White Death (NUMA Files 4)

"But what's something like that doing here "I think we may find out very soon," Green said. The descending airship sank into the structure, and the sections of the dome moved back into place and restored the round shape. Be- fore long, the doors overlooking the plaza slid open, and a group of men emerged from inside the structure. They were dressed in black uniforms, and all had dark, swarthy complexions. They swarmed around a man whose bullish head was set on powerful shoulders.

The man walked over to the edge of the plaza and inspected the progress of the work. Nighthawk had paid little attention to the workers before. But now he could see that, unlike the uniformed men, these people were dressed in jeans and work shirts, and armed guards were watching them.

"Oh hell! "he whispered.

"What's wrong?" Green said.

"Those are men from my village. That's my brother and father.

But I don't see my mother or any of the other women."

The leader continued on his inspection tour, walking around the edge of the plaza. The men who had been guarding the workers watched their leader's progress. Taking advantage of their inatten- tion, one of the laborers had edged closer to the woods. Then he dropped his shovel and made a break for freedom. Something about the way he ran, with a slight limp, looked familiar to Nighthawk.

"That's my cousin," he said. "I can tell by the way he runs. He hurt his foot bad when we were kids."

One of the guards glanced back and saw the fleeing man. He raised his gun to fire, but lowered it at an apparent command from the bull-headed man. He stepped over to a stack of tools and snatched up a sharp-tipped metal pike from the pile. He held it lightly in two hands, drew back like a javelin thrower, then snapped the pike for- ward with all the strength of his squat, powerful body.

The missile flew through the air in a metallic blur. It had been thrown expertly ahead of the runner in a high looping trajectory and timed so that it caught him between the shoulder blades. He went down, pinned like a butterfly in a collection book. By then, the leader had turned his back and didn't even see him fall.

The whole scene-the aborted escape and the killing of his cousin-had taken only a few seconds. Nighthawk had watched, frozen in place, but now he lunged forward and, despite Green's at- tempts to hold him back, broke from cover and ran toward his cousin's body.

Green scrambled after the young Indian and brought him down in a flying tackle. He was on his feet a second later, pulling Nighthawk to his feet by the scruff of his neck. They were clearly vis- ible in the bright glare of lights. Nighthawk saw the guns pointed in their direction, and his instincts took over.

He and Green dashed for the woods. Shots rang out and Green fell. Nighthawk stopped and went to help his companion, but the bullet had caught Green in the back of the head and destroyed his skull. Nighthawk turned and ran, geysers of earth erupting around his feet. He dove into the forest, while a fusillade from the plaza shredded the branches over his head. Under a shower of twigs and leaves, he dashed through the trees until he came to the edge of the lake and his feet pounded onto the dock.

He saw the Jet Skis and wished Green had kept one ignition key. Nighthawk unsheathed a hunting knife from his belt and sliced the mooring lines. Then he shoved the watercraft as far away from the dock as he could. He whipped the tarp from the canoe, pushed off and began to paddle furiously. He was in open water when he saw muzzle flashes from the dock area and heard the rattle of automatic- arms fire. The shooters were firing blind, and their bullets were hit- ting the water off to one side.

The canoe flew across the lake until it was out of range. Night- hawk continued to paddle with all his strength. Once he had gained the other shore, he could lose himself in the deep woods. It is never entirely dark on water, which catches and magnifies even the tiniest speck of light. But now, the lake around him began to glow as if it were infused with a luminescent chemical. He turned and saw that the light was not coming from the lake, but was a reflection.

Behind him, a wide shaft of light was shining toward the heavens. The dome was opening. The airship was rising slowly into the air. When it was a few hundred feet over the trees, the airship headed to- ward the lake. Bathed in the eerie light from below, the airship looked like an avenging monster out of some time-shrouded myth. Instead of approaching on a straight line, the airship turned sharply and moved along the shore. Beams of light shot out from its under- belly and probed the surface of the lake.

After making its first pass, the airship turned onto a parallel track. Rather than make a random thrust into the space over the lake, the airship was conducting a thorough search, using a lawn-mowing pat- tern. Nighthawk was paddling for all he was worth, but it would be only a matter of minutes before the searchlights dancing over the lake's surface caught the canoe.

The airship made another turn and started back on a course that would take it directly over the canoe. Once spotted, the canoe would be an easy target. Nighthawk knew there was only one option avail- able to him. He drew his hunting knife and slashed a hole in the bot- tom of the canoe. Cold water poured in and surged around his waist. The water was up to his neck, as the airship blotted out the sky al- most directly overhead. The guttural noise of its engines blocked out all other sound.

Nighthawk ducked his head and held on to the sinking canoe to keep it below the surface. Above him, the water glowed white from the moving bull's-eyes, then went black again. He stayed under as long as he could, then, gasping for breath, he popped his head out of the water.

The airship had turned for another pass. Nighthawk could hear another sound mingling with the throb of engines. The whine and snarl of Jet Skis. Someone must have had spare ignition keys. Nighthawk swam off at an angle, away from the village.

Minutes later, he saw lights scudding across the lake at great speed as the Jet Skis made directly for the deserted village. Nighthawk kept swimming until he felt soft muck under his feet. He crawled up onto the shore, exhausted from the swim, but he rested only long enough to wring water out of his shirt.

Lights were coming his way along the beach.

Nighthawk took one last, sorrowful look across the lake, before he melted into the woods like a sodden wraith.

20

ABROAD SMILE CROSSED Austin's bronzed face as the taxi crunched onto the long gravel driveway in Fairfax, Virginia. Austin paid his fare from Duties Airport and sprinted up the steps of the Victorian boathouse, part of an old estate fronting on the Potomac River. He dropped his bags inside the door, swept his eye around the combination study-den and the familiar line from Robert Louis Stevenson came to mind.

Home is the sailor, home from sea.

Like Austin himself, his house was a study in contrasts. He was a man of action whose physical strength, courage and quickness made him a force to be reckoned with. Yet he possessed a cool intellect, and he often drew inspiration from the great minds of centuries past. His work often involved the latest in high-tech gadgets, but his respect for the past was crystallized in the brace of dueling pistols that hung over his fireplace. It was part of a collection of more than two hun- dred sets, to which he was always adding, despite the limitations of a government salary.

The dichotomy in his personality was reflected in the comfortable dark-wood Colonial furniture that contrasted with the plain white walls, like those in a New York art gallery, that were hung with con- temporary originals. His extensive bookshelves groaned under the weight of hundreds of books that included first editions of Joseph Conrad and Herman Melville, and well-worn volumes containing the writings of the great philosophers. While he could spend hours studying the works and wisdom of Plato and Kant, his extensive music library was heavy on progressive jazz. Curiously, there was lit- tle to indicate that he spent most of his working days on or under the sea, except for a primitive painting of a clipper ship and a few other sailing vessels, a photo of his catboat under full sail and a glass- encased model of his racing hydroplane.

Austin had lovingly converted the boathouse into a residence, doing much of the work himself. His assignments for NUMA, and before that for the CIA, took him all over the globe. But when his work was done, he could always return to his safe harbor, drop sail and throw the anchor over the side. All that was needed to make the nautical analogy complete, he reflected, was a ration of grog.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of dark rum and Jamaican ginger beer. The ice tinkled pleasantly in his glass as he threw the doors open to release the musty smell. He went out onto the deck, where he filled his lungs with the fresh river air and surveyed the slow-moving Potomac in the vanishing light. Nothing had changed. The river was as beautiful and serene as ever.