Lost City (NUMA Files 5)

"I agree," Gamay said. "Besides, if we're going to stir up a hornet's nest, the fewer hornets the better."

Trout nodded and wheeled the Mercedes to the right. The road ran for another half mile alongside a beach that bordered the inlet. He saw lights glowing in the distance and pulled off the road. He told

the others where he was going and suggested that they get out and stretch, but to stay near the car. Then he started walking. The air was heavy with the smell of the sea and it felt good to be out of the compound. He had no illusions. His freedom was as ephemeral as the waves lapping the beach.

Trout saw that the lights were coming from a concrete-block building. The window shades were down. He gave the building a wide berth and kept on going until he came to a wooden pier that jutted out into the water. There was no patrol boat. Not even a rowboat. The cool breeze from off the sea was nothing to the cold he felt in the pit of his stomach. He trudged back to the Mercedes and slipped behind the wheel.

"The patrol boat is gone," he announced. "We can wait and hope it comes back, but once the sun comes up, all bets are off. I suggest that we scout out the submarine pen."

"It's the last place they'd expect us to be," Gamay said in support.

"It's the last place I'd expect us to be," MacLean said. "We're not what one would call a Special Forces contingent."

"There were only a hundred or so misfits at the Alamo."

"I know my American history, Paul. The Alamo defenders were massacred. And don't tell me about the Scots at Culloden. They were massacred, too."

Trout grinned. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"That's something I can understand. But I'm still not clear what measures you have in mind."

"I'll try to get aboard the sub and look for a radio. If that doesn't work, I'll figure out something else."

"I believe you will," MacLean said, examining Trout as if he were an interesting lab specimen. "You're a very resou

rceful man for a deep-ocean geologist."

"I try to be," Trout said, and turned the ignition key.

He drove the vehicle along the edge of the inlet until he came to the abandoned church and cemetery. He parked behind the ruined building and told the others to sit tight. Gamay insisted on going with him this time. They followed a gravel road that led to where the inlet narrowed to a rounded point.

Floodlights lit the perimeter around the barracks. The Trouts went to within a hundred feet or so of the barracks and studied the layout. The building was situated near the edge of the cliff with an observation platform cantilevered out over the inlet from the main structure. An enclosed ladder led down from the underside of the platform. "Let's check out that ladder," he said.

"I don't think we'll have to worry. It sounds like a Klingon stag party is in progress," Gamay said.

Like the men in the compound, the sub guards must have learned that their duty was about to come to an end because a similar drunken celebration was under way in the guardhouse. Apparently, they hadn't learned the fate of their comrades in the lab. compound area. Gamay and Trout moved in until they were under the platform. The ladder dropped off the edge of the bluff. They climbed down the face of the cliff onto a narrow metal catwalk that was built a few feet above water level and followed a line of ankle-high lights into the yawning entrance of the sub pen.

The giant submarine that had kidnapped them loomed ahead. A few deck lights had been left on, so they were able to find the gangway and walk along the deck to the entry hatch. Trout lifted the hatch cover and poked his head inside. Low-level lights illuminated the sub's interior.

They descended a ladder and began to make their way through the sub as silently as shadows. Trout, who was in the lead, paused to peer around every corner, but he encountered no one. The control room was in semidarkness, lit by lights glowing on the various instrument

panels. The radio shack was a small space off the control room. While Gamay kept watch, Trout sat in front of the communications console, picked up the radiophone, dialed the main number for NUMA and held his breath, not sure what would happen.

"National Underwater and ... Agency," said a friendly female voice.

The faint transmission was broken up, probably by the walls and ceiling of the sub pen.

"Rudi Gunn, please. Tell him this is Paul Trout calling."

"One ... ment."

The moment seemed like a day. In his mind's eye, he pictured the lobby of the NUMA building with its centerpiece globe. Then the voice of NUMA's assistant director came on the phone. He could picture the slightly built Gunn sitting in his big office, probably applying his genius to a complex logistical problem.

"Trout? Where in God's name ... you? We've been looking ... over Creation. Are you okay?"

"Fine, Rudi. Gamay's here, too. Got to talk fast. The Alvin was hijacked. We're on an island I think it's in Scottish or Scandinavian waters. There are seven other scientists also being held prisoner. We've been working on some nutty experiment. We've escaped, but it might not last long."

"Having trouble hear ... you, but understand. Can you stay on ... radio?"