""We sail when you give the order.""Consider it given. Here is the rest of your money." He handed Tovrov an envelope that crackled with new bills. Then, unexpectedly, he embraced the captain in a bear hug and kissed him on both cheeks. "Mother Russia can never pay you enough," he whispered. "Tonight you make history." He released the astounded captain and descended the gangway. After a moment, the truck drove off and disappeared into the gloom.The captain brought the envelope to his nose, inhaling the smell of rubles as if they were roses, then he tucked the money in a coat pocket and climbed to the wheelhouse. He went into the chart room behind the wheelhouse, then through a door into his cabin to roust Sergei, his first mate. The captain fold the young Georgian to wake the crew and cast off. Muttering incomprehensibly to himself, the mate went below to follow orders.A handful of human flotsam staggered out onto the deck in various states of sobriety. Tovrov watched from the wheelhouse as the mooring lines were cast off and the gangway pulled up. There were a dozen crewmen in all, including two men hired at the last minute as stokers down in the "junkyard," as the engine room was called. The chief engineer was a competent seaman who had stayed with the captain out of loyalty. He wielded his oilcan like a magic wand and breathed life into the piles of sc.r.a.p metal that powered the Star. The boilers had been warming up and were building up steam as well as could be expected.Tovrov took the helm, the telegraph jangled and the ship moved away from the dock. As the Odessa Star inched her way out of the fog-bound harbor, those who saw her crossed themselves and invoked ancient prayers to ward off demons. She seemed to float above the water like a phantom ship doomed to wander the world in search of drowned sailors for her crew. Her running lights were veiled in a gauzy glow, as if Saint Elmo's fire danced in the rigging.The captain steered the ship through the winding channel and around fog-shrouded boats as easily as a porpoise using its natural radar. Years of steaming between Odessa and Constantinople had engraved the route in his brain, and he knew without resorting to charts or channel markers how many turns of the wheel to make.The Star's French owners had purposely neglected her maintenance for years, hoping one good storm would send the ship to the bottom and payout its insurance. Rust dripped from the scuppers like bleeding sores and streaked the blistered hull. The masts and cranes were splotched by corrosion. The ship listed drunkenly to port, where water from a leaky bilge had settled. The Star's engines, worn and long in need of an overhaul, wheezed as if they suffered from emphysema. The choking black cloud that poured from its single smokestack stank as if it were sulfur emanating from Hades. Like a terminal patient who somehow existed in a wasted body, the Star continued to plow through the seas long after she should have been declared clinically dead.Tovrov knew that the Star was the last ship he would ever command. Yet he strove to maintain a spit-and-polish look. He buffed his thin-soled black shoes every morning. His white shirt was yellowed but clean, and he attempted to keep a crease in his threadbare black trousers. Only the cosmetic skills of an embalmer would have improved the captain's physical appearance. Late hours, poor diet and lack of sleep had taken their toll. His sunken cheeks gave even greater prominence to the long, red-veined nose and his skin was as gray as parchment.The first mate went back to sleep, and the crew settled in their bunks while the first shift of stokers fed the coal into the boilers. The captain lit up a potent Turkish cigarette that triggered a coughing fit that doubled him over. As he got his fit under control, he became aware that cold sea air was coming in an open door. He looked up and saw he was no longer alone. A huge man stood in the doorway, dramatically framed by wisps of fog. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him."Lights," he said in a baritone voice that identified him as the figure who had been the first to come aboard.Tovrov pulled the cord for the bare bulb that hung from the overhead. The man had thrown back his hood. He was tall and lean and wore a white fur hat known as a papakha at a rakish angle. A pale dueling scar slashed his right cheek above the beard line, his skin was red and blistered with s...o...b..rn and sparkling drops of moisture matted his black hair and beard. His left iris was clouded from an injury or disease, and his staring good eye made him look like a lopsided Cyclops.The fur-lined cloak had fallen open to reveal a pistol holster at his belt, and in his hand he carried a rifle. A cartridge bandoleer crossed his chest and a saber hung from his belt. He was dressed in a muddy gray tunic and his feet were shod with high, black-leather boots. The uniform and his air of barely repressed violence identified him as a Cossack, one of the fierce warrior caste who inhabited the rim of the Black Sea. Tovrov stifled his revulsion. Cossacks had been involved in the death of his family, and he always tried to avoid the belligerent hors.e.m.e.n who seemed happiest when instilling fear.The man glanced around the deserted wheelhouse. "Alone?""The first mate is sleeping back there," Tovrov said, with a jerk of his head. "He is drunk and doesn't hear anything." He fumbled with a cigarette and offered the man one."My name is Major Peter Yakelev," the man said, waving the cigarette away. "You will do as you are told, Captain Tovrov.""You may trust me to be at your service, Major.""I trust no one." He stepped closer and spat out the words. "Not the White Russians or the Reds. Not the Germans or the British. They are all against us. Even Cossacks have gone over to the Bolsheviks." He glared at the captain, searching for a nuance of defiance. Seeing no threat in the captain's bland expression, he reached out with thick fingers."Cigarette," he growled. Tovrov gave him the whole pack. The major lit one up and drank in the smoke as if it were an elixir. Tovrov was intrigued by the major's accent. The captain's father had worked as a coachman for a wealthy landowner, and Tovrov was familiar with the cultured speech of the Russian elite. This man looked as if he had sprung from the steppes, but he spoke with an educated inflection. Tovrov knew that upper-cla.s.s officers trained at the military academy were often picked to lead Cossack troops.Tovrov noticed the weariness in the Cossack's ruined face and the slight sag to the powerful shoulders. "A long trip?" he said.The major grinned without humor. "Yes, a long, hard trip." He blew twin plumes of smoke out of his nostrils and produced a flask of vodka from his coat. He took a pull and looked around. "This ship stinks," he declared."The Star is an old, old lady with a great heart.""Your old lady still stinks," the Cossack said."When you're my age, you learn to hold your nose and take what you can get."The major roared with laughter and slapped Tovrov on the