Atlantis Found (26 page)

“Stand by until the weather clears,” Gillespie said. “I’ll personally lead the relief party.”

“Are you sure you want to make the trip?”

“And miss walking the deck of an eighteenth-century ship? Not for all the cognac in France.”

“I’ll introduce you to the captain.”

“You’ve seen the captain?” Gillespie asked curiously.

“Not yet, but if Roxanna Mender didn’t exaggerate, he should be fresh as a Popsicle.”

 
CAPTAIN Leigh Hunt still sat at the desk where he had died in 1779. Nothing had changed except for the small indentation in the ice where the ship’s log had once lain on the desktop. Solemnly, they studied the child in the crib and Mrs. Hunt, two centuries of ice covering her saddened and delicate features. The dog was only a frozen mound of white.

They walked through the cabins, illuminating the long-dead passengers with their halogen lights. The shrouds of ice glittered brightly, scarcely revealing the bodies beneath. Pitt tried to visualize their final moments, but the tragedy seemed so poignant it just didn’t bear thinking about. Seeing those waxen effigies in the shadowy gloom, rigid under their ice coating, made it hard to imagine them as living, breathing humans who went about their everyday lives before dying in a remote and awful part of the world. The expressions on some of the faces, distorted by the ice, were ghastly beyond description. What were their last thoughts alone, without hope of rescue?

“This is a nightmare,” murmured Northrop. “But a glorious nightmare.”

Pitt looked at him questioningly. “Glorious?”

“The wonder of it all. Human bodies perfectly preserved, frozen in time. Think what this means to the science of cryogenics. Think of the potential for bringing them all back to life.”

The thought struck Pitt like a blow to the head. Could science make it possible someday to present the cold, dead passengers and crew of the
Madras
with a rebirth? “Think of the amazing amount of history that would be rewritten after talking to someone brought back to life after two hundred years.”

Northrop threw up his hands. “Why dream? It won’t happen in our lifetime.”

“Probably not,” said Pitt, contemplating the possibility, “but I wish I could be around to witness the reaction of these poor souls when they saw what’s happened to their world since 1779.”

 
THE storm clouds passed over and the wind died after another four hours. Cox stood outside the cave and waved the yellow tarpaulin like a flag that had covered the ice tools. A group of figures spotted the signal and began winding their way through the rugged contours of the ice toward the cave. Pitt counted ten turquoise antlike creatures approaching across the dead white floe. As they came closer, Pitt could see Gillespie was leading. He also recognized the small figure behind him as the journalist, Evie Tan.

Thirty minutes later, Gillespie walked up to Pitt and smiled. “Nice day for a walk in the park,” he said cheerfully.

“Welcome to the Antarctic museum of marine antiquities,” Pitt said, showing the captain inside and pointing up at the hull. “Watch your step climbing the ladder Ira so ably hacked in the ice.”

While Pitt and Gillespie made a tour of the
Madras
with Evie, who shot ten rolls of film, recording every inch of the old ship’s interior and its dead, Cox and Northrop helped the
Polar Storm
’s crew pull the sleds and their ancient cargo back to the icebreaker.

Pitt was amused as he watched Evie unzip her big parka, pull up the heavy wool sweater underneath, and tape rolls of film to her long john underwear. She looked at him and smiled. “Saves the film from the extreme cold.”

Jake Bushey, the
Polar Storm
’s first officer, hailed Gillespie over his portable radio. The captain listened for a moment and shoved the radio back into his pocket. Pitt could tell by the expression on his face that he wasn’t in a good mood. “We must get back to the ship.”

“Another storm coming in?” asked Evie.

He gave a curt shake of the head. “The U-boat,” he said grimly. “She’s surfaced through the ice less than a mile from the
Polar Storm.”

18

AS THEY NEARED THE ship and looked beyond her across the ice, they could clearly see the black whale-shaped outline of the submarine against the white floe. Closer yet and they distinguished figures standing on the conning tower, as others climbed from inside the hull and clustered around the deck gun. The U-boat had popped through the ice only a quarter of a mile from the
Polar Storm.

