Treasure of Khan

-1-

The still waters of the world's deepest lake radiate the deep translucent blue of a polished sapphire. Fed by cold ancient streams that are free of silt and sediments, Lake Baikal possesses remarkably crystalline clear waters. A tiny crustacean, Baikal epishura, aids the cause by devouring algae and plankton growths that degrade most freshwater lakes. The combination produces such a stunning clarity to the water that on a calm day, a silver coin can be seen from the surface at a one-hundred-foot depth.

Surrounded by craggy snowcapped peaks to the north and dense taiga forests of birch, larch, and pine to the south, the "Blue Pearl of Siberia" stretches as a beacon of beauty across an otherwise hostile landscape. Situated in the dead center of lower Siberia, the four-hundred-mile-long crescent-shaped lake curves south to north just above the border with Mongolia. A massive body of water, Lake Baikal is nearly a mile deep in some spots and holds one-fifth of all the fresh water on the planet, more than all of North America's Great Lakes combined. Just a few small fishing villages dot the lake's shore, leaving the enormous lake a nearly vacant sea of tranquility. Only at its southern end does the lake sprawl toward any significant population centers. Irkutsk, a modestly hip city to a half million Siberian residents, sits forty-five miles west, while the ancient city of Ulan-Ude lies a short distance from its eastern shoreline.

Theresa Hollema glanced up from a laptop computer and briefly admired the purple mountains at the edge of the lake, crowned by cotton-ball clouds that grazed their peaks. The Dutch geophysicist delighted in the clear blue skies that so seldom graced her home outside of Amsterdam. Drawing a deep breath of the crisp air, she subconsciously tried to absorb the scenery through all her senses.

"It is an agreeable day on the lake, no?" asked Tatiana Borjin. She spoke with a deep voice in the emotionless manner endemic to Russians speaking English. Yet the gruff tone and a businesslike personality didn't match her appearance. Although she resembled the local ethnic Buryats, she was, in fact, Mongolian. With long black hair, bronze skin, and almond-shaped eyes, she possessed a natural and robust beauty. But there was a deep intensity behind her dark eyes that seemed to take everything in life with harsh seriousness.

"I had no idea that Siberia was so beautiful," Theresa replied. "The lake is breathtaking. So calm and peaceful."

"She is a calm jewel at the moment but can turn wicked in an instant. The Sarma, sudden winds from the northwest, can burst onto the lake with the force of a hurricane. The local graveyards are filled with fishermen who failed to respect the forces of Baikal."

A slight chill ran up Theresa's spine. The locals seemed to constantly speak of the spirit of the lake.

Baikal's pristine waters were a proud cultural resource to the Siberians, and protecting the lake from industrial pollutants had fostered an environmental movement that had grown globally. Even the Russian government was surprised at the widespread outcry when it had first decided to build a wood-cellulose-processing plant on its southern shores fifty years earlier. Theresa just hoped that a Greenpeace rubber boat armada would not appear to assail their presence on the lake.

At least her involvement was relatively harmless, she convinced herself. Her employer, Royal Dutch Shell, had been contracted to survey a section of the lake for reported oil seeps. Nobody said anything about drilling or exploratory wells, and she was confident that would never happen on the lake anyway.

The company was just trying to cozy up to the owners of some exploratory Siberian oil fields in hope of landing more significant business.

Theresa had never heard of the Avarga Oil Consortium before traveling to Siberia but knew there were a variety of oil companies clamoring in the Russian marketplace. A few of the government-sponsored companies, like Yukos and Gazprom, grabbed all the headlines, but, like anywhere in the world, there were always some little wildcatters owning a smaller piece of the pie. From the looks of what she'd seen so far, the Avarga Oil Consortium didn't even have a piece of the crust.

"They're obviously not pumping their revenues into R & D," she joked to the two Shell technicians that accompanied her as they climbed aboard the leased survey boat.

"Clever how they designed her to resemble a decrepit fishing boat," cracked Jim Wofford, a tall, friendly geophysicist from Arkansas who wore a thick mustache and a ready smile.

The high-prowed black fishing boat looked like it should have been scuttled years earlier. The exterior paint was peeling everywhere and the whole vessel reeked of wood rot and dead fish. It had been decades since the brightwork had been polished, and only the occasional rainstorm accounted for any washing of the decks. Theresa noted with unease that the bilge pump ran continuously.

"We do not possess our own sea vessels," Tatiana said without apology. As the representative from Avarga Oil, she had been the sole interface with the Shell survey team.

"That's all right, for what it lacks in space it makes up for in discomfort." Wofford smiled.

"True, but I bet there's some caviar hiding aboard someplace," replied Wofford's partner, Dave Roy, a fellow seismic engineer who spoke in a soft Boston accent. As Roy knew, Lake Baikal was the home to enormous sturgeon that could carry up to twenty pounds of caviar.

Theresa helped lend a hand as Roy and Wofford lugged aboard their seismic monitors, cable, and towfish, organizing the equipment on the cramped stern deck of the twenty-eight-foot fishing boat.

"Caviar? With your beer tastes?" Theresa chided.

"As a matter of fact, the two make an excellent combination," Roy replied with mock seriousness. "The sodium content of caviar produces a hydration craving that is perfectly fulfilled by a malt-based beverage."

"In other words, it's a good excuse to drink more beer."

"Who needs an excuse to drink beer?" Wofford asked indignantly.

"I give up." Theresa laughed. "Far be it for me to argue with an alcoholic. Or two."

Tatiana looked on without amusement, then nodded toward the boat's captain when all the equipment had been stowed aboard. A dour-faced man who wore a jacquard tweed hat, the captain's most notable feature was a wide bulbous nose tinted red from a steady consumption of vodka. Ducking into the small wheelhouse, he fired up the boat's smoky diesel engine, then released the dock lines. In calm waters, they chugged away from their berth at the small fishing and tourist village of Listvyanka, located on the lake's southwest shoreline.

Tatiana unrolled a map of the lake and pointed to an area forty miles north of the town.

"We shall survey here, at Peschanaya Bay," she told the geologists. "There have been numerous surface oil slicks reported by the fishermen in this area, which would seem to indicate a hydrocarbon seepage."

"You're not going to take us sniffing around in deep water, are you, Tatiana?" Wofford asked.

"I understand the limitations of the equipment available to us. Though we have a number of potential seeps in the center of the lake, I realize the depths are too great for us to survey in those regions. Our research objective is focused on four locations in the south of Lake Baikal that are all near the shoreline, presumably in shallow water."

"We'll find out easy enough," Roy replied as he plugged a waterproof data cable into a three-foot-long yellow towfish. In addition to providing an acoustically derived image of the lake bed, the side-scan sonar sensor would also indicate the relative bottom depth when towed.

"Are the sites all located on the western shoreline?" Theresa asked.

"Only the target area in Peschanaya Bay. We must cross the lake to the other three sites, which are on the eastern shore."

The old fishing boat motored past the docks of Listvyanka, passing a hydrofoil ferry slicing into port on its return from a transport run to Port Baikal on the opposite shore of the Angara River. The sleek enclosed passenger ferry looked out of place beside the small fleet of aged wooden fishing boats that filled Listvyanka's waters. Escaping the small harbor, the fishing boat turned north, hugging the craggy western shore of the cold lake. Deep, rich forests of taiga marched down to the shoreline in a carpet of green, interspersed with rolling meadows of thick grass. The rich colors of the landscape against the crystal blue lake made it difficult for Theresa to picture the stark bitterness of the region in the dead of winter, when a layer of ice four feet thick covered the lake. A shiver at the thought made her glad she was visiting when the days were longest.

It was of little matter to Theresa, though. The petroleum engineer's true love was traveling and she would have gladly visited the lake in January just for the experience. Bright and analytical, she had chosen her career less for the intellectual challenge than for the opportunity to travel to remote places around the globe. Extended stints in Indonesia, Venezuela, and the Baltic were broken up by the occasional two-week assignment like this one, where she was sent to survey an offbeat prospective oil field.

Working in a man's field proved to be no setback, as her vivacious personality and humorous outlook on life easily broke down barriers with men who weren't already attracted to her athletic build, dark hair, and walnut eyes.

Forty miles north of Listvyanka, a shallow bay called Peschanaya cut into the western shoreline, protecting a narrow sandy beach. As the captain nosed the boat's prow into the bay, Tatiana turned to Theresa and proclaimed, "We will start here."

With the engine thrown into neutral and the boat drifting, Roy and Wofford lowered the side-scan sonar towfish over the stern as Theresa mounted a GPS antenna onto the side rail and plugged it into the sonar's computer. Tatiana glanced at a fathometer mounted in the wheelhouse and shouted, "Depth, thirty meters."

"Not too deep, that's good," Theresa said as the boat moved forward again, towing the sensor a hundred feet behind. A digitally enhanced image of the lake bed scrolled by on a color monitor that captured the processed sound waves emitted from the towfish.

"We can acquire meaningful results as long as the depth stays under fifty meters," Wofford said.

"Anything deeper and we'll need more cable and a bigger boat."

"And more caviar," Roy added with a hungry look.

Slowly the fishing boat swept back and forth across the bay, its hardened captain spinning the ship's wheel lightly in his hands as the four visitors on the stern hunched over the sonar monitor. Unusual geological formations were noted and their positions marked, as the experienced oil surveyors looked for lake bed features that might indicate a hydrocarbon seep. Further studies, using core sampling or geochemical analysis of water samples, would still need to be undertaken to verify a seep, but the side-scan sonar would allow the surveyors to zero in on future geological points to examine.

As they reached the northern edge of the bay, Theresa stood and stretched as the captain swung the boat around and aligned it for the last survey lane. Toward the center of the lake, she noticed a large dirty-gray ship sailing north. It appeared to be some sort of research vessel, with an old-style helicopter wedged on the stern deck. The rotors on the helicopter were sweeping in an arc, as if preparing to take off. Scanning above the bridge, she noted oddly that the ship's mast appeared to be flying both a Russian and an American flag. Likely a joint scientific study, she mused. Reading up on Lake Baikal, she was surprised to learn of the West's scientific interest in the picturesque lake and its unique flora and fauna.

Geophysicists, microbiologists, and environmental scientists migrated from around the world to study the lake and its pure waters.

"Back on line," Roy's voice shouted across the deck. Twenty minutes later, they reached the southern edge of the bay, completing their multilane sweep. Theresa determined that there were three lake bed structures seen with the sonar that would warrant further examination.

"That wraps it up for the opening act of today's program," Wofford said. "Where to next?"

"We will cross the lake to a position here," Tatiana said, tapping the map with a slender finger.

"Thirty-five kilometers southeast of our current position."

"Might as well leave the sonar in the water. I don't think this boat can go much faster than our survey speed anyway, and we'll get a look at the water depths as we cross over," Theresa said.

"No problem," Wofford said, taking a seat on the deck and stretching his legs up onto the side railing.

As he casually watched the sonar monitor, a quizzical expression suddenly appeared on his face. "That's odd," he muttered.

Roy leaned over and studied the monitor. The shadowy image of the lake bottom had abruptly gone haywire, replaced by a barrage of spiked lines running back and forth across the monitor.

"Towfish bouncing off the bottom?" he asked.

"No," Wofford replied, checking the depth. "She's riding forty meters above the lake floor."

The interference continued for several more seconds, then, as abruptly as it started, it suddenly ceased.

The contours of the lake bottom again rolled down the screen in clear imagery.

"Maybe one of those giant sturgeon tried to take a bite out of our towfish," Wofford joked, relieved that the equipment was working properly again. But his words were followed by a low, deep rumble that echoed across the water.

Far longer and lower pitched than a clap of thunder, the sound had an odd muffled quality to it. For nearly half a minute, the strange murmur echoed across the lake. All eyes on the boat scanned north in the direction of the noise, but no visible source was evident.

"Some sort of construction?" Theresa asked, searching for an answer.

"Maybe," Roy replied. "It's a long ways off, though."

Glancing at the sonar monitor, he noticed a brief spate of noise that minimally disrupted the image before a clean contour of the lake bed reappeared.

"Whatever it is," Wofford grimaced, "I just wish it would stop messing with our equipment."

-2-

Ten miles to the north, Rudi Gunn walked onto the bridge wing of the gray-hulled Russian research vessel Vereshchagin and looked up at the azure sky overhead. Removing a thick pair of horn-rimmed glasses, he carefully cleaned the lenses and then peered upward again. Shaking his head, he walked back onto the bridge and muttered, "Sounds like thunder, but there's hardly a cloud in the sky."

A hearty laugh erupted at his words, flowing from a portly man with black hair and matching beard. Dr.

Alexander Sarghov resembled a circus bear, his large frame softened by a jovial demeanor and warm ebony eyes that twinkled with life. The geophysicist from the Russian Academy of Sciences Limnological Institute enjoyed a good laugh, especially if it was at the expense of his newfound American friends.

"You Westerners are very amusing," he chuckled in a heavily accented voice.

"Alexander, you'll have to excuse Rudi," answered a warm, deep voice from the opposite side of the bridge. "He's never lived in an earthquake zone."

The green opaline eyes of Dirk Pitt sparkled with mirth as he helped heckle his deputy. The head of the National Underwater and Marine Agency stood up from a bank of video monitors and stretched his six-foot-three frame, his palms scraping against the deckhead. Though more than two decades of undersea adventures had exacted a toll on his rugged body, he still had a lean and fit form. Just a few more wrinkles around the eyes and a growing tussle of gray at the temples indicated a wavering battle with age.

"An earthquake?" Gunn speculated. The brainy deputy director of NUMA, an Annapolis graduate and former Navy commander, stared out the bridge in wonder.

"I've only been in one or two, but those were felt and not heard."

"Puny ones just rattled the dishes, but larger quakes can sound like a string of locomotives running by,"

Pitt said.

"There is a great deal of tectonic activity under Lake Baikal," Sarghov added. "Earthquakes occur frequently in this region."

"Personally, I can do without them," Gunn said sheepishly, retaining his seat by the monitor bank. "I hope they don't disrupt our data collection of the lake's currents."

The Vereshchagin was engaged in a joint Russian-American scientific survey of Lake Baikal's uncharted current flows. Not one to stay confined in NUMA's Washington headquarters, Pitt was leading a small team from the government research agency in collaboration with local scientists from the Limnological Institute at Irkutsk. The Russians provided the ship and crew, while the Americans provided high-tech sonobuoys and monitoring equipment which would be used to paint a three-dimensional image of the lake and its currents. The great depth of Lake Baikal was known to create unique water-circulation patterns that often behaved unpredictably. Tales of swirling vortexes and fishing boats getting pulled underwater by their nets were common stories among the local lakeside communities.

Starting at the northern tip of the lake, the scientific team had deployed dozens of tiny sensors, packaged in orange colored pods that were ballasted to drift at varying depths. Constantly measuring temperature, pressure, and position, the pods relayed the data instantaneously to a series of large underwater transponders that were positioned in fixed locations. Computers onboard the Vereshchagin processed the data from the transponders, displaying the results in 3-D graphic images. Gunn glanced at a bank of the monitors in front of his seat, then focused on one in particular, which depicted the midsection of the lake. The image resembled a pack of orange marbles floating in a bowl of blue ice cream. Nearly in unison, a vertical string of the orange balls suddenly jumped rapidly toward the top edge of the screen.

"Whoa! Either one of our transponders is going tilt or there's a significant disturbance at the bottom of the lake," he blurted.

Pitt and Sarghov turned and studied the monitor, watching as a flood of orange dots raced toward the surface.

"The current is uplifting, at a dramatic rate," Sarghov said with a raised brow. "I find it difficult to believe the earthquake was severe enough to produce that kind of effect."

"Perhaps not the earthquake itself," Pitt said, "but a resulting side effect. A submarine landslide set off by a minor quake might create that sort of uplift."

A hundred and thirty miles north of the Vereshchagin and two thousand feet beneath the surface, Pitt was exactly right. The rumblings that first echoed across the lake were the shock waves from a strong earthquake, measuring 6.7 on the Richter scale. Though seismologists would later determine that the quake's epicenter was near the lake's northern shore, it created a devastating effect midway down the western flank, near Olkhon Island. A large, dry, barren landmass, Olkhon sat near the center of the lake.

Directly off the island's eastern shoreline, the lake floor dropped like an elevator down a steep slope that ran to the deepest part of the lake.