back so hard that sharp daggers of pain stabbed his ravaged lungs and set him coughing. The Cossack offered Tovrov his flask. The captain managed a swallow. It was high-quality vodka, not the rotgut he was used to. The fiery liquid dampened the cough, and he handed the flask back and took the helm.Yakelev tucked the flask away. "What did Federoff tell you?" he said."Only that we're carrying cargo and pa.s.sengers of great importance to Russia.""You're not curious?"Tovrov shrugged. "I have heard what is going on in the west. I a.s.sume these are bureaucrats running away from the Bolsheviks with their families and what few belongings they can bring."Yakelev smiled. "Yes, that is a good story."Emboldened, Tovrov said, "If I may ask, why did you choose the Odessa Star? Surely there were newer ships fitted out for pa.s.senger service.""Use your brain, Captain," Yakelev said with contempt. "n.o.body would expect this old scow to carry pa.s.sengers of importance." He glanced out the window into the night. "How long to Constantinople?""Two days and two nights, if all goes well.""Make sure it does go well.""I'll do my best. Anything else?""Yes. Tell your crew to stay away from the pa.s.sengers. A cook will come into the kitchen and prepare meals. No one will talk to her. There are six guards, including myself, and we will be on duty at all times. Anyone who comes to the cabins without permission will be shot." He put his hand on the b.u.t.t of his pistol in emphasis."I will make sure the crew is informed," the captain said. "The only ones normally on the bridge are the first mate and myself. His name is Sergei.""The drunk?"Tovrov nodded. The Cossack shook his head in disbelief, his good eye sweeping the wheelhouse, then he left as suddenly as he had appeared.Tovrov stared at the open door and scratched his chin. Pa.s.sengers who bring their armed guards are not petty bureaucrats, he thought. He must be carrying someone high up in the hierarchy, maybe even members of the court. But it was none of his business, he decided, and went back to his duties. He checked the compa.s.s heading, set the helm, then stepped out onto the port wing to clear his head.The damp air carried a perfume laden with scents from the ancient lands that surrounded the sea. He c.o.c.ked his ear, straining to hear over the erratic thrum-thrum of the Star's engines. Decades at sea had honed his senses to a sharp edge. Another boat was moving through the fog. Who else would be so foolish as to sail on such a terrible night? Maybe it was the vodka at work.A new sound drowned out the boat noise. Music was coming from the pa.s.sengers' quarters. Someone was playing a concertina and male voices sang in chorus. It was the Russian national anthem, "Baje Tsaria Krani." "G.o.d Save the Tsar." The melancholy voices made him sad, and he went back into the wheelhouse and closed the door so he could no longer hear the haunting strains.The fog vanished with the dawn, and the bleary-eyed mate stumbled in to relieve the captain. Tovrov gave him the course orders, then stepped outside and yawned in the early-morning sunlight. He swept his eyes over the blue satin sea and saw that his instincts had been right. A fishing boat was running parallel to the Star's long wake. He watched the boat for a few minutes, then shrugged and made the rounds, warning every crewman that the officers' quarters were off-limits.Satisfied that all was well, the captain crawled into his bunk and slept in his clothes. His first mate was under strict orders to awaken him at the first sign of anything unusual. Nevertheless, Tovrov, who had mastered the art of the cat-nap, rose several times and returned to a deep slumber in between. Around midday, he awoke and went into the mess, where he ate bread and cheese, plus sausage purchased with his newfound wealth. A stout woman was there, bending over the stove, and standing by was a tough-looking Cossack who helped her carry the steaming pots back to the pa.s.senger section. After his meal, Tovrov relieved the mate for a lunch break. As the day wore on, the fishing boat fell back until it could have been anyone of the dots visible on the horizon.The Star seemed to shed years as she glided over the mirrored surface of the sunlit sea. Eager to reach Constantinople, Tovrov ordered the ship kept at nearly top speed, but finally, the ship paid for its coltish behavior. Around dinner-time, an engine broke down, and though the first mate and the engineer tinkered with the engine for hours, their only accomplishment was to coat themselves with grease. The captain saw that further effort was futile and ordered them to push forward on one engine.The major was waiting in the wheelhouse and roared like a wounded bull when the captain laid out the problem. Tovrov said they would get to Constantinople, only not as soon. An extra day, perhaps.Yakelev raised his fists in the air and affixed the captain with his baleful eye. Tovrov expected to be smashed to goulash, but the major suddenly whirled and swept from the cabin. The captain exhaled the breath he had been holding and returned to his charts. The ship was moving at half speed, but at least it was moving. The captain prayed to the icon of Saint Basil on the wall that the good engine would hold out.Yakelev was calmer when he returned. The captain asked how the pa.s.sengers were doing. They were fine, the major said, but they would do better if the stinking rust bucket they were on got to where it was going. Fog moved in later, and Tovrov had to reduce speed by a couple of knots. He hoped Yakelev was asleep and wouldn't notice.Tovrov had the nervous mental tic that comes to men who have spent their lives on the water, his eyes constantly darting here and there, checking the compa.s.s and barometer dozens of times in an hour. In between, he walked from wing to wing to observe weather and sea conditions. About one o'clock in the morning, he went out onto the port wing... and his neck began to tingle. A vessel was overtaking them. He listened intently. It was closing fast.Tovrov was a simple man, but he was not stupid. He cranked the phone that connected the bridge to the officers' cabin.Yakelev answered. "What do you want?" he snapped."We must talk," Tovrov said."I will come by later.""No, it is very important. We must talk now.""All right. Come down to the pa.s.sengers' quarters. Don't worry," Yakelev said with an evil chuckle, "I'll try not to shoot you."The captain hung up and woke Sergei, who reeked of alcohol. He poured the mate a mug of the strong black coffee."Keep a heading due south. I will be back in a few minutes. Any mistakes and I will take away your vodka until we reach Constantinople."Tovrov hurried below and cautiously pushed open the door, half expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. Yakelev was waiting. He stood with his legs wide apart and his hands on his hips. Four other Cossacks were asleep on the floor. Another sat cross-legged with his back to the cabin door and a rifle balanced on his knees.Yakelev glared accusingly. "You woke me up.""Come with