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

Still no sign of the target. The boat must have entered the radar's

blind spot along the base of the cliffs while he was studying female anatomy. It was an annoyance, but not a catastrophe. There was still the AUV. He turned to another monitor that kept tabs on the AUV. As it made its rounds, the vehicle bounced signals off a series of floating transponders that ringed the island. The transponders relayed the hits to the command center, and the vehicle's location could be pinpointed at any time along its route.

The vehicle was twelve feet long, flat and wide, a combination of a manta and a shark in shape, and topped with a tall dorsal fin. One of the guards had said the menacing profile reminded him of his former mother-in-law, whose name was Gertrude, and the name had stuck. Gertrude cruised a few feet below the surface, its sonar scanning the water for one hundred feet on each side. Its TV cameras took in the underwater scene.

Commands could be transmitted back to the AUV as well. This was an invaluable asset, given the vehicle's dual function as an underwater watchdog and weapons carrier. The AUV carried four miniature torpedoes, each with the power to sink a destroyer.

Max commanded Gertrude to return at top speed to the area where he had last seen the boat. Then he punched an intercom button.

"Sorry to break up your game, boys," he said into the microphone. "We've got a boat inside the security zone."

The boat crew had been playing poker in the barracks when the wall speaker crackled with the news of an intruder. Two of the men were former French Legionnaires and the other a South African mercenary. The South African threw his cards down in disgust and went over to the intercom.

"Where's the target?"

"It entered the security perimeter on the north side, then slipped into the radar blind spot. I've sent Gertrude over to sniff around."

"What the hell," the mercenary said. "My luck stinks tonight."

The three men pulled on their jackets and boots and grabbed their compact FA MAS assault rifles. A moment later they trotted to the end of the fog-draped pier and climbed into a thirty-foot rigid inflatable boat. The twin diesels roared to life. The crew cast off the mooring lines, and before long the water jet system was kicking the boat along at nearly forty knots.

The boat had barely been at sea for a few minutes when the man in the command center reported that the target had reappeared on radar outside the mouth of the inlet. He guided the patrol boat to the target and watched as the two blips merged on the screen.

While two guards stood ready to blast anything that moved, the helmsman brought the patrol boat in close, until its spotlight could pick out every square inch of peeling paint. The South African lowered his rifle and began to laugh. The others joined in.

"Spooler," he said. "We broke up our poker game for a Spooler?" "What are you complaining about? You were losing your ass." They roared with laughter again. a

"Better board the old scow," the helmsman said. The guards were all trained military men who didn't let their amusement get in the way of their caution. Their levity ended and their training came into play. The patrol boat edged up to the creeler and two men went aboard with weapons drawn while the other covered them with his rifle. They checked out the deserted wheelhouse, opened the hatch and looked below.

"Nothing," one of the mercenaries called back to the man on the boat. He leaned against the rail and lit up a cigarette.

His companion said, "I wouldn't perch there for too long, if I were you."

"Hell," said the other man. "Who died and made you king?" The Legionnaire grinned and climbed back onto the patrol boat. "Suit yourself," he said. "Don't get your feet wet."

The South African looked at his boots. Water was rapidly flowing from the engine hatch and flooding the deck. The boat was sinking. He let out a yell, which got his colleagues laughing. The helmsman pulled the patrol boat off a few yards, as if he were leaving his companion to his own devices, but he came back when the South African gave forth with a string of curses in Afrikaans.

The South African practically fell into the patrol boat, then he and the others watched as the water reached the gunwales. Then only the mast was visible and a few minutes later that was gone and the only evidence of a boat was a patch of bubbling water.

"Okay, so you bastards had a little joke," said the South African. "Let's go back and break open another bottle."

The helmsman got on the radio and reported to the command center.

"Doesn't make sense," the radar man said. "That thing was moving on a straight-line course when I picked it up on the radar."

"You been drinking?"

"Of course I've been drinking."

The shore patrol had been celebrating after hearing scuttlebutt from the guards at the complex that they might be closing down the island's operation.

"That explains it."

"But "

"Currents are strong around the bloody island. She could have been caught up."

"I guess so," Max said.

"Can't help you there, mate. She's deep-sixed. We're coming in."

The voice from the command center said, "Watch out for Gertrude. She's in the area."

Seconds later, the huge fin cut the water near the boat. The men on the patrol boat were used to seeing Gertrude, but they had never felt comfortable when the AUV was in the area. They were nervous about its destructive potential and the fact that it operated largely on its own. The AUV stopped fifty feet away. It was matching the sound profile of the patrol boat with the information stored in its database. "Make damned sure she's not armed." Laughter. "I'll have the fish check around." "You do that. We're getting the hell out of here." The diesel engines rumbled, and the boat did a banking turn and headed back to its dock.

The fin went back and forth for several minutes, following parallel lines in a mow-the-lawn search pattern. The probing sonar picked up the fishing boat now lying on the bottom and transmitted a picture. The radar man watched the screen for several minutes and then commanded the AUV to resume its normal patrol.

Moments after the AUV moved off, two figures emerged from the cabin' of the sunken boat. With strong rhythmic kicks that ate up the distance, they began to swim in theA direction of the island.

TROUT HAD MASHED the accelerator to the floor after he blasted Strega's Mercedes through the compound gate. MacLean who was in the passenger's seat with Gamay between them, had been staring at the speedometer as the car hurtled through the pass.

"Dr. Trout!" he said in a voice that was calm but assertive. "There's a sharp turn in the road ahead. If you don't slow down, we'll have to sprout wings."

Gamay put a hand on her husband's arm.

Trout glanced at the speedometer. They were doing more than seventy miles per hour. He pumped the brakes and switched the headlights on in time to see that the turn was more than sharp; it was angular. Off to the right was a drop-off with no guardrail.

The tires skidded close to the ragged edge of the cliff, but the Mercedes stayed on the road, which straightened and began a gradual descent. Trout let out the breath he'd been holding and relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel one finger at a time.

"Thanks for the warning, Mac."

MacLean compressed his lips in a tight smile. "I wouldn't want us to get stopped for speeding."