Seismic studies had revealed dozens of fault lines running beneath the lake floor, including a cut at Olkhon Island. Had an underwater geologist examined the fault line before and after the quake, he would have measured a movement of less than three millimeters. Yet those three millimeters was sufficient enough to create what the scientists call a "fault rupture with vertical displacement," or an underwater landslide.

The unseen effects of the quake sheared off a mountain-sized hunk of alluvial sediments nearly twenty meters thick. The runaway chunk of loose sediments slid down a subterranean ravine like an avalanche, accumulating mass and building momentum as it went. The mountain of rock, silt, and mud fell a half mile, obliterating underwater hills and outcroppings in its path before colliding with the lake bottom at a depth of fifteen hundred meters.

In seconds, a million cubic meters of sediment was dumped on the lake floor in a dirty cloud of silt. The muffled rumble of the massive landslide quickly fell away, but the violent energy produced by the slide was just unleashed. The moving sediment displaced a massive wall of water, driving it first to the bottom ahead of the landslide and then squeezing it up toward the surface. The effect was like a cupped hand pushing under the surface of a bathtub. The force from millions of gallons of displaced water had to be redirected somewhere.

The submarine landslide had fallen in a southerly direction off Olkhon Island and that was the direction that the mounting swell of water began to move. To the north of the slide, the lake would remain relatively undisturbed, but to the south a rolling wave of destructive force was released. At sea, the moving force of water would be labeled a tsunami, but in the confines of a freshwater lake it was called a seiche wave.

An upsurge of water punched the surface in a ten-foot-high rolling wave that drove south along the lake's lower corridor. As the wave pushed into shallower depths, the upswell squeezed higher, increasing the size and speed of the surface wave. To those in its path, it would be a liquid wall of death.

On the bridge of the Vereshchagin, Pitt and Gunn tracked the development of the killer wave with growing alarm. An enlarged three-dimensional map of the lake south of Olkhon Island showed a swirl of orange dots jumping in rapid succession across an expanding line.

"Dial up the surface pods only, Rudi. Let's find out exactly what's going on up top," Pitt requested.

Gunn typed a short command into the computer and a two-dimensional image suddenly appeared on the monitor, showing an array of surface pods bobbing over a five-mile stretch of the lake. All eyes on the bridge focused on the screen as one orange pod after another visibly jumped in a slow line of progression from north to south.

"It's a rolling wave, all right. The sensors are getting kicked up almost five meters as it passes," Gunn reported. He double-checked his measurements, then nodded silently to Pitt and Sarghov with a grim look on his face.

"Of course, a landslide would produce such a wave," Sarghov said, comprehending the electronic images. The Russian pointed to a map of the lake pinned to the bulkhead. "The wave will pass through the shallow delta of the Selenga River as it moves south. Perhaps that will dilute its force."

Pitt shook his head. "As the wave moves into shallower water, it will likely have the opposite effect and increase its surface force," he said. "How fast is she moving, Rudi?"

Gunn toggled the computer mouse and drew a line between two pods, measuring their distance apart.

"Based on the spikes in the sensors, the wave looks to be traveling about one hundred twenty-five miles per hour."

"Which will put it upon us in about fifty minutes," Pitt calculated. His mind was already racing in overdrive. The Vereshchagin was a stout and stable vessel, he knew, and stood a good chance of steaming through the wave with minimal damage. The greater harm would be to the lake's prevailing marine traffic, small fishing boats and transport vessels not designed to withstand the onslaught of a ten-foot wave. Then there were the shoreline inhabitants, who would be subject to an unexpected flooding of the lowlying areas around the lake.

"Dr. Sarghov, I suggest you have the captain issue an immediate emergency warning to all vessels on the lake. By the time anyone catches sight of the wave, it will be too late to get out of its way. We'll need to contact the authorities on shore to evacuate all residents at risk to flooding. There's no time to lose."

Sarghov beat a path to the ship's radio and issued the warning himself. The radio hummed with chatter as a myriad of respondents called back to confirm the emergency. Though Pitt didn't speak Russian, he could tell by the tone of skepticism in the replying voices that at least some thought Sarghov was either drunk or crazy. Pitt could only smile when the normally jovial scientist turned red and spat a series of obvious obscenities into the microphone.

"Idiot fishermen! They're calling me a fool!" he cursed.

The warnings took heed when a fishing boat in the protected cove of Aya Bay barely survived capsizing as the fringe of the wave passed by and its captain hysterically reported the event. Pitt scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars and could make out a half dozen black fishing boats motoring toward the safety of Listvyanka, in addition to a small freighter and a hydrofoil ferry.

"I guess you got their attention, Alex," Pitt said.

"Yes," Sarghov replied with some relief. "The Listvyanka Police Department has issued alerts to all stations around the lake and is going door-to-door to evacuate risky areas. We've done all we can do."

"Perhaps you would be kind enough to have the captain apply full speed and move us toward Listvyanka and the western shore of the lake as quickly as possible," Pitt said, smiling that Sarghov had neglected their own plight.

As the Vereshchagin turned toward Listvyanka and increased speed, Gunn eyed the map of Lake Baikal, rubbing his finger across the lower toe of the lake, which angled to the west.

"If the wave holds its southerly track, we should be positioned away from its primary force," he remarked.

"That's what I'm banking on," Pitt replied.

"We are eighteen miles from Listvyanka," Sarghov said, peering out the bridge window toward the western shoreline. "We will be cutting it close, as you say."

At Listvyanka, an old air-raid alarm was sounded as the panic-stricken residents pulled ashore their small boats, while larger vessels were secured tightly to the docks. Schoolchildren were sent home with warnings for their parents, while dockside shops were swiftly closed. En masse, the residents around the lake moved to high ground and waited for the mountain of water to wash through.

"It resembles the Irish Derby out here," Sarghov said, peering out the bridge window with a humorless grin. Nearly a dozen vessels dotted the horizon ahead of them, driving toward Listvyanka at top speed as if pulled by a magnet. The Vereshchagin's captain, a quiet and steady man named Ian Kharitonov, gripped the ship's wheel tightly, silently urging his vessel to sail faster. Like the others on the bridge, he periodically took sneak peeks toward the northern section of the lake, looking for signs of the impending wave.

Pitt studied the ship's radar, noting a stationary object lying ten miles to the southeast of their position.

"Apparently, someone still didn't get the word," he said to Sarghov, motioning toward the radar target.

"The fool probably has his radio turned off," Sarghov muttered as he trained a pair of binoculars out the portside window. In the distance, he could just make out a faint black speck moving slowly across the lake to the east.

"Heading right for the middle of the tempest," Sarghov said, grabbing the radio microphone again.

Hailing the lone vessel several times brought only silence.

"Their ignorance will mean their death," he said slowly, shaking his head as he hung up the microphone.

His anguish was broken by the approach of a loud thumping noise that rattled the windows of the bridge.

Skimming low above the water, a small helicopter swooped directly toward the Vereshchagin's bridge before suddenly pulling up and hovering off the starboard wing. It was a Kamov Ka-26, an old Soviet civilian helicopter that saw its heyday in the 1960s as a utilitarian light transport craft. The chopper sported a faded coat of silver paint garnished with a seal from the Limnological Institute plastered prominently on the fuselage. The thirty-five-year-old helicopter dipped closer to the boat as its cigar-chomping pilot tossed a genial wave toward the men on the bridge.

"Have released all of the survey pods. Permission to park this whirlybird and get her tied down before surf's up," crackled the deep voice of Al Giordino over the radio.

Sarghov stood and stared out the bridge, looking aghast at the movements of the adjacent helicopter.

"That is a valuable asset of the institute," he said hoarsely to Pitt.

"Don't worry, Alexander," Pitt said, suppressing a grin. "Al could fly a 747 through a doughnut hole."

"It might be best if he parked that thing on shore, rather than risk getting it tossed off the deck," Gunn said.

"Yes ... of course," Sarghov stammered, just wishing the helicopter would move away from the bridge.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to fly by that wayward fishing boat first and try and alert them," Pitt said.

Sarghov looked into the markedly calm eyes of Pitt and then nodded in agreement. Pitt quickly reached for the radio microphone.

"Al, what's your fuel status?" he asked.

"Just fueled up ashore at the Port Baikal airfield. Should have about three and a half hours of remaining flight time, if I keep off the gas. But this pilot's seat wasn't exactly manufactured by La-Z-Boy, I feel compelled to mention." After the better part of the afternoon deploying survey pods across the lake, Giordino was weary from flying the physically demanding craft.

"Go ahead and set her down on the pad, but keep her wound up. We've got an emergency call to make."

"Roger," the radio squawked. The helicopter immediately rose and slipped to the rear of the ship, where it gently set down on a rickety platform built above the stern deck.

"Rudi, keep us advised over the radio as to the wave's progress. We'll take the chopper to shore after we head off the fishing boat," Pitt directed.

"Aye, aye," Gunn responded as Pitt dashed out of the bridge. Sprinting to the rear of the ship, Pitt ducked down a level to his cabin, emerging seconds later with a red duffel bag flung over his shoulder.

Shooting up a stairwell and down the center passageway, he exited onto the open stern deck, where he edged past a bulbous white decompression chamber. The helicopter thumped loudly above him and he felt a blast of air from its rotors as he climbed a narrow flight of steps onto the helipad and ducked toward the Kamov's passenger door.

The odd little helicopter reminded Pitt of a dragonfly. At first glance, the thirty-foot-long helicopter was little more than a high-framed fuselage. The small cockpit appeared to have been sheared in half behind the twin flight controls, the result of a detachable passenger cabin that had been removed. The vintage helicopter had been designed with versatility in mind, and the dead space could be fitted with a tank for agricultural spraying, an ambulance or passenger cabin, or, in the case of the institute's craft, an open cargo platform. A large rack of tubes was fastened to the platform, which had housed the marine-current survey pods. Above the rack and mounted high on the fuselage was a pair of radial piston engines, which drove the helicopter's two separate contrarotating blades, one fixed above the other. A spindly forked tail led to a large stabilizer and elevator flaps, but no tail rotor. The Ka-26, or "Hoodlum" as it was known in the West, was built as a practical multiuse lifting system. Put to marine use, it was perfect for operating off small shipborne platforms.

As Pitt sprinted to the right side of the cockpit, the passenger door popped open and a young Russian technician wearing a ZZ Top baseball cap jumped to the deck. Nodding at Pitt to take his seat, he handed the tall American his radio headset, then quickly scrambled off the platform. Pitt wedged his duffel bag into the footwell and climbed in, glancing toward his old friend in the pilot's seat as he slammed the door shut.

Albert Giordino hardly cut the figure of a suave aviator. The stocky Italian with jackhammer arms stood nearly a foot shorter than Pitt. A shock of unruly black hair curled around his head, while an ever-present cigar protruded from a hard face that hadn't seen a razor in days. His mahogany brown eyes glistened with intelligence and a hint of the sardonic wit that sparkled at even the most trying of times. Pitt's lifelong friend and the director of underwater technology for NUMA was more at home piloting a submersible, but had acquired a silken touch with most types of flying aircraft as well.

"I heard the distress warning. You want to go track that roller as it pounds Listvyanka?" Giordino asked through his headset.

"We've got a social call to make first. Get us airborne and head southeast, and I'll fill you in."

Giordino quickly lifted the Kamov off the moving ship and climbed to an altitude of two hundred feet, swinging east across the lake. As the helicopter accelerated to eighty-five miles per hour, Pitt provided a description of the seiche wave and the unsuspecting fishing boat. The black hull of the boat soon appeared on the horizon and Giordino adjusted his direction toward the vessel as Pitt radioed back to the Vereshchagin.

"Rudi, how's our wave rolling?"

"Gaining more power by the minute, Dirk," Gunn's voice replied soberly. "The wave is now topping thirty feet in height at its center, with velocity on the increase as it squeezes past the Selenga River delta."

"How much time before she reaches us?"

Gunn paused as he keyed in a command on the computer. "ETA to the Vereshchagin is approximately thirty-seven minutes. We'll be shy of Listvyanka by about five miles."

"Thanks, Rudi. Keep the hatches battened down. We'll be overhead for the show once we get the fishing boat alerted."

"Roger," Gunn replied, suddenly wishing he could trade seats with Pitt.

The wave was still forty miles away and the hills of Listvyanka were now plainly visible to the men on the Vereshchagin. The ship would safely be out of the main force of the wave when the tempest arrived, but there was no protecting the shoreline. Counting the minutes to go, Gunn peered out the bridge window and silently wondered what the picturesque lakeside community would look like in another hour.

-3-

"Looks like we've got some company," Wofford said, pointing off the fishing boat's stern toward the horizon.

Though Theresa had already spotted the aircraft, Wofford's words made everyone else aboard the boat stop and look. The stubby silver helicopter was approaching from the west and there was no mistaking its beeline path directly toward them.

The fishing boat was cruising toward the eastern shore with its survey gear tailing behind, the crew oblivious to any impending danger. No one aboard had noticed the sudden disappearance of all other surface boats, though an absence of vessel sightings was hardly unusual on the huge lake.

All eyes turned skyward as the ungainly helicopter roared up to the small boat, then pivoted and hovered off the port beam. The survey crew gazed up at an ebony-haired figure in the passenger's seat who waved a microphone toward the window and pointed a finger at his headset.

"He's trying to call us on the radio," Wofford observed. "Do you have your ears on, Captain?"

Tatiana translated to the annoyed captain, who shook his head and spoke indignantly back to the Russian woman. He then grabbed a radio microphone from the wheelhouse and held it up toward the helicopter while slicing his free hand horizontally across the front of his throat.

"The captain says his radio has not operated for two years," Tatiana said, reporting the obvious. "He states that there is no need for one, he sails efficiently without it."

"Now why does that not surprise me?" Roy said, rolling his eyes.

"He obviously wasn't in the Boy Scouts," Wofford added.

"It looks like they want us to turn around," Theresa said, interpreting new motions from the helicopter copilot. "I think they want us to return to Listvyanka."

"The helicopter is from the Limnological Institute," Tatiana noted. "They have no authority. We can ignore them."

"I think they are trying to warn us," Theresa protested, as the helicopter dipped its rotors several times, while the passenger continued making motions with his hands.

"We're probably intruding on an insignificant experiment of theirs," Tatiana said. Shooing her arms at the helicopter, she yelled, "Otbyt', otbyt' ... go away."

***

Giordino peered out the cockpit windshield and grinned in amusement. The crusty captain of the fishing boat appeared to be yelling obscenities at the helicopter, while Tatiana stood shooing them away.

"Apparently, they don't like what we're selling," Giordino remarked.

"I think their captain is either short on brains or long on undistilled vodka," Pitt replied, shaking his head in frustration.

"Could be your lousy Marcel Marceau imitation."

"Take a look at the waterline on that bucket."

Giordino studied the portside hull of the fishing boat, noting that it rode low in the water.

"Looks like she's sinking already," he said.

"She won't have much chance against a thirty-foot wave," Pitt remarked. "You're going to have to put me on the deck."

Giordino didn't bother questioning the wisdom of the request or protesting the danger to Pitt. He knew it would be a futile gesture. Pitt was like an overgrown Boy Scout who wouldn't take no for an answer when helping an old lady across the street. He would put his own safety last in order to help others, regardless of the risk. With a steady hand on the controls, Giordino inched the helicopter in a tight circle around the boat, searching for a spot he could touch down and offload Pitt. But the old vessel would not cooperate. A tall wooden mast ran up from the wheelhouse a dozen feet, shielding the boat like a lance.

With its forty-two-foot-diameter rotors, there wasn't a place on the boat the helicopter could hover without striking the mast.

"I can't get in tight enough with that mast. You'd have to swim it or risk a twenty-foot drop without breaking a leg," Giordino said.

Pitt surveyed the derelict black boat with its crowd of occupants who still stared up in confusion. "I'm not ready for a swim just yet," he said, contemplating the frigid lake water. "But if you can put me on that mast, I'll do my best fireman's imitation."

The thought seemed crazy, Giordino thought, but he was right. If he could maneuver the helicopter up tight to the mast from above, Pitt could grab hold and slide down to the deck. A tough enough maneuver over land, Giordino knew the attempt over a moving and rocking boat could knock the chopper out of the sky if he wasn't careful.

Pulling the Kamov up till its wheels hung ten feet above the mast, Giordino gently inched the helicopter forward until its passenger door was directly above the mast. Lightly stroking the throttle control, he adjusted the chopper's speed until it precisely matched that of the moving boat. Satisfied he was tracking together, he slowly lowered the helicopter until it hung just three feet above the mast.