me, please," the captain said, leading the way outside. They descended to the fog-shrouded main deck and made their way to the stem. The captain leaned over the fantail and peered into the wooly darkness that swallowed their broad wake. He listened a few seconds, blocking out the burble and hiss of the water."A boat is following us," he said.Yakelev looked at him with suspicion and cupped his hand to his ear. "You're crazy. I hear nothing but the noise from this stupid ship.""You're a Cossack," Tovrov said. "You know about horses?""Of course," the major replied, with a contemptuous snort. "What man doesn't?""I don't, but I do know ships, and we're being followed. , A piston on that boat is missing a stroke. I think it is the fishing boat I saw earlier.""So what of it? This is the sea. Fish swim in the sea.""There are no fish this far from sh.o.r.e." He listened again. "No doubt. It's the same boat and it is moving in on us."The major uttered a string of curses and pounded the rail: "You must lose them.""Impossible! Not with one engine down."Yakelev's hand grabbed the front of Tovrov's coat and he lifted the captain onto his toes."Do not tell me what is impossible," he snarled. "It took us weeks to come from Kiev. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The wind lashed our faces like whips. There was a burin, a blizzard like none I have ever seen. I had a full sontia of one hundred Cossacks when I started. These pitiful fellows are all I have left. My other men stayed behind to watch our backs when we came through German lines. If not for the Tartars' help, we would all be dead. We managed to find a way. You will, too."Tovrov stifled the urge to cough. "Then I suggest we change our course and cut the lights.""Do it then," Yakelev ordered, releasing his iron grip.The captain caught his breath and dashed back to the bridge, with the major close behind. As they approached the ladder that led up to the wheelhouse, a bright square of light appeared on the deck above. Several people stepped out onto the open platform. The light was from behind, so their faces were in shadow."Inside!" Yakelev shouted."We came outside for air," a woman said, speaking in a German accent. "It is stifling in the cabin.""Please, Madame," the major said in a softer, pleading voice."As you wish," the woman said, after a moment. She was clearly reluctant, but she herded the others back inside. As she turned, Tovrov saw her profile. She had a strong chin, and her nose was slightly curved at the tip.A guard emerged from the ship and called down. "I couldn't stop them, Major.""Go back inside and shut the door before all the world hears your stupid excuses."The guard vanished and slammed the door behind him. As Tovrov stared up at the empty platform, the major's fingers dug into his arm.Yakelev's voice was harsh and low. "You saw nothing, Captain.""Those people - ""Nothing! For G.o.d's sake, man. I do not want to kill you."Tovrov started to reply, but the words never left his mouth. He had felt a change in the ship's movement, and he jerked his arm away from Yakelev's grip. "I must go to the bridge.""What is wrong?""There's no one at the wheel. Can't you feel it? My stupid first mate is probably drunk."Tovrov left the major behind and climbed to the wheelhouse. In the light from the binnacle, he saw the wheel slowly spinning back and forth as if moved by invisible hands. The captain stepped inside and stumbled over something soft and yielding. He swore, thinking that the mate had pa.s.sed out. Then he turned on the light and saw how wrong he was.The mate lay facedown on the metal deck, a puddle of blood around his head. Tovrov's anger turned to alarm. He knelt beside the young officer and turned him over. A wound grinned at him like a second mouth where the poor wretch's throat had been cut.Eyes wide with horror, the captain stood and edged away from the corpse, only to back into a wall of solid flesh. He whirled and saw Yakelev."What has happened?" the major said."It's incredible! Someone has killed the first mate."Yakelev nudged the b.l.o.o.d.y corpse with his boot. "Who could have done this?""No one.""No one slaughtered your mate like a pig? Come to your senses, Captain."Tovrov shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the mate's body. "I meant that I know all the crew well." He paused. "All except the two new men.""What new men?" Yakelev's good eye blazed at Tovrov like a spotlight."I hired them two days ago as stokers. They were in the bar when I was talking to Federoff, and they came by later looking for berths. They looked like ruffians, but I was short of crew - "Uttering a curse, Yakelev pulled his pistol from its holster, shoved Tovrov aside and vaulted through the door, shouting commands to his men. Tovrov glanced at the first mate and vowed not to let the same thing happen to him without a fight. He tied the wheel, then he went into his stateroom and with trembling hands turned the combination dial on the ship's safe. Pulling out a 7.63-millimeter Mauser automatic, he unwrapped the soft velvet cloth protecting the gun, which he had acquired years before in a barter in the event of a mutiny, loaded the magazine, stuck the pistol in his belt and peered out the cabin door.Descending to the lower deck, he peeked through the small circular window in the door that led to the pa.s.sengers' quarters. The pa.s.sageway was empty. He went down to the main deck and crept forward. In the glow of the deck lights, he saw the Cossacks crouched near the rail.Suddenly, a small, dark object looped over the gunwale, bounced once and skittered along the wet deck, leaving a trail of sparks."Grenade!" someone yelled. Moving like quicksilver, Yakelev dove for the sputtering grenade, rolled onto his back and snapped the metal pineapple over the side. An explosion sounded, and the screams of pain that followed were drowned out as the Cossacks poured rifle fire into the mist. One guard leaned over with a sharp: knife and slashed the lines tied to several grappling hooks, then a boat engine roared, as if it had been given full throttle. The Cossacks continued to fire until the boat was out of range.The major turned and his rifle snapped up to firing position. Then a grin crossed his face as he recognized the captain."You'd better put that toy away before you shoot yourself, Captain."Tovrov tucked the gun into his belt and walked over to Yakelev. "What happened?""You were right about being followed. A fishing boat came alongside and some impolite fellows tried to invite themselves on board. We had to teach them manners. One of your new crewmen was signaling them with a light until we put a knife in his heart." He indicated a body lying on the deck."We gave our visitors a warm welcome," another Cossack said, and his companions joined in the laughter. The guards picked the body up and threw it over the side. The captain was about to ask where the other stoker was. Too late.The missing stoker announced his arrival with deadly force. Rifle fire cut short the Cossacks' mirth, and four men were mowed down as if by an invisible