Lost City - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .txt) 📗

"Is that 1871 or 1971?" Zavala said, chuckling. "Can't wait to see Pitt's face when he gets the bill for this little luxury yacht." "Knowing Pitt, I think he'd understand," Austin said. Zavala read the name on the stern. "Spooter?" "It's the local term for a razor clam. Spoot is supposed to have aphrodisiac qualities."

"Really," Zavala said, his interest piqued. "I suppose it makes about as much sense as rhino horn."

They climbed aboard the boat, and Zavala surveyed the deck while Austin poked his head into a wheelhouse about as big as two telephone booths put together. The cabin reeked of stale cigarette smoke and diesel fumes. When Austin came back out, Zavala stomped his foot on the planking.

"Feels solid enough."

"This old rust bucket is actually more seaworthy than she looks. Let's see if she has a chart."

Austin rummaged around in the wheelhouse and found a grease-smeared map that showed the island to be ten miles across the bay from the boatyard. Austin pointed to the island's harbor and explained the plan he had been mulling over to Zavala.

"What do you think of it?"

"A low-tech solution to a high-tech challenge. I think it can work. When do we go?"

"No time like the present," Austin said. "I persuaded the former owner to throw in a full tank of fuel."

He went into the pilothouse. In short order, they had the engine warming up, gear stowed and a compass course set. The boat had seen some hard times, but its electronics were fairly new and would allow them to navigate the unfamiliar waters in the night fog.

Zavala cast off the mooring lines while Austin took the helm and pointed the bow out of the harbor. The engine chortled and gasped as if it were on its last legs, but the Spooler pushed its way through the swirling mists and began its voyage to the mysterious island.

FOR A MAN who was nearly seven feet tall, Trout moved with uncommon stealth. Only the sharpest eye would have seen him slip out of the prisoners' compound shortly after midnight. He darted from shadow to shadow, staying away from the floodlights. His excessive caution proved to be unnecessary. No guards patrolled the compound and the watchtowers were unoccupied. Drunken laughter and loud music drifted from the bunkhouse, where the guards were having a party. Trout surmised that the guards were celebrating the end of their boring duty on this lonely outpost. The raucous noise grew fainter as Trout trotted along a dirt road away from the bunkhouse. No longer making an attempt to conceal himself, he covered the distance rapidly with his long-legged stride. He knew he was nearing his goal when the stench hit his nostrils. His resolve faltered as he considered the task he had set himself, but he set his jaw and pressed on toward the chamber of horrors Colonel Strega had facetiously referred to as the "Zoo."

Trout slowed to a walk as he entered the floodlit area around the concrete building and went directly to the front door. He ran the

beam of his flashlight around the doorjamb, but saw no indication of alarm connections. No one could imagine the blockhouse being broken into, Trout mused, although that was exactly what he was about to do.

The double steel doors could have withstood a battering ram, but they were secured only with an ordinary padlock. Using a hammer and sharp-edged chisel borrowed from the lab, where the tools were used to chip rock samples, he made short work of the latch. He looked around, almost wishing someone would stop him, then opened the doors and stepped into the building.

The awful smell inside hit him like a baseball bat and he had to stifle his gag reflex. The big room was in semidarkness, illuminated by a few dim ceiling lights. His noisy entry must have alerted the Zoo's occupants because he heard faint stirrings in the darkened cells. Pairs of burning red eyes watched his every move. Trout felt like a clam at a clambake.

He ran his flashlight beam along the wall until he found a switch. As the room flooded with light, a chorus of snarls filled the air and the creatures retreated to the back of their cages. Perceiving after a moment that Trout was no threat, they crept back and pressed their nightmarish faces against the bars.

Trout sensed that these creatures were regarding him with more than feral hunger. They were curious, and their low growls and mutterings were a form of communication. He reminded himself that they had carried off a murderous raid on a neighboring island and it would be a mistake to think of these creatures as mere animals. They were once human, and they could think.

Trout tried to ignore their unwavering gazes and went about his inspection of the room. He found what he was looking for behind a metal wall panel and his fingers played over a rank of switches with numbers that corresponded to those painted over each cage. The numbers were labeled Alpha and Beta. He hesitated, thinking about

the hell forces he was about to unleash. Now or never. He hit a switch labeled alpha as an experiment. A motor hummed and a cage door slid open with a metallic clank. The creature occupying the cell dashed to the back of his cage, and then it inched forward, pausing at the open door as if suspecting a trick.

Trout hit the other switches in rapid succession. Door after door clanged. Still, none of the creatures ventured out. They were gibbering and gesturing at each other in a primitive communication. Trout didn't hang around to tune in on the conversation. Having unleashed the demons, he ran for the door.

MACLEAN WAS waiting with Gamay and Sandy in a thick stand of trees about a hundred yards from the compound's gate. In outlining his plan, Trout had told them to slip away from their cottages as soon as he was on his way and to stay hidden until he rejoined them. MacLean had heard the drunken party going on at the bunkhouse, but he was still nervous, having known the unpredictable guards longer than Trout. His worst fears were realized when he heard the sound of pounding feet. Someone was running toward him. He strained his eyes against the darkness, not knowing whether to run or fight.

Then someone called out "Mac." It was Trout. Gamay stepped from the trees and grabbed him in a tight hug. "I am so glad to see you," she said.

"For god sakes man," MacLean said. "I thought something had happened."

Trout caught his breath. "It was easier than I thought." Trout tensed as a figure emerged from the trees, then another, until all six of their fellow scientists were gathered around. "I'm sorry," MacLean said. "I couldn't leave them." "It was my idea," Gamay said.

"Don't worry. I changed my mind and was about to go back for them myself. Is everybody here?"

"Yes," one of the scientists said. "No one saw us. But what do we do now?"

"We wait," Trout replied. He made his way through the trees and took up a post behind an oak where he had a clear view of the main gate. Two guards lounged in front of the sentry house. He returned to the others and told them to be patient.

Trout knew he had taken a calculated risk in releasing the creatures from their cages. Once they tasted freedom, they might simply bolt for the hills. He gambled that their urge to run would be tempered by an all-too-human emotion, a thirst for revenge against those who had tormented and imprisoned them.

He checked the gate again. The guards were smoking cigarettes and passing a bottle back and forth. If they couldn't join the party, at least they could have one of their own. He eased his way back through to the other side of the copse, where he had an unobstructed view of the Zoo.