"With the boat rocking, I'll have to take just a quick dip to get you down," Giordino said through the headset. "Sure you can climb back up, so I can pull you off?"

"I'm not planning on coming back," Pitt replied matter-of-factly. "Give me a second, and I'll guide you down."

Pitt took off his headset, then reached down and pulled out the red duffel bag at his feet. Opening the cockpit door to a rush of air from the rotors, he casually tossed the bag out, watching it land with a bounce on the wheelhouse roof. Pitt then dangled his feet out the door and motioned with one hand for Giordino to hold steady. The mast swung brusquely back and forth from the rocking motion of the boat, but Pitt quickly got a feel for the rhythm. When it slowed between swells, Pitt dropped his palm to Giordino. The pilot instantly dipped the helicopter three feet and, in a flash, Pitt was gone out the door.

Giordino didn't wait to see if Pitt had successfully connected with the mast but immediately lifted the helicopter up and away from the fishing boat. Gazing out the side window in relief, he saw Pitt with his arms grappled to the top of the mast, slowly sliding his way down.

" Vereshchagin to airborne unit, over," burst the voice of Rudi Gunn through Giordino's ears.

"What's up, Rudi?"

"Just wanted to give you a status on the wave. It's now traveling at one hundred thirty-five miles per hour, with a wave height cresting at thirty-four feet. It has passed the Selenga River delta, so we expect no further increases in velocity before it reaches the southern shoreline."

"I suppose you call that the good news. What's the current ETA?"

"For your approximate position, eighteen minutes. The Vereshchagin will turn to align itself to the wave in ten minutes. Suggest you stand by for emergency relief."

"Rudi, please confirm. Eighteen minutes to arrival?"

"Affirmative."

Eighteen minutes. It was nowhere near enough time for the dilapidated fishing boat to reach safe haven.

Staring at its black hull skimming low in the water, he knew that the old boat had no chance. With a gnawing sense of dread, Giordino realized he might have just given his old friend a death warrant by dropping him to her decks below.

***

Pitt clung to the mast cross-member momentarily, eyeing a pair of worn GPS and radio antennas sprouting just inches from his face. Once Giordino pulled the helicopter away and the air deluge from its rotors subsided, he casually slid down the mast, using his feet as brakes to slow his descent. Grabbing his duffel bag, he stepped across the wheelhouse roof and down a stepladder at its stern edge. Dropping to the deck, he turned and faced the group of shocked people staring at him with open mouths.

"Privet." He grinned disarmingly. "Anyone here speak English?"

"All of us but the captain," Theresa replied, surprised like the others that Pitt was not Russian.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Tatiana demanded tersely. Her dark eyes surveyed Pitt with a look of distrust. Behind her, the fishing boat's captain stood in the wheelhouse door and launched an equally contemptuous tirade in his native tongue.

"Comrade, tell your captain that if he ever wants to hoist another vodka, he had better get this tub turned toward Listvyanka at full speed and right now," Pitt replied in a commanding tone.

"What's the trouble?" Theresa asked, trying to thaw the tension.

"An underwater landslide has triggered a large freak wave near Olkhon Island. A thirty-foot wall of water is bearing down on us as we speak. Emergency radio broadcasts were issued across the lake, but your good captain was incapable of hearing the warning."

Tatiana had an ashen look on her face as she spoke rapidly to the captain in a hushed tone. The captain nodded without saying a word, then climbed into the wheelhouse. A second later, the boat's old motor whined in protest as the throttle was pushed to its stops and the bow eased around toward Listvyanka.

On the stern deck, Roy and Wofford were already yanking in their survey gear as the boat slowly accelerated.

Pitt looked up and was disturbed to find that Giordino had flown away from the fishing boat, the silver helicopter now skimming west rapidly toward the horizon. If the boat couldn't outrun the wave to safety, which was a certainty, then he wanted Giordino standing by above them. Silently, he cursed himself for not bringing a handheld radio with him.

"Thank you for flying out to warn us," Theresa said, approaching Pitt with a nervous smile and a handshake. "That was a dangerous way to come aboard." She had a warm honesty that reminded Pitt of his wife Loren and he decided that he liked the Dutch woman immediately.

"Yes, we are grateful for the alert," Tatiana said, apologizing for the earlier inquisition in a slightly warmer tone. Making quick introductions, she asked, "You are from the Limnological Institute research ship, no?"

"Yes. They're headed to Listvyanka, along with the other vessels at this end of the lake. Yours was the only one we couldn't alert by radio."

"I told you there was something wrong with this boat," Wofford whispered to Roy.

"Something wrong with the captain, too," Roy replied with a shake of the head.

"Mr. Pitt, it appears that we will be riding the wave out together. How much time do we have before it will reach us?" Tatiana asked.

Pitt glanced at his orange-faced Doxa dive watch. "Less than fifteen minutes, based on the rate it was traveling when I left the Vereshchagin."

"We'll never make it to Listvyanka," Tatiana quietly assessed.

"The lake broadens at the southern end, which will dissipate the wave toward the west. The closer we get to Listvyanka, the smaller the wave we'll have to navigate."

But standing on the deck of the leaky fishing boat, Pitt secretly had doubts whether they could navigate a puddle. The old boat seemed to ride lower in the water by the minute. Its engine sputtered and coughed as if it would die at any moment. Wood rot was evident everywhere, and that was just what was visible above decks. Pitt could only imagine the feeble state of the timbers hidden below.

"We better prepare for a wild ride. Life jackets on everyone. Anything you don't want lost over the side should be secured to the deck or gunwales."

Roy and Wofford quickly tied down their survey equipment with Theresa lending a hand. Tatiana rummaged around in the wheelhouse a few minutes, then returned on deck with an armful of aged life preservers.

"There are only four life jackets aboard," she announced. "The captain refuses to wear one, but we are still short a jacket," she said, eyeing Pitt as the odd man out.

"Not to worry, I brought my own," Pitt replied. While the survey team fastened their life jackets, Pitt kicked off his shoes and outer clothes and immodestly slid into a neoprene dry suit he pulled from his duffel bag.

"What's that noise?" Theresa asked.

Almost imperceptibly, a distant rumble echoed lightly across the lake. To Pitt, it sounded like a freight train rounding a faraway mountain curve. The rumble held constant, however, and grew ever so slightly louder.

Pitt knew without looking that their reprieve was over. The wave must have increased speed—and, with it, power—as it raced toward them, bearing down earlier than Rudi had estimated.

"There it is!" Roy yelled, pointing up the lake.

"It's huge," Theresa gasped, shocked at the sight.

The wave wasn't a cresting white-capped breaker of the kind that surfers relish but, rather, an oddly smooth cylinder of liquid that rolled from shore to shore like a giant rolling pin. Even from a distance of twenty miles, the men and women on the fishing boat could see that the wave was massive, standing nearly forty feet high. The surreal image of the moving wall of water accompanied by its odd rumble caused everyone to freeze and stare in awe. Everyone but Pitt.

"Tatiana, tell the captain to turn the bow into the wave," he ordered. The crusty captain, his eyes the size of a pair of hubcaps, quickly swung the wheel over. Pitt knew the odds were stacked against the aged and waterlogged vessel. But as long as there was hope, he was determined to try to keep everyone alive.

The first challenge was to keep everyone aboard. Scanning the deck, Pitt zeroed in on an old fishing net coiled against the starboard side gunwale.

"Jim, give me a hand with that net," he asked of Wofford.

Together, they dragged the coiled net across the deck and pushed it against the back bulkhead of the wheelhouse. As Wofford wrapped one end around the starboard railing, Pitt secured the opposite end to a port stanchion.

"What is that for?" Theresa asked.

"When the wave approaches, everyone lie down and grab a tight hold of the net. It will act as a cushion and hopefully keep everyone from taking an undesired swim in the lake."

As the captain nosed the bow toward the approaching wave, the three men and two women took up positions in front of the net. Roy sided up to Pitt and whispered out of earshot of the others.

"A game effort, Mr. Pitt, though we both know this old derelict isn't going to make it."

"Never say die," Pitt whispered back with an odd look of confidence.

The rumbling bellow from the moving water grew louder as the wave approached within five miles.

There were just minutes to go before it would strike the boat. The occupants all braced for the worst, some praying silently while others contemplated death with grim determination. Against the roar of the water, nobody detected the sound of the approaching helicopter. The Kamov was barely a hundred yards off the port flank when Wofford looked up and blurted, "What the heck?"

All eyes darted from the approaching wave to the helicopter and back and then did a double take.

Dangling beneath the chopper on a twenty-foot cable was a white cylindrical object that swayed just a few feet above the waves. The object was clearly taxing the lifting ability of the helicopter, and everyone but Pitt figured that the helicopter pilot had lost his mind. At this dire point in time, why would he be trying to transport some machinery to the fishing boat?

A broad grin spread over Pitt's face as he recognized the bulky object twisting beneath the helicopter.

He had nearly tripped over it while leaving the Vereshchagin just a short time ago. It was the research ship's decompression chamber, on board as a security measure in case of a diving accident. Giordino had hastily realized it could act as a submersible for the fishing boat's crew to take haven in. Jumping to his feet, Pitt waved at Giordino to lower the chamber to the boat's stern deck.

With the seiche wave bearing down on the boat, Giordino moved in rapidly, hovering high over the stern until the swaying chamber stabilized. With a sudden dip and a crunch, the one-ton chamber descended from the sky and collided with the deck. The four-person hyperbaric chamber took up the entire rear deck space and pushed the boat's stern down several inches deeper into the water.

Pitt quickly unhooked the attached cable then jumped to the side rail and waved a thumbs-up gesture toward the helicopter. Giordino immediately swung the helicopter up and away from the boat, settling in a hover a short distance away to observe the impact.

"Why did he dump that here?" Tatiana asked.

"That big ugly bobber is your ticket to safety," Pitt replied. "Everybody in, there's no time to lose."

Glancing forward, Pitt could see that the fast-moving wave was just a mile away. He quickly unhinged the sealed lock and swung open the heavy circular door to the chamber. Theresa was the first to climb in, followed by Wofford and Roy. Tatiana hesitated, grabbing a leather satchel before stepping in behind Roy.

"Hurry up," Pitt prompted. "There's no time to check luggage."

Even the brash captain, staring awestruck at the looming wall of water, abandoned the wheel and scrambled into the chamber after the others.

"Aren't you joining us?" Tatiana asked as Pitt began to close the door.

"It will be tight enough with five people in there. Besides, someone's got to seal the chamber," he replied with a wink. "There's blankets and padding in the rear. Use them to protect your heads and bodies.

Brace yourselves, it will be here quick."

With a metallic clang, the door clapped shut and Pitt twisted the locking mechanism closed. A strange silence suddenly enveloped the occupants, but it lasted for less than a minute. Then the wave was upon them.

Theresa sat opposite a thick porthole window and looked out at the mysterious man who had arrived from nowhere to save them. She saw Pitt reach into his duffel bag and remove a dive faceplate and backpack with a small tank attached. Quickly strapping the equipment on, he stepped up onto the side gunwale before a deluge of water obscured the viewport.

The chartered fishing boat was still fifteen miles from Listvyanka and the western shoreline when the seiche wave hit. Those aboard had no way of knowing that they were struck by the leading force of the rolling wave, its peak cresting as high as a three-story building at impact.

From his perch two hundred feet in the air, Giordino looked on with a sickening helplessness as the wave piled into the black fishing boat. Its throttle was still set at full, and Giordino watched as the aged boat tried valiantly to climb up the vertical wall of water. But the rolling force of the water overpowered the rotted hull timbers and the old wooden boat seemed to melt away, disappearing completely under the tall wave.

Giordino desperately scanned the surface for signs of Pitt or the decompression chamber. But as the waters fell to a subtle calm again, only the bow section could be seen floating on the surface. The old fishing boat had split in two from the force of the wave and only the bow section had survived the initial onslaught. The stern deck, with the compression chamber, had vanished from sight. The black-hulled wreckage of the bow bobbed only momentarily, its masthead swaying across the sky before it, too, disappeared in a gurgle of bubbles to the bottom of the frigid lake.

-4-

"Hang on!" Theresa called over the sudden roar from the wall of water.

Her words echoed in the chamber as its occupants were violently tossed about. The entire chamber jerked upright as the striking wave lifted the fishing boat on end. The three men and two women clung frantically to the welded railings of twin bunks, trying to keep their bodies from becoming flying missiles inside the chamber. Time seemed to stand still as the boat stalled in its attempt to climb the face of the wave. Then a loud cracking noise reverberated beneath their feet as the fishing boat broke in two. Free of the lighter and more buoyant bow, the stern section slowly slid back vertically into the trough of the wave just as the brunt of its force rolled onward.

For Theresa, the impact seemed to occur in slow motion. The initial sensation of sinking on end predictably gave way to the tumbling force of the wave thrusting the chamber over on its back. Arms, legs, and torsos flailed about the chamber as it flipped over amid a chorus of cries and gasps. The minimal light that flared through the view port quickly dimmed, then vanished altogether, thrusting the interior into a frightening blackness.

Unseen by its victims, the wave had flipped over the entire stern section of the fishing boat, pinning the chamber beneath it. The flooded engine compartment, aided by the weight of the engine and driveshaft, easily drove the inverted chamber toward the lake bed. Though the force of the wave surged past above them, the wreckage and chamber continued to descend under its own weight. Instead of becoming a life preserver, the decompression chamber had turned into a coffin, plunging its victims toward the cold depths of the Siberian lake.

The heavy steel chamber was built to withstand the force of thirty atmospheres, or the pressure found at a depth of one thousand feet. But the lake depths exceeded three thousand feet where the fishing boat broke up, which would cause the chamber to implode before ever reaching the lake floor. Under its own weight, the encapsulated chamber would float freely on the surface and would be still buoyant even with five people inside. But pinned against the inverted stern section, the chamber was headed to the bottom.

As the light dimmed from the view port, Theresa knew that they were sinking deeper into the lake. She recalled Pitt's words at the last minute, calling the chamber a "bobber." It must float, she deduced. There was no apparent water leakage in the chamber, so another force must be driving them to sink.

"Everybody to this end of the chamber, if you're able," she shouted to the others after groping her way to one end. "We must shift the weight."

Her dazed and battered companions crawled their way to Theresa, huddling together quietly while trying to aid one another's injuries in the dark. The thousand pounds of shifted weight alone might not have set them free, but Theresa had guessed right and placed everybody adjacent to what had been the stern edge of the boat. Above their heads now was the boat's engine, the heaviest part of the stern section.

The combined concentration of weight was focused just off of dead center, and slight enough, to create an angular imbalance in the sinking wreckage.

As the plunging boat drove deeper, the pressure from the depths increased. Creaking sounds wafted through the chamber as the pressure limits were approached in its welded seams. But the shift in ballast gradually weighed on the angle of descent, tipping the stern section of the boat slightly steeper. Inside the chamber, nobody could feel the shift, but a slight scraping sound was heard as the chamber began sliding across the angled deck. The movement accelerated the imbalance until the chamber perceptively tipped upward. The gradient increased to almost forty degrees before the decompression chamber finally rattled off the stern edge and broke free of the sinking wreckage.

To those inside the chamber, it felt like a roller-coaster ride in reverse, as the buoyant capsule shot to the surface like a bullet. To Giordino, who scanned the lake surface high above in the Kamov, the sight reminded him of a Trident missile being launched from a submerged Ohio-class nuclear submarine. After watching the wave pass and the bow section sink, he'd noticed a large surge of bubbles nearby. At a depth of eighty feet, he perceived, the white decompression chamber accelerating toward the surface.

Released from the depths at a tilted angle, the chamber broke the surface nose first and shot completely out of the water before slamming down violently onto the surface. Hovering closer, Giordino could see that the chamber appeared airtight and floated easily in the light choppy waves.

Despite a severe battering, Theresa could hardly contain her relief at seeing blue sky again out the chamber's porthole window. Peering out the view port, she could see that they were floating steadily on the water. A shadow passed by overhead, and she caught a reassuring glimpse of the silver helicopter.

With newfound light illuminating the interior again, she turned and surveyed the tumbled mass of bodies crowded around her.

The tumultuous ride had bruised and battered everyone, but amazingly there were no serious injuries.

