Treasure of Khan

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.'