scythe. A round caught Yakelev in the chest, and the force slammed him against the bulkhead. He refused to go down and mustered the strength to push the captain out of the line of fire. The remaining Cossack dropped to his belly and crawled along the deck, firing as he went, but he was killed before he gained the protection of an air vent.While the attacker was diverted, Tovrov and the major made their escape, but after a few steps, the major's knees buckled and his great body dropped to the deck, his tunic soaked in blood. He gestured toward the captain, who brought his ear close to the Cossack's mouth."See to the family," he said in a wet, guttural voice."They must live." His hand groped for Tovrov's jacket. "Remember. Without a tsar, Russia cannot exist." He blinked in astonishment that he should be in such a position, and a soggy chuckle escaped his frothy lips. "d.a.m.n this ship. give me a horse any day...." The life went out of his fierce eye, his chin slumped forward and his fingers went limp.Just then, the ship was rocked by a tremendous blast.Crouching low, Tovrov ran to the rail and saw the fishing boat a hundred yards away. A bright flash from the muzzle of a deck gun, and a second sh.e.l.l slammed into the freighter.The ship rocked violently.A m.u.f.fled thud came from below, as the fuel tanks caught fire, and burning fuel gushed from the tanks and spread in flaming sheets across the surface of the water. The second stoker decided to abandon ship. He ran across the deck, threw the rifle over the side, then he climbed onto the rail, leaped into a clear section of water and stroked for the fishing boat. He underestimated the speed of the spreading fuel, however. Within seconds, it caught up with him, and his screams were drowned out by the loud crackle of flames.The cannonade had dislodged the rest of the crew from their hiding places. Men ran in desperation toward the lifeboat on the side away from the fire. Tovrov went to follow them, then he remembered Yakelev's dying words. Gasping as he tried to pull air into his ravaged lungs, Tovrov climbed to the pa.s.senger quarters and threw the door open.A pitiful sight greeted his eyes. Four girls in their teens cowered against the wall, along with the cook. Standing protectively in front of them was a middle-aged woman with sad blue-gray eyes. She had a long thin nose, slightly aquiline, with a firm but delicate chin. Her lips were closely pressed together in determination. They could have been any group of refugees huddling in terror, but Tovrov knew they weren't. He fumbled as he tried to decide on the right form of address."Madame," he said finally. "You and the children must come to the lifeboat.""Who are you?" the woman said, with the same German accent the captain had heard earlier."Captain Tovrov. I am master of this vessel.""Tell me what has happened. What is all that noise?""Your guards are all dead. The ship is under attack. We must abandon it."She glanced at the girls and seemed to gain renewed courage. "Captain Tovrov, if you guide me and my family to safety, great rewards await you.""I will do my best, Madame.She nodded. "Go, and we will follow."Tovrov checked to see if the way was clear, then held the door open for the family and led the way across the deck away from the fire. The Star tilted at a p.r.o.nounced angle and they had to climb up a slanting slippery metal surface. They fell, helped one another up and pushed on.The crew was piling into the lifeboat, struggling to work the davits. Taking control, the captain ordered the men to help the family. When everyone was in the boat, he told the crewmen to look smart and lower the boat. He was worried that the ship was at such an angle that the davits would not work, but the boat began to descend, although it b.u.mped against the slanting hull.The lifeboat was a few yards above the water when one of the men shouted. The fishing boat had come around from the other side and the deck gun was leveled directly at the lifeboat. The gun fired and the sh.e.l.l smashed through one end of the boat, and then the air was filled with flying splinters of wood, hot steel and body parts.Tovrov had stretched his arm around the girl nearest to him. He still had his arm around her when he came to in the freezing water, calling out the name of his long-lost daughter. Spotting a wooden hatch cover floating nearby, and moving slowly so as not to alert the attackers, he swam toward the debris, hauling the semiconscious girl behind him.He helped her climb aboard the precarious raft, gave it a shove, and the cover and its cargo drifted away from the light of the dying ship and merged with the darkness. Then, frozen and exhausted, with nothing to keep him afloat, Tovrov slipped beneath the embracing waters, taking with him his dream of a cottage by the sea.

1- OFF THE MAINE COAST, THE PRESENTLEROY JENKINS WAS hauling in a barnacle- encrusted lobster trap aboard his boat, The Kestrel, when he looked up and saw the giant ship on the horizon. He gingerly extracted a fat pair of angry crustaceans from the trap, pegged the claws and tossed the lobsters into a holding tank, then he rebaited the trap with a fish head, pushed the wire cage over the side and went into the pilothouse for his binoculars. He peered through the lenses and silently mouthed the word "Wow!"The ship was huge. Jenkins examined the vessel from stem to stem with an expert eye. Before retiring to take up lobster-fishing, he had taught oceanography for years at the University of Maine, and he had spent many summer breaks on survey ships - but this vessel was like nothing he had ever seen. He estimated its length at about six hundred feet. Derricks and cranes sprouted from its deck. Jenkins guessed it was some sort of ocean mining or exploration vessel. He watched until the ship vanished from sight, then went back to pull the rest of the string of pots.Jenkins was a tall, rangy man in his sixties, whose rugged features mirrored the rockbound coast of his native Maine. A smile crossed his deeply tanned face as he hauled in the last trap. It had been an exceptionally good day. He had found the honey hole by accident a couple of months earlier. The spot produced an endless supply of lobsters, and he kept coming back even though he had to go farther from land than normal. Fortunately, his thirty-six-foot wooden boat was seaworthy even with a full load. Setting a course for land, he put the boat on autopilot and went below to reward himself with what they used to call a Dagwood sandwich when he was a kid. He had just layered in another slice of baloney on top of the pile of ham, cheese and salami when he heard a m.u.f.fled" Boom!" It sounded like a thunderclap, but it seemed to come from below.The boat shuddered so violently the jars of mustard and mayonnaise rolled off the counter. Jenkins tossed his knife in the sink and sprang up to the deck. He wondered if the propeller had broken off or if he had hit a floating log, but nothing seemed amiss. The sea was calm and almost flat. Earlier, the blue surface had reminded him of a Rothko