Fire Ice (NUMA Files 3)

Zavala's face wore an expression of astonishment. "Nothing, Kurt. It's like the Mary Celeste," he said, referring to the famous old sailing ship that had been found adrift with no one on board. "Did you find anything?"

Austin gestured for Zavala to follow and led the way back along the starboard deck. He knelt next to a dark streak on the metal deck between the railing and a doorway into the ship. Austin gingerly touched the sticky stain and sniffed the coppery odor on his finger.

"I hope that isn't what I think it is," Zavala said.

"If you said blood, you'd be right. Someone dragged a body, maybe more than one from the looks of it, across the deck and threw the corpse overboard. There's more blood on the rail."

With a heavy heart, Austin took the lead and stepped through the door out of the hot sun into the cool interior of the ship. Moving methodically, he and Zavala checked out the mess hall, library and the main lab, then climbed to the upper lab and the bridge. The farther into the ship they got, the more apparent it became that the Sea Hunter had been transformed into a charnel house. Everywhere they looked they saw spatters or puddles of blood. Austin's jaw grew rock hard. He had known many of the crew and scientists on board.

By the time they got to the wheelhouse, their nerves were as taut as piano strings. The floor was littered with charts and paper and broken glass from the windows. Austin picked up the radio microphone that had been ripped from its connection. The mike would have been of little use, since the communications console was riddled with bullet holes.

"Now we know why they didn't answer their calls," he said.

Zavala murmured softly in Spanish. "It looks like the Manson gang was here."

"We'd better check the ship's quarters," Austin said. They made their way down two levels in the tomblike silence and worked their way through the accommodations for the crew, officers and the scientists, finding more evidence of violence but no one alive, finally stopping outside a door marked STORES.

Austin pushed the door open, slipped his hand around the jamb and flicked on the lights. Cardboard cartons stacked several levels high were arranged in a rectangle on wooden palettes with a narrow aisle running around the outside. In one corner of the room was a service elevator used to haul supplies up to the galley.

Austin heard a soft muffled sound, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He signaled to Zavala to take one side of the room while he took the other. Zavala nodded and started off, moving as silently as a ghost. Austin edged along the other wall, then peered around a stack of canned-tomato cartons. The noise was repeated, louder now, sounding more animal than human. Zavala peered around the far corner, then they both stepped into the clear. Austin put his finger to his lips and pointed toward a narrow cleft between stacked boxes. A low moan issued from the alcove.

Austin waved Zavala off. Holding his gun in front of him with both hands, he stepped forward, and swung the Bowen around, pointing it between the boxes. He let out a robust curse, thinking how close he had come to shooting the young woman who cowered in the tight space.

She was a pitiful sight. Her dark curly hair hung over her face, her red-rimmed eyes brimmed with tears, her nose was wet and runny. She had crammed herself into a space less than two feet wide, her legs tight together, her arms around her knees. Her clenched fists were white-knuckled. When she saw Austin, a toneless ululating sound escaped her lips.

“Nunununu."

Austin realized the woman was repeating the word "no" agai

n and again. He holstered his gun and squatted down so their faces were level.

"It's okay," he said. "We're from NUMA. Do you understand?"

She stared at Austin and mouthed the word NUMA.

"That's right. I'm Kurt Austin." Joe had come up behind him. "This is Joe Zavala. We're from the Argo. We tried to call your ship on the radio. Can you tell us what happened?"

She replied with a vigorous shake of her head.

"Maybe we should go on deck where there's fresh air," Zavala suggested.

She shook her head again. This wasn't going to be easy. The woman was wedged tightly in her space and they would hurt her, and maybe themselves, if they tried to pull her out by force. She was in a state of shock.

Austin extended his hand palm up. She stared at it for a minute, then reached out and brushed his fingers as if she wanted to make sure he was real. The physical contact seemed to bring her back into the world.

"I was on this ship two years ago. I know Captain Brewer very well," Austin said.

She studied his face for a moment, and the flame of recognition flickered in her eyes. "I saw you at NUMA headquarters once."

“That's possible. What department did you work in?"

She shook her head. "I'm not with NUMA. My name is Ian Montague. I teach at the University of Texas. I'm a guest scientist."

"Do you want to come out, Ian? It can't be too comfortable in there."

She made a face. "I'm beginning to feel like a sardine."

The flash of humor was a good sign. Austin helped Ian from the alcove and turned her over to Zavala, who asked if she was hurt.