The fishing boat's captain bled from a nasty gash to the forehead, while Wofford grimaced over a wrenched back. Roy and the two women managed to escape lasting injuries. Theresa wondered how many concussions and broken bones would have occurred had they not insulated themselves with the bed mattresses just before the wave struck. As she regained her senses, her thoughts drifted back to Pitt, wondering whether the man who had rescued them had himself survived the maelstrom.

The veteran head of NUMA had figured he could best beat the wave in open water. An experienced body surfer since his childhood days growing up in Newport Beach, Pitt knew that diving under the approaching wave would let it roll over him with minimal surge. After securing the survey team inside the decompression chamber, he'd quickly strapped on his faceplate attached to a Drager rebreather system and dropped over the side of the fishing boat. Hitting the water, he kicked and pulled hard, attempting to swim away from the fishing boat and dive beneath the wave before it struck. But he'd been just a few seconds too late.

The seiche wave broke over him just as he cleared the surface. Rather than escape under the passing wave, he was positioned too shallow and found himself being drawn up the face of the wave. The sensation was of riding an ascending elevator at high speed and Pitt felt his stomach drop as his body was sucked upward. Unlike the fishing boat, which rode the external surface of the wave before breaking up, Pitt was embedded within the mass of water and became part of the wave itself.

His ears rang from the rush of the mammoth wave while the turbulence of the roiling water dropped the visibility to zero. With the rebreather system on his back, he was able to breathe normally through his faceplate despite the tempest around him. For a moment, he felt like he was flying though air and a part of him actually enjoyed the ride, though the danger of being crushed under the wave gnawed at his senses. Trapped in the uplift, he realized there was no sense in fighting the overpowering force of water and relaxed slightly as he was pushed higher. He had no sensation of any forward motion, despite the fact he had already been carried several hundred yards from the point he entered the water.

As he zoomed upward, he suddenly felt a leg break free of the water, then a flash of light burst through his faceplate as his head broke the surface. His momentum shifted, and now he felt his body getting tugged forward. He instantly realized that he had been pushed to the very top of the wave and was in danger of getting hurled over the wave's leading edge. Just inches away, the peak of the wave dropped over thirty feet in a vertical wall of water to the lake surface. A torrent of white foamy water curled around him as the wave began showing signs of cresting. Pitt knew that if he fell over the precipice and the wave crested on top of him, he could be crushed to death under a mass of falling water.

Pivoting his body perpendicular to the wave front, he flung his arms through the water and kicked with all his might to swim over the top of the wave. He could feel himself being pulled backward from the momentum of the wave and willed his legs to kick harder against the water. With the frenzy of a sprint swimmer, he lunged over the wave crest, arms and legs flailing at a supersonic rate. The rushing water continued to pull at his body, trying to suck him into the morass, but he willed himself on desperately.

Then suddenly the grip released and the wave seemed to let go beneath him. He felt himself falling headfirst, which meant he had made it to the backside of the wave. The elevator ride zipped down this time, but in a controlled free fall. He consciously tensed for an impact, but it never arrived. The rushing force of water eased, then dissipated to nothing. In a froth of clearing bubbles, Pitt found himself floating freely underwater. As the loud rush of the wave diminished, he glanced at a depth gauge affixed to his harness and found that he was twenty feet under the surface.

Reorienting himself in the water, he eyed the shimmering lake surface above him and lazily kicked with tired legs until his head broke the water. Gazing toward the still-thundering rumble, he watched as the massive wave rolled rapidly toward its destructive rendezvous with the south shoreline. The roar slowly faded, and Pitt's ears detected the rotor-thumping sound of a helicopter take its place. Turning in the water, he saw the Kamov helicopter low in the sky making a beeline toward him. Scanning the lake, he saw no sign of the fishing boat on the horizon.

Giordino brought the Kamov right alongside Pitt, hovering so low that waves washed over the helicopter's landing wheels. Pitt swam to the cockpit as the passenger door was flung open above his head. Climbing up the landing skid, he hauled himself through the door and onto the passenger's seat.

Giordino immediately elevated the helicopter as Pitt removed his faceplate.

"Some guys will do anything to hang ten," Giordino grinned, relieved to have found his friend in one piece.

"Turned out to be a lousy pipeline," Pitt gasped in exhaustion. "The fishing boat?"

Giordino shook his head. "Didn't make it. Snapped in two like a twig. Thought we lost the decompression chamber, too, but she finally shot to the surface a short time later. I could see someone waving through the view port, so hopefully everyone inside that soda can is okay. I radioed the Vereshchagin and she's on her way to fish them out."

"Nice thinking, bringing the chamber over at the last minute. The crew wouldn't have made it otherwise."

"Sorry I didn't have a chance to yank you out before the surf hit."

"And spoil a good ride?" Pitt nodded at his good fortune in surviving the punishing wave, then thought of the Vereshchagin. "How did the institute ship fare?"

"The wave was down to fourteen feet near Listvyanka. The Vereshchagin apparently rode it through without a hitch. Rudi says a few of the deck chairs got rearranged, but otherwise they're fine. They expect that the village incurred a fair amount of damage."

Pitt looked down at the blue water below the cockpit and was unable to spot the decompression chamber.

"How far did I travel?" he asked, finally catching his breath. The battering ride was catching up to him and he began to feel a dozen sore spots across his body.

"About three miles," Giordino replied.

"Covered in gold medal time, if I do say so myself," he said, wiping a bead of water off his brow.

Giordino accelerated the helicopter north, skimming low over the now-calm lake. A white object materialized in the water ahead, and Giordino slowed the Kamov as they reached the bobbing chamber.

"Bet the air in that tank is starting to get a little foul," he said.

"They'd need several more hours before any real danger of carbon dioxide poisoning," Pitt replied.

"How long before the Vereshchagin arrives?"

"About ninety minutes. But I'm afraid we can't hang around and keep them company until then,"

Giordino said, tapping a fuel dial that was heading low.

"Well, if you'd kindly return to the deck, I'll let them know they haven't been abandoned."

"You just can't get enough of the cold lake water, can you?" he asked, lowering the helicopter till it hovered just a few feet above the water.

"Sort of like your affinity for pure Rocky Mountain springwater," Pitt countered. "Just make sure Alexander doesn't run us over," he said, pulling the faceplate back over his head.

With a short wave, he leaped out of the door, splashing into the water just a few feet from the chamber.

As Giordino swung the helicopter toward the approaching research ship, Pitt swam over to the chamber and pulled himself up to the view port and peered inside.

Theresa let out a gasp when she saw Pitt's faceplate pressed up against the view port.

"He's still alive," she said with amazement after recognizing the green eyes.

The others crowded around the porthole and waved at Pitt, not knowing he had been washed away nearly three miles before returning via the helicopter.

Pitt pointed a gloved finger at the occupants, then curled it toward his thumb and held it to the view port.

"He's asking if we're okay," Roy deciphered.

Tatiana, sitting closest to the view port, nodded yes and returned the gesture. Pitt then pointed toward his wristwatch and held up his index finger.

Tatiana nodded again in understanding. "One hour," she said to the others. "Help is on the way."

"Guess we might as well get comfortable," Wofford said. Together with Roy, they rearranged the mattresses on the angled floor, allowing everyone to sit comfortably.

Outside, Pitt swam around the chamber, checking it for damage and signs of leakage. Satisfied that the chamber wasn't sinking, he climbed aboard the exposed top section and waited. In the clear afternoon air, Pitt easily spotted the Vereshchagin in the distance and tracked its progress as it steamed toward them.

Giordino already had a large crane positioned over the side when the research ship pulled alongside a little over an hour later. The original transport cables were still attached to the decompression chamber, so Pitt had only to gather them together and slide them over the crane's hook. Pitt sat straddled atop the chamber as if riding a giant white stallion while it was hoisted onto the stern of the Vereshchagin. When its skids kissed the deck, Pitt jumped down and spun open the locked entry hatch. Gunn ran up and poked his head in, then helped pull out Theresa and Tatiana, followed by the three men.

"Man, does that taste good," Wofford said as he sucked in a deep breath of fresh air.

The Russian fisherman, climbing out last, staggered to the ship's rail and peered over the side, searching for his old fishing boat.

"You can tell him she's at the bottom, crushed by the wave," Pitt said to Tatiana.

The captain shook his head and sobbed as Tatiana translated the news.

"We couldn't believe you appeared after the wave passed," Theresa marveled at Pitt. "How did you survive?"

"Sometimes, I'm just lucky," he grinned, then he opened his duffel bag to reveal the dive equipment inside.

"Thank you again," Theresa said, joined by a chorus of praise from the other survey crew members.

"Don't thank me," Pitt said, "thank Al Giordino here and his flying decompression chamber."

Giordino stepped over from the crane and bowed in mock appreciation. "Hope the ride wasn't too rough in that tin can," he said.

"You saved our lives, Mr. Giordino," Theresa said, shaking his hand gratefully and not letting go.

"Please, call me Al," the gruff Italian said, softening under the gaze of the pretty Dutch woman.

"Now I know what that steel ball in a pinball machine feels like," Roy muttered.

"Say, you don't suppose they'd have any vodka aboard?" Wofford groaned, rubbing his back.

"Does it rain in Seattle?" Gunn replied, overhearing the comment. "Right this way, ladies and gentlemen.

We'll have the ship's doctor check you over, and then you can rest and relax in a cabin or have a drink in the galley. Listvyanka's a mess, so we probably won't be able to put you to shore until tomorrow anyway."

"Al, why don't you lead the way to sick bay. I'd like a word with Rudi first," Pitt said.

"My pleasure," Giordino said, holding Theresa's arm and guiding her and the others along the port passageway to the ship's tiny medical station.

Rudi stepped over to Pitt and patted him on the shoulder. "Al told us about your sojourn in the water. If I'd known you were going to be one with the wave, I would have strung some current-measuring devices on your back," he grinned.

"I'll be happy to share my experience in fluid dynamics with you over a tequila," Pitt replied. "What is the extent of damages around the shoreline?"

"From what we could see at a distance, Listvyanka weathered the storm in one piece. The docks are chewed up and there are a couple of boats sitting on the main street now, but the rest of the damage appeared to be confined to a few commercial shops along the waterfront. We've heard of no reported fatalities over the radio, so the advance warning apparently did the trick."

"We'll need to stay on our toes for potential aftershocks," Pitt said. "I've got an open satellite line to the National Earthquake Information Center in Golden, Colorado. They'll give us a shout if they detect a subsequent quake the second they see it."

As dusk settled over the lake, the Vereshchagin steamed into the port village of Listvyanka. On the forward deck of the research ship, the crew lined the rails to observe the ruin. The wave had struck like a hammer, flattening small trees and shredding the smaller buildings that had stood along the water's edge.

But most of the town and port had survived with minimal loss. The research ship dropped anchor in the dark a mile from the damaged shoreline docks, which glistened under a battery of temporary lights strung along the shore. The hum of an old Belarus tractor drifted over the water as the townspeople began working late into the night to clean up the flood damage.

In the ship's galley, Roy, Wofford, and the fishing boat captain sat in a corner chugging shots with a Russian crewman who generously shared his bottle of Altai vodka. Pitt, Giordino, and Sarghov sat across the room, finishing a dinner of baked sturgeon with Theresa and Tatiana. After their dishes were cleared away, Sarghov produced an unmarked bottle and poured a round of after-dinner drinks.

"To your health," Giordino said, toasting both ladies, his glass meeting a clink from Theresa's.

"Which is much improved on account of you," Theresa replied with a laugh. Taking a sip of the liquid, her smile waned as her eyes suddenly bugged out.

"What is this stuff?" she rasped. "Tastes like bleach."

Sarghov laughed with a deep bellow. "It's samogon. I acquired it in the village from an old friend. I believe it is similar to a liquid in America called moonshine."

The rest of the table laughed as Theresa pushed the half-filled glass away from her. "I believe I shall stick to vodka," she said, now grinning with the others.

"So tell me, what are a couple of gorgeous young ladies doing out hunting for oil on big, bad Lake Baikal?" Pitt asked after downing his glass.

"The Avarga Oil Consortium possesses oil and mining rights to territories east of the lake," Tatiana replied.

"Lake Baikal is a cultural treasure. It has United Nations World Heritage status and is an icon for environmentalists around the globe," Sarghov said, clearly disdainful at the prospect of seeing an oil rig on the pristine lake's waters. "How can you possibly expect to drill on the lake?"

Tatiana nodded. "You are correct. We respect Baikal as sacred water, and it would never be our intent to establish oil-pumping structures on the lake. If oil prospects are proven and deemed reachable, we would drill from the eastern territories at a high angle beneath the lake to reach the potential deposits."

"Makes sense," Giordino stated. "They angle drill in the Gulf of Mexico all the time, even drill horizontally. But that still doesn't explain the presence of this lovely Dutch angel from Rotterdam," he added, smiling broadly at Theresa.

Flattered by the comment, Theresa blushed deeply before answering. "Amsterdam. I'm actually from Amsterdam. My intoxicated American coworkers and I work for Shell Oil." As she spoke, she hooked her thumb toward the far corner, where an inebriated Roy and Wofford were loudly sharing dirty jokes with their Russian companions.

"We are here at the request of Avarga Oil," she continued. "They are not equipped for marine surveys, for obvious reasons. My company has performed survey work in the Baltic as well as the western Siberia oil fields of Samotlor. We are exploring a joint-development opportunity with Avarga Oil for some regional lands that show promise. It was a natural fit for us to come here and perform the lake survey together."

"Had you confirmed any petroleum deposits before the wave struck?" Pitt asked.

"We were searching for structural indications of hydrocarbon seeps only and did not have the seismic equipment necessary to gauge any potential deposits. At the time we lost the boat, we had failed to survey any significant characteristics normally associated with a deposit seep."

"Oil seeps?" Sarghov asked.

"Yes, a common if somewhat primitive means of locating petroleum deposits. In a marine setting, oil seeps show up as leakages from the seafloor that rise to the surface. In the days before boomer trucks and other seismic devices that ping the sedimentary depths and produce a visual geological image of the ground, oil seeps were the primary means of locating hydrocarbon deposits."

"We have had fishermen report the sightings of oil slicks on the lake where no surface traffic was evident," Tatiana explained. "We realize, of course, they could represent releases from small deposits that are not economical to drill."

"A potentially costly venture, given the depths of the lake," Pitt added.

"Speaking of ventures, Mr. Pitt, what are you and your NUMA crew doing here aboard a Russian research ship?" Tadana asked.

"We're guests of Alexander and the Limnological Institute," Pitt replied, tipping his glass of samogon in the direction of Sarghov. "A joint effort to study current patterns in the lake and their effect on the endemic flora and fauna."

"And how was it that you became aware of the seiche wave well in advance of its appearance?"

"Sensor pods. We've got hundreds of sensor pods deployed in the lake, which measure the water temperature, pressure, and so on. Al's been dropping them like bread crumbs from the helicopter all over the lake. We just happened to be surveying the area of lake near Olkhon Island and had a heavy concentration of sensors in the water there. Rudi quickly picked up the indicators of an underwater landslide and the resulting seiche wave as it formed."

"A fortunate thing for us, as well as many others, I imagine," Theresa said.

"Al just has a nose for catastrophes," Pitt grinned. "Coming to Siberia without a bottle of Jack Daniel's was the real catastrophe," Giordino said, sipping the glass of samogon with a sour look on his face.

"It is a shame that our base current data was disrupted by this unexpected event," Sarghov said, contemplating the scientific impact, "but we will have some exciting data on the formation and movement of the wave itself."

"These sensor pods, can they reveal where the earthquake originated?" Tatiana asked.

"If it occurred under the lake," Pitt replied.

"Rudi said he would massage the computers tomorrow and see if he can pinpoint an exact location from the sensors. The seismologists he talked to placed the epicenter somewhere near the northwest corner of the lake," Giordino said. Scanning the galley and finding no sign of Gunn, he added, "He's probably up in the bridge conversing with his computers as we speak."

Tatiana downed the last of her samogon, then glanced at her watch. "It has been a trying day. I'm afraid I must turn in for the evening."

"I'm with you," Pitt said, suppressing a yawn. "May I escort you to your cabin?" he asked innocently.

"That would be satisfactory," she replied.

Sarghov joined them as they rose to their feet and declared good night to all.

"I trust you two are waiting for the baked alaska to be served?" Pitt smiled at Theresa and Giordino.

"Tales of the Netherlands await my hungry ears," Giordino grinned at Theresa.

