Fire Ice

Wilkins smiled. "Oh, I don't think there's any danger of the Atlantic City Boardwalk being washed into the sea."

Sandecker raised an eyebrow.

"But," Wilkins added, "there is new research which indicates that what they suggest is not at all far-fetched. The d rock under the overlying layer of the continental shelf is quite waterlogged. If the pressure exerted by the sea bottom reached a critical state, the water would squeeze out. It's as if you stepped on a balloon. The blowout could cause landslides that deform the water and send giant waves toward the shore. Some of my colleagues at Pe

"These slides would have to be triggered by a quake?” Sandecker said.

"A quake could do it, most certainly."

"Could it happen on the East Coast?” Gu

Wilkins tapped the sheaf of printouts in his hand. "This material pretty much spells it out. The continental shelf runs the full length of the coast. In several places along its slope are big cracks and craters where the potential for landslides is greater."

"Could a slide be caused by something other than a quake?” Gu

"It could happen spontaneously. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. This is a whole new area of science."

"I was thinking of a release of methane hydrate."

"Why not? If the hydrate layer is destabilized, sure, the whole shooting match could come tumbling down and set off your giant waves."

Sandecker could see Wilkins's lips about to form a question. He cut the discussion short. "Thank you, Doctor. You've been a great help, as always." He ushered Wilkins to the door, patted him on the back and thanked him again. Returning to the others, he said, "I hope you weren't insulted at my bringing Dr. Wilkins in. I wanted to hear from an independent source."

"From what we heard," Gu

“The Ataman Explorer is the key," Austin said. "We've got to find her."

"We'll have to do more," Sandecker said with quiet urgency. "We've got to get aboard that ship!"

28

ROCKY POINT, MAINE

BEFORE THE BIG wave had hit, Rocky Point had been the quintessential rock-ribbed Maine town, its picturesque harbor and neat clapboard-and-shingle houses appearing in countless calendars. The tidy Main Street could have come from a Frank Capra movie. But as Jenkins's boat moved out of the harbor, Austin gazed back toward land and thought that the town now looked like one of those pictures where the viewer was challenged to detect the mistakes. Plenty was wrong with this picture.

The waterfront lobster restaurants, the fish pier and the controversial motel were gone, and all that was left were pilings that jutted from the water like bad teeth. Spherical Day-Glo warning buoys bobbed on the water to mark sunken wrecks. Cranes clawed away at the wreckage of boats on shore. Debris of every kind swirled in the Kestrel's wake.

Had Austin been of a more poetical bent, he would have said that the big wave had stolen the town's soul. "What I mess," was the best he could come up with.

"Coulda been worse," said Police Chief Charlie Howes, who stood next to Austin in the boat's stern.

"Yeah, if hit by a nuclear missile," Austin said, with a shake of his head.

"Yep," Howes replied, not letting an outlander outdo his Maine talent for brevity of speech.

Austin had been introduced to the chief a few hours earlier. A NUMA executive corporate jet had whisked Austin, Paul Trout and Jenkins to the Portland Airport. Jenkins had called ahead to Chief Howes, and he was waiting at the air- port in a police cruiser to drive the men to Rocky Point.

After the meeting with Sandecker, Austin had gone to his office with the satellite photos of the Ataman Explorer and studied them under a high-powered magnifying glass. Even though the pictures had been shot from thousands of feet up, they were sharp and detailed. He could easily read the ship's name on the hull and see people on deck.

Austin was immediately struck by the ship's resemblance to the Glomar Explorer, the six-hundred-foot-long salvage vessel Howard Hughes had built in the 1970s on secret contract to the CIA to retrieve a sunken Soviet submarine. Tall derricks and cranes similar to those on the Glomar extended off the deck like waterborne oil rigs.

Austin examined the ship from stem to stern, paying particular attention to the deck area around the derricks. He made a few sketches on a pad of paper and sat back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. He had figured out a way to set onto the Ataman Explorer. It was a long shot and depended on how close he could get to it The vessel would run for cover at the first sight of a NUMA ship. He thought about the problem for a few minutes, recalling his Black Sea experience with Captain Kemal, then picked up his phone, called Yaeger and asked where Jenkins was.

"Doc Reed is giving him the NUMA VIP tour. He's offered to put Jenkins up for the night before he catches a plane back to Maine tomorrow."

"See if you can track them down and give me a call." Austin's phone rang a few minutes later. Austin outlined his plan to Jenkins, making no effort to soft pedal its possible dangers. Jenkins didn't hesitate for a second. When Austin was through describing his wild scheme, Jenkins said, "I'll do anything you can think of to get back at the bums who ruined my town."

Austin told Jenkins to enjoy his tour while he made a few phone calls. The first call was to the NUMA transportation section to see if fast transportation was available. The second was to the Trout's Georgetown town house. Gamay had left a message saying she and Paul were home from Istanbul and were standing by for orders. Austin got Paul on the phone and brought him up to date.

In the meantime, Jenkins started calling those local fishermen whose boats were still afloat and asked if they would like to do a job. At Austin's suggestion, Jenkins told the fishermen that NUMA needed their boats for a deep-ocean species study. As a bonus, the substantial sums they were being paid would be matched by no-strings grants to get their port back into shape without going through the usual government red tape.

Jenkins had no trouble recruiting fishermen, and when the Kestrel left port shortly after dawn, six other lobster boats and trawlers trailed behind him single-file. Charlie Howes had insisted on going along, and Jenkins was glad to have him. The chief had trapped lobsters for a living before joining the police department and hadn't lost his sea sense.

The fishing fleet passed the rock-ribbed promontory that gave the town its name, and entered the open ocean. The sea was a bright bottle green. Only a few whispery cirrus clouds marred the azure sky, and the breeze was a gentle westerly. The line of boats plodded east, then south, climbing the rolling swells and sliding down the other sides in an easy rhythm. Periodically, Gamay called from NUMA headquarters with the Ataman Explorer's position as seen by satellite.

Austin penciled the positions on a chart of the Gulf of Maine, the expansive stretch of water between the long Maine coast and the curving arm of Cape Cod. The ship seemed to be moving in a big, lazy circle. Austin guessed it was in a holding pattern. Gamay used a simple code so anyone listening would think they were hearing fishermen's chatter. Jenkins and Howes politely ignored Gamay's butchering of the Maine dialect. But when the voice that over the speaker said, "Catching some good haaadik floundah soweast of my last set, ayup," they could remain silent no longer.