canvas.The boat had stopped vibrating, and he took a wondering look around, then, shrugging, went below. He finished making his sandwich, cleaned up and went out on the deck to eat. Noticing a couple of lobster traps that had shifted, he secured them with a line, then as he stepped back into the wheelhouse, he experienced a sudden unpleasant stomach-sinking sensation, as if someone had pushed the Up b.u.t.ton in a fast elevator. He grabbed onto the mechanical hauler to keep his footing. The boat plunged, then levitated again, higher this time, plummeted once more and repeated the cycle a third time before sinking back into the sea, where it rocked violently from side to side.After a few minutes, the motion stopped and the boat stabilized, and Jenkins saw a flickering movement in the distance. Retrieving his binoculars from the wheelhouse, he swept the sea, and as he adjusted the focus ring, he saw three dark furrows extending from north to south. The ranks of waves were moving in the direction of the coast. A long-dormant alarm bell clanged in his head. It can't be. His mind raced back to that July day in 1998 off the coast of Papua New Guinea. He had been on a ship, making a survey, when there had been a mysterious explosion and the seismic instruments had gone crazy, indicating a disturbance on the seafloor. Recognizing the symptoms of a tsunami, the scientists aboard the ship had tried to warn the coast, but many of the villages had no communication. The huge waves had flattened the villages like a giant steamroller. The destruction was horrifying. Jenkins never forgot the sight of bodies impaled on mangrove branches, of crocodiles preying on the dead.The radio crackled with a chorus of hard-edged Maine accents as fishermen set the airways abuzz. "Whoa!" said a voice Jenkins recognized as that of his neighbor, Elwood Smalley. "Hear that big boomer?""Sounded like a jet fighter, only underwater," another fisherman said."Anyone else feel those big seas?" said a third man."Yup," replied a laconic veteran lobsterman named Homer Gudgeon. "Thought for a time there I was on a roller coaster!"Jenkins barely heard the other voices chiming in. He dug a pocket calculator out of a drawer, estimated the time between the waves and their height, did some quick calculations and glanced with disbelief at the numbers. Then he picked up the cell phone he used when he didn't want personal messages to go over the marine channel and punched out a number.The gravelly voice of Charlie Howes, Rocky Cove's police chief, came on the phone."Charlie, thank G.o.d I got you!""In my cruiser on my way to the station, Roy. You calling to crow about whippin' me at chess last night?""Another time," Jenkins said. "I'm east of Rocky Point. Look, Charlie, we don't have much time. There's a big wave heading right toward town."He heard a dry chuckle at the other end. "h.e.l.l, Roy," the chief said, "town like ours on the water is bound to get lots of waves.""Not like this one. You've got to evacuate the people from near the harbor, especially the new motel."Jenkins thought the phone had gone dead. Then came Charlie Howes's famous guffaw. "I didn't know today was April Fool's.""Charlie, this is no joke," Jenkins said in exasperation. "That wave is going to slam into the harbor. I don't know how strong it will be, because there are lots of unknowns, but that motel is right in its path."The chief laughed again. "h.e.l.l, some people would be real happy to see the Harbor View washed into the sea."The two-story edifice that extended into the harbor on stilts had been a source of controversy for months. It had gone up only after a bitter fight, an expensive lawsuit filed by the developers and what many suspected were bribes to officials."They're going to get their wish, but you've got to get the guests out first.""h.e.l.l, Roy, there must be a hundred people staying there. I can't roust them out for no reason. I'll lose my job. Even worse, I'll be a laughingstock."Jenkins checked his watch and cursed under his breath. He hadn't wanted to panic the chief, but he had reached the end of his self-control."G.o.ddarnnit, you old fool! How will you feel if a hundred people die because you're afraid of being laughed at?""You're not kidding, are you, Roy?""You know what I did before I took up lobstering.""Yeah, you were a professor at the university up at Orono.""That's right. I headed up the Oceanography Department. We studied wave action. You've heard of the Perfect Storm? You've got the perfect tidal wave heading your way. I calculate it will hit in twenty-five minutes. I don't care what you tell those motel people. Tell them there's a gas leak, a bomb threat, anything. Just get them out and to higher ground. And do it now.""Okay, Roy. Okay.""Is there anything open on Main Street?""Coffee shop. Jacoby kid is on the night shift. I'll have him swing by, then check out the fish pier.""Make sure everybody is out of the area in fifteen minutes. That goes for you and Ed Jacoby.""Will do. Thanks, Roy. I think. 'Bye."Jenkins was almost dizzy with tension. He pictured Rocky Point in his mind. The town of twelve hundred was built like the seats in an amphitheater, its houses cl.u.s.tered on the side of a small hill overlooking the roughly circular harbor. The harbor was relatively sheltered, but the town's inhabitants had learned after a couple of hurricane-driven storm surges to build back from the water. The old brick maritime buildings on the main street bordering the harbor had been given over to shops and restaurants that served tourists. The fish pier and the motel dominated the harbor. Jenkins cranked up the throttle and prayed that his warning had arrived in time.CHIEF HOWES IMMEDIATELY regretted agreeing to Roy's urgent pleas, and was overcome by a numbing sense of uncertainty. d.a.m.ned if he did, d.a.m.ned if he didn't. He'd known Jenkins since they were kids and Roy was the smartest one in cla.s.s. He had never known him to fail as a friend. Still. Oh h.e.l.l, he was near retirement anyhow.Howes switched on his flasher, nailed the accelerator and, with a smoky screech of tires, roared toward the waterfront. While he drove the short distance, he got the deputy on the radio and told him to clear out the coffee shop then to go along Main Street with his PA system blasting, warning people to get to high ground. The chief knew the diurnal rhythms of his town: who would be up, who would be walking a dog. Luckily, most businesses didn't open before ten.The motel was another story. Howes pulled over two empty buses on their way to pick up schoolchildren and told the drivers to follow him. The cruiser squealed to a stop beneath the motel's canopy, and the chief huffed his way to the front door. Howes had been on the fence about the motel. It would spoil the integrity of the harbor, but it might bring in jobs for locals; not everyone in town wanted to be a fisher- man. On the other hand, he didn't like the way the project was rammed through to approval. He couldn't prove it, but he was sure there had been bribes at town hall.The developer was a local