"And anecdotes of the deep await in return?" she laughed back.

"There certainly is something deep around here," Pitt laughed as he bid good night.

Pitt politely escorted Tatiana to her cabin near the stern, then retired to his own stateroom amidships.

The day's physical demands had consumed his body and he was glad to ease his aching limbs into his bunk. Though physically exhausted, he fell asleep with difficulty. His mind stubbornly replayed the day's events over and over until a black veil of sleep thankfully washed over him.

-5-

Pitt had been asleep for four hours when suddenly he sprang awake, bolting upright in his bunk. Though all was quiet, his senses told him something was wrong. Flicking on a reading light, he swung his feet to the floor and stood up but nearly fell over in the process. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he realized that the ship was listing at the stern, at an angle of almost ten degrees.

Dressing quickly, he climbed a stairwell to the main deck, then moved along its exterior passageway. The passageway and open deck before it were completely deserted, the whole ship strangely quiet as he walked uphill toward the bow. The silence finally registered. The ship's engines were shut down and only the muted hum of the auxiliary generator in the engine room throbbed through the late night air.

Climbing another set of stairs to the bridge, he walked in the doorway and gazed around the compartment. To his chagrin, the bridge was entirely deserted. Wondering if he was the only man aboard the ship, he scanned the bridge console before finding a red toggle switch marked TREVOGA. Flicking the toggle, the entire ship suddenly erupted in a clamor of warning bells that shattered the night silence.

Seconds later, the Vereshchagin's sinewy captain charged onto the bridge like an angry bull from his cabin below.

"What is going on here?" the captain stammered, fighting to recollect his English in the middle of the night. "Where is the watch, Anatoly?"

"The ship is sinking," Pitt said calmly. "There was no watch aboard the bridge when I entered just a minute ago."

A wide-eyed grimace appeared on the captain's face as he noticed the ship's list for the first time.

"We need power!" he cried, reaching for a phone to the engine room. But as his hand gripped the receiver, the bridge suddenly fell black. Mast lights, cabin lights, console displays — everything — went dark throughout the ship as the electrical power vanished in an instant. Even the alarm bells began dying with a wounded bellow.

Cursing in the dark, the captain fumbled with his hands along the bridge console until finding the emergency battery switch, which bathed the bridge in low-level lighting. As the lights flickered on, the Vereshchagin's chief engineer burst onto the bridge, gasping for air. A heavyset man with a neatly trimmed beard, he gazed through sky-blue eyes that were tinged with panic.

"Captain, the hatches to the engine room have been chained shut. There's no way to gain entry. I fear she may well be half flooded already."

"Someone has locked the hatches? What has happened ... Why are we sinking while moored at anchor?" the captain asked, shaking away the cobwebs in search of an answer.

"It appears that the bilges have flooded and the lower deck is taking on water quickly at the stern," the engineer reported, his breath finally slowing.

"You better prepare to abandon ship," Pitt advised in a logical tone.

The words still cut the captain to the bone. For a ship's captain, the order to abandon ship is like volunteering to give away one's own child. There is no order more searing on the soul. The pain of answering to the shipowners, the insurance companies, and the maritime inquiry boards after the fact would be difficult enough to face. But harder still was seeing the crew scramble off in fear, then watching as that inanimate mass of wood and steel actually vanishes before one's eyes. Like a favorite family car, most ships take on a persona of their own for the captain and crew, with nuances, quirks, and personality traits unique to that vessel. Many a captain has been accused of having a love affair with the vessel he commanded, and so it was with Captain Kharitonov.

The tired captain knew the truth but still couldn't utter the words. With a grim look, he simply nodded at the chief engineer to pass the order.

Pitt was already out the door, his mind churning over solutions to keep the ship afloat. Retrieving his dive gear and accessing the engine room was his first temptation, but he would have to defeat the chained hatch first and then what? If the flooding was from a gash to the hull beneath the engine room, there would be little he could do to stem the tide anyway.

The answer struck him when he ran into Giordino and Gunn on the suddenly bustling middeck.

"Looks like we're about to get wet," Giordino said without alarm.

"The engine room is locked and flooding. She's not going to stay afloat a whole lot longer," Pitt replied, then gazed down the sloping aft deck. "How quickly can you get that whirlybird warmed up?"

"Consider it done," Giordino replied, then sprinted aft, not waiting for Pitt's reply.

"Rudi, see that the survey team we picked up is safely on deck and near a lifeboat. Then see if you can convince the captain to release the anchor line," Pitt said while Gunn stood shivering in a light jacket.

"What's up your sleeve?"

"An ace, I hope," Pitt mused, then disappeared aft.

***

The Kamov bounded into the night sky, hovering momentarily above the stricken research vessel.

"Aren't we forgetting 'Women and children first'?" Giordino asked from the pilot's seat.

"I sent Rudi to round up the oil survey team," Pitt replied, reading Giordino's real concern about Theresa. "Besides, we'll be back before anyone gets their feet wet."

Gazing out the cockpit, they observed the full outline of the ship illuminated more from the shore lights than the emergency deck lights, and Pitt silently hoped his words would hold true. The research ship was clearly going down at the stern and sinking fast. The waterline had already crept over the lower deck and would shortly begin washing over the open stern deck. Giordino instinctively flew toward Listvyanka, while Pitt turned his gaze from the foundering Vereshchagin to the scattered fleet of vessels moored off the village.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Giordino asked.

"A high-powered tug, preferably," Pitt replied, knowing no such vessel existed on the lake. The boats whisking by beneath them were almost exclusively small fishing vessels of the kind that the oil survey team had leased. Several were capsized or washed ashore from the force of the seiche wave.

"How about that big boy?" Giordino asked, nodding toward a concentration of lights in the bay two miles away.

"She wasn't around when we came in last night, maybe she's on her way in. Let's go take a look."

Giordino banked the helicopter toward the lights, which quickly materialized into the outline of a ship. As the chopper zoomed closer, Pitt could see that the ship was a cargo ship of roughly two hundred feet.

The hull was painted black creased with brown patches of rust that dripped to the waterline. A faded blue funnel rose amidships, garnished with the logo of a gold sword. The old ship had obviously plied the lake for decades, transporting coal and lumber from Listvyanka to remote villages on the northern shores of Baikal. As Giordino swung down the ship's starboard side, Pitt noted a large black derrick mounted on the stern deck. His eyes returned to the funnel, then he shook his head.

"No good. She's moored here, and I see no smoke from her stacks, so her engines are probably cold.

Take too long to get her in play." Pitt tilted his head back toward the village. "Guess we'll have to go for speed over power."

"Speed?" Giordino asked as he followed Pitt's nod and aimed the helicopter back toward the village.

"Speed," Pitt confirmed, pointing to a mass of brightly colored lights bobbing in the distance.

***

Aboard the Vereshchagin, an orderly evacuation was already under way. Two lifeboats had been loaded with half the crew and were in the process of being lowered to the water. Gunn threaded his way past the remaining crowd of scientists and ship's crewmen toward the rear quarters, then dropped down a deck. Incoming water had risen above the deckhead at the far end of the passageway but sloshed only to ankle depth at the higher point where Gunn stood. The guest cabins were closest to him, where, to his relief, the water had yet to rise much higher.

Gunn shuddered as he approached the first cabin shared by Theresa and Tatiana, the icy water swirling about his calves. Shouting and pounding loudly on the door, he turned the unlocked handle and pressed against it. Inside, the cabin was bare. There were no personal effects about, which was to be expected, since the women had come aboard with little more than the clothes on their back. Only the ruffled blankets on the twin bunks indicated their earlier presence.

He closed the door and quickly moved aft to the next cabin, grimacing as the cold water sloshed around his thighs. Again he shouted and knocked on the door before forcing it open against the resistance of the water. Roy and Wofford were sharing this cabin, he recalled as he stepped in. Under a dim emergency light he could see that the cabin was empty like the first, though both beds looked as if they had been slept in.

As the frigid water stung his legs with the pain of a thousand needles, Gunn satisfied himself that the survey crew had made it above decks. Only the cabin of the fishing boat's captain was unchecked, but the water was chest high to reach it. Foregoing the opportunity to acquire hypothermia, Gunn turned and made his way up to the main deck as a third lifeboat was lowered into the water. Scanning what was now just a handful of crewmen left on deck, he saw no sign of the oil survey team. There was only one conclusion to make, he thought with relief. They must have made it off on the first two lifeboats.

***

Ivan Popovich was asleep, buried in his bunk, lost in a dream that he was fly-fishing on the Lena River when a deep thumping noise jolted him awake. The ruddy-faced pilot of the Listvyanka hydrofoil ferry Voskhod slithered into a heavy fur coat, then staggered half asleep out his tiny cabin and climbed up onto the ferry's stern deck.

He immediately came face-to-face with a pair of bright floodlights that seared his eyes, while a loud thumping from the blinding force sent a blast of cold air swirling about his body. The lights rose slowly off the deck, hovered for a moment, then turned and vanished. As the echo of the helicopter's rotors quickly receded into the night air, Popovich rubbed his eyes to vanquish the parade of spots dancing before his retinas. Reopening his eyes, he was surprised to see a man standing before him. He was tall and dark-haired, with white teeth that were exposed in a friendly smile. In a calm voice, the stranger said,

"Good evening. Mind if I borrow your boat?"

***

The high-speed ferry screamed across the bay, riding up on its twin forward hydrofoil blades for the brief journey to the Vereshchagin. Popovich charged the ferry directly toward the bow of the sinking ship, then deftly spun about as he killed the throttle, idling just a few feet off the research vessel's prow.

Pitt stood at the stern rail of the ferry, looking up at the foundering gray ship. The vessel was grotesquely tilted back on its stern, her bow pointing toward the sky at a twenty-degree angle. The flooded ship was in a precarious state, liable to slip under the surface or turn turtle at any moment.

A metallic clanking suddenly erupted from overhead as the ship's anchor chain was played out through the hawsehole. A thirty-foot length of the heavy chain rattled across the deck and over the side, followed by a rope line and float to mark where the anchor line had been cut. As the last link dropped beneath the surface, Pitt could detect the ship's bow rise up several feet from the reduced tension and weight of the released anchor line.

"Towline away," came a shout from above.

Looking up, Pitt saw the reassuring sight of Giordino and Gunn standing near the bow rail. A second later, they heaved a heavy rope line over the side and played it out to the water's edge.

Popovich was on it instantly. The veteran ferry pilot promptly backed his boat toward the dangling line until Pitt could manhandle the looped end aboard. Quickly securing the line around a capstan, Pitt jumped to his feet and gave Popovich the thumbs-up sign.

"Towline secured. Take us away, Ivan," he yelled.

Popovich threw the diesel engines in gear and idled forward until the towline became taut, then he gently applied more throttle. As the ferry's propellers thrashed at the water, Popovich wasted no time being cautious and smoothly pushed the throttles to FULL.

Standing on the stern, Pitt heard the twin engines whine as their revolutions peaked. The water churned in a froth as the props dug into the water, but no sense of forward momentum could be felt. It was akin to a gnat pulling an elephant, Pitt knew, but this gnat had a nasty bite. The ferry was capable of cruising at thirty-two knots, and its twin 1,000-horsepower motors produced a blasting force of torque.

Nobody felt the first movement, but inch by inch, then foot by foot, the Vereshchagin began to creep forward. Giordino and Gunn watched from the bridge with the captain and a handful of crewmen, holding their breath as they edged toward the village. Popovich wasted no effort, taking the shortest path to shore, which led to the heart of Listvyanka.

The two vessels had crept a half mile when a succession of creaks and groans began echoing from the bowels of the Vereshchagin. A battle waged between the flooded aft and the buoyant bow of the ship for control of the vessel, a fight that tested the structural integrity of the aged ship. Pitt stood tensely near the towline watching the gray ship shudder, knowing he would have to quickly release the rope if the Vereshchagin plunged beneath the waves, lest the ferryboat be dragged along with her.

The minutes seemed to slow to hours as the Vereshchagin crawled closer to shore, its stern sinking lower and lower under the lake surface. Another metallic groan rumbled from deep within the ship and the whole vessel shuddered. With agonizing slowness, the vessel inched closer, a warm yellow glow now bathing it from the village lights. Popovich ran the shallow-draft ferry directly toward a small rocky beach beside the damaged marina docks. To those watching, it looked as if he was trying to drive his ferry aground, yet everybody prayed he would keep coming. With the roar of his motors echoing off the town's buildings, Popovich kept charging forward until, just a few yards from shore, a muffled grinding sound affirmed that the Vereshchagin's hull had finally run aground.

In the hydrofoil ferry's cabin, Popovich felt rather than heard the grounding of the research vessel and quickly shut down his boat's overheated engines. A deathly still enveloped both vessels as the echo from the dying motors fell away. Then a loud cheer burst forth, first from the ship's crew who had landed the lifeboats ashore nearby, then from a crowded throng of villagers watching along the beachfront, and, finally, from the remaining men aboard the Vereshchagin, all applauding the heroic efforts of Pitt and Popovich. Popovich let go two blasts from an air horn in acknowledgment, then walked to the ferry's stern and waved toward the men in the Vereshchagin's bridge.

"My compliments, Captain. Your skill at the helm was as artistic as Rachmaninoff on the piano," Pitt said.

"I couldn't bear the thought of seeing my old ship go down," Popovich replied, staring at the Vereshchagin nostalgically. "I started out scrubbing decks on that babushka," he grinned. "Captain Kharitonov is also an old friend. I would hate to see him get in trouble with the state."

"Thanks to you, the Vereshchagin will sail the waters of Baikal again. I trust that Captain Kharitonov will be in command when she does."

"I pray so as well. He told me over the radio that it was an act of sabotage. Perhaps it was one of these environmental groups. They act like they own Baikal."

For the first time, Pitt considered the thought. Sabotage it appeared to be, but by whom? And for what purpose? Perhaps Sarghov would know the answer.

In Listvyanka, a flurry of activity roused the town in the late hour as the locals rushed to offer assistance following the near tragedy. Several small fishing boats acted as shuttles, running crew members to shore and back, while others assisted in tying up the grounded ship for safety. An adjacent fish-packing plant, its floors still damp from minor flooding only hours earlier, was opened up for the crew and scientists to gather and rest. Coffee and vodka were served with zeal by the local fishing wives, accompanied by fresh smoked omul to those with a late-night appetite.

Pitt and Popovich were welcomed with a cheer and applause as they entered the warehouse. Captain Kharitonov gratefully thanked both men, then, with uncharacteristic emotion, threw a bear hug around his old friend Popovich in appreciation.

"You saved the Vereshchagin. I am most grateful, comrade."

"I am glad to have been of help. It was Mr. Pitt who wisely recognized the worth of utilizing my ferry, however."

"I just hope next time I won't need to call on you in the middle of the night, Ivan." Pitt smiled, glancing down at the bedroom slippers Popovich still wore on his feet. Turning to Captain Kharitonov, Pitt asked,

"Has all the crew been accounted for?"

An unsettled look crossed the captain's face. "The bridge watchman Anatoly has not been seen. And Dr.

Sarghov is also missing. I had hoped he might be with you."

"Alexander? No, he was not with us. I haven't seen him since we turned in after dinner."

"He was not aboard any of the lifeboats," Kharitonov replied.

A subdued-looking Giordino and Gunn approached Pitt with their heads hung down.

"That's not all who's missing," Giordino said, overhearing the conversation. "The entire oil survey team that we rescued has vanished. Not a one made it into any of the lifeboats, and they were not in their cabins."

"I was able to check all of their cabins but the fisherman's," Gunn added with a nod.

"No one saw them leave the ship?" Pitt asked.

"No," Giordino said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Gone without a trace. It's as if they never existed."

-6-

When the sun crawled up the southeast horizon several hours later, the precarious state of the Vereshchagin became clearly apparent in the dawn's light. The engine room, stern hold, and lower-berth cabins were completely submerged, while water sloshed over nearly a third of the main deck. Just how many more minutes the ship would have stayed afloat had she not been towed ashore was a game of pure conjecture, but the answer was obvious to all: Not very long.

Standing near the remains of a tourist kiosk that was leveled by the seiche wave, Pitt and Captain Kharitonov surveyed the grounded research ship. Off her stern, Pitt watched as a pair of shiny black nerpa popped to the surface and swam over the stern rail. Small doe-eyed seals that inhabit the lake, they floated lazily about the flooded stern deck before vanishing under the water in search of food. As Pitt waited for the nerpa to resurface, he gazed at the ship's waterline, noting a small smudge of red paint amidships that had rubbed off a dock or small boat.

