Treasure Of Khan Part 7

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 pa.s.ses," 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 pa.s.s 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 fis.h.i.+ng boats and transport vessels not designed to withstand the onslaught of a ten-foot wave. Then there were the sh.o.r.eline inhabitants, who would be subject to an unexpected flooding of the low-lying 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 sh.o.r.e to evacuate all residents at risk to flooding. There's no time to lose."

Sarghov beat a path to the s.h.i.+p'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 fis.h.i.+ng boat in the protected cove of Aya Bay barely survived capsizing as the fringe of the wave pa.s.sed 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.eline. "We will be cutting it close, as you say."

At Listvyanka, an old air-raid alarm was sounded as the panic-stricken residents pulled ash.o.r.e 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 ma.s.se, 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p'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 Inst.i.tute 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 a.s.set of the inst.i.tute," he said hoa.r.s.ely 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 sh.o.r.e, rather than risk getting it tossed off the deck," Gunn said.

"Yes ... of course," Sarghov stammered, just wis.h.i.+ng the helicopter would move away from the bridge.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to fly by that wayward fis.h.i.+ng 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 ash.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 sh.o.r.e after we head off the fis.h.i.+ng boat," Pitt directed.

"Aye, aye," Gunn responded as Pitt dashed out of the bridge. Sprinting to the rear of the s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sageway, 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 pa.s.senger 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 c.o.c.kpit appeared to have been sheared in half behind the twin flight controls, the result of a detachable pa.s.senger cabin that had been removed. The vintage helicopter had been designed with versatility in mind, and the dead s.p.a.ce could be fitted with a tank for agricultural spraying, an ambulance or pa.s.senger cabin, or, in the case of the inst.i.tute'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 s.h.i.+pborne platforms.

As Pitt sprinted to the right side of the c.o.c.kpit, the pa.s.senger 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 s.h.i.+p and climbed to an alt.i.tude 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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?"