Treasure of Khan (10 page)

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?” Tatiana 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.

P
ITT 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.

 

T
HE
K
AMOV
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.

 

A
BOARD 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.

 

I
VAN
P
OPOVICH
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?”

 

T
HE 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.