Lost City - Cussler Clive (читать онлайн полную книгу .txt) 📗
In his hasty exit, he had left the doors of the blockhouse partially open. A sliver of light came from inside the building. He saw dark shapes begin to emerge from the building. They paused, went on, moving like a skirmish line toward the guards' quarters, and vanished into the shadows.
From the sounds of coarse laughter and music, the party was in full tilt, and for a moment Trout feared that he had miscalculated. Then, quite suddenly, the laughter stopped. It was replaced by shouted curses, a couple of gunshots, then screams of pain and terror.
Trout could only imagine the blood bath that was going on, and he couldn't help but feel some pity for the guards. But he reminded himself that the guards were prepared to wipe out their prisoners at a word from Strega.
The sentries at the gate had heard the strange racket coming from
their quarters. They conferred with each other, unsure of what to do. They seemed to be arguing. They halted their heated discussion when they saw headlights moving their way. They raised their automatic weapons and aimed at the fast-approaching vehicle, which was zigzagging and blowing its horn.
The vehicle entered the floodlit area near the gate and Trout saw that it was Strega's convertible and the front and back seats were hidden under a mass of writhing bodies. More creatures hung onto the hood. Others dangled from the sides, resisting the driver's efforts to dislodge them with violent swerves.
The guards swept the oncoming vehicle with automatic gunfire. Two of the creatures dropped off the hood and rolled on the ground, splitting the night with their fearful screams, but the others hung on. The car made a violent turn, went out of control, and smashed broadside into the guardhouse. The impact dislodged the creatures, and the driver's door flew open. Colonel Strega emerged from the driver's side, pistol in hand. His razor-creased uniform way bloodstained and in tatters. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds to his head and body.
He staggered a few feet and fired off a wild round that killed one of the attackers, but before he could get off another shot the remaining creatures knocked the colonel to the ground. Trout could see his arms and legs flailing from under the thrashing bodies that swarmed over him and then the colonel stiffened and went still. The creatures dragged what was left of him into the shadows. The two guards had had enough. They fired a few shots, killing one or two of the creatures, and ran for their lives with a pack of red-eyed demons on their heels.
Trout rallied Gamay and the others and led them out into the open, stepping past the twitching bodies to the Mercedes. He got behind the wheel and threw the shift into reverse, but the vehicle was hung up on the wreckage of the guardhouse. He instructed the scientists to push and pull, and after a lot of grunts, the wheels were clear and they all piled into the convertible.
Trout practically stood on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward and smashed through the gates as if they didn't exist and barreled along the road that would take them to the sea, and what Trout hoped was freedom.
THE NEWEST ADDITION to the NUMA fleet began to spout leaks within minutes^>f clearing the harbor. The transition from virtually flat calm to seas of two feet in open water was not a severe change, but it was enough to open seams in the boat's elderly hull. Austin, who was at the helm, noticed that the wheel was responding sluggishly and that the boat was settling. He clicked the bilge pump switch, but the motor refused to start.
"They should have named this boat the Busted Flush" Austin grumbled.
"I'll check it out," Zavala said. At the heart of every brilliant engineer is a mechanic, and Zavala was no different. He was happiest when getting his fingers into grease. He slipped below through a deck hatch, and after a minute or two yelled up to Austin, "Try again." The pump started with a series of chortles and gasps. When he emerged, he looked like a dipstick, but he had a smile on his oil-smeared face.
"Engine repair 101. When all else fails, look for a loose wire," he said.
The repair hadn't come a minute too soon. The boat was listing as if it had a flat tire. But the bilge pump worked heroically, keeping ahead of the leaks, and after a few minutes the Spooler got back on an even keel, more or less, and continued on its heading.
By then, Austin had discovered that when the Spooler wasn't sinking it handled quite well. The creeler was built for local conditions and its graceful, raised bow cut through the washboard sea as easily as a canoe on a pond. With a wind at their back, and the engine chugging along and only missing occasionally, they made good time across the bay.
Austin gave the radar screen a glance and saw that they were on course. He squinted through the spray-streaked windshield but saw only blackness. While Zavala took the helm, he stepped outside the wheelhouse. The cold damp air hit him in the face. He sensed rather than saw a dark mass rising from the darker sea. He went back into the warm wheelhouse.
"The island should be dead ahead," he said.
The boat chugged through the night, and before long the looming presence Austin had sensed earlier began to assume an outline. The island's silhouette was clearly visible against the blue-black of the sky. Austin moved the wheel over slightly to starboard and sheared off a few compass points. Odds were good that the boat had been under surveillance for some time and he wanted to create the impression for any watchers that the Spooler was going around the island.
The AUV's electronic eyes and ears would be less easy to fool with a feint. But it would not be impossible. Austin had studied the images on the satellite photos taken over several hours and he had computed the vehicle's timing, well aware that the formula was subject to natural and human vagaries. He had tracked the vehicle's position and figured the AUV's schedule. Periodically, the AUV went back to recharge its batteries.
He checked the time. The AUV should be on the far side of the
island. Hoping to come in under the radar, he eased the wheel over, moving the boat closer to the sea cliffs, and prayed that his computations were right.
THE COMMAND center that protected the security of the island from nosy outsiders was housed in a squat, flat-roof, cinder-block building situated at the mouth of the inlet. Fifty percent of the building was crammed with electronic surveillance equipment. The other half served as a barracks for the twelve guards who manned the post.
The contingent had been broken up into four-man teams that worked three shifts. During the day, three guards patrolled the perimeter of the island by boat, while the fourth man stayed in the command center.
At night the routine changed. The patrol boat stayed on shore during the graveyard shift because the dangerous knife-edged rocks that lurked in the waters around the island were tricky to navigate in the dark. The boat was kept on standby, ready to respond if the AUV or radar picked up intruders. The night crew took turns recharging the AUV from an electrical station on the deck. The radar operator had seen the blip on his screen long before the boat approached the island and had watch it change course and come nearer.
The radar man was a German mercenary named Max. From experience, he knew that fishing boats rarely went out at night, but he relaxed when the blip moved past the island. He lit up a cigarette and leafed through the well-turned pages of a skin magazine for a few minutes, and then his eyes drifted back to the screen. It was blank. He let out a curse, mashed the cigarette into an ashtray and leaned forward, his nose practically touching the screen. He even tapped the glass with his knuckles as if it would do some good.
