Still no sign of the target. The boat must have entered the radar's
blind spot along the base of the cliffs while he was studying female anatomy. It was an annoyance, but not a catastrophe. There was still the AUV. He turned to another monitor that kept tabs on the AUV. As it made its rounds, the vehicle bounced signals off a series of floating transponders that ringed the island. The transponders relayed the hits to the command center, and the vehicle's location could be pinpointed at any time along its route.
The vehicle was twelve feet long, flat and wide, a combination of a manta and a shark in shape, and topped with a tall dorsal fin. One of the guards had said the menacing profile reminded him of his former mother-in-law, whose name was Gertrude, and the name had stuck. Gertrude cruised a few feet below the surface, its sonar scanning the water for one hundred feet on each side. Its TV cameras took in the underwater scene.
Commands could be transmitted back to the AUV as well. This was an invaluable asset, given the vehicle's dual function as an underwater watchdog and weapons carrier. The AUV carried four miniature torpedoes, each with the power to sink a destroyer.
Max commanded Gertrude to return at top speed to the area where he had last seen the boat. Then he punched an intercom button.
"Sorry to break up your game, boys," he said into the microphone. "We've got a boat inside the security zone."
The boat crew had been playing poker in the barracks when the wall speaker crackled with the news of an intruder. Two of the men were former French Legionnaires and the other a South African mercenary. The South African threw his cards down in disgust and went over to the intercom.
"Where's the target?"
"It entered the security perimeter on the north side, then slipped into the radar blind spot. I've sent Gertrude over to sniff around."
"What the hell," the mercenary said. "My luck stinks tonight."
The three men pulled on their jackets and boots and grabbed their compact FA MAS assault rifles. A moment later they trotted to the end of the fog-draped pier and climbed into a thirty-foot rigid inflatable boat. The twin diesels roared to life. The crew cast off the mooring lines, and before long the water jet system was kicking the boat along at nearly forty knots.
The boat had barely been at sea for a few minutes when the man in the command center reported that the target had reappeared on radar outside the mouth of the inlet. He guided the patrol boat to the target and watched as the two blips merged on the screen.
While two guards stood ready to blast anything that moved, the helmsman brought the patrol boat in close, until its spotlight could pick out every square inch of peeling paint. The South African lowered his rifle and began to laugh. The others joined in.
"Spooler," he said. "We broke up our poker game for a Spooler?" "What are you complaining about? You were losing your ass." They roared with laughter again. a
"Better board the old scow," the helmsman said. The guards were all trained military men who didn't let their amusement get in the way of their caution. Their levity ended and their training came into play. The patrol boat edged up to the creeler and two men went aboard with weapons drawn while the other covered them with his rifle. They checked out the deserted wheelhouse, opened the hatch and looked below.
"Nothing," one of the mercenaries called back to the man on the boat. He leaned against the rail and lit up a cigarette.
His companion said, "I wouldn't perch there for too long, if I were you."
"Hell," said the other man. "Who died and made you king?" The Legionnaire grinned and climbed back onto the patrol boat. "Suit yourself," he said. "Don't get your feet wet."
The South African looked at his boots. Water was rapidly flowing from the engine hatch and flooding the deck. The boat was sinking. He let out a yell, which got his colleagues laughing. The helmsman pulled the patrol boat off a few yards, as if he were leaving his companion to his own devices, but he came back when the South African gave forth with a string of curses in Afrikaans.
The South African practically fell into the patrol boat, then he and the others watched as the water reached the gunwales. Then only the mast was visible and a few minutes later that was gone and the only evidence of a boat was a patch of bubbling water.
"Okay, so you bastards had a little joke," said the South African. "Let's go back and break open another bottle."
The helmsman got on the radio and reported to the command center.
"Doesn't make sense," the radar man said. "That thing was moving on a straight-line course when I picked it up on the radar."
"You been drinking?"
"Of course I've been drinking."
The shore patrol had been celebrating after hearing scuttlebutt from the guards at the complex that they might be closing down the island's operation.
"That explains it."
"But "
"Currents are strong around the bloody island. She could have been caught up."
"I guess so," Max said.
"Can't help you there, mate. She's deep-sixed. We're coming in."