named Jack Shrager, an unprincipled land raper who was building condos along the river that ran off the harbor, further despoiling the town's quiet beauty. Shrager never did hire locals, preferring foreigners who worked long and cheap.The desk clerk, a young Jamaican, looked up with a startled expression on his thin, dark face as the chief burst into the lobby and shouted: "Get everyone out of the motel! This is an emergency!""What's the problem, mon?""I've been told there's a bomb here." The desk clerk gulped. Then he got on the switchboard and began to call rooms."You've got ten minutes," Howes emphasized. "There are buses waiting in front. Get everyone out, including yourself. Tell anyone who refuses that the police will arrest them."The chief strode down the nearest hallway and pounded on doors. "Police! You must evacuate this building immediately. You have ten minutes," he yelled at the sleepy faces that peered out. "There has been a bomb threat. Don't stop to gather your belongings."He repeated the message until he was hoa.r.s.e. The hallways filled with people in bathrobes and pajamas or with blankets wrapped around them. A swarthy man with an unpleasant scowl on his face stepped from one room. "What the h.e.l.l is going on?" Jack Shrager demanded.Howes swallowed hard. "There's been a bomb threat, Jack. You've got to get out."A young blond woman poked her head out of the room. "What's wrong, babe?""There's a bomb in the motel," the chief said, becoming more specific.The woman's face went pale and she stepped into the hallway. She was still in her silk bathrobe. Shrager tried to hold her, but she pulled away."I'm not staying here," she said."And I'm not moving," Shrager said. He slammed the door.Howes shook his head in frustration, then guided the woman by the arm, joining the throng heading for the front door. He saw the buses were almost filled and yelled at the drivers."Get out of here in five minutes. Drive to the highest hill in town."He slid behind the wheel of his cruiser and drove to the fish pier. The deputy was arguing with three fishermen. Howes saw what was happening and yelled out the window, "Get your a.s.ses into those trucks and go to the top of Hill Street or you'll be arrested.""What the h.e.l.l is going on, Charlie?" Howes lowered his voice. "Look, Buck, you know me. Just do as I say and I'll explain later."The fisherman nodded, then he and the others got into their pickups. Howes told his deputy to follow them and made one last sweep along the fish pier, where he picked up an elderly man who sorted through the rubbish bins for cans and bottles. Then he scoured Main Street, saw that it was quiet and headed for the top of Hill Street.Some of the people who stood shivering in the cool air of morning shouted at him. Howes ignored their insults, got out of his cruiser and walked partway down the steep hill that led toward the harbor. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, he felt weak-kneed. Nothing. He checked his watch. Five minutes came and went. And so did his dreams of a peaceful retirement on a police pension. I'm dead, he thought, sweating despite the coolness.Then he saw the sea rise above the horizon and heard what sounded like distant thunder. The townspeople stopped shouting. A darkness loomed out near the channel entrance and the harbor emptied out - he could actually see bottom - but the phenomenon lasted only a few seconds. The water roared back in with a noise like a 747 taking off, and ,the sea lifted the moored fishing boats as if they were toys. It was reinforced by two more waves, seconds apart, each, taller than the one before. They surged over the sh.o.r.e. When' they receded, the motel and the fish pier had vanished.THE ROCKY POINT that Jenkins returned to was far different from the one he had left that morning. The boats moored in the harbor were jumbled together along the sh.o.r.e in a tangled heap of wood and fibergla.s.s. Smaller craft had been thrown up onto Main Street. Shop windows were smashed as if by a gang of vandals. The water was littered with debris and seaweed, and a sulfuric smell of sea bottom mixed with the odor of dead fish. The motel had vanished. Only pilings remained of the fish pier, although the st.u.r.dy concrete bulkhead showed no sign of damage. Jenkins pointed his boat toward a figure waving his arms on the bulkhead. Chief Howes grabbed the mooring lines and tied them off, then he stepped aboard."Anybody hurt?" Jenkins said, his eyes sweeping the harbor and town."Jack Shrager was killed. He's the only one as far as we know. We got everyone else out of the motel.""Thanks for believing me. Sorry I called you an old fool."The chief puffed his cheeks out. "That's what I would have been if I'd sat on my a.s.s and done nothing.""Tell me what you saw," Jenkins said, the scientist re- a.s.serting itself over the Samaritan.Howes laid out the details. "We were standing at the top of Hill Street. Sounded and looked like a thunderstorm, then the harbor emptied out like a kid pulling the plug in a bathtub. I could actually see bottom. That only lasted a few seconds before the water roared in like a jet plane.""That's an apt comparison. On the open ocean, a tsunami can go six hundred miles an hour.""That's fast!" the chief said."Luckily, it slows down as it approaches land and hits shallower water. But the wave energy doesn't diminish with the speed.""It wasn't like I pictured. You know, a wall of water fifty feet high. This was more like a wave surge. I counted three of them, each bigger than the last. Thirty feet, maybe. They whacked the motel and pier and flooded Main Street." He shrugged. "I know you're a professor, Roy, but how exactly did you know this was going to happen?""I've seen it before off New Guinea. We were doing some research when an undersea slide generated a tsunami thirty to sixty feet tall, and a series of waves lifted our boat off the water just like what I felt today. The people were warned and many made it to high ground when the waves. .h.i.t, but even so, more than two thousand people were lost."The chief gulped. "That's more than live in this town." He pondered the professor's words. "You think that an earthquake caused this mess? I thought that was something that happened in the Pacific.""Normally, you'd be right." Jenkins furrowed his brow and stared out to sea. "This is absolutely incomprehensible.""I'll tell you something else that's going to be hard to figure. How am I going to explain that I evacuated the motel for a bomb scare?""Do you think anyone will care at this point?"Chief Howes surveyed the town and the crowds of people cautiously making their way down the hill to the harbor and shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't guess they will."

