Lost City (NUMA Files 5)

Renaud looked startled. Then, thinking the man was joking, decided to play along with the game. He grinned and hugged the box tightly to his chest. "Not on your life," he said.

"No," the man said, without raising his voice. "Not on your life!"

He reached inside his coat, brought out a pistol and slammed the barrel down on Renaud's knuckles. The expression in Renaud's eyes went from amusement to surprise to pain. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his mangled fingers.

The man caught the box before it fell to the ground. Then he wheeled around and waved the gun at the reporters, who fell over themselves trying to back up, before he strode off down the tunnel.

"Stop him!" Renaud said through his pain, holding his crushed fingers.

"What about that telephone?" one reporter said.

Thurston snatched the telephone off the wall and held it to his ear. "Dead," he said with a frown. "The line must have been cut. There's no one back at the living quarters anyhow. We'll hike to the entrance and call for help."

Thurston and LeBlanc helped Renaud to his feet. They administered first aid to his hand with a kit from the lab while the reporters speculated as to the identity of the big man. None of them recognized him. He had simply appeared bearing the proper credentials and been given a seat on the float plane that dropped them off at the edge of the lake where LeBlanc had picked them up.

LeBlanc and Skye said they would join Thurston. The reporters decided to stay put after Thurston warned that the gunman might be waiting in the tunnel. They walked briskly for several minutes, their headlamps stabbing the semidarkness. Then they walked at a slower pace and more deliberately, as if they expected the big man to leap out of the darkness. They listened for footsteps, but all they heard was the dripping of water off the ceiling and walls.

Suddenly, a loud hollow explosion came from the dark tunnel ahead, followed by an earthshaking shock. Almost simultaneously, a blast of hot air surged through the tunnel. They hit the ground, trying to bury their faces into the wet floor as the pressure wave swept over them.

When it seemed safe, they stood and wiped the muck off their faces. Their ears were ringing, so they had to shout to be heard. "What was that}" LeBlanc said.

"Let's take a look." Thurston started forward, fearing the worst.

"Wait!" Skye said.

"What's wrong?" Thurston said.

"Look at your feet."

Light from their headlamps began to reflect off something that was sparkling and moving on the tunnel floor.

"Water!" Thurston yelled.

The torrent rushed toward them.

They turned and ran deeper into the tunnel, with waves lapping at their heels.

THROUGH HIS BINOCULARS Austin had watched Skye get into a car and followed the vehicle as it climbed the slope to one side of the glacier and disappeared berjind the trees. It was as if the earth had swallowed her up. As he leaned against the ship's railing, his eyes were drawn to La Langue du Dormeur. With its mottled surface and the dark brooding peaks on both sides, the glacier looked like a scene from the planet Pluto. Sun glistened on the ice, but it did little to alleviate the waves of cold that poured off the surface and rolled across the mirror-flat lake surface.

Thinking back to Skye's theory, that caravans using the Amber Route had made their way around the edge of the lake, he tried to put himself in the boots of the ancient travelers and wondered what they would have made of a natural phenomenon as big and implacable as the glacier. More than likely, they would have taken it as a creation of the gods, who had to be appeased. Maybe the underwater tomb had something to do with the glacier. He was as anxious to explore the tomb as she was. It would take little effort to launch

the submersible and take a solo run, but she would never forgive him. And he wouldn't blame her.

Austin decided to make sure the submersible was ready for a dive when Skye did return. As he checked out the SEA mobile with a fine-tooth comb, Austin could hear

his father's voice in his head reminding him to make sure of every detail. His father, the wealthy owner of a marine salvage company based in Seattle, had taught Kurt basic seamanship and given him a couple of nuggets of nautical advice. Never tie a knot that can't be undone with a flip of the line, even when the line was wet. And always keep your boat "shipshape and Bristol fashion."

Austin had taken his father's words to heart. The knots he learned through constant practice never snagged. He made sure the lines on the sailing pram his father built for him were neatly coiled, and the brightwork polished and metal kept clean of corrosion. The advice stayed with him when he went on to college. While studying for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington, he also attended a highly rated diving school in Seattle and trained as a professional diver, attaining high proficiency in a number of specialized areas.

After college he worked on North Sea oil rigs for two years and returned to his father's salvage company for six years, before being lured into government service by a little-known branch of the CIA that specialized in underwater intelligence-gathering. At the end of the Cold War, the CIA closed down the undersea investigation branch and he moved over to NUMA.

As a lover of philosophy, with its search for truth and hidden meanings, Austin knew the Old Man's advice went beyond the practical tasks associated with running a boat. His father was telling him in simple terms about life, and the need to be ready and prepared for the unexpected. It was advice Austin took seriously, and his attention

to detail had saved his life and those around him on more than one occasion.

He tested the batteries, made sure the air tanks had been replaced with fresh ones, and examined the vehicle with a practiced eye. Satisfied with his inspection, he gently rapped his knuckles against the transparent dome. "Shipshape and Bristol fashion," he said with a smile.

Austin climbed down from the submersible onto the deck of the Mummichug. The twin-hulled, eighty-foot craft was the smallest NUMA research vessel he had ever worked on. Like the tiny fish that was its namesake, the Mummichug was at home in fresh or salt water. It was a modified version of a vessel designed for inshore duty in the cantankerous waters along the New England coast.