Lost City - Cussler Clive (читать книги полные TXT) 📗
Austin had taken his father's words to heart. The knots he learned through constant practice never snagged. He made sure the lines on the sailing pram his father built for him were neatly coiled, and the brightwork polished and metal kept clean of corrosion. The advice stayed with him when he went on to college. While studying for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington, he also attended a highly rated diving school in Seattle and trained as a professional diver, attaining high proficiency in a number of specialized areas.
After college he worked on North Sea oil rigs for two years and returned to his father's salvage company for six years, before being lured into government service by a little-known branch of the CIA that specialized in underwater intelligence-gathering. At the end of the Cold War, the CIA closed down the undersea investigation branch and he moved over to NUMA.
As a lover of philosophy, with its search for truth and hidden meanings, Austin knew the Old Man's advice went beyond the practical tasks associated with running a boat. His father was telling him in simple terms about life, and the need to be ready and prepared for the unexpected. It was advice Austin took seriously, and his attention
to detail had saved his life and those around him on more than one occasion.
He tested the batteries, made sure the air tanks had been replaced with fresh ones, and examined the vehicle with a practiced eye. Satisfied with his inspection, he gently rapped his knuckles against the transparent dome. "Shipshape and Bristol fashion," he said with a smile.
Austin climbed down from the submersible onto the deck of the Mummichug. The twin-hulled, eighty-foot craft was the smallest NUMA research vessel he had ever worked on. Like the tiny fish that was its namesake, the Mummichug was at home in fresh or salt water. It was a modified version of a vessel designed for inshore duty in the cantankerous waters along the New England coast.
It was seaworthy and fast, driven by powerful diesel engines that gave it a cruising speed of 20 knots. It slept eight and was ideal for short missions. Despite its size, the Mummichug?" winches and A-frame could haul heavy loads. And a larger vessel would not have been able to navigate the winding river to the glacier.
Finding himself at loose ends without Skye to talk to, Austin grabbed a mug of coffee in the galley, and then went below to the remote sensing lab. It was a small space crammed with several computer monitors set up on tables. Like everything else on the ship, the lab was understated, although electronic nerves and ganglions connected the monitors to a sophisticated array of sensing instruments.
He plunked himself down in a chair in front of a screen, took a sip of coffee and called up the file on the side-scan sonar display. Dr. Harold Edgerton had pioneered side scan sonar in 1963 when he'd mounted a sonar transducer on the side rather than the bottom of his survey boat. The discovery, which allowed surface vessels to cover large areas of bottom, would revolutionize underwater search techniques.
When the Mummichug had first arrived on site, Skye had asked for a survey along the shore across the lake from the glacier, which would have presented a formidable roadblock to caravans. She reasoned that travelers would have lingered near the river before fording it and a settlement might have built up nearby. The waterway itself may have been used as a tributary of the Amber Route.
While the submersible had carried out its underwater mission, the ship had continued its sonar survey along the lake's perimeter. Austin wanted to see what the scan had picked up. He put the screen in a slow scroll and the high-resolution sonar image flowed down from the top of the monitor like twin amber waterfalls. Displayed on the right side of the screen were latitude, longitude and position.
Interpreting sonar images requires a practiced eye, but it is not the most exciting occupation. With its flat, gravelly bottom, Lac du Dormeur was even more monotonous than some. Austin found his thoughts drifting off. His eyelids had dropped to half-mast, but they snapped open when an anomaly caught his attention. He scrolled back, leaned forward to examine the dark cross etched against the monotone background, then, with a click of the computer mouse, zoomed in on the image and enhanced the details.
He was looking at a plane; he could even see the cockpit. He clicked on the print icon and a few seconds later a picture rolled off the printer. He studied the image under a strong light. Part of a wing seemed to be missing. He rose from his seat and was headed for the door, intending to alert the captain to his find, when Francois burst into the lab. He was obviously agitated. The French observer usually wore an imperturbable smile, but he looked as if he had just heard that the Eiffel Tower had fallen.
"Monsieur Austin, you must come quickly to the bridge."
"What's wrong?" Austin said.
"It's Mademoiselle Skye."
Austin's stomach did a flip-flop. "What about her?"
An incomprehensible mishmash of Franglais streamed from the man's mouth. Austin brushed past the sputtering Frenchman and climbed two steps at a time to the bridge. The captain was in the pilothouse, talking into the radio microphone. When he saw Kurt, he said, "Attendez," and set the mike aside.
Captain Jack Fortier was a slightly built man of French-Canadian origin who had become a U.S. citizen so he could work for NUMA. His ability to speak French had come in handy on the expedition, although some of the locals he encountered snickered behind his back at his strong Quebecois accent. Fortier told Austin that the derision didn't bother him because his language was the purer, unsullied by regional accents, as in France. Not much seemed to bother the captain, which is why Austin was surprised to see Fortier's brow furrowed with worry.. "What's happened to Skye?" Austin said, getting right to the point.
"I'm on the phone with the supervisor of the power plant. He says there has been an accident."
A chill danced up and down Austin's spine. "What sort of accident?"
"Skye and some other people were in a tunnel under the glacier."
"What was she doing there?"
"There's an observatory under the ice where scientists can study the movement of the glacier. It's part of the tunnel system the power company built to use water coming off the glacier. Apparently something went wrong and water flooded the tunnel."
"Has the power plant been able to make contact with the observatory?"
"No. The telephone line is down."
"So we don't know if they're dead or alive."
"Apparently not," Fortier said in a half whisper.
The news rocked Austin back on his heels. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he collected his thoughts.
Rallying, he said, "Tell the plant supervisor I want to meet with him. Tell him to have detailed plans of the tunnel system ready. And rustle up a boat to get me to shore." Austin paused as he realized that he was barking orders at the captain. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to sound like a marine drill sergeant. This is your ship. Those were only suggestions."
"Suggestions well taken," the captain replied with a smile. "Don't worry about it. I don't have a clue what to do next. The ship and crew are at your command."
Captain Fortier picked up the mike and began to speak French.
Austin stared at the glacier through the pilothouse window. He was as still as a bronze statue, but his calmness was deceiving. His nimble mind was racing ahead, exploring strategies. But he knew it was all mental smoke and mirrors for now because he couldn't come up with a plan until he knew exactly what he had to deal with.