2- THE AEGEAN SEATHE MINIATURE RESEARCH submarine NR-1 rocked gently in the waves off the coast of Turkey, almost invisible except for the bright tangerine color of the conning tower. Captain Joe Logan stood with his legs wide apart on the sea-washed deck, holding on to one of the horizontal wings that protruded from the sides of the conning tower. As was his custom before a dive, the captain was making a last minute visual check.Logan let his eye range along the 145-foot length of the slender black hull whose deck was only inches above the surface of the water. Satisfied all was shipshape, he removed his navy baseball cap and waved at the cream-and-orange Carolyn Chouest a quarter of a mile away. The superstructure of the muscular support ship rose several levels, like the floors in an apartment house. A ma.s.sive crane capable of lifting several tons jutted out at an angle from the port side.The captain climbed to the top of the tower and squeezed through the thirty-one-inch-diameter opening. His flotation vest made for a tight fit and he had to wriggle to get through. He ran his fingers along the seal to make sure it was clean, then secured the hatch cover and descended into the confined control area. The s.p.a.ce was made even more cramped by the dials, gauges and instruments that covered every square inch of the walls and overhead.The captain was a man of una.s.suming appearance who could have pa.s.sed for an Ivy League college professor. A nuclear engineer by training, Logan had commanded surface ships before being a.s.signed as the officer in charge of the NR-1. He was of medium height and build, with thinning blond hair and a slight fleshiness around the jaw. The navy had long ago dispensed with the rawboned John Wayne type who ran a ship by the seat of his pants. With computerized firing controls, laser guidance and smart missiles, navy vessels were too complicated and expensive to entrust to cowboys. Logan had a sharp mind and the ability to make a lightning-quick a.n.a.lysis of the most complex technical problem.His previous commands had been much bigger, yet none came close to the NR-1 in the sophistication of her electronics. Although the boat had been built in 1969, she was constantly upgraded. Despite her cutting edge technology, the sub still used some older but time-tested techniques. A thick twelve-hundred-foot towline ran from the support vessel's deck to a large metal ball clutched by metal jaws on the submarine's bow.Logan gave the order to release the towrope, then he turned to a thickset bearded man in his fifties and said, "Welcome aboard the smallest nuclear submarine in the world, Dr. Pulaski. Sorry we don't have more elbowroom. The shielding for the nuclear reactor takes up most of the sub. My guess is that you'd prefer claustrophobia to radiation. I a.s.sume you've had a tour."Pulaski smiled. "Yes, I've been checked out on the proper procedure for using the head." He spoke with a slight accent."You might have to stand in line, so I'd go easy on the coffee. We've got a ten-man crew, and our facilities can get busy.""I understand you can stay submerged for up to days," Pulaski said. "I can't imagine what it must be like sitting on the bottom a half-mile down for that length of time.""I'd be the first to admit that even the simplest task, such as taking a shower or cooking a meal, can be a challenge," Logan said. "Luckily for you, we'll only be down a few hours." He glanced at his watch. "We'll descend one hundred feet to make sure all systems are working. If everything checks out, we'll dive."Logan stepped through a short pa.s.sageway slightly wider than his shoulders and indicated a small padded platform behind the two chairs in the control station. "That's normally where I sit during operations. It's all yours today. I'll take the copilot's seat. You've met Dr. Pulaski," he said to the pilot. "He's a marine archaeologist from the University of North Carolina."The pilot nodded and Logan slid into the right-hand chair beside him. In front of him was a formidable array of instruments and video display screens. "Those are our 'eyes,' " he said, pointing to a row of television monitors. "That's the bow view from the sail cam on the front of the sail."The captain studied the glowing control panel and after conferring with the pilot, he radioed the support ship and said the sub was ready to dive. He gave the order to submerge and level off at one hundred feet. The pump motors hummed as water was introduced into the ballast tanks. The rocking motion of the sub ceased as she sank below the waves. The sharp bow pictured on the monitors disappeared in a geyser of spray, then reappeared, looming dark against the blue water. The crew checked out the sub's systems while the captain tested the UQC, an underwater wireless telephone that connected the sub with the support ship. The voice from the ship had a drawling, metallic quality but the words were clear and distinct.When the captain was a.s.sured all systems were go, he said, "Dive, dive!"There was little sensation of movement. The monitor pictures went from blue to black water as the sunlight faded, and the captain ordered the exterior lights on. The descent was practically silent, the pilot using a joystick to operate the diving planes, the captain keeping a close eye on the deep-depth gauge. When the sub was fifty feet above the bottom, Logan ordered the pilot to hover.The pilot turned to Pulaski. "We're in shouting distance of the site we picked up with remote sensing. We'll run a search using our side-scan sonar. We can program a search pattern into the computer. The sub will automatically run the course on its own while we sit back and relax. Saves wear and tear on the crew.""Incredible," Pulaski said. "I'm surprised this remarkable boat won't a.n.a.lyze our findings, write a report and defend our conclusions against the criticism of jealous colleagues.""We're working on that," Logan said, with a poker face. Pulaski shook his head in mock dismay. "I'd better find another line of work. At this rate, marine archaeologists will be doomed to extinction or to simply staring at television monitors.""Something else you can blame on the Cold War."Pulaski looked around in wonderment. "I never would have guessed that I'd be doing archaeological research in a sub designed to spy on the Soviet Union.""There's no way you could have known. This vessel was as hush-hush as it gets. The amazing part is that the ninety-million-dollar price tag was kept a secret. It was money well-spent in my opinion. Now that the navy has allowed her to be used for civilian purposes, we have an incredible tool for pure research.""I understand the sub was used in the Challenger s.p.a.ce shuttle disaster," Pulaski said.Logan said, "She retrieved critical parts so NASA could determine what went wrong and make the shuttle safe to fly. She also salvaged a sunken F-14 and a missing Phoenix air-to-air missile we didn't want anyone getting their hands on. Some of the stuff involving the Russians is still cla.s.sified.""What can you tell me about the mechanical arm?""The manipulator works like a human arm, with rotation at all the joints. The sub has two rubber wheels in the keel. It's not exactly a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, but it allows us to move along on the seabed. While the sub rests on the ocean floor, the arm can work a nine-foot radius.""Fascinating," Pulaski