As Francesca ran her hand lovingly over the suitcase that contained the original working model for her process, Brynhild strode off toward the elevator. Within minutes she was back in her turret room. She had summoned the Kradzik brothers on a portable phone, and they were waiting for her when she returned.
“After all these years of waiting and disappointments, the Cabral process will soon be ours,” she announced with triumph.
“How long?” one of the twins asked.
“It should be up and running within twenty-four hours.”
“No,” said the other twin, the light glittering on his metal teeth. “How long before we can have the women to play with?”
She should have known. The brothers were programmed like malevolent computers to carry out torture and murder. Brynhild had no intention of letting Francesca live after she had delivered the process. Part of her treachery stemmed from her envy of Francesca’s scientific prowess and beauty. Part was pure vindictiveness. The Brazilian woman had cost her in time and money. She had nothing in particular against Gamay. Brynhild simply didn’t like loose ends.
Her smile brought the already low temperature in the room down another ten degrees.
“Soon,” she said.
Chapter 37
The night shift guard was having a cigarette at the end of the Valhalla pier when his relief man arrived and asked for a report. The swarthy ex-Marine squinted out at the sun-sparkled lake and flicked the butt into the water. “It’s been busier’n a one-legged man at a kick-ass contest,” he replied in an Alabama drawl. “Choppers coming and going all night.”
The relief guard, a former Green Beret, looked up at the whup-whup sound of an approaching helicopter. “Looks like more guests are arriving.”
“What’s going on?” the Alabaman said. “I don’t hear much working nights and sleeping days.”
“Bunch of big shots are coming in for a meeting. We got the full crew on, and security around the compound’s tight as a tick’s ass.” He glanced toward the lake. “There’s the ol’ Tahoe Queen, right on time.”
He brought his binoculars up and focused on the stern wheeler as it crawled toward the north end of the lake. The Tahoe Queen looked like something out of Showboat. The boat was painted white, like vanilla frosting, with light blue trim that marked the divide between the enclosed first and second decks. Two tall black smoke stacks were located at the front. The paddle wheels that churned up the placid lake water and gave the boat its forward motion were painted fire-engine red. The top deck rail was overhung with red, white, and blue bunting. Flags fluttered in the breeze.
“Hmm,” the guard said, surveying the deck. “Not many tourists aboard today.”
The guard would have been less sanguine if he knew the same coral-green eyes that had scrutinized him the day before from the parasail were watching him again. Austin stood inside the pilothouse that was perched like a cigar box on the top for ward deck. He was studying the guards and assessing their state of alertness. Austin could see that the men were armed, but their lackadaisical posture suggested a bored attitude.
The boat’s captain, a weathered lake veteran from Emerald Bay, was at the helm. “Want me to drop the Queen’s speed down a couple of knots?” the captain asked.
The paddle wheeler was a charming anachronism built more for comfort than for speed. Any slower and it would stop, Austin thought. “I’d keep it steady, captain. Launch shouldn’t be a problem.” He checked out the pier again and saw that one of the guards was leaving and the other ducked into the shade of a shelter. Austin hoped the man would take a nap.
He extended his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation, captain. Hope we didn’t disappoint your regular customers by chartering your boat at the last minute.”
“I just drive this old girl back and forth no matter who’s on it. Besides, this is a lot more exciting than a boatload of day trippers.”
The captain’s excitement had come at a price. The boat line was reluctant to lose a day’s revenue, and it took deep pockets and high-level calls from Washington to persuade it to charter the paddle wheeler for official business.
“Glad to help make your day,” Austin said. “Got to go. Just keep steaming after you drop us off.”
“How will you get back?”
“We’re working on that,” Austin said with a grin.
Austin left the pilothouse and descended to the spacious salon on the lowest deck. On a normal day the salon would be crowded with tourists eating and drinking as they took in the magnificent scenery. Only two people were in the salon, Joe and
Paul. Zavala was already in his black-hooded Viking Pro military dry suit, and Trout was going over a checklist. Austin lost no time suiting up. Then he and Zavala went through an opening in the side of the boat that was used to let passengers on and off.
They would have stepped directly into the lake if not for a wooden platform slung alongside the stern wheeler. The raft floated on ocean salvage tubes, elongated pontoons made of tough nylon fabric and capable of lifting several tons of weight. The assembly had been cobbled together in the late hours of the morning. Contos was on the raft making sure they hadn’t made any major mistakes in hastily putting the thing together.
“How’s she look?” Austin said.
“Not quite as good as the one Huckleberry Finn used on the Mississippi,” Contos said with a shake of his head. “But she’ll do in a pinch, I think.”
“Thanks for your unqualified endorsement of our building skills,” Zavala said.
As he stepped off the raft, Contos rolled his eyes. “Look guys, please try not to lose the SeaBus. It’s tough as hell to run a test program without something to test.”
Without its protective covering, the SeaBus looked like a fat plastic sausage. It was a small workhorse version of a tourist sub working in Florida, designed to take crews to and from underwater jobs of moderate depth. It carried up to six passengers and their gear in a transparent pressure hull of acrylic plastic. The hull rested on fat, round skids that carried the hard ballast, trim, drop weights, and thrusters. Higher on the sides were additional ballast tanks and compressed air containers. The external structures were attached to the pressure hull by a tough ring frame. The two-seat cockpit was at the front. In the aft section was the electrical, hydraulic, and mechanical heart of the sub and an air lock that allowed divers to go in and out while the SeaBus was submerged.
Trout stuck his head out of the stern wheeler. “We’re coming up on target,” he said, checking his watch. “Three minutes to launch.”
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Austin said. “How about you, Paul?”
“Finest kind, cap,” he said with a lopsided grin.
Trout was far from fine. Despite his stolid Yankee facade, he was worried about Gamay and desperately wanted to go on the mission. He knew that with his bad arm he would just get in the way. Austin convinced Trout that they needed someone with a level head above water to call in the troops in case the situation got dicey.
A crane had been brought in to lift the submersible from the truck onto the raft. The stern wheeler left early in the morning before the waterfront got busy. The boat hunkered offshore until it was time to make its usual crossing. Even with its heavy load the raft pitched and yawed as it was towed along. Austin and Zavala had to brace themselves as they knelt at the rear, each man above one of the lift bags. On signal they simultaneously stabbed the rubber pontoons with their dive knives. The air shot out in a loud hiss that rapidly turned to a flatulent bubbling. Squeezed between the water and the raft, the pontoons rapidly deflated. As the back of the raft settled into the water, they un hooked the tie lines securing the SeaBus. Then they scrambled through the aft hatch, made sure all was tight, and settled into the cockpit.
The front of the raft tilted upward at an angle. Then, as the lift bags deflated, it leveled out and began to sink. It was a primitive launching system for such a sophisticated craft, but it worked. The SeaBus maintained its buoyancy as the raft sank and was pulled out by the forward motion of the paddle wheeler. The submersible danced in the larger boat’s wake and sank into the foam kicked up by the stern paddles. As they gained depth the water changed from blue-green to blue-black.
Austin adjusted the ballast, and the sub attained neutral buoyancy at fifty feet. The battery-driven motors whined as Zavala goosed the throttle and pointed the submersible toward shore. They were lucky to have no current pushing against the round, almost blunt bow of the submersible and could keep it at a steady ten knots.