The voice from the command center said, "Watch out for Gertrude. She's in the area."
Seconds later, the huge fin cut the water near the boat. The men on the patrol boat were used to seeing Gertrude, but they had never felt comfortable when the AUV was in the area. They were nervous about its destructive potential and the fact that it operated largely on its own. The AUV stopped fifty feet away. It was matching the sound profile of the patrol boat with the information stored in its database. "Make damned sure she's not armed." Laughter. "I'll have the fish check around." "You do that. We're getting the hell out of here." The diesel engines rumbled, and the boat did a banking turn and headed back to its dock.
The fin went back and forth for several minutes, following parallel lines in a mow-the-lawn search pattern. The probing sonar picked up the fishing boat now lying on the bottom and transmitted a picture. The radar man watched the screen for several minutes and then commanded the AUV to resume its normal patrol.
Moments after the AUV moved off, two figures emerged from the cabin' of the sunken boat. With strong rhythmic kicks that ate up the distance, they began to swim in theA direction of the island.
TROUT HAD MASHED the accelerator to the floor after he blasted Strega's Mercedes through the compound gate. MacLean who was in the passenger's seat with Gamay between them, had been staring at the speedometer as the car hurtled through the pass.
"Dr. Trout!" he said in a voice that was calm but assertive. "There's a sharp turn in the road ahead. If you don't slow down, we'll have to sprout wings."
Gamay put a hand on her husband's arm.
Trout glanced at the speedometer. They were doing more than seventy miles per hour. He pumped the brakes and switched the headlights on in time to see that the turn was more than sharp; it was angular. Off to the right was a drop-off with no guardrail.
The tires skidded close to the ragged edge of the cliff, but the Mercedes stayed on the road, which straightened and began a gradual descent. Trout let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel one finger at a time.
"Thanks for the warning, Mac."
MacLean compressed his lips in a tight smile. "I wouldn't want us to get stopped for speeding."
Trout glanced over his shoulder at the tangle of arms and legs in the backseat.
"Is everyone still with us?" he asked.
"We're not going anywhere unless you pry us out with a crowbar," Sandy said.
Trout allowed himself the luxury of a hearty laugh. In spite of his outer calm, he was wound as tight as a clock spring. MacLean composed demeanor brought Trout back down to earth. The adrenaline pumping through his veins had helped him pull off the escape from the compound, but if they were to survive, he needed to be cool and deliberate. The road continued to descend until it was at sea level and ended at a junction with two roads.
Trout brought the Mercedes to a halt and pointed to the road on the left. "Is this the way we came in?"
"That's right," MacLean said. "The road runs along the edge of the inlet to the submarine pen. There's a garrison and guards' quarters there. If we turn right, we'll come to the mouth of the harbor. There's a command center and a dock there for the boat patrols."
Trout said, "You've done your homework."
"You're not the only one who's tried to figure out how to get off this blasted rock."
"Seems like a pretty clear choice. The patrol boat could be our ticket off the island."
"I agree," Gamay said. "Besides, if we're going to stir up a hornet's nest, the fewer hornets the better."
Trout nodded and wheeled the Mercedes to the right. The road ran for another half mile alongside a beach that bordered the inlet. He saw lights glowing in the distance and pulled off the road. He told
the others where he was going and suggested that they get out and stretch, but to stay near the car. Then he started walking. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea and it felt good to be out of the compound. He had no illusions. His freedom was as ephemeral as the waves lapping the beach.
Trout saw that the lights were coming from a concrete-block building. The window shades were down. He gave the building a wide berth and kept on going until he came to a wooden pier that jutted out into the water. There was no patrol boat. Not even a rowboat. The cool breeze from off the sea was nothing to the cold he felt in the pit of his stomach. He trudged back to the Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel.
"The patrol boat is gone," he announced. "We can wait and hope it comes back, but once the sun comes up, all bets are off. I suggest that we scout out the submarine pen."
"It's the last place they'd expect us to be," Gamay said in support.
"It's the last place I'd expect us to be," MacLean said. "We're not what one would call a Special Forces contingent."
"There were only a hundred or so misfits at the Alamo."
"I know my American history, Paul. The Alamo defenders were massacred. And don't tell me about the Scots at Culloden. They were massacred, too."
