Polar Shift (NUMA Files 6)

Zavala shook his head. "We'd better pull our gear together."

Their other luggage had been stowed in a cabin. Austin pulled a holster out of his duffel, checked the load in his Bowen revolver and stuffed extra ammunition into a fanny pack. For this mission Zavala had chosen a Heckler amp; Koch .45 model that was developed for the army Special Forces. They carried a GPS, compass, portable radios, a first-aid kit and other emergency items. They wore inflatable flotation belts instead of bulky life vests, and dressed for the damp weather with waterproof outer layers over wool.

A crewman knocked on the door and relayed the captain's invitation to come to the bridge. When they entered the pilothouse, Ivanov beckoned them over to a radar screen and pointed to an elongated blip on the monitor.

"This is Ivory Island. We're about ten kilometers from landfall. How close do you want to go?"

There was a slight haze rising from the ice-flecked green water. The sky was overcast. Visibility was less than a mile. "Have someone keep watch through binoculars," Austin said. "When he sees the island, drop anchor."

The captain spread out a chart. "The main harbor is on the south side of the island. There are many smaller coves and inlets around the perimeter."

After conferring with Zavala, Austin decided to explore the expedition headquarters, then follow the river inland.

"We have enough fuel for roughly two hours in the air, so we'll have to keep our search itinerary tight," Austin said.

They went over their plans again and had wrapped up the discussion when the lookout said he could see the island.

"Joe and I are grateful for all your help," Austin told the captain.

"It's nothing," Ivanov said. "Ms. Janos reminds me of my own daughter. Please, do whatever you can to help her."

At Austin's request, the ship was positioned with its stern to the wind and a portion of the deck cleared for takeoff. Austin was pleased to see that the wind was no more than ten miles an hour. A stronger wind might push them backward. He knew, too, that the wind speed in the air would be higher than on the ground.

They first practiced takeoff without the canopy. The trick in a tandem takeoff was to run with synchronized leg movements and launch gently.

"That wasn't bad," Austin said after their first clumsy attempt.

Zavala glanced at the crewmen, who had been watching the practice runs with a mixture of amusement and horror. "I'll bet our Russian friends have never seen a four-legged duck before."

"We'll do better the next time."

Austin's confidence was misplaced. They stumbled halfway to takeoff, but the next two practice runs were nearly perfect. They put on their goggles, spread the canopy on the deck, extended the lines and connected them to the backpack. Austin hit the starter button and the engine whirred softly. The prop wash inflated the canopy so that it rose off the deck. Austin squeezed the hand throttle to rev up the engine, and they began their awkward, double-legged run toward the stern and into the wind. The three-hundred-square-foot canopy caught the wind and jerked them into the air.

Austin added power and they began to climb. The paraglider had a climb rate of three hundred feet per second, but its ascent was logy because they were riding tandem. Eventually, though, they reached an altitude of five hundred feet. Austin pulled on the left-hand line, which brought the wingtip down, and the paraglider went

into a left-hand turn. They flew toward the island at a speed of twenty-five miles per hour.

As they neared land, Austin pulled both wingtips down simultaneously and the paraglider went into a gradual descent. They came in over the right-hand spit of land that enclosed the harbor and swung around on a gradual turn that took them over the deserted beach toward the river he had seen in the charts. Austin saw an object near the river, but the mists enshrouding the paraglider made it difficult to see details.

Zavala shouted, "There's a body down there!"

Austin brought the paraglider lower. The body was in a small, inflatable life raft that had been drawn up on the beach barely out of reach from the river's flow. He saw that the figure had long gray hair. He forced into the wind, stopped the engine and pulled back on both brake handles.

The wing was supposed to act like a parachute and allow for stand-up landings. But they came in too fast and too high. Their knees buckled, and they did a double nose plant in the sand, but at least they were down.

They collapsed the wing, unharnessed the backpack and approached the body of a woman, who was curled up in the raft in a fetal position. Austin squatted next to the raft and felt her pulse. It was weak, but she was alive. He and Zavala gently rolled her over onto her back. Blood stained her jacket near the left shoulder. Austin pulled the first-aid kit from his pack, and Zavala went to open the jacket so they could inspect the wound. The woman groaned and opened her eyes. They filled with fear when she saw the two strangers.

"It's all right," Zavala reassured her in his soft-spoken voice. "We're here to help you."

Austin brought his canteen to the woman's mouth and gave her a drink of water.

"My name is Kurt, and this is my friend Joe," Austin said when the color came back to her face. "Can you tell us your name?"

"Maria Arbatov," she said in a weak voice. "My husband …" Her voice trailed off.

"Are you with the expedition, Maria?"

"Yes."