Medusa (NUMA Files 8)

Zavala managed a slight smile, reaching out his hand.

“In that case,” he said, “I’ll take that vodka you offered me.”

The man handed the bottle over, and Zavala took a tentative sip. He felt the fiery liquor trickle down his throat, but it did little to alleviate the throbbing in his head. He put his hand to his head and felt a bandage wrapped around it like a turban. He still had the bruises on his scalp from his B3 adventure.

“Your head was bleeding,” the man said. “It was the best we could do.”

“Thanks for the first aid. Who are you guys?” Zavala asked.

“I am Captain Mehdev and these are my officers. You are on a nuclear-powered Akula missile submarine. We are what you Americans know as the P

roject 941 Typhoon, the biggest class submarine in the world. I am the commander.”

“Nice to meet you,” Zavala said, shaking the captain’s hand. “My name is Joe Zavala. I’m with the American National Underwater and Marine Agency. You’ve probably heard of it.”

Mehdev reached into a pocket of his windbreaker and produced Zavala’s laminated NUMA ID with his picture on it.

“Anyone who goes to sea is familiar with the great work of NUMA,” Mehdev said. “Your beautiful ships are known around the world.”

Zavala took the ID and tucked it into his shirt pocket, grabbed the blanket from the bunk, and wrapped it around him to soak up moisture from his clothes. He took another sip from the bottle and handed it back. One of the officers went over to a sink and got him a glass of water. Zavala washed away the vodka taste with it, and touched his head bandage again.

“No offense, Captain, but you should pay more attention to your driving. Your submarine surfaced right under me and my helicopter.”

Mehdev did another translation that his officers found hilarious, but when he turned back to Zavala he had a somber expression on his face.

“My apologies,” the captain said. “I was ordered to take the vessel to the surface and bring you aboard. Even for someone with my experience, it is difficult maneuvering a six-hundred-foot-long vessel with any degree of precision. You were floating in the water. We brought you on board. I am sorry too for the loss of your helicopter.”

“Who told you to take me prisoner?”

A frown came to Mehdev’s genial face.

“The same criminals who hijacked my submarine and have held me and my crew prisoners,” he said.

Mehdev launched with angry gusto into his fantastic story. He was a Navy veteran of the Typhoon service who had gone into civilian work. The Rubin Central Design Bureau, which designed the submarine, had come up with the idea to use decommissioned Typhoons to carry freight under the Arctic Ocean. The missile silos were replaced with cargo holds that had a capacity of fifteen thousand tons. A corporate buyer purchased the sub, and it was Mehdev’s job to deliver the vessel to its new owner.

The crew of seventy or so was half the normal complement, but without the need for weapons specialists it was large enough to do the job. They were promised big paychecks. The captain’s instructions were to surface for an at-sea rendezvous. But a Chinese freighter carrying armed men met them and took over the ship. They were told to sail the ship to the Pacific Ocean. Using a torpedo tube, the kidnappers launched a missile, targeting a surface ship. Then the Typhoon was involved in an operation to move the underwater lab off the ocean floor.

“Where is the lab now?” Zavala asked.

Mehdev pointed downward with his index finger.

“About three hundred feet beneath our hull, at the bottom of a submerged caldera,” he said. “There was an eruption many years ago and the volcano collapsed, leaving the caldera in place of the island that was once here. Coral grew on the rim, establishing the reef you came across.”

“How did your vessel break through the reef?” Zavala asked.

“We didn’t. We passed under it. The Japanese blasted a tunnel through the caldera, planning to use this place as a submarine base in World War Two. They were going to wait until the American fleet bypassed the atoll and come up behind them with German supersubs to sink their ships. A clever plan. But the Allies bombed the German submarine factories, and then the war ended.” Then Mehdev asked, “What do you know of this lab? It must be important.”

“Very important,” Zavala said. “The U.S. Navy has planes and ships out searching. I flew over the lagoon. The water is as clear as crystal. Why didn’t I see you?”

“We’re below a camouflage net stretched across the lagoon. It’s what you Americans call low-tech.”

“What about the island I landed on in the lagoon?”

“That is high-tech. An artificial platform on floats, kept in place through a propulsion system geared to a self-correcting navigational system. It provides an observation post to detect intruders. You were seen long before you landed.”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to create a hideaway.”

“My understanding is, the people behind this scheme intended to use the atoll for transpacific smuggling.”