Fire Ice, Page 2

  The damp air carried a perfume laden with scents from the ancient lands that surrounded the sea. He cocked his ear, straining to hear over the erratic thrum-thrum of the Star's engines. Decades at sea had honed his senses to a sharp edge. Another boat was moving through the fog. Who else would be so foolish as to sail on such a terrible night? Maybe it was the vodka at work.

  A new sound drowned out the boat noise. Music was coming from the passengers' quarters. Someone was playing a concertina and male voices sang in chorus. It was the Russian national anthem, “Baje Tsaria Krani.” “God Save the Tsar.” The melancholy voices made him sad, and he went back into the wheelhouse and closed the door so he could no longer hear the haunting strains.

  The fog vanished with the dawn, and the bleary-eyed mate stumbled in to relieve the captain. Tovrov gave him the course orders, then stepped outside and yawned in the early-morning sunlight. He swept his eyes over the blue satin sea and saw that his instincts had been right. A fishing boat was running parallel to the Star's long wake. He watched the boat for a few minutes, then shrugged and made the rounds, warning every crewman that the officers' quarters were off-limits.

  Satisfied that all was well, the captain crawled into his bunk and slept in his clothes. His first mate was under strict orders to awaken him at the first sign of anything unusual. Nevertheless, Tovrov, who had mastered the art of the cat-nap, rose several times and returned to a deep slumber in between. Around midday, he awoke and went into the mess, where he ate bread and cheese, plus sausage purchased with his newfound wealth. A stout woman was there, bending over the stove, and standing by was a tough-looking Cossack who helped her carry the steaming pots back to the passenger section. After his meal, Tovrov relieved the mate for a lunch break. As the day wore on, the fishing boat fell back until it could have been anyone of the dots visible on the horizon.

  The Star seemed to shed years as she glided over the mirrored surface of the sunlit sea. Eager to reach Constantinople, Tovrov ordered the ship kept at nearly top speed, but finally, the ship paid for its coltish behavior. Around dinner-time, an engine broke down, and though the first mate and the engineer tinkered with the engine for hours, their only accomplishment was to coat themselves with grease. The captain saw that further effort was futile and ordered them to push forward on one engine.

  The major was waiting in the wheelhouse and roared like a wounded bull when the captain laid out the problem. Tovrov said they would get to Constantinople, only not as soon. An extra day, perhaps.

  Yakelev raised his fists in the air and affixed the captain with his baleful eye. Tovrov expected to be smashed to goulash, but the major suddenly whirled and swept from the cabin. The captain exhaled the breath he had been holding and returned to his charts. The ship was moving at half speed, but at least it was moving. The captain prayed to the icon of Saint Basil on the wall that the good engine would hold out.

  Yakelev was calmer when he returned. The captain asked how the passengers were doing. They were fine, the major said, but they would do better if the stinking rust bucket they were on got to where it was going. Fog moved in later, and Tovrov had to reduce speed by a couple of knots. He hoped Yakelev was asleep and wouldn't notice.

  Tovrov had the nervous mental tic that comes to men who have spent their lives on the water, his eyes constantly darting here and there, checking the compass and barometer dozens of times in an hour. In between, he walked from wing to wing to observe weather and sea conditions. About one o'clock in the morning, he went out onto the port wing... and his neck began to tingle. A vessel was overtaking them. He listened intently. It was closing fast.

  Tovrov was a simple man, but he was not stupid. He cranked the phone that connected the bridge to the officers' cabin.

  Yakelev answered. “What do you want?” he snapped.

  “We must talk,” Tovrov said.

  “I will come by later.”

  “No, it is very important. We must talk now.”

  “All right. Come down to the passengers' quarters. Don't worry,” Yakelev said with an evil chuckle, “I'll try not to shoot you.”

  The captain hung up and woke Sergei, who reeked of alcohol. He poured the mate a mug of the strong black coffee.

  “Keep a heading due south. I will be back in a few minutes. Any mistakes and I will take away your vodka until we reach Constantinople.”

  Tovrov hurried below and cautiously pushed open the door, half expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. Yakelev was waiting. He stood with his legs wide apart and his hands on his hips. Four other Cossacks were asleep on the floor. Another sat cross-legged with his back to the cabin door and a rifle balanced on his knees.

  Yakelev glared accusingly. “You woke me up.”

  “Come with me, please,” the captain said, leading the way outside. They descended to the fog-shrouded main deck and made their way to the stem. The captain leaned over the fantail and peered into the wooly darkness that swallowed their broad wake. He listened a few seconds, blocking out the burble and hiss of the water.

  “A boat is following us,” he said.

  Yakelev looked at him with suspicion and cupped his hand to his ear. “You're crazy. I hear nothing but the noise from this stupid ship.”

  “You're a Cossack,” Tovrov said. “You know about horses?”

  “Of course,” the major replied, with a contemptuous snort. “What man doesn't?”

  “I don't, but I do know ships, and we're being followed. , A piston on that boat is missing a stroke. I think it is the fishing boat I saw earlier.”

  “So what of it? This is the sea. Fish swim in the sea.”

  “There are no fish this far from shore.” He listened again. “No doubt. It's the same boat and it is moving in on us.”

  The major uttered a string of curses and pounded the rail: “You must lose them.”

  “Impossible! Not with one engine down.”

  Yakelev's hand grabbed the front of Tovrov's coat and he lifted the captain onto his toes.

  “Do not tell me what is impossible