White Death - Cussler Clive (библиотека книг бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗
"Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition, ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said. "You're about to see the most exciting part of the show, the dogsled competition. This is more than a race. The contestants, from two different Inuit communities in Canada, will demonstrate the skills needed to survive in the Arctic. The hunter must speed to the kill and use his harpoon with unerr- ing accuracy. As you know, we don't have much snowfall in Wash- ington this time of year." He paused, to allow for the laughter. "So the racers will have wheels on their sleds instead "of runners. Enjoy the show!"
Figures milled around the trucks, then broke into two groups,
each pushing a sled toward an opening in the taped enclosure. The sleds, one bright blue, the other fire-engine red, were brought to the starting point and placed side by side. The wolflike sled dogs were taken from the kennel trailers and hooked into their harnesses.
Excited by the prospect of a run, the huskies grew more agitated. The barking reached a crescendo as the impatient dogs pulled against their harnesses. The nine-dog teams, with eight in pairs and one as leader, exerted an amazing amount of muscle power when harnessed together. Even with the brakes set and handlers holding on, the sleds inched forward.
Two men, the drivers obviously, detached themselves from the others and climbed onto their sleds. A second later, the starting gun went off. The drivers shouted commands, the dogs dug their paws in, and the sleds took off like twin rockets. The dogs immediately went into an all-out run. Unsure of the conditions on the grassy course, the drivers slowed slightly as they came into the first turn. There was some skidding, but the sleds came out of the turn side by side and stayed neck and neck into the second curve, successfully navigating it.
The sleds were moving at full tilt again as they raced toward the spot where Austin stood behind the yellow tape, next to Them and Ben. The drivers urged the dogs on with loud kissing sounds. In def- erence to the mild evening, the drivers were not dressed in hooded fur parkas, instead wearing skin pants tucked into their boots. Sweat glistened on their bare chests.
The sleds were modified tube steel rigs like those used to train dogs when there is no snow for the runners to glide upon. Steel mesh platforms about six feet long and more than a yard wide nestled be- tween four rubber airplane tires. The sleds were steered by a small wheel at the top of a vertical tube frame. The drivers stood with feet placed on narrow side extensions that flanked the main platform, bodies hunched over the steering posts to cut wind resistance and lower the center of gravity. As the sleds flashed by with whirring wheels, the faces of the drivers were only a blur.
The racers were still abreast as they came into the third turn. The red one was on the inside. Looking for a gain, the driver tried to cut the turn tightly. But the sled caught an edge, and the wheels on the other side lifted off the ground a few inches. The driver skillfully compensated with the weight of his body and a touch of the brake, and the wheels slammed down again. The blue-sled driver took ad- vantage of the lost gamble. He could have gone wide, but he finessed the turn with admirable skill and gained a quarter of a length in the straightaway.
The crowd was cheering madly, and it went wild when the blue sled increased the lead to half a length. Another few feet and the blue sled would be able to pull over in front of the red one, blocking the way and controlling the race. The blue driver kept glancing over his shoulder, looking for an opportunity. He got his chance in the fourth and last curve.
The leading sled, on the outside, came into the turn at a perfect speed and angle to put him completely ahead of the other racer. But the red sled suddenly veered to the right, and its front wheel caught the leader's rear-left tire. The blue sled fishtailed from the impact, and the driver fought to bring it under control. The dogs sensed the whiplash about to take place and tried to compensate by pulling harder, but the centrifugal forces acting on the light vehicle proved too potent.
The blue sled went up on two wheels and flipped. The driver went airborne, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon. He hit the grass hard, rolled several times and lay still. The dogs kept run- ning and dragged the sled on its side until they could pull it no far- ther. Then they began to fight among themselves. The handlers ducked under the yellow tape and rushed in to get the dogs under control, while others tended to the fallen driver.
The red-sled driver pushed ahead at full speed, although he had the race won, not slowing until he had passed over the finish line. The sled was still moving when he jumped off it and grabbed a harpoon from a barrel. Without pausing to aim, he sent the spear winging to- ward an archery target set up near the course. The spear hit the bull's- eye at dead center. Then he pulled a hatchet from his belt and hurled it at the target as well. Bull's-eye again.
The victorious driver raised his fists high in the air and let out a chilling cry of victory, then strutted around the perimeter of the race course, his wide mouth set in a grin, his face like a malevolent jack- o'-lantern. His arrogant posturing put to rest any doubts that the col- lision was an accident. A lone boo issued from the stunned crowd, then was joined by others, growing into an angry chorus as the spec- tators showed their disapproval of the winning tactics. Disgusted with the race, guests began to move back to the museum.
The driver gestured at the departing spectators as if daring some- one to step forward. His gaze swept the crowd-looking for anyone brave or foolish enough to take him on-when it fell on Austin. The dark eyes narrowed into slits. Austin tensed. Standing only a few feet away was the man who had slashed him and tossed a hand grenade into his boat at the Mermaid's Gate. He would have recog- nized the man from the hate burning in his feral eyes even without the vertical tattoo lines on the cheekbones and the mangled knot of flesh where Austin had bashed him in the nose.
The thick lips in the dark, wide face formed a silent word. Austin.
Austin was stunned that the man knew his name, but he hid his surprise.
Using his most mocking tone, he said, "Long time no see, Nanook. You owe me for the plastic surgery I did on your pretty face."
The driver stepped closer until they were a foot or so apart, sepa- rated only by the yellow tape. Austin could smell the man's fetid breath.
"The name is Umealiq/' he said. "I want you to call my name when you beg me for mercy."
"Don't blame you for being dissatisfied with your nose job," Austin said evenly. "You didn't give me a lot to work with. Pay me for the boat you blew up and we'll call it even."
"The only payment you will get is death,ff the man snarled. His thick fingers dropped down to his belt, and he began to slide the bone knife from its scabbard. Although most of the spectators had left, there were still knots of people hanging around. Austin sensed that there was no safety in numbers and the man would not hesitate to kill him, even in front of dozens of witnesses. He clenched his right fist, ready to send it crashing into the broken nose, where it would inflict the most damage and pain.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden movement. Ben Nighthawk had hurled himself at the driver. The Indian was too light and his tackling form too imperfect to do any damage. The driver grunted, and his squat body shuddered slightly from the im- pact, but he kept his footing and swatted Nighthawk aside with a mighty blow.
Again the hand groped for the knife, and he took a step forward, only to freeze at the sound of a commotion. The blue-sled driver was making his way across the Mall, accompanied by several angry han- dlers. Dirt and blood stained his face. Umealiq whirled to face the newcomers. They exchanged angry words, obviously arguing over the race tactics. With a quick burning glance back at Austin, the red- sled driver pushed his way through the others and made his way back to the trucks.
