Zero Hour - Cussler Clive (книга читать онлайн бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗
The big flatbed crested the ridgeline. Ahead of them was a massive depression filled with crimson water. It had once been known as the Tasman Mine, but a thousand feet down the miners had cracked into a pressurized section of the water table. Just like the Berkeley Pit in Montana, the Tasman Mine had slowly filled with poisoned water. By now, it had risen to within a hundred feet of the rim.
Kurt eased the truck onto a sloping ramp that snaked its way around the walls of the pit and down toward the water’s edge. To his surprise, a group of vehicles were already parked there. Four dust-covered SUVs and a pair of Jeep Wranglers. They appeared to be new builds. The tinted windows and the matching colors just screamed government motor pool.
“Looks like they took you more seriously than you thought,” Joe said.
Kurt put his foot on the brake, slowing the truck until it lurched to a stop. There was something odd about the scene. It took a moment to notice.
“Where are they?” Kurt asked.
Joe shook his head.
There were six vehicles parked at strange angles, two of them with open doors, a third had its tailgate up. There were piles of equipment strewn about on the poisoned beach as if some type of activity were in the works. But there was not a single human being anywhere in sight.
EIGHT
Kurt scanned the perimeter of the lake and studied the water. He saw no one.
“Maybe they were abducted by aliens,” Joe said, glancing up at the sky.
Kurt cut his eyes at Joe.
“I’m not kidding,” Joe said. “I’ve been reading up on UFOs. Australia is a hotbed of sightings. And this is exactly the kind of place they love to frequent.”
“And me without my tinfoil hat,” Kurt said.
He glanced down at the arrangement of parked cars, thinking about the dead geese found near the Berkeley Pit. He wondered if some kind of poison gas had overcome the occupants.
He opened a cargo bin that sat between the two seats. A pair of compact oxygen tanks, each the size of a large thermos, sat upright in it. Two masks and an air sampler, designed to check for toxic levels of one hundred and seventy different airborne poisons, sat beside them.
“The Australian EPA lists this place as a danger,” Kurt said, “but only to the water table. The air is supposed to be clean. I figured we’d err on the side of caution.”
Kurt pulled out the sampler and switched it on as Joe checked the tanks for pressure.
Kurt cracked the window just enough to poke the nozzle through. After thirty seconds a green light flashed. “Air quality is okay. Better than Los Angeles in the summertime.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to keep checking,” Joe suggested.
Kurt nodded and took his foot off the brake.
The big truck began to coast down the long ramp, rolling slowly. When it reached the flat section by the parked cars, Kurt pulled in beside them and stopped.
A second green report from the air sampler gave Kurt some confidence.
He opened the door. It was deathly silent. There was no wind. No birds. No insects. Not a blade of grass or even a sprout of the hardiest weed grew on the poisoned shore.
“Desolate,” Joe whispered.
“I feel like we’re on the moon,” Kurt said, clipping the air sensor to his belt and grabbing one of the small oxygen tanks before stepping out of the truck.
As Joe climbed out the passenger door, Kurt eased over to the closest SUV. The tailgate was up. Several carbines stood untouched in a rifle rack while a pile of windbreakers that read ASIO in big block letters lay folded neatly in a box.
“Looks like they were planning a raid,” he whispered.
“A batch of test tubes over here,” Joe said, calling from beside one of the Jeeps. “Some of them are full of water. I’d say they were taking samples. The rest of this is sonar equipment. Maybe they went into the lake?”
Kurt looked forward. The poisoned lake sat undisturbed, reflecting the sky like a pane of dark glass. Kurt wondered if the bodies of the ASIO team were in there somewhere.
“They wouldn’t all go in,” he said. “Not by choice anyway.”
A fly buzzed past Kurt’s ear. The first sign of life he’d encountered since entering the pit. It zipped by him in one direction and then flew off into the distance again. A trickle of sweat ran down Kurt’s temple.
He glanced up toward the rim. Nothing there, nothing moving, no sign of struggle in front of them. Something was very wrong.
He pulled a rifle from the rack and slid a clip into place, racking the slide as quietly as he could.
Joe arrived beside Kurt. “You think someone bounced them?”
“If they did, it was the neatest ambush of all time,” Kurt said. “You see any bullet holes? Any blood?”
“Nope,” Joe said.
“Maybe you’re onto something with this UFO business. Grab a rifle just in case.”
As Joe pulled a weapon from the rack, the sound of rocks sliding turned Kurt. He spun just in time to see a trickle of pebbles coming down the side of a dune made of red Australian soil. He crouched and drew a bead with the rifle, but no one came at them.
Joe crouched beside him. “What do you think?”
Kurt’s eyes were on the dune. “Cover me.”
Joe nodded, and Kurt eased to a new spot and then dashed toward the small dune. He scrambled up the side and popped up over the top, ready to blaze away at whatever might be there.
The tension in his body vanished. Replaced by remorse.
Down below lay a pile of bodies. Men and women thrown in a heap. They were dressed ruggedly, but they were clean-cut. Their gear and clothing looked almost identical.
Kurt slid down toward them, tracking a series of marks in the sand made by someone who’d tried, and failed, to climb out. He arrived beside a burly man with a buzz cut who looked all too familiar.
“Bradshaw,” Kurt shouted, crouching beside him and rolling him faceup.
As Kurt checked for a pulse, a slight groan of pain escaped Bradshaw’s lips.
“Joe, get over here!”
Joe came over the top of the dune.
“Check the others.”
As Joe slid down, Kurt ripped a piece of fabric from Bradshaw’s shirt and tied a tourniquet around his leg where the worst wound seemed to be. He spotted two other wounds, but they looked superficial.
With the tourniquet cinched up, Kurt pulled out his canteen and splashed some water on the ASIO chief’s face.
“Bradshaw can you hear me? What happened?”
Bradshaw moved his lips, mumbling something incoherently.
Kurt took his small oxygen bottle and placed the mask over Bradshaw’s face. As the O2 began to flow, Bradshaw became more animated. He pawed at the mask. Kurt held it in place until Bradshaw’s eyes began to focus.
“What happened?” Kurt asked, pulling the mask away.
“They went down,” Bradshaw replied.
“Who went down?” Kurt asked.
No response.
“Bradshaw, can you hear me?”
Joe returned. “The rest of them are dead. Gunshots. Close range. I’d say they were thrown on the ground and machine-gunned.”
“Damn,” Kurt said.
Joe’s eyes were searching the sloping walls that rose up like cliffs around them. “I don’t like this, amigo. We’re sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.”
“We’d be long dead if someone was watching,” Kurt replied. He kept the oxygen mask on Bradshaw’s face and turned the valve to full. Bradshaw’s eyes opened a fraction more. Finally, he seemed to become more coherent.
Kurt pulled the mask away once more.
“Austin?” Bradshaw muttered in disbelief. “What are you… What are you doing here?”
“Playing a hunch,” Kurt said. “What happened?”
“I… don’t… know,” Bradshaw said. “Somebody waylaid us. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, listening to gunfire.”
Bradshaw coughed like a man choking on dust, and Kurt put the mask back against his face. Bradshaw pushed it away. “Must have been a setup,” he said. “You were right. There has to be a leak.”