"A salvage repair crew from Irkutsk will not arrive until tomorrow," Kharitonov said with a grim expression. "I will have the crew activate the portable pumps, though I suppose there is little purpose until we can determine the exact cause of the damage."

"More pressing is the disappearance of Alexander and the oil survey team," Pitt replied. "Since they have not been found ashore, we must assume they didn't make it out alive. The flooded portion of the ship must be searched for their remains."

The captain nodded with reluctant acceptance. "Yes, we must locate my friend Alexander. I am afraid we will have to wait for a police dive team to give us the answer."

"I don't think you'll have to wait that long, Captain," Pitt said, nodding toward an approaching figure.

Fifty yards away, Al Giordino marched along the waterfront toward the two men, toting a red-handled pair of bolt cutters over his shoulder.

"Found these at a garage sale in town," Giordino said, hoisting the bolt cutters off his shoulder. The long handles stretched half his height from the ground to his waist.

"Should allow us access to the verboten portions of the ship," Pitt said.

"You? You will investigate the damage?" Kharitonov asked, surprised at the Americans' initiative.

"We need to find out if Alexander and the others are still aboard," Giordino said with a stern look.

"Whoever tried to sink your vessel may have had an interest in halting our research project," Pitt added.

"If so, I'd like to find out why. Our dive gear is stowed in the forward hold, so we have access to all of our equipment."

"It may not be safe," Kharitonov cautioned.

"The only difficult part will be to convince Al to dive before breakfast," Pitt said, trying to lighten the morbid task at hand.

"I have it on good authority that the local IHOP is having an all-you-can-eat special on sturgeon pancakes," Giordino replied with a raised brow.

"We'll just have to hope they don't run out."

Gunn joined Pitt and Giordino as they motored up to the grounded ship in a borrowed Zodiac. Climbing the sloped deck to the forward hold, Gunn lent a hand as the two men pulled on black dry suits and weight belts, then hooked up the lightweight rebreather systems. Before they pulled on their faceplates, Gunn pointed a finger up toward the deckhead.

"I'm going to check the computers up in the bridge and get an update on regional seismic activity. Don't run off with any mermaids without me," he said.

"They'd be too blue to swim in this frigid water anyway," Giordino grunted.

Foregoing fins, the two men trudged down the deck in the rubber-soled feet of their dry suits and waded into the water. When the water level reached his shoulders, Pitt reached up and flicked on a small light strapped to his head, then ducked underwater. A starboard side stairwell was just a few feet ahead and Pitt walked toward it like Frankenstein's monster, plodding slowly against the water's resistance. A bouncing beam of light to his rear told him Giordino was following just a few feet behind.

Dropping down the stairs in a series of hops, Pitt passed the lower cabin level and continued down to the poop deck and engine room. Distancing himself from the surface daylight, a cloud of darkness quickly enshrouded him. The water itself was as clear as a swimming pool, though, and Pitt's small headlight cut a bright white path through the gloom. With negative buoyancy, it was easier to walk than swim and he moon-hopped his way to the starboard engine-room hatchway. As the chief engineer had reported, the heavy steel door was sealed closed. An old, rusty chain was wrapped around the latch and fastened to the bulkhead, locking the hatch shut. Pitt noted that a gold-colored padlock, which secured the chain, appeared to be new.

Pitt watched the glow from Giordino's light illuminate the hatch, then the snips from the bolt cutter slipped in front of him and grasped a link of chain near the padlock. Pitt turned and watched as Giordino cut the link as if cracking a walnut, the Italian's thick arms easily brandishing the cutter. As it sliced through the second half of the link, Pitt unwound the chain and pulled open the hatch, then stepped inside.

Though the Vereshchagin was more than thirty years old, the engine room was neat and spotless, the hallmark of a meticulous chief engineer. The ship's large diesel generator occupied most of the room, centered in the middle of the bay. Pitt slowly circled the bay, searching for obvious signs of damage to the deck and bulkheads, as well as the engine itself, but none was evident. Only a large steel-grated footplate was out of place, pulled up from the rear deck and left leaning against a tool bin. Peering inside, Pitt recognized it as an opening to the bilge. A four-foot drop led to a crawl space that ran under the enclosed deck. At its base was the curved steel plate of the ship's hull.

Lowering himself into the hole, Pitt dropped to the hull plate and knelt down, examining the compartment toward the stern. As far as his light would shine, the hull plates appeared smooth and intact. Spinning slowly around, he backed into a metal object as Giordino's light-dispensing head poked into the compartment. Under the beam of Giordino's spotlight, Pitt noticed a thick pipe running forward from the object at his back. Turning to examine the protrusion, he noted Giordino was nodding his head up and down in affirmation.

The object was a squat valve that rose a foot above the trailing pipe. Adjacent to it was a small red placard that proclaimed in bold white letters PREDOSTEREZHENIYE!, which Pitt could only assume meant "Caution!" Pitt placed his gloved hands on the valve and twisted it counterclockwise. The valve wouldn't budge. He then reversed pressure and tried turning it clockwise. The valve turned freely under a light touch until Pitt pushed it to its stops. He glanced at Giordino, who nodded back with a knowing look. It was as simple as that. The valve opened the ship's sea cock, which would flood the bilge—and, ultimately, the entire ship—when opened at sea. Somebody had entered the engine room, opened the sea cock, disabled the bilge pumps, and then sealed off access to the bay. A quick and easy way to sink a ship in the middle of the night.

Pitt swam out of the bilge compartment and crossed the engine room. On the opposite side, he found an identical grated floor plate, this one properly positioned in the deck. Yanking the grate off, he climbed down and inspected the portside sea cock, finding it too had been turned to the open position. Closing the valve, he reached for the open hand of Giordino, who helped yank him out of the compartment and onto the engine-room deck.

Half of their objective was complete. They had accessed the engine room and determined the cause of the flooding. But there was still the question of Sarghov, Anatoly, and the missing oil survey team.

Glancing at his watch, Pitt noted that they had been submerged for nearly thirty minutes. Though they had plenty of air and bottom time left, the cold water was beginning to sap at his bones, despite the insulating dry suit. In his younger days, he would dive nearly oblivious to the cold, but Father Time was offering yet another reminder that he was no longer a kid.

Shaking off the thought, he led Giordino out of the room, then quickly checked the other flooded compartments around the engine bay. Finding nothing out of sorts, they ascended the stairwell a level to the lower cabin berths. The passageway led amidships then turned fore and aft, with cabins on either side of the hall that extended to the ship's beam.

With hand gestures, Pitt directed Giordino to check the portside cabins while he searched the starboard berths. Moving aft, he felt like a prowler as he entered the first cabin, which he knew to be Sarghov's.

Despite being completely submerged, Pitt was surprised to find that the contents of the room had remained largely in place. Only a few sheaves of typewritten papers and sections of a local newspaper drifted lazily about the flooded cabin. Pitt saw a laptop computer sitting open on a desk, its screen long since shorted out from the immersion. A foul-weather jacket, which Sarghov had with him at dinner, was draped over the desk chair. Peeking into the small cabin closet, Pitt found an assortment of Sarghov's shirts and pants hanging neatly on a rack. It was not the reflection of a man who had planned to depart the ship, Pitt observed.

Exiting Sarghov's cabin, he quickly searched the next three cabins before reaching the final starboard berth. It was the one cabin Gunn had been unable to reach when he searched for the oil survey team.

Across the passageway, Pitt saw the flickering light from Giordino, who had moved ahead of him and was searching the last port cabin.

Pitt turned the latch and leaned his body against the door to force it open against the invisible force of the water. Like the other cabins he searched, its interior appeared orderly, with no obvious disruptions from the flooding. Only, from the doorway, Pitt could see that there was something different about this cabin.

It still contained its occupant.

In the restrictive light, it might have been a duffel bag or a couple of pillows lying on the bunk, but Pitt had a feeling otherwise. Taking a step closer, he could see it was a man lying on the bunk, a pale and very dead man at that.

Pitt slowly approached the prone figure and cautiously leaned over the body, illuminating the corpse with the beam from his spotlight. The open eyes of the surly fishing boat captain stared up at him without blinking, a confused look permanently etched upon the dead man's face. The old fisherman was clad in a T-shirt, and his legs were tucked snugly under the covers. The tight blanket had kept him from floating off the bunk until the air in his lungs had slowly purged.

Shining his light closely at the fisherman's head, Pitt rubbed a finger across the man's hairline. Two inches above his ear, a slight indentation creased the side of his head. Though the skin had not broken, it was obvious that a heavy blow had cracked the man's skull. Pitt morbidly wondered whether the old fisherman had been done in by the blow itself or had drowned while unconscious when the cabin flooded.

As Giordino's light suddenly appeared in the doorway, Pitt took a careful look around the floor of the bunk. The carpeted deck was bare. He saw no porcelain pitchers, lead paperweights, or bottles of vodka that could have fallen off a shelf and struck the man by accident. The entire room was bare, a spare cabin given to the fisherman who brought no belongings of his own.

Pitt took another look at the old man and knew his initial instincts were right. From the first the minute he saw him, Pitt knew the old fisherman had not died by accident. He had been murdered.

-7-

"It's gone," Gunn spat, his face flushed with anger. "Someone systematically yanked out our database hardware and disappeared with it. All of our data collection points, everything we've gathered in the last two weeks, it's all gone."

Gunn continued to fume as he helped Pitt and Giordino out of their dry suits beneath the bridge.

"What about backups, Rudi?" Pitt asked.

"That's right. As a good computer geek, I know you save everything on backup disks, probably in triplicate," Giordino admonished as he hung up his dry suit on a hook.

"Our rack of backup DVDs is missing, too," Gunn cried. "Somebody had an idea of what to take."

"Our buddy Sarghov?" Giordino asked.

"I don't think so," Pitt replied. "His cabin didn't have the look of an impending escape artist."

"I don't understand. The research data would be of value only to the scientific community. We've shared everything with our Russian counterparts. Who would want to steal the information?" Gunn asked, his anguish slowly cooling.

"Perhaps the intent was not to steal the data. Perhaps they just didn't want us to discover something in the data," Pitt reflected.

"Could be," Giordino agreed. "Rudi, that means your beloved computer is probably at the bottom of Lake Baikal snagging lures about now."

"Is that supposed to be a consolation?" he muttered.

"Don't feel bad. You still made out better than the old fisherman."

"True. He did lose his boat," Gunn said.

"He lost more than that," Pitt replied, then told Gunn of the discovery in the cabin.

"But why murder an old man?" Gunn gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. "And what of the others?

Were they abducted? Or did they leave willingly, after killing the fisherman and destroying our scientific data?"

The same questions percolated through Pitt's mind, only there were no answers.

***

By midday, an overhead city utility line was tapped from shore and wired to the Vereshchagin, providing electrical power to the grounded ship and activating the bilge pumps that had been disabled. Auxiliary water pumps were deployed on the aft deck, helping pump dry the flooded compartments under the whine of their attached generators. Slowly but surely, the submerged stern began to creep out of the water at a pace far too sluggish for the few remaining crew members watching from shore.

Around Listvyanka, residents continued the cleanup from the flood-ravaged waters. The town's celebrated open-air fish market was quickly pieced back together, with several vendors already offering an aromatic assortment of fresh-smoked fish. The sounds of sawing and hammering filled the air as a row of tourist kiosks, taking the brunt of the wave's carnage, were already being rebuilt.

Word gradually filtered in about other destruction around the lake caused by the quake and wave.

Extensive property damage had occurred along the southern shores of the lake, but remarkably no loss of life was reported. The Baikalsk paper mill, a landmark facility on the south coast, suffered the most costly damage, its operations forced to close for several weeks while debris was cleared and its flooded structures restored. At the opposite end of the lake, there were reports that the earthquake had severely damaged the Taishet-Nakhodka oil pipeline that skirted the northern shore. Ecologists from the Limnological Institute were already en route to assess the potential environmental damage should an oil spill approach the lake.

Shortly after lunch, Listvyanka's police chief boarded the Vereshchagin, accompanied by two detectives from Irkutsk. The police authorities climbed up to the ship's bridge, where they greeted Captain Kharitonov in a formal manner. The Listvyanka chief, a slovenly man in an ill-fitting uniform, dismissed with a glance the three Americans who sat reconfiguring their computer equipment on the opposite side of the bridge. A self-important bureaucrat impressed with his own power, the chief enjoyed the perquisites, if not the actual work, required of the job. As Kharitonov relayed the missing crewmen and the discovery of the dead fisherman in the flooded cabin below, a flash of anger crossed the chief's face.

The missing persons and attempted sinking of the Vereshchagin might be explained away as an accident, but a dead body complicated matters. A potential murder would mean extra paperwork and state officials looking over his shoulder. In Listvyanka, the occasional stolen bicycle or barroom brawl was the extent of his normal criminal dealings, and that was the way he preferred it.

"Nonsense," he retorted in a gravelly voice. "I knew Belikov well. He was a drunken old fisherman.

Drank too much vodka and passed out like an old goat. An unfortunate accident," he casually explained away.

"Then what about the disappearance of the two crewmen and the survey team that was rescued with the fisherman, as well as the attempted sinking of my ship?" Captain Kharitonov added with rising anger.

"Ah yes," the police chief replied, "the crew members who opened the sea cocks by mistake. Ashamed of their mechanical error, they have probably fled in embarrassment. They will turn up eventually at one of our fine drinking houses," he said knowingly. Realizing that the two Irkutsk men did not appear to be buying his rationale, he continued. "It will, of course, be necessary to interview the crew and passengers for an official accounting of the incident."

Pitt turned from the egotistical police chief and studied the two lawmen at his side. The detectives from the Irkutsk City Police Criminal Investigation Division were clearly not cut from the same cloth. They were hardened men who wore suits rather than uniforms and carried concealed weapons. No ordinary beat cops, they had an air of quiet confidence that suggested experience and training derived from someplace other than the local police academy. When the three men began a quick round of inquiries aboard ship, Pitt curiously noted that the Irkutsk men seemed more interested in Sarghov's absence than the missing survey team or the dead fisherman.

"Who says Boris Badenov isn't alive and well?" Giordino muttered under his breath after a brief interrogation.

When the interviews were completed, the lawmen returned to the bridge, where the police chief gave Captain Kharitonov a last stern admonition, for effect. The Vereshchagin's captain glumly announced that at the direction of the Listvyanka police, all crew members would be required to return to the ship at once, where they were to remain in confinement until the completion of the investigation.

"They could have at least let us make a beer run first," Giordino moaned.

"I knew I should have stayed in Washington," Gunn grumbled. "Now we're exiled to Siberia."

"Washington is a miserable swamp in the summertime anyway," Pitt countered, admiring the panoramic lake view from the bridge window.

A mile and a half away, he noticed the black freighter that he and Al had flown over the night before.

The ship had moved ashore and was docked at an undamaged pier at the far end of town, its stern cargo hold being picked at by a large wharf-side crane.

A pair of binoculars dangled from a hook near the bridge window and Pitt unconsciously pulled them to his eyes while studying the ship. Through the magnified lenses, he saw two large flatbed trucks and a smaller enclosed truck parked on the dock adjacent to the ship. The crane was offloading items onto the trucks, a little unusual in that Listvyanka was primarily an outgoing port that provided goods to the rest of the lakefront communities. Focusing on one of the flatbed trucks, he could see that it held a strange vertically shaped item on a wooden pallet that was wrapped in a canvas tarp.

"Captain?" he asked of Kharitonov while pointing out the window. "That black freighter. What do you know about her?"

Captain Kharitonov stepped over and squinted in the direction of the ship. "The Primoski. A longtime scullion on Lake Baikal. For years, she made a regular run from Listvyanka to Baikalskoye in the north, carrying steel and lumber for a rail spur being built up there. When the work was completed last year, she sat dead at her moorings for several months. Last I heard she was under short-term lease to an oil company. They brought in their own men to sail her, which upset her old crew. I do not know what they're using her for, probably to transport pipeline equipment."

"An oil company," Pitt repeated. "Wouldn't by chance be the Avarga Oil Consortium, would it?"

Kharitonov looked up in thought for a moment. "Yes, now that I think about it, I believe it was. Forgive a tired man for not recalling that earlier. Perhaps they know something of our missing oil survey team.