Trout grinned. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."
"That's something I can understand. But I'm still not clear what measures you have in mind."
"I'll try to get aboard the sub and look for a radio. If that doesn't work, I'll figure out something else."
"I believe you will," MacLean said, examining Trout as if he were an interesting lab specimen. "You're a very resourceful man for a deep-ocean geologist."
"I try to be," Trout said, and turned the ignition key.
He drove the vehicle along the edge of the inlet until he came to the abandoned church and cemetery. He parked behind the ruined building and told the others to sit tight. Gamay insisted on going with him this time. They followed a gravel road that led to where the inlet narrowed to a rounded point.
Floodlights lit the perimeter around the barracks. The Trouts went to within a hundred feet or so of the barracks and studied the layout. The building was situated near the edge of the cliff with an observation platform cantilevered out over the inlet from the main structure. An enclosed ladder led down from the underside of the platform. "Let's check out that ladder," he said.
"I don't think we'll have to worry. It sounds like a Klingon stag party is in progress," Gamay said.
Like the men in the compound, the sub guards must have learned that their duty was about to come to an end because a similar drunken celebration was under way in the guardhouse. Apparently, they hadn't learned the fate of their comrades in the lab. compound area. Gamay and Trout moved in until they were under the platform. The ladder dropped off the edge of the bluff. They climbed down the face of the cliff onto a narrow metal catwalk that was built a few feet above water level and followed a line of ankle-high lights into the yawning entrance of the sub pen.
The giant submarine that had kidnapped them loomed ahead. A few deck lights had been left on, so they were able to find the gangway and walk along the deck to the entry hatch. Trout lifted the hatch cover and poked his head inside. Low-level lights illuminated the sub's interior.
They descended a ladder and began to make their way through the sub as silently as shadows. Trout, who was in the lead, paused to peer around every corner, but he encountered no one. The control room was in semidarkness, lit by lights glowing on the various instrument
panels. The radio shack was a small space off the control room. While Gamay kept watch, Trout sat in front of the communications console, picked up the radiophone, dialed the main number for NUMA and held his breath, not sure what would happen.
"National Underwater and ... Agency," said a friendly female voice.
The faint transmission was broken up, probably by the walls and ceiling of the sub pen.
"Rudi Gunn, please. Tell him this is Paul Trout calling."
"One ... ment."
The moment seemed like a day. In his mind's eye, he pictured the lobby of the NUMA building with its centerpiece globe. Then the voice of NUMA's assistant director came on the phone. He could picture the slightly built Gunn sitting in his big office, probably applying his genius to a complex logistical problem.
"Trout? Where in God's name ... you? We've been looking ... over Creation. Are you okay?"
"Fine, Rudi. Gamay's here, too. Got to talk fast. The Alvin was hijacked. We're on an island I think it's in Scottish or Scandinavian waters. There are seven other scientists also being held prisoner. We've been working on some nutty experiment. We've escaped, but it might not last long."
"Having trouble hear ... you, but understand. Can you stay on ... radio?"
"We've got to get back to the others."
"Leave the radio phone on. We'll try to track you down through ... signal."
Trout's reply was cut short by a whispered warning from Gamay. Someone was whistling a mindless tune. He carefully replaced the mike in its cradle and shut off the radiophone. Then he and Gamay dropped to their hands and knees and tried with limited success to
cram their bodies under the console. The whistle came nearer. The whistler paused to peer through the glass pane in the door and apparently saw nothing amiss because the whistling grew fainter.
The Trouts pried themselves out of their hiding place. Paul called Gunn again and told him they were leaving the radio on. He checked the passageway, saw it was empty and they started back the way they came. They moved with even greater caution, keeping their ears cocked for a telltale whistle. They emerged from the deck hatchway, trotted along the catwalk and climbed the ladder that would take them back to the access road.
They returned to the church and were making their way through the graveyard when the night blazed with light. Beyond the blinding glare, several forms could be seen rising from behind the gravestones like restless spirits. Then rough hands grabbed Trout and Gamay and guards hustled them into the church. A tough-looking guard stood in front of the altar, a grin on his face that didn't match the machine pistol held at waist level, its muzzle pointing toward Trout's belly button.