Atlantis Found dp-15 Page 19

  Cox bowed back. "Like Ah always said, save your Confederate money. You never know, the South might rise again."

  "I believe it might at that."

  Pitt climbed the footholds gouged in the ice by Cox and slipped through the hole feet first. His boots made contact with the deck four feet below the opening. He peered into the gloom and realized that he had entered the ship's aft galley.

  "What do you see?" demanded Northrop excitedly.

  "A frozen galley stove," answered Pitt. He leaned through the hull. "Come on up, and bring the lights with you."

  Cox and Northrop quickly joined him and passed around aluminum-encased halogen lights that lit up the immediate area like a sunny day. Except for the soot on the flue atop the big cast-iron stove and oven, the galley looked as if it had never been used. Pitt pulled open the fire door of the oven but found no ashes.

  "The shelves are bare," observed Cox. "They must have eaten all the paper, cans, and glass."

  "Well, maybe the paper," muttered Northrop, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy.

  "Let's stick together," said Pitt. "One of us may spot something the others missed."

  "Anything in particular we're looking for?" asked Cox.

  "A storeroom in the aft steerage hold beneath the captain's cabin."

  "I say it should be two or more decks under where we stand."

  "This has to be the ship's officers' and passengers' galley. The captain's cabin must be nearby. Let's find a passageway below."

  Pitt stepped through a doorway and shined his light on the dining room. The table and chairs and surrounding furniture were encased in an inch-thick layer of ice. Under their halogen lights, the entire room sparkled like a crystal chandelier. A tea set rested in the center of the dining table as if waiting to be used.

  "No bodies in here," said Northrop, with relief.

  "They all died in their cabins," said Pitt. "Probably a combination of hypothermia, starvation, and scurvy."

  "Where do we go from here?" Cox asked.

  Pitt motioned his light through a doorway beyond the dining table. "Just outside, we should find a passageway that drops down to the deck below."

  "How do you know your way around a two-hundred-year-old ship?"

  "I studied drawings and old plans of East Indiaman merchant ships. Though I've never actually seen one until now, I know every nook and cranny by heart."

  They dropped down a ladder, slipping on the ice that covered the steps but remaining on their feet. Pitt led them aft, passing old cannon that looked as new as they had the day they had left the foundry. The storeroom's door was still open, just as Roxanna and the crew of the Paloverde had left it.

  Pitt, anticipation surging through his veins, stepped inside and swung his beam around the storeroom.

  The packing crates were still stacked from deck to ceiling along the bulkheads, just as they were when last seen in 1858. Two of the wooden crates sat on the deck, their lids pried open. A copper urn was lying on its side behind the door, where it had rolled when the ship was hurriedly abandoned by Mender and his crew as the ice pack began to melt and crack apart.

  Pitt knelt and began lifting the objects from the open crates with tender loving care and setting them on the icy deck. In a short time, he had collected not only a menagerie of figurines depicting common animals- dogs, cats, cattle, lions- but also sculptures of creatures he'd never seen before. Some were sculpted from copper, many were bronze. He also found figures of people, mostly females dressed in long robes, with full pleated skirts covering their legs to their strangely booted feet. The intricately grooved hair was long and braided to the waist, and the breasts were simply formed without exaggerated fullness.

  Laid on the bottom of the crates, like chips on a casino craps table, were round copper disks half an inch thick and five inches in diameter. The disks were engraved on both sides with sixty symbols that Pitt recognized as similar to those in the Paradise Mine chamber. The center of the disks revealed hieroglyphs of a man on one side and a woman on the other. The man wore a long pointed hat on his head that was folded over on one side, and a flowing capelike robe over a metal breastplate and a short skirt similar to a Scottish kilt. He sat on a horse that had a single horn protruding from its head, and held a broad sword above his head that was in the act of cutting through the neck of a monstrous lizard with an open mouth full of gaping teeth.

  The woman on the opposite side of the disk was dressed the same as the man, but with more ornaments about her body, strings of what looked like seashells and some kind of beads. She was also astride a horse with a horn in the center of the head. Instead of holding a sword, she was thrusting a spear into what Pitt recognized as a saber-toothed tiger, an animal extinct for thousands of years.

  Pitt's mind traveled to another time, another place that was vague and nebulous, barely outlined in a gentle mist. As he held the disks in his hand, he tried to sense a contact with those who had created them. But remote viewing was not one of Pitt's skills. He was a man attuned to the here and now. He could not pass through the unseen wall separating the past from the present.

  His reverie was broken by the Southern-accented voice of Ira Cox.

  "Do you want to start loading the sleds with these crates?"

  Pitt blinked, looked up, and nodded. "Soon as I replace the lids, we'll carry them out in stages up to the next deck. Then lower them by rope through the hole you made in the hull down to the floor of the ice cave.

  "I count twenty-four of them," said Northrop. He walked to a stack of crates and picked one up. His face turned four different shades of red, and his eyes bulged.

  Cox, quickly sizing up the situation, took the crate from Northrop as easily as if he were handed a baby. "You'd better let me do the heavy work, Doc."

  "You don't know how grateful I am, Ira," said Northrop, overjoyed at being relieved of the crate, which must have weighed close to a hundred pounds.

  Cox took the most strenuous part of the job. Hoisting each crate onto one shoulder, he carried it down the ladder to Pitt, who then tied it with a sling and lowered it down to a waiting sled, where Northrop shoved it into place. When they finished, each sled held eight crates.

  Pitt walked to the entrance of the cave and called the ship. "How does the storm look from your end?" he asked Gillespie.

  "According to our resident meteorologist, it should blow over in a few hours."

  "The sleds are loaded with the artifacts," said Pitt.

  "Do you require help?"

  "There must be close to eight hundred pounds per sled. Any assistance to pull them back to the Polar Storm will be gratefully accepted."

  "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. Wha
t 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.