set off alarms.
He drifted past a long pier that jutted from the rocky shore. A powerboat was tied up at the pier. Behind a boathouse or storage shed, the black rocks rose at a sharp angle, then leveled off into a heavily wooded natural tableland. Several hundred yards back from shore the land rose again in thick forest. The towers, roofs, and turrets peeking above the tall trees reminded Austin of the castle ramparts in a Grimm fairy tale.
Austin’s eye was drawn by sudden movement. Several men in dark clothes had run out to the end of the pier. He was too far away to see details, but he wouldn’t be surprised if pictures of him parasailing wound up in a Gogstad family album.
The pier disappeared in his wake as the winch boat towed him another mile south. When they were safely out of view he gave Zavala the okay to haul him in. The winch pulled the Skyrider in like a boy reeling in a kite. The reclining chair splashed down and floated in the water. Austin was grateful he wasn’t using the old harness-style rig which would have dunked him in the lake. Even in summer the water temperature was in the sixties.
“See anything interesting?” Zavala asked as he helped Austin back into the winch boat.
“There’s no welcome mat on the doorstep, if that’s what you mean.”
“I think I saw a welcoming committee on the dock.”
“They came charging out the minute we did our second fly by. We were right about the tight security.”
They had assumed the compound would be well guarded and that there would be no point sneaking around. Reasoning that the obvious was often the most innocuous, they had flashed a wad of bills and their NUMA IDs and persuaded the owner of the parasail and the winch boat to spare his equipment for a few hours. They implied that they were investigating the Mafia, which was not implausible given the nearness to the gambling casinos. Since business was off and he stood to make more in the deal than he earned in a week, he went along with the deal.
Austin helped Zavala stow the Skyrider and parasail, then he opened a waterproof bag and dug out a sketch pad and pen. Apologizing for his draftsmanship, which was really quite good, he drew several sketches of what he had seen from the air. He had brought along the satellite photos Yaeger provided and com pared the sketches to them. At the top of the bluff the staircase from the dock connected with a walkway. This in turn widened into a road that led to the main complex. A spur from the road shot off to a helicopter pad.
“A full frontal waterborne assault is out of the question,” he said.
“Can’t say I’m disappointed. I haven’t forgotten our shoot out in Alaska,” Zavala said.
“I had hoped to see down into the water. In the old days the lake was as clear as crystal, but the runoff from all the development around the shores has clouded up the water with algae growth.”
Zavala had been studying another photo. After their strategy meeting at NUMA headquarters, Austin called up a NOAA satellite photo of Lake Tahoe. The shot showed the water temperature of the lake in colors. The lake was almost entirely blue except for one spot along the western shore where the red shade denoted high temperatures. The heated water was practically under the Gogstad pier. It was similar to the heat pulse in the ocean off the Baja coast.
“Pictures don’t lie,” Zavala said. “There’s always the possibility of a hot spring.”
Austin frowned.
“Okay, say you’re right, that there’s an underwater facility like the one in the Baja. There’s one thing I don’t understand. We’re talking about a desalting plant. This is a freshwater lake.”
“I agree, it doesn’t make sense. But there’s only one way to find out for sure. Let’s head back and see if our package has arrived.”
Austin started the engine and pointed the winch boat toward South Lake Tahoe. They skimmed over the intense blue waters, and before long they were pulling into a marina. A lanky figure stood at the end of a finger pier waving at them. Paul had stayed on shore. His wound was still too tender to allow him to bounce around in a boat. As they pulled up to the slip he grabbed the line with his good hand and tied them off.
“Your package has arrived,” he announced. “It’s in the parking lot.”
“That was fast,” Austin said. “Let’s take a look.” He and Zavala set off toward the parking lot.
“Wait,” Paul said.
Austin was eager to check out the delivery. “We’ll fill you in later,” he said over his shoulder.
Paul shook his head. “Can’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” he muttered.
The flatbed truck was pulled up off to the side. The object on the trailer was about the shape and size of two cars, one be hind the other. It was covered with padding and dark plastic. Austin had moved in for a closer look when the passenger door of the truck opened and a familiar figure stepped out. Jim Contos, skipper of the Sea Robin, strolled over with a grin on his face.
“Uh-oh,” Zavala said.
“Jim,” Austin said. “What a nice surprise.”
“What the hell is going on, Kurt?” The grin had vanished.
“It was an emergency, Jim.”
“Yeah, I figured it was an emergency when Rudi Gunn called in the middle of sea trials and told me to ship the SeaBus out to Tahoe ASAP. So I just tagged along on the ride in from San Diego to see who was on the receiving end.”
Austin noticed a picnic table and suggested they sit down. Then he laid out the situation, using the photos and drawings as visual aids. Contos sat silently through the entire explanation, his dark features growing graver with each added detail.
“So there you have it,” Austin said. “When we saw that there might be only one way in, we checked on the nearest submersible to do the job. Unfortunately it happened to be the one you were testing.”
“Why play Blind Man’s Bluff?” Contos said, referring to daring covert underwater operations during the cold war. “Why not just go in?”
“First of all, the place has better security than Fort Knox. We checked on land access. The complex is surrounded by razor-wire fence rigged to set off alarms if you so much as breathe on it. The perimeter is heavily patrolled. There is only one access road in and out. It runs through dense forest and is heavily guarded. If we send a SWAT team in with guns blazing it’s likely someone would get hurt. Beyond that, what if we’re wrong about the whole thing, that the women are not being held there, and what’s behind all those fences is perfectly legal?”
“You don’t think that’s the case, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Contos gazed out at the sailboats peacefully gliding across the lake, then turned to Paul, who had joined them at the table.
“Do you think your wife is in there?”
“Yep. I have every intention of getting her out.”
Contos noted Trout’s arm in its sling. “I’d say you could use an extra hand. And your friends here will need some help launching the SeaBus.”
“I designed it,” Zavala said.
“I’m well aware of that, but you haven’t been the one testing it, so you don’t know the quirks. For instance, the batteries are supposed to be good for six hours. They barely make it past four. From what you say, this facility is quite a way from here. Have you given any thought to how you’re going to get it to the launch point?”
Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance.
‘As a matter of fact, we have already lined up a delivery sys tem,” Austin said. “Would you like to see it?”
Contos nodded, and they got up from the table and walked through the parking lot to the dock. The closer they got to the water the more puzzled was the expression on Contos’s face. Used to NUMA’s state-of-the-art equipment, he was looking for something like a high-tech barge fitted out with cranes. There was nothing like that.
“Where’s your delivery system?” he said.
“I think I see it coming in now,” Austin said.
Contos looked out at the lake, and his eyes grew wider as the old-fashioned paddle-wheel tour boat made its way in their direction. The vessel was painted red, white, and blue and deco rated with bunting and fluttering flags.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “You’re going to launch from that? It looks like a waterborne wedding cake.”