And the whereabouts of Alexander and Anatoly," he added with a cross tone.

The Russian captain reached for the radio and issued a call to the freighter whose name, Primoski, was taken from a mountain range on Lake Baikal's western shore. A grunt voice answered almost immediately and replied in short, clipped responses to the captain's questions. As they conversed, Pitt played the binoculars over the old freighter, focusing a long gaze on the freighter's bare stern deck.

"Al, take a look at this."

Giordino ambled over and grabbed the binoculars, studying the freighter carefully. Noting the covered cargo being unloaded, he said, "Being rather secretive with their cargo, wouldn't you say? Though I'm sure if we asked, they'd say it's nothing more than used tractor parts."

"Take a look at the stern deck," Pitt prompted.

"There was a derrick on that deck last night," Giordino observed. "It has disappeared, like our friends."

"Granted it was dark when we flew over the ship, but that derrick looked to be no Tinkertoy piece."

"No, it wasn't something that could be disassembled in short order without an army of mechanical engineers," Giordino said.

"From what I've seen through the glasses, it's a skeleton crew working that ship."

The hearty voice of the captain interrupted as he hung up the radio microphone.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. The captain of the Primoski reports that he has taken on no passengers, has not seen or heard from any oil survey team or, in fact, was even aware of their activities on the lake."

"And I bet he doesn't know who's buried in Grant's tomb, either," Giordino said.

"Did he happen to reveal his ship's manifest?" Pitt asked.

"Why, yes," Kharitonov replied. "They are transporting agricultural equipment and tractor components from Irkutsk to Baikalskoye."

-8-

The rookie policeman tasked with ensuring that no one left the ship quickly grew bored with his assignment. Pacing the shore tirelessly a few yards from where the Vereshchagin's bow had ground into the lake bed, he had alertly monitored the vessel as the sun went down. But as the evening hour waned without event, his attention began to wander. Loud thumping noises from a bar up the street gradually seized his senses and it wasn't long before he had swiveled around to face the bar's entrance, hoping to catch sight of an attractive tourist or college coed visiting from Irkutsk.

Sufficiently distracted, he had almost no chance of spotting two men dressed in black who quietly slid a small Zodiac over the Vereshchagin's stern rail, then silently dropped themselves into the rubber boat.

Pitt and Giordino eased the Zodiac away from the Vereshchagin, careful to keep the research ship between them and the shore guard.

"A couple of nice friendly drinking establishments are just a short paddle away, and you want to take us on a fishing expedition," Giordino whispered.

"Overpriced tourist traps that hawk warm beer and stale pretzels," Pitt countered.

"Alas, a warm beer is still better than no beer," he replied poetically.

Though they quickly melted into the dark night, Pitt had them row almost a mile from shore before pulling on the starter rope to the boat's 25-horsepower outboard motor. The small engine quickly coughed to life, and Pitt turned the boat parallel to shore as they putted forward at slow speed. Once the boat was moving, Giordino lifted a three-foot-long sonar towfish from the floorboard and slipped it over the side, feeding it out to nearly the full length of its hundred-meter electronic tow cable. Securing the line to the gunwale, he flipped open a laptop computer and initiated the side-scan sonar's operating software.

Within minutes, a yellow-tinted image of the lake bed began scrolling down the screen.

"The picture show has started," Giordino announced, "featuring an undulating sandy bottom one hundred seventy feet deep."

Pitt continued running the boat parallel to shore until he was even with the black freighter. He held his course for another quarter mile before turning the Zodiac around and running back in the opposite direction, a few dozen meters farther into the lake.

"The Primorski looked to be parked in this neighborhood when we flew over her last night," Pitt said, waving an arm toward the southeast. His eyes turned and studied the landmarks on shore to the north, which he tried to recall sighting from the helicopter.

Giordino nodded. "I agree, we should be in the ballpark."

Pitt pulled a compass from his pocket and took a heading, then set it on the bench in front of him.

Tracking the bearing with the occasional flash of a penlight, he held a steady course until he passed a half mile in the other direction, then turned and backtracked again farther to the south. For the next hour, they continued the search, moving farther offshore as Giordino monitored the bottom contours on the laptop computer.

Pitt turned his eyes to shore, preparing to turn at the end of an imaginary lane when Giordino said, "Got something."

Pitt held his course, leaning forward to examine the image on the laptop. A dark linear object began scrolling down the screen, followed by another thin line that angled toward it. The image slowly evolved into a large A shape that had grown a few additional cross-members.

"Length is about forty feet," Giordino said. "Sure looks like the structure we saw sitting on the poop deck of the Primorski last night. Shame on them for littering the lake."

"Shame on them, indeed," Pitt replied, staring off toward the black freighter. "The question is, my dear Watson, why?"

When Pitt leaned over and shut off the outboard motor, Giordino knew they were going to seek the answer. Something had bothered Pitt about the black freighter the first time he saw it. Finding out it was leased by the Avarga Oil Consortium had just sealed the deal. He had little doubt that there must be some connection to the ship and the disappearance of Sarghov and the oil survey team. As he studied the ship from afar, Giordino quickly pulled in the sonar fish and closed the laptop computer, then retrieved the oars for the rowing ahead of them.

The Primorski sat dark and quiet at its still berth near the end of the village waterfront. The large trucks were still parked on the adjacent pier, the two flatbed rigs loaded with their concealed cargo. A tall chain-link fence secured the dock from passing villagers and was enforced by a pair of security guards lounging in a hut at the entrance. Around the trucks, a couple of men milled about studying a map splayed across one of the fenders, though the ship itself appeared devoid of life.

Pitt and Giordino approached the ship's stern silently, drifting slowly under the shadow of its high fantail.

Pitt reached up and grabbed the freighter's stern mooring line, which ran down to the water, and used it to pull them alongside the dock. As Giordino tied a line around a splintered pylon, Pitt climbed from the Zodiac and crept onto the wooden dock.

The trucks were parked at the opposite end near the ship's bow, but Pitt could still hear the voices of the men wafting across the empty pier. Spotting a pair of rusty oil drums, he crept up and kneeled behind them near the dock's edge. A second later, Giordino silently appeared behind him.

"Empty as a church on Monday," Giordino whispered, eyeing the ghostly quiet ship.

"Yes, a little too peaceful."

Pitt peered around the drums and spied a gangway at the far end that ran up to the ship's forward hold.

He then studied the freighter's side deck railing, which stood eight feet above the dock.

"Gangplank might be too grand an entrance," he whispered to Giordino. "I think we can step over from these," he said, pointing to the drums.

Pitt gingerly rolled one of the drums to the edge of the dock, then climbed on top. Bending his knees, he sprang off the drum and across three feet of water, reaching out and grabbing hold of the ship's lower side railing. He hung there for a second before swinging his body to the side, using the momentum to slip himself through the railing and onto the deck. It was a harder jump for the shorter Giordino, who nearly missed the rail and hung by one hand for a moment until Pitt jerked him aboard.

"Next time, I take the elevator," he muttered.

Catching their breath, they hung to the shadows and examined the silent ship. The freighter was small by oceangoing standards, stretching just over two hundred thirty feet. She was built of the classic cargo ship design, with a central superstructure surrounded by open deck fore and aft. Though her hull was steel, her decks were made of teak and reeked of oil, diesel fuel, and a candy store assortment of chemicals spilled and absorbed into the wood fibers over four decades of use. Pitt surveyed the stern deck, which was dotted with a handful of metal containers congregated near a single hold. Moving silently across the deck, he and Giordino crept toward the shadow of one of the containers, where they stopped and peered into the open stern hold.

The deep bay was stacked at either end with bundles of small-diameter iron pipe. The center of the hold was empty, but even in the darkness, the scarred markings where the feet of the mystery trestle had recently stood was etched into the hold's decking. More intriguing was a six-foot-diameter deck cap that sealed an access hole through the deck at the exact center of the footing markers.

"Looks like a string hole for a North Sea drill ship," Pitt whispered.

"And the drill pipe to go with it," Giordino replied. "But this sure ain't no drill ship."

It was a salient point. A drill ship contains the pipe and storage apparatus to drill into the earth for petroleum and collect the liquid aboard. The old freighter might have been able to set drill pipe, but obviously wasn't capable of collecting a drop of oil, if that was indeed the intended goal.

Pitt didn't stay to contemplate the point but moved quickly toward the portside passageway. Reaching the corner edge, he stopped and pressed himself against the bulkhead then peeked around the corner.

There was still no sight of any shipboard inhabitants. Moving forward slowly with Giordino on his heels, he breathed easier now that they were out of sight of the dock.

They crept forward until reaching a cross-passageway that bisected the superstructure from beam to beam. A lone overhead light illuminated the empty passageway in a dull yellow glow. Somewhere in the distance, an electrical generator hummed like a swarm of cicadas. Pitt walked underneath the light and tugged his sweater down over his right hand, then reached up and unscrewed the bulb until the saffron glow was extinguished. Shielded from the dock lights, the passageway fell nearly pitch-black.

Standing at the corner of the crossways, the latch to a cabin door suddenly clicked behind them. Both men quickly turned into the side passage, moving out of sight of the opening door. A dimly illuminated open compartment beckoned on Pitt's left and he stepped into it, followed by Giordino, who closed the door behind them.

As they stood by the door listening for footsteps, their eyes scanned the room. They stood in the ship's formal mess, which doubled as a conference room. The bay was a plush departure from the rest of the shabby freighter. An ornate Persian carpet buoyed a polished mahogany table that stretched across the room, surrounded by rich leather-backed chairs. Thick wallpaper, a smattering of tasteful artwork, and a few artificial plants made it resemble the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria. At the opposite end, a set of double doors led to the ship's galley. On the bulkhead next to Pitt, a large video screen was mounted at eye level to accept satellite video feeds.

"Nice atmosphere to chow down fish soup and borscht," Giordino muttered.

Pitt ignored the comment as he stepped closer to a series of maps pinned to one wall. They were computer generated, showing enlarged sections of Lake Baikal. At various locations around the lake, red concentric circles had been drawn in by hand. A map of the northern fringe of the lake showed a thick concentration of the circles, some overlapping the shore where an oil pipeline was depicted running from west to east.

"Target drill sites?" Giordino asked.

"Probably. Not going to make the Earth First! crowd too happy," Pitt replied.

Giordino listened at the door as the outside footsteps descended a nearby stairwell. When the footfalls faded away, he cracked the door slightly and peeked into the now-empty passageway.

"No one about. And no sign of any passengers aboard."

"It's the shore boat I want to get a look at," Pitt whispered.

Inching the door open, they crept into the side hall and back to the portside passageway. Moving forward, the freighter's superstructure quickly gave way to the open forward deck, which encompassed a split pair of recessed holds. Along the port rail near the bow sat a beat-up tender, stowed in a block cradle affixed to the deck. A nearby winch with cables still attached to the tender offered evidence that it had recently been deployed.

"She's in plain sight of the bridge," Giordino said, nodding up toward a fuzzy light that shined from the forward bridge window twenty feet above their heads.

"But only if someone's looking that way," Pitt replied. "I'll zip over and take a quick look."

While Giordino hung to the shadows, Pitt crept low and scurried across the open deck, holding close to the port rail. Lights from the dock and the bridge itself bathed the deck in a dull glow, which cast a faint shadow of Pitt's steps as he moved. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the trucks on the dock and a handful of men milling about them. Dressed in black pants and sweater, he would be almost invisible to the men at that distance. It was the occupants of the bridge that concerned him most.

Nearly sprinting as he reached the small boat, he ducked around its bow and kneeled in its covering shadow beside the rail. As his heart rate slowed, he listened for sounds of detection, but the freighter remained silent. Only the muffled sounds of activity from the nearby village echoed across the deck. Pitt peered up at the bridge and could see two men through the window talking with each other. Neither paid the slightest attention to the ship's forward deck.

Crouching down, Pitt pulled out his penlight and held it against the hull of the shore boat, then flicked the switch on for just a second. The tiny beam illuminated a battered wood hull that was painted a crimson red. Rubbing his hand along the hull, flakes of the red paint chafed onto his fingers. As Pitt had suspected, it was the same shade of red that had rubbed off against the starboard side of the Vereshchagin.

Rising to his feet, he moved toward the tender's bow when something in the interior caught his eye.

Dropping his hand to the floorboard, he again flicked on the penlight. The brief flash of light illuminated a worn baseball cap with a red emblem of a charging hog sewn on the front. Pitt recognized the razorback mascot of the University of Arkansas and recalled that it was Jim Wofford's hat. There was no doubt in his mind now that the Primorski was involved with the attempted sinking of the Vereshchagin and disappearance of the crew.

Replacing the penlight, he stood and glanced at the bridge again. The two figures were still engaged in an animated conversation, paying no attention to the deck below. Pitt moved slowly around the tender's bow, then stopped in his tracks. A sudden warning rang out in his brain, he senses detecting a nearby presence. But it was too late to act. A second later, a halogen flashlight burst on in his face and a screeching Russian cry of "Ostanovka!" split the air.

-9-

Under the glow from the dock lights, a man emerged from the shadows and walked to within five feet of Pitt. He was slightly built, with oily black hair that matched the color of his work overalls. He nervously swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, but there was nothing nervous in the way he held a Yarygin PYa 9mm automatic pistol aimed rock steady at Pitt's chest. The gunman had been sitting quietly in the forecastle behind the capstan, Pitt now realized, where he had a clear view of the gangplank. From that forward position, he had caught sight of Pitt's penlight and had crept over to investigate.

The guard was barely past his teens, and stared at Pitt through darting brown eyes. Professional guard was not his first duty, Pitt surmised, noting the grease-stained fingers of a mechanic wrapped around the handgun. Yet he held the gun perfectly trained on Pitt and there was little doubt he would pull the trigger if pressed.

Pitt found himself in an awkward position, squeezed between the tender and the side rail, with open deck between him and the guard. As the guard pulled a handheld radio to his lips with his left hand, Pitt decided to act. It was either lunge at the guard and risk getting shot in the face or slip over the rail and take a chance in the cold lake water below. Or he could hope that Giordino would appear. But Giordino was fifty feet away and would be in immediate sight of the guard the second he stepped on the forward deck.

As the guard spoke briefly into the transmitter, his eyes remained locked on Pitt. Pitt stood perfectly still, contemplating the penalty for trespassing in Russia and dryly noting that an exile to Siberia wouldn't require any traveling. He then thought of the dead fisherman aboard the Vereshchagin and wondered if a Siberian gulag wasn't too rosy an assumption.

He subtly bent his knees while waiting for the radio to squawk back, which would create a slight distraction to the guard. When a deep voice blared back through the handset, Pitt inched his left hand to the side rail and tightened his legs for a springing vault over the side. But that's as far as he got.

The muzzle flash flared with a simultaneous bark from the Yarygin as the gun bucked slightly in the guard's hand. Pitt froze as a baseball-sized chunk of teak splintered off the wood rail inches from his hand and splashed into the water below a moment later.

Pitt made no further movements as a series of shouts erupted on the dock, inspired more from the gunshot than the radio call. Two men stormed up the gangway, each brandishing the same type Yarygin pistol carried by the Russian military that had nearly blown away Pitt's left hand. Pitt immediately recognized the second man as the missing helmsman from the Vereshchagin, a humorless icicle named Anatoly. A third man soon emerged from the bridge companionway and approached with an authoritative air. He had long ebony hair and surveyed the scene through a pair of callous brown eyes.

Under the dock lights, Pitt could see a long scar running down his left cheek, the tattoo from a youthful knife fight.

"I found this intruder hiding behind the tender," the guard reported.

The man eyed Pitt briefly, then turned to the other two crewmen. "Search the area for accomplices. And no more gunfire. We do not need to attract attention."

The two men from the dock jumped at his words and quickly fanned through the forward deck, searching the shadows. Pitt was led to the center of the deck, where an overhead light illuminated the scene.

"Where is Alexander?" Pitt asked calmly. "He told me to meet him here."

Pitt didn't expect the bluff to work but studied the man in charge for a reaction. A slight arch of the brow was all he offered.

"English?" he finally said without interest. "You would be from the Vereshchagin. A pity you have lost your way."

"But I have found those responsible for trying to sink her," Pitt responded.

Under the dim lights, Pitt could see the man's face flush. He checked his anger as Anatoly and the other crewman approached, shaking their heads.