said. "And its capacity?""It can lift objects up to two hundred pounds.""What about cutting tools?""Its jaws can cut rope or cable, but they can also hold a torch if the job is tough. As I said, very versatile.""Yes, evidently," Pulaski said. He seemed pleased.The sub had been moving in a cla.s.sic search pattern, back and forth in a series of parallel lines, like mowing a lawn. The monitors showed the seafloor moving beneath the submarine. Vegetation was nonexistent.Logan said, "We should be closing in on the location we spotted from above." He gestured at a screen. "Hul-lo. Looks like the side scan picked up a hit." He turned to the pilot. "Resume manual control and bring her down around twenty degrees to port."With gentle bursts of the thrusters, the NR-1 glided on a shallow angle. The battery of two dozen exterior lights illuminated the sea bottom with a sun-bright intensity. The pilot adjusted ballast tanks until the sub achieved neutral buoyancy."Hold steady," Logan said. "We're coming into visual contact with our target." He leaned forward and peered intently at the screen, his features bathed in the blue-green light. his the sub moved forward, bulbous shapes appeared on the screen, singly at first, then in groups."Those are concentrations of amphorae," Pulaski said. The clay jars for wine or other liquid cargo were often found on ancient sunken ships."We've got the still and video cameras making a three-dimensional record for you to a.n.a.lyze later," the captain said. "Is there anything you'd like to retrieve?""Yes, that would be wonderful. Can we bring up an amphora? Maybe from that pile."Logan ordered the pilot to put the sub on the bottom near a pile of clay jars. The four-hundred-ton vessel touched down like a feather and rolled forward. The captain called for the retrieval crew.Two crewmen came forward and lifted a hatch in the floor behind the control area. Beneath the hatch was a shallow well. A trio of four-inch-thick acrylic viewing ports in the floor offered a view of the bottom. One man squeezed into the s.p.a.ce and kept watch so the sub wouldn't run into the pile of jars. When the targets were within reach, the sub stopped. The manipulator arm was housed in the forward end of the keel box. Using a portable control panel, the man in the well extended the arm and worked the jaws. The arm rotated at the shoulder.The mechanical hand gently grabbed a jar around the neck, lifted and placed it in a storage basket below the bow. The arm was retracted and Logan ordered the crew to raise the sub off the bottom. While the sub made another photo run, Logan called the support ship, described their find and said they were about to surface, then ordered the sonar turned on to locate the support ship on the surface. A measured ping-ping echoed throughout the sub."Prepare to surface," Logan told the pilot. Dr. Pulaski was standing directly behind the captain's chair. "I don't think so," he said.Preoccupied with the task at hand, Logan was only half listening. "Pardon me, Doctor. What did you say?""I said we're not going to the surface."Logan spun his chair around, an amused expression on his face. "I hope you didn't take my bragging about the ability to stay down for a month at face value. We only brought enough food for a few days."Pulaski slipped a hand under his windbreaker and pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol. Speaking calmly, he said, "You will do as I say or I will shoot your pilot." He brought the weapon around and placed the muzzle against the pilot's head.Logan's eyes focused on the gun, then darted to Pulaski's face. There was no hint of mercy in the rock-hard features."Who are you?" Logan said."It makes no difference who I am. I will repeat this only one more time. You will follow my orders.""All right," Logan said, his voice hoa.r.s.e with tension. "What do you want me to do?""First, switch off all communications with your support ship." Pulaski watched carefully as Logan clicked all the radio switches off. "Thank you," he said, checking his watch. "Next, inform the rest of the crew that the sub has been hijacked. Warn them that anyone who comes forward without permission will be shot."The captain glared at Pulaski as he got on the internal communications system. "This is the captain. There is a man with a gun in the control area. The sub is now under his command. We will do what he says. Stay out of the control area. This is not a joke. Repeat: This is not a joke. Remain at your posts. Anyone coming forward will be shot."Startled voices could be heard coming from the aft section, and the captain issued the warning a second time to make sure his men knew he was serious."Very good," Pulaski said. "Now you will bring the sub up to the five-hundred-foot level.""You heard him," Logan said to the pilot, as if reluctant to give the direct order.The pilot had been frozen in his chair. At Logan's command, he reached for the controls and pumped water from the variable ballast tanks. Working the planes, he elevated the sub's nose and moved the NR-1 upward with short bursts of the main propulsion. At five hundred feet, he leveled the sub off."Okay," Logan said. "Now what?" His eyes blazed with anger.Pulaski glanced at his watch like a man worrying over a late train. "Now we wait." He shifted the gun away from the pilot, but kept it leveled and at ready.Ten minutes pa.s.sed. Then fifteen. Logan's patience was wearing thin. "If you don't mind, could you tell me what we're waiting for?"Pulaski put his finger to his lips. "You'll see," he said with a mysterious smile.Several more minutes pa.s.sed. The tension was suffocating. Logan stared at the sail cam monitor, wondering who this man was and what he wanted-and the answer was soon in coming. A huge shadow moved beyond the sharply pointed bow.Logan leaned forward and peered at the screen. "What the h.e.l.l is that?"The shadow glided under the sub like a monstrous shark coming up for a belly bite. A horrendous metal clang reverberated from one end of the sub to the other as if the NR-1 had been slammed by a giant sledgehammer. The vessel shivered from the shock and rose several feet."We've been hit!" the pilot yelled, instinctively reaching f for the controls."Stay where you are!" Pulaski barked, bringing his gun to bear.The pilot's hand froze in midair and his eyes stared at the overhead. Those in the sub could hear sc.r.a.ping and dragging as if big metal bugs were crawling on the hull.Pulaski beamed with pleasure. "Our welcoming party has arrived to greet us."The noise continued for several minutes before it stopped, to be replaced by the vibration of powerful engines. The speed dial on the control panel began to move even though no power had been given to the thrusters."We're moving," the pilot said, his eyes glued to the speed indicator. "What should I do?"He turned to the captain. They were up to ten, then twenty knots and still accelerating."Nothing," Pulaski answered. Turning to Logan, he said, "Captain, if you would give a message to your crew.""What do you want me to say?"Pulaski smiled. "I