Lost City

"Keep it simple, stupid. We go through the pass, which so happens to be the only way out. Get to the harbor. You said there was a pier there."

"I couldn't be sure. We came in at dusk."

"It's a reasonable assumption. We'll assume that where there is a pier there's a boat. We borrow the boat. Then once we're at sea, we figure out where we are."

"What about contingencies in case something goes wrong?" "There are no contingencies. If something goes wrong, we're dead. But it's worth a try when you consider the alternative."

MacLean studied Trout's face. Behind the academic features was an unmistakable strength and resolve. His mouth widened in a grim smile. "The simplicity appeals to me. It's the execution of the plan that's worrisome."

Trout winced. "I'd prefer to not use the word execution." "Sorry for letting my pessimism show. These people have beaten me down. I'll give it everything I've got."

Trout leaned back in his chair in thought and stared across the room at Gamay and Sandy, who sat side by side examining specimens from the thermal vents. Then his eye swept across the lab, where the other scientists were immersed in their tasks, blissfully unaware of their approaching doom. MacLean joined him in his gaze. "What about these other poor souls?"

"Could Strega have embedded any of them to keep an eye on us?" "I've talked to every one on the train. Their fear for their lives is as genuine as ours is."

Trout's jaw hardened as he realistically considered the complexities of an escape and the chances that any plan would go awry.

"It's going to be risky enough with the four of us. A large group would attract more attention. Our only hope is to make it out of the lab complex in one piece. If we can get control of a boat, it will have a position finder and a radio. We can call in help."

"And if we can't?"

"We'll all be on the same sinking ship." "Very well. How do you propose to get us past the men guarding the electrified fence?"

"I've been thinking of that. We're going to have to create a distraction."

"It will have to be a big one. Strega's men are all professional killers."

"They might have their hands full trying to save their own skins." MacLean's face turned gray when Trout outlined his plan. "My God, man. Things could get completely out of control." "I'm hoping that's exactly what happens. If we can't commandeer transportation, we'll have to go it on foot, which means we will need every minute we can gain."

"Don't look now, but one of the guards is watching," MacLean said. "I'm going to gesture and wave my arms as if I'm angry and frustrated. Don't be alarmed." "Be my guest." MacLean pointed to the spectrometer screen and scowled. He picked the notebook up, slammed it down, muttered a few curses,

then stalked off across the room. Trout stood and stared at MacLean back with a frown on his face. The guard laughed at the confrontation, then pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stepped outside for a smoke.

Trout got up and walked across the lab to break the good news to Gamay and Sandy.

AUSTIN STEPPED through the front door of a noisy pub called the Bloody Sea Serpent and walked across the smoke-filled room to the corner table, where Zavala was, chatting with a toothless man who looked like a Scottish version of the Old Man of the Sea. Zavala saw Austin enter and shook hands with the man, who then rejoined the crowd at the bar.

Austin sat down in the now-vacant chair and said, "Glad to see that you're making friends."

"It's not easy for a Mexican American boy like me. Their accents are as thick as chili, and as if things weren't tough enough, there isn't a single ounce of tequila in the whole town." He lifted his pint of lager to emphasize the terrible state of affairs.

"Appalling," Austin said, with a distinct lack of sympathy. He signaled a waitress, and a minute later he was sipping on a pint of stout. "How did your mission go?" Zavala said.

In reply, Austin reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, pulled out a key ring and dropped it on the table. "You see before you the

key for the newest addition to NUMA's worldwide fleet of state-of-the-art vessels."

"Did you run into any problems?" Zavala said. Austin shook his head. "I strolled along the fish pier and picked out the worst-looking boat I could find. Then I made the owner an offer he couldn't refuse." "He wasn't suspicious?"

"I said I was an American TV producer doing a program on the Outcasts mystery and that we needed the boat right away. After I showed him the money, I could have told him I was from the Planet NUMA, for all he cared. He'll be able to buy a new boat with this windfall. We executed a quick bill of sale to make it legal. I pledged him to silence and promised him a bit part in the show."

"Did he have any theories about the disappearance of the missing Outcasts crew?"

"Lots of them. Mostly waterfront gossip. He said the police combed the island but the authorities have been keeping a tight lid on information. According to the scuttlebutt around the waterfront, the investigators found traces of blood and body parts. People don't seem overly disturbed about the whole thing. There's a rumor that it was all a publicity stunt and the missing crew will pop up on a tropical isle somewhere for a new show. They figure the lone survivor is an actress being paid big bucks to pony up a story about the red-eyed ca

"I picked up some of the same stuff from the guy I was just talking to. He's been around since kilts were invented and knows everyone and everything. I said I was a sport diver and bought a few rounds," Zavala said.

"Did your friend mention any co

"There was talk at first," Zavala said. "Then the publicity stunt rumor began to circulate and that was that."

"How far is the island from the Outcasts set?" "About five miles. The locals think it's a semiofficial operation, and that it's still owned by the government," Zavala said. "Given the place's history, it isn't far-fetched. The fishermen avoid the place. Armed patrol boats pop out the minute anyone even thinks of getting close. Some fishermen swear they've been tailed by miniature subs." "That would fit in with what we know from the satellite photos," said Austin. "They must have encountered the AUV watchdog."

The pub's door opened and the fisherman who'd sold Austin his boat stepped inside. Austin figured the man would buy everyone in the house a drink, and didn't want to get drawn into any good luck celebration and the inevitable questions that would arise. He drained his mug and suggested that Zavala do the same. They left by the pub's back door and stopped off at their rooming house to pick up their gear bags. Minutes later, they were walking along a narrow cobblestone lane that took them to the fog-shrouded harbor.

Austin led the way along the line of boats and stepped in front of a vessel about twenty-five feet long. The lapstrake, or "clinker-built" wooden hull of overlapping planking, had an up swept bow built for rough seas. The deck was open except for a small wheelhouse near the bow. Even in the gauzy mists, they could see that the boat was being held together by numerous coats of paint.

"She's what the local fishermen call a 'creeler," " Austin said. "The former owner says she was built in '71."