White Death

Where are those damned Americans?" Becker growled.

"Good news. They just called," said the captain. "They expect to be here in five minutes."

"About time, Becker said.

Like his colleague on the LeifErifsson, Captain Larsen was tall and blond with a craggy profile. "In all fairness," he said, "it's only been a matter of hours since the cruiser went down. The NATO response team needed a minimum of seventy-two hours to place a mother ship, crew and rescue vehicle on site. The NUMA people have lived up to their pledge to get here within eight hours. They deserve some lee- way."

"I know, I know," Becker said, more in exasperation than anger. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but every minute counts." He flicked the cigarette butt into the sea and jammed his hands even further into his pockets. "Too bad Denmark no longer has capital punishment," he fumed. "I'd like to see that whole murderous SOS bunch swing- ing from the end of a rope."

"You're sure they deliberately rammed you?"

"No doubt of it! They changed course and came directly at us. Bang! Like a torpedo." He glanced at his watch. "You're sure the Americans said five minutes? I don't see any ships approaching."

"That is puzzling," the captain said. He raised his binoculars and sca

The pencil-point speck grew rapidly larger against the slate-gray cloud cover, and before long the thrump-thrump of rotors was audi- ble. The aircraft made directly for the Thor and buzzed the ship slightly higher than mast-level, then it banked and went into a wide circle around the research vessel. The letters NUMA were clearly visible in big bold letters on the side of the turquoise Bell 212.

The ship's first mate trotted across the deck toward the captain and pointed to the circling chopper. "It's the Americans. They're asking permission to land."

The captain replied in the affirmative, and the crewman relayed the okay into a squawking hand radio. The helicopter swooped in, hovered above the stern deck and descended in slow motion, mak- ing a gentle landing at the exact center of the white circle that marked the helipad.

The door flew open, and two men emerged under the spi

The broad-shouldered man leading the way was just over six feet tall and around two hundred pounds, Becker estimated. His hair was gray, but as the man drew near, Becker saw that he was young, probably around forty. His dark-complexioned companion was slightly shorter, younger and slimmer. He walked with the panther- like grace of a boxer; it would not have surprised Becker if he'd known that the man had financed his way through college fighting as a middleweight. His movements were relaxed, but with the in- herent energy of a coiled spring.

The captain stepped forward to greet the Americans. "Welcome to the Thor/' he said.

"Thanks. I'm Kurt Austin from the National Underwater and Marine Agency," said the husky man, who looked as if he could walk through a wall. "And this is my partner, Joe Zavala." He shook hands Wth the captain, then Becker, almost bringing tears to the Dane's eyes Wth a crushing handshake. Zavala pulverized those bones Austin had missed.

You made good time," the captain said.

"We're a few minutes behind schedule," Austin said. "The logis- tics were somewhat complicated."

"That's all right. Thank God you came!" Becker said, rubbing his hand. He glanced toward the helicopter. "Where's the rescue team?"

Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance. "You're looking at it," Austin said.

Becker's astonishment gave way to barely restrained fury. He whirled around to face the captain. "How in God's name are these two… gentlemen going to rescue Captain Petersen and his men?"

Captain Larsen was wondering the same thing, but was more re- served. "I suggest you ask them," he replied, with obvious embar- rassment at Becker's outburst.

"Well?" Becker said, glaring first at Austin, then at Zavala. Becker could not have known that the two men who had stepped off the helicopter equaled a shipload of rescuers. Born in Seattle, Austin had been raised in and around the sea, which was not sur- prising, since his father was the owner of a marine salvage company. While studying for his master's degree in systems management at the University of Washington, he'd attended a highly rated Seattle dive school, where he'd attained proficiency in a number of specialized areas. He'd put his expertise to work on North Sea oil rigs, had worked for his father awhile, then had been hired by the CIA to conduct underwater intelligence. When the Cold War ended, he'd been recruited by Sandecker to head the Special Assignments Team.

Zavala was the son of Mexican parents who had waded across the Rio Grande, settling in Santa Fe. His oil-stained mechanical genius was the stuff of legend around the halls ofNUMA, and he could re- pair, modify or restore any kind of engine ever devised. He had spent thousands of hours as a pilot in helicopters and small jet and turbo- prop craft. His assignment to Austin's team had proved a fortunate pairing. Many of their assignments would never become public knowledge, but their wisecracking camaraderie in the face ofdan- aer masked a steely determination and a competence few could rival.

Austin calmly regarded Becker with piercing blue-green eyes the color of coral under water. He was not unsympathetic to Becker's plight and deflected the Dane's fury with a broad smile. "Sorry for being flip. I should have explained immediately that the rescue ve- hicle is on its way."

"Should be here in about an hour," Zavala added.

"There's a lot we can do in the meantime," Austin said. He turned to the captain. "I need help unloading a piece of equipment from the chopper. Can you spare a few men with strong backs?"

"Yes, of course." The captain was relieved to be doing something at last. Moving with crisp efficiency, he dispatched his first mate to round up the work detail.

At Austin's direction, the grunting crewmen lifted a large wooden crate from the helicopter's storage compartment and set it down on the deck. Using a crowbar from the helicopter, Austin pried the top off the box and peered inside. After a quick inspection, he said, "Everything looks shipshape. What's the latest on the situation?"

Captain Larsen pointed to the bobbing buoy that marked the sunken cruiser. While Austin and Zavala listened intently, Larsen provided a quick summary of the collision and sinking.

It doesn't make sense," Austin said. "From what you say, they had plenty of sea room."

So did theAndrea Doria and the Stockholm/' Zavala said, refer- ring to the disastrous sea collision off Nantucket.

Becker mumbled something about SOS criminals, but Austin ig- nored him and concentrated on the business at hand. "What makes you so sure the captain and his men are still alive?"

We were doing a whale population survey not far from here when we got the call for help," Larsen said. "We dropped a hy- drophone over the side and picked up the sound of someone tapping an SOS on the hull in Morse code. Unfortunately, we can only re- ceive, not send, messages. However, we determined that there were thirteen men, including Captain Andersen, trapped in a pocket of air in the forward bunkroom. The air is foul, and they were in the early stages of hypothermia."