"No companions? Then put him with the other and quietly deposit them over the side where no one will find them," the man hissed.

The guard stepped forward and thrust the barrel of his pistol into Pitt's ribs and nodded toward the portside passageway. Pitt grudgingly walked toward the shadows where he had left Giordino and turned down the passageway, followed by the guard and two crewmen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the scar-faced boss return to the bridge via a side stairwell.

Marching past the crossways, he half expected to see Giordino lunge out of the shadows at his assailants, but his partner was nowhere to be seen. Reaching the stern deck, he was prodded toward one of the rusty cargo containers lining the rail. Acting calm and non-resistant, he waited until one of the crewmen fumbled with a padlock on the container before taking the offensive. The guard still poked him in the ribs with a pistol, standing off balance in the process. In a lightning-quick move, Pitt bumped the muzzle away from his body with a flick of his left elbow. Before the guard realized what was happening, Pitt had swung at him, carrying the full weight of his right fist with the momentum. The roundhouse hammered the guard's chin, coming within a hair of knocking him unconscious. Instead, he staggered backward into the arms of Anatoly as the gun clanked to the deck.

The other crewman was still occupied holding the padlock in his hands, so Pitt gambled and dove for the loose gun. As he hit the deck, his outstretched right hand just snared the Yarygin's polymer grip when a one-hundred-seventy-pound mass landed on his back. With calm callousness, Anatoly had wisely pushed the punch-drunk guard back at Pitt, the dazed man landing in a heap on Pitt's back. As Pitt tried to roll the guard off, he felt the cold steel muzzle of an automatic pistol suddenly pressed into the side of his neck. Pitt knew the order not to shoot would only go so far and dropped his gun to the deck.

Pitt was held at gunpoint on his knees until the padlock was freed and the double doors of the twenty-foot-long container were flung open. Shoved roughly in the back, Pitt staggered into the container, falling against a soft object. Under the dim light he realized that he had fallen against a human form, lying crumpled on the container floor. The body moved, the torso pulling up on an elbow as its hidden face turned to Pitt.

"Dirk ... it's good of you to drop in," rasped the weary voice of Alexander Sarghov.

***

When Pitt was apprehended on the bow, Giordino silently cursed from the shadows. Without a weapon at hand, his options were limited. He considered charging the gunman from afar, but there was just too much open deck to cross in plain view. Watching the guard fire a warning shot at Pitt dispelled the thought of conspicuous heroics altogether. Then hearing the men from the dock running aboard, he decided to backtrack and skirt through the cross-passageway to the starboard side. Perhaps he could fall in place behind the men boarding the gangplank and make a move on the guard with the approach of the other men.

Moving silently along the bulkhead, he quickstepped down the port deck and turned into the cross-passageway. Just as he turned the corner, a black-clad figure running from the opposite direction collided head-on with him. In a scene out of a Keystone Kops silent movie, both men bounced off each other like rubber balls and fell flat on their backs. Agile as a cat and quickly shaking off the blow, Giordino sprang to his feet first and lunged at the other man as he scrambled to stand up. Grabbing him by the torso, Giordino slammed the other man headfirst into the bulkhead. A soft clang echoed as the man's skull met the steel wall and his body instantly fell limp in Giordino's arms.

No sooner was the man out cold than the sound of footsteps resonated down the port deck. A glance to the lighted forward deck revealed Pitt being escorted aft. Quickly dragging the unconscious man down the cross-passageway, Giordino ducked back into the conference room. Hoisting the limp body onto the conference table, he noticed that the crewman was his same height and dressed in the same black overalls that the deck guard wore. A quick search turned up no weapons on the man, who was actually the ship's radio operator. Giordino stripped off the overalls and slipped them over his own pants, then pulled on a dark wool fishing cap that the man had been wearing. Satisfied he could in the dark pass as a crewman, he stepped back into the corridor and moved aft, completely unsure of his next move.

***

Sarghov's clothes were rumpled, his hair askew, and his left brow glistened a midnight blue. Though his face was weary, his eyes sparkled with life as he recognized Pitt.

"Alexander, how bad are you hurt?" Pitt asked, helping Sarghov to a sitting position.

"I'm all right," he replied in a stronger voice. "They just roughed me up a little after I laid one of their men down." A slight smile of satisfaction creased his lips.

Behind them, the double doors of the container slammed shut, casting the interior into complete darkness. The hum of a diesel generator kicked to life as one of the crewmen took the controls of a nearby shipboard crane. The operator swung the boom across the deck, jerking it to a stop above the container as its dangling steel hook swung wildly about. Releasing the cable, he let the hook drop until it landed on the container with a metallic clang, then killed the controls.

Inside, Pitt turned on his penlight for illumination as Sarghov regained his strength.

"They tried to sink the Vereshchagin," the Russian said. "Pray tell, your presence here indicates they failed?"

"Not by much," Pitt replied. "We were able to tow the ship ashore before she sank in the bay. The oil survey team is missing. Did they come aboard with you?"

"Yes, but we were separated when we came aboard the freighter. I heard a commotion in the passageway outside my cabin and was met with the muzzle of a pistol when I went to investigate. It was the deck officer, Anatoly. He and the woman Tatiana marched us to a waiting tender at gunpoint and brought us here. Their purpose for doing so is a complete mystery," he added, shaking his head.

"That's less important at the moment than how we get out of here," Pitt said, climbing to his feet.

Scanning the container, he found it was empty but for a few scattered rags on the floor.

Outside its steel walls, Anatoly collected a pair of looped cable strands and wrapped them around the base of the container. The other crew member, a thin man with greasy hair, climbed atop the container and pulled the cables together, then slid them over the crane hook. The guard who had taken the punch from Pitt staggered back to his feet, retrieving his gun while watching the spectacle from a distance.

Jumping from the container roof, the thin crewman returned to the crane controls in a darkened corner a few yards away. Tapping his fingers on the lift lever, he elevated the boom until the cables went taut, then slowly raised the container off the deck until it swung loosely in the air. With his eyes focused on the dangling container, he failed to notice a figure creep silently across the deck and approach from the side.

He additionally failed to see the balled fist that suddenly materialized out of the darkness and struck him below his ear with the kinetic energy of a wrecking ball. Had he not immediately blacked out from the blow to his carotid artery, he would have looked into the face of Al Giordino as he was dragged from the controls like a wet noodle and dumped on the deck.

Giordino had no time to study the controls as he took the man's place. Pulling at a lever with his right hand, he guessed right, and watched as the boom rose, elevating the container a few more inches. Testing the lateral controls with his left hand, he swung the boom amidships a foot or two before reversing directions and swinging the container out over the port side of the ship, the metal box just barely clearing the railing. Giordino held the crane steady for a minute, the container twisting back and forth perilously over the water. As he had hoped, Anatoly and the guard followed the path of the container and stood at the port rail to watch the impending drowning. Though the night temperature was cool, a bead of sweat trickled down Giordino's brow as he calmly waited with his hands on the controls until Anatoly waved at him to drop the boom. Giordino slowly swung the crane a few more feet away from the ship, then waited until the container had swayed to its farthest point in the pendulum, then reversed the controls and jammed the boom back over the stern deck as hard as he could.

The two men at the rail watched with a confused look as the boom swung overhead while the container hung in midair for a split second, then its momentum shifted and the two-ton steel box suddenly came barreling right toward them.

The unsteady guard managed to teeter back on his heels, cursing as the flying container skimmed by just inches from his face. Anatoly was not so lucky. Rather than duck, he tried to sidestep the hurling box in the other direction. But he had too far to jump and took only a short step before the swinging container was on top of him. A gurgled cry from his crushed lungs was the only sound he made as his body was tossed across the deck like a rag doll.

The dazed guard at the rail peered at the crane controls and cursed like a madman, then fell silent as he realized the man operating the boom was not his colleague. As he reached for his gun, Giordino whipped the lateral boom controls back to the right and the crane mechanism began marching again toward the port rail. Giordino ducked as the guard aimed and fired a shot, the bullet whizzing close over his head.

Even crouching low, he still kept his hands on the crane controls.

The swinging container had reached its shipside apex and now arced toward the port rail. Stepping into its path to fire his gun, the guard ducked low to let it pass over him. But as the flying container approached the gunman, Giordino yanked down on the elevation controls, lowering the boom to the deck. The container followed suit, plunging the short distance to the deck just ahead of the gunman.

A piercing shriek wailed across the stern as the container struck the deck, then rolled onto one side from the momentum. Careening over, the container clipped the left leg of the guard as he scrambled to get clear. Pinned under the massive container with a smashed leg, the guard howled in agony. Giordino sprinted over and stepped on the man's wrist, grabbing the pistol that fell out of his clenched grip. He then yanked off his borrowed wool cap and jammed it in the man's mouth, temporarily stemming the guard's cries.

"Beware of flying objects," Giordino grunted at the man, who stared back through glassy eyes that cringed with pain.

Taking aim at the padlock, Giordino ripped off two point-blank shots, then tore away the demolished device. Grasping the release lever, he threw open one of the doors, which fell flat to the deck from the tilted container. Pitt and Sarghov tumbled out like a pair of rolled dice, staggering to their feet, rubbing aching body parts.

"Don't tell me, you spent a previous life as a carnival ride operator?" Pitt said with a crooked smile.

"Naw, just practicing my bowling," Giordino replied. "If you boys are able, I suggest we vacate the premises posthaste."

On the forward part of the ship, a thunder of footfalls mixed with loud shouts could be heard storming up the gangplank. Pitt scanned the stern deck, noting the unconscious bodies lying there, before turning his gaze to Sarghov. The beat-up Russian scientist was moving slowly and appeared in no condition to be outrunning anyone that night.

"I'll get the boat. Take Alexander and get off down the stern line," Pitt directed.

Giordino barely nodded a reply when Pitt took off at a sprint toward the starboard rail. Climbing over the rail, he bent his knees and sprang toward the dock. Without a running start, he nearly missed the pier, managing to catch a foot and propel himself forward, landing in a self-cushioning ball on the dock.

More voices yelling aboard the ship, now moving closer following a spray of flashlight beams. Pitt abandoned any attempt at stealth and sprinted back to the Zodiac as a drumbeat of footsteps tailed him down the dock. When he leaped into the small boat, his prayers were answered when the worn outboard motor fired on the first pull of the rope. Gunning the motor, he aimed the Zodiac toward the freighter's stern, charging ahead until the rubber boat's bow bounced off the steel transom.

Pitt cut the throttle and looked up. Directly overhead, Sarghov plunged into view, clinging to the stern rope line with a tenuous grip.

"Let go, Alexander," he urged.

Pitt stood and half caught the heavy Russian as he dropped into the boat with all the finesse of a sack of flour. Above their heads, an automatic handgun suddenly barked, spraying a half dozen shots about the ship and dock. A second later, Giordino appeared on the stern line, quickly lowering himself hand over hand until he dangled a few feet above the boat. As the shout of voices resumed on the deck above them, Giordino dropped silently into the boat.

"Exit stage left," he urged.

Pitt was already gunning the throttle, steering under the ship's stern and around to the port beam before turning into the lake. The small boat quickly planed up on its fiberglass hull, raising the buoyancy tubes above the waterline, which provided an added surge of acceleration. For several seconds, they remained in clear view of the ship and dock and the three men ducked low in the boat to avoid gunfire.

Yet no one fired. Pitt glanced back to see nearly a half dozen men surge to the ship's port rail, but they just stood and watched as the little boat disappeared into the darkness.

"Odd, they went pacifist on us at the last minute," Giordino noted, observing the sight.

"Especially since you already woke up the neighborhood with your exhibition of quick-draw shooting,"

Pitt agreed.

He made no effort to disguise their course, running a direct path to the Vereshchagin. Approaching the research vessel a few minutes later, Pitt motored alongside a lowered stairwell on the starboard beam.

On shore, the police rookie suddenly noticed their arrival and shouted for them to stop. Sarghov stood up in the boat and yelled back in Russian. The policeman visibly shrank, then quickly turned and hightailed it into the village.

"I told him to go wake the chief," Sarghov explained. "We're going to need some muscle to search that freighter."

Rudi Gunn, who had nervously paced the deck during their absence, heard the shouts and ran from the bridge as the three men staggered aboard.

"Dr. Sarghov ... are you all right?" Gunn asked, staring at his swollen face and bloodied clothes.

"I am fine. Please find the captain for me, if you would be so kind."

Pitt shepherded Sarghov to the Vereshchagin's sick bay while Gunn roused the ship's doctor and Captain Kharitonov. Giordino located a bottle of vodka and poured a round of shots while the doctor examined Sarghov.

"That was a close call," the Russian scientist declared, regaining color and strength once the vodka surged through his bloodstream. "I am indebted to my friends from NUMA," he said, hoisting a second shot of vodka toward the Americans before downing it in a casual gulp.

"To your health," Pitt replied before kicking back his shot.

"Vashe zdorovie!" Sarghov replied before downing his drink.

"Do you know what became of Theresa and the others?" Giordino asked, concern evident on his heavy brow.

"No, we were separated once we boarded the ship. Since it was apparent they were going to kill me, they must have wanted them alive for some reason. I would presume they are still aboard the ship."

"Alexander, you are safe!" bellowed Captain Kharitonov as he barged into the cramped sick bay.

"He has a sprained wrist and a number of contusions," the doctor reported, applying a bandage to a cut on Sarghov's face.

"It is nothing," Sarghov said, waving away the doctor. "Listen, Ian. The Avarga Oil Consortium freighter

... there is no doubt that they were responsible for attempting to sink your ship. Your crewman Anatoly was working for them, and possibly the woman Tatiana as well."

"Anatoly? I had just hired him on at the beginning of the project when my regular first officer fell ill with severe food poisoning. What treachery!" the captain cursed. "I will call the authorities at once. These hoodlums will not get away with this."

The authorities, in the form of the chief of police and his young assistant, arrived nearly an hour later, accompanied by the two Irkutsk detectives. It had taken that long for the impertinent chief to rise, dress, and enjoy an early breakfast of sausages and coffee before casually making his way to the Vereshchagin, retrieving the two detectives from a local inn along the way.

Sarghov retold his tale of abduction, while Pitt and Giordino added their search for the missing derrick and their escape from the freighter. The two Irkutsk men gradually took over the interrogation, asking more probing and intelligent questions. Pitt noted that the two detectives seemed to show an odd deference to the Russian scientist, as well as a hint of familiarity.

"It will be prudent to investigate the freighter with our full security force," the police chief announced with bluster. "Sergei, please round up the Listvyanka auxiliary security forces and have them report immediately to police headquarters."

Nearly another hour passed before the small contingent of local security forces marched toward the freighter's berth, the pompous chief leading the way. The first light of dawn was just breaking, casting a gray pall over a damp mist that floated just above the ground. Pitt and Giordino, with Gunn and Sarghov at their sides, followed the police force through the dock gate, which was now open and unguarded. The dock was completely deserted, and Pitt began to get a sick feeling in his stomach when he realized that all three trucks parked by the ship had now vanished.

The bossy police chief charged up the freighter's gangplank, calling out for the captain, but was met by only the sound of a humming generator. Pitt followed him to the empty bridge, where the ship's log and all other charts and maps were noticeably absent. Slowly and methodically, the police team searched the entire ship, finding an equally purloined and empty vessel. Not a shred of evidence was uncovered as to the ship's intent, nor a person around to tell its tale.

"Talk about abandoning ship," Giordino muttered, shaking his head. "Even the cabins are empty of personal effects. That was one quick getaway."

"Too quick to have been carried out unexpectedly in the short time we were gone. No, they had finished their work and were already sneaking out the door when we stopped by. I'll bet there weren't any personal effects or links to the crew brought aboard in the first place. They planned on walking away from an empty ship."

"With a kidnapped oil survey team," Giordino replied, his mind centered on Theresa. After a long silence, he returned to the bridge, hopeful to find some sort of clue as to where the departed trucks had gone.

Pitt stood on the bridge wing, staring down at the stern deck and its array of empty containers. His mind whirred with puzzlement over the motive for the abductions and the fate of the survey team. The pink glow of the rising sun bathed the ship in a dusky light and illuminated the gouge marks imbedded in the deck where the sunken derrick had stood the night before. Whatever secrets the ship possessed had departed with the crew and cargo that vanished quietly in the night. But the sunken derrick was something they had not been able to hide. The significance was lost on Pitt, but, deep inside, he suspected it was an important clue to a bigger mystery.