Blue Gold (NUMA Files 2)

“Thanks,” Austin said. “Then you must know about the dead gray whales.”

“I do—a very strange story. Any idea what killed them?”

“We might be able to find out with your help.”

“Sure, anything I can do.”

“We’d like to borrow the Sea Robin and the mini and do a little diving south of the border.”

Contos laughed. “You weren’t kidding about a big favor.” He paused in thought, then shrugged. “Why not? We’re just about through with our field tests here. If you can get an oral authorization to work in Mexican waters, it’s fine with me.”

Austin nodded and immediately called NUMA. After a few minutes of conversation he passed the cell phone to Contos. He listened, nodded, asked a few questions, then clicked off. “Looks like we’re heading south. Gunn gave his okay.” Rudi Gunn was NUMA director of operations in Washington. “Two days at the most. He wants you and Joe back so he can put you to work again. One thing, though. He says he won’t have time to get clearance from the Mexican government on short notice.”

“If anyone asks, we can say we were lost,” Austin said with feigned innocence.

Contos gestured at the glittering array of lights and dials on the ship’s console. “That might be a tough story to sell with all the electronics this vessel carries. The Sea Robin may be ugly, but she sure knows what’s going on in the world. We’ll let the State Department iron out any problems if we’re boarded. When do you want to leave?”

“We’ll pick up our gear and get back as soon as possible. The rest is up to you.”

“I’ll schedule a seven A.M. departure for tomorrow,” he said, and turned away to give the crew its new orders.

As Austin was walking back to the car he asked Zavala what Contos meant when he said he knew what Joe had been up to.

“We dated the same woman a few times,” Zavala said with a shrug.

“Is there any female in the District of Columbia you haven’t dated?”

Zavala thought about it. “The first lady. A

s you know, I draw the line at married women.”

“Relieved to hear that,” Austin said, getting behind the wheel.

“But if she becomes divorced, well . . . . ”

They got into the car, and as Austin started the engine he said, “I think this would be a good time for you to tell me about the guy in Nogales who was mauled by a burrito.”

7

UNDER A CLOUDLESS western sky, the teal green McDonnell-Douglas helicopter cleared the rugged peaks of Squaw Mountain, dipped low over the alpine waters of Lake Tahoe, and darted like a startled dragonfly to the California shore. It hovered an instant, then dropped into a tall stand of Ponderosa pine, touching down on a concrete landing pad. As the rotors spun to a stop an elephantine Chevy Suburban lumbered alongside. The driver, who was wearing a uniform the same dark green as the helicopter and the SUV, got out to greet the rangy passenger who stepped from the chopper.

Taking an overnight bag from the passenger’s hand, he said, “Right this way, Congressman Kinkaid.”

They got into the vehicle, which headed along a blacktop drive through thick forest. Minutes later it pulled up in front of a complex of buildings that looked like a redwood version of the fabled Hearst castle of San Simeon. The late-afternoon sun threw the turrets, walls, and towers into fantastic silhouette. A whole forest of giant trees must have been leveled merely to provide the facing. The sprawling edifice was the ultimate log cabin, squared and cubed in size, a series of connecting outbuildings clustered around a three-story main house.

Congressman Kinkaid muttered, “This place is bigger than the Mormon Tabernacle.”

“Welcome to Valhalla,” the driver said noncommittally.

He parked the vehicle in front, took the congressman’s bag, and led him up a wide stairway to a deck as long as a bowling alley, then into a large foyer paneled and beamed in dark, almost black wood. They followed a series of passageways done in the same dark paneling, finally stopping at a set of high metal doors cast in relief and shaped in a Gothic arch.

“I’ll take your bag to your quarters, sir. The others are waiting. You’ll find a nameplate designating your seat.”

The guide pressed a button on the wall, and the doors opened silently. Kinkaid stepped inside and sucked his breath in as the doors clicked shut behind him. He was in a massive, high-ceilinged chamber. The great hall was lit by the fire from a huge hearth and blazing wall torches that vied for space with brightly decorated shields and pennants, spears, battle-axes, swords, and other instruments of death that recalled a time when war was an exercise in personal butchery.

The lethal artifacts paled next to the object occupying the center of the room. It was a Viking ship about seventy feet in length, its oak planking curved into an upswept bow and stern. The single square hide sail was set as if to catch a following breeze. A gangway near the stern allowed access to the deck and to a long table that ran lengthwise with the mast as its center point.

Kinkaid was a Marine veteran who had seen action in Vietnam and was not put off by the intimidating surroundings. Setting his jaw in an unmistakable expression of determination, he crossed the hall to the ship and went up the gangway. Seated around the table were about two dozen men who halted their conversation and looked at him with curiosity. He sat in the last empty chair and glowered at the others. He was about to strike up a conversation with the man on his right when the double doors at the end of the hall were flung open.