Gillespie called his first officer over his portable radio. “Bushey!”

“Standing by, sir.”

“Close the watertight doors and order all crew and scientists to don their life vests.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bushey. “Activating watertight doors.”

“That ghost ship is like a plague,” muttered Gillespie. “Its bad luck is contagious.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” said Pitt. “There is no way a sub can fire a torpedo through the ice.”

“True, but she still has a deck gun.”

The sound of the alarms warning the people on board of the closing of the bulkhead doors blared through the cold air and across the ice as Pitt and the others rushed toward the ship. The snow had been packed down by the sleds and their heavy cargo, making a trail that was easy for them to follow. Several of the crew were standing in the snow around the gangway, motioning for them to hurry.

The captain called over the radio again. “Bushey. Has the U-boat attempted contact?”

“Nothing, sir. Shall I try and raise them?”

Gillespie thought a moment. “No, not yet, but keep a sharp eye for any suspicious movement.”

“Did you make contact with the boat’s commander during the voyage from the Peninsula?” asked Pitt.

“I made two attempts, but my requests for identification went unanswered.”

Gillespie kept his eyes aimed at the sub. “What did the admiral say when you informed him?”

“All he said was, ‘I’ll take care of it.’ ”

“Whatever the admiral promises, you can take to the bank.” Pitt paused reflectively. “Tell Jake to send a message to the sub, warning its commander that your research ship has dropped seismic explosive underwater devices under the ice in the exact position where he’s surfaced.”

“What do you expect to gain with that lie?”

“We’ve got to stall. Whatever scheme Sandecker is cooking up, he’ll need time to assemble.”

“They’re probably listening in on everything we say over the radio.”

“I’m counting on it,” said Pitt, smiling.

“If they operate like they did in World War Two against isolated transport ships, they’re jamming our satellite transmissions.”

“I think we can count on that, too.”

They still had another half mile to go to reach the ship. Gillespie pressed the transmit switch on his radio. “Bushey, listen to me carefully.” He then told his first officer what to say and do, certain the sub was listening to their transmission.

Bushey did not question his senior officer’s orders, nor did he show the slightest hesitation. “I understand, Captain. I will contact the vessel immediately and warn them.”

“You’ve got a good man,” said Pitt admiringly.

“The best,” Gillespie agreed.

“We’ll wait ten minutes, then come up with another cock-and-bull story and hope the sub’s commander is gullible.”

“Let’s pick up the pace,” urged Gillespie.

Pitt turned to Evie Tan, who was panting heavily. “Why don’t you at least let me carry your camera equipment?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Photographers carry their own gear. I’ll be all right. Go ahead. I’ll catch up to you at the ship.”

“I hate to be a cad,” said Gillespie, “but I’ve got to be on board at the earliest possible moment.”

“Push on,” Pitt told him. “We’ll see you on board.”

The captain took off at a dead run. Pitt had insisted Evie use his skis at the ice cave, but she had indignantly refused. Now, with little coaxing, she allowed him to strap her feet into the bindings. Then he handed her the poles. “You go ahead. I want to get a closer look at the sub.”

After sending Evie on her way, Pitt moved off on an angle until he was fifty yards astern of the ship. He stared across the ice floe at the submarine. He could clearly see the crew manning the deck gun and the officers leaning over the coaming of the conning tower. They did not appear to be wearing the standard Nazi
unterseeboot
crew uniforms. They were all dressed in black single-piece, tight-fitting, cold-weather coveralls.

Pitt stood where he could clearly be seen by the crew. He pressed the transmit button on his portable radio. “I am speaking to the commander of the U-2015. My name is Pitt. You can see me standing off the stern of the
Polar Storm.”
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “I am fully aware of who you are. Do you understand?”

Static rasped out of the radio, then was replaced by a friendly voice. “Yes, Mr. Pitt. This is the commander of the U- 2015 speaking. How may I help you?”

“You have my name, Commander. What’s yours?”

“You need not know.”

“Yes,” Pitt said calmly, “that figures. Your cronies from the New Destiny, or should I say Fourth Empire, have a mania for secrecy. But not to worry, I promise not to whisper a word about your slimy band of killers, provided you take your geriatric pile of junk from nostalgia land and be on your way.”

It was a long shot, pure guesswork at best, but the long silence told Pitt he had struck a chord. A full minute passed before the U-boat commander’s voice came over the little radio.

“So you are the ubiquitous Dirk Pitt.”

“I am,” Pitt answered, feeling a sense of triumph at pressing the right button. “I didn’t know my fame traveled so quickly.”

“I see you wasted no time in arriving in the Antarctic from Colorado.”

“I would have been here sooner, but I had several of your buddies’ bodies to dispose of.”

“Are you testing my patience, Mr. Pitt?”

The conversation was becoming inane, but Pitt egged on the U-boat commander to gain time. “No, I only wish for you to explain your weird behavior. Instead of attacking a helpless unarmed ocean research ship, you should be in the North Atlantic torpedoing impotent merchant ships.”

“We ceased hostilities in April of 1945.”

Pitt did not like the look of the machine gun mounted on the forward section of the conning tower and pointing in his direction. He knew time was running out and was certain the U-boat meant to destroy the
Polar Storm
and everybody on it. “And when did you launch the Fourth Reich?”

“I see no reason to carry this conversation any further, Mr. Pitt.” The voice came as tonelessly as a newscaster giving a weather report in Cheyenne, Wyoming. “Goodbye.”

Pitt didn’t need to be poked by a sharp stick in the eye to know what was coming. He dove behind an ice hummock in the same instant the machine gun on the conning tower opened up. Bullets buzzed through the air and made strange hissing sounds as they struck the ice. He lay in a slight depression behind the hummock, unable to move. Only now did he regret wearing the NUMA turquoise Arctic gear. The bright color against the white ice made him an ideal target on which to train their sights.

From where he lay, he could look up at the superstructure of the
Polar Storm.
So close, yet so far. He began wiggling out of his Arctic suit, stripping it away until he was down to a wool sweater and woolen pants. The boots would prove too clumsy to run in, so he removed them, down to his thermal socks. The hail of bullets stopped, the gunner probably wondering if his fire had struck Pitt.

He rubbed snow on his head so his black hair would not be obvious against the white. Then he peered over a lip of the hummock. The gunner was leaning against his weapon, but the U-boat commander was looking through binoculars in Pitt’s direction. After several moments, he could see the commander turn and point toward the ship. The gunner swung his weapon in the direction his captain motioned.

Pitt inhaled a deep breath and took off, sprinting across the ice, pumping his legs and zigzagging with almost the same agility he’d used many years before when playing quarterback for the Air Force Academy, only this time there was no Al Giordino to run interference for him. The ice slashed his socks and cut into his feet, but he shook off the pain.

He had dashed thirty yards before the crew of the U-boat woke up and began firing again. But their shells went high and behind him. Before they corrected and began to lead him, it was too late. He had curled around the rudder of the
Polar Storm
a second before bullets smashed into the steel, chipping the paint like angry bees.

Safe on the side of the ship away from the submarine, he slowed and caught his breath. The gangway had been pulled up and Gillespie had ordered the ship into a 180-degree turn at Full Ahead, but a rope ladder was thrown over the side. Pitt thankfully jogged along the ship as it increased speed, grasping the ladder and hoisting himself up, just as the jagged ice chunks thrown aside by the bow slid past under his stocking feet.

As soon as he reached the railing, Cox lifted him over and stood him on the deck. “Welcome back,” he said, with a broad smile.

“Thank you, Ira,” Pitt gasped.

“The captain would like you on the bridge.”

Pitt simply nodded and padded across the deck to the ladder leading up to the ship’s bridge.

“Mr. Pitt.”

Turning, he said, “Yes?”

Cox nodded at the bloody footprints Pitt left on the deck. “You might ask the ship’s doctor to take a look at your feet.”

“I’ll make an appointment first thing.”

Standing out on the bridge wing, Gillespie was studying the U-boat, her black hull floating rigid amid the ice where she had surfaced. He turned as Pitt hobbled up the ladder. “You had a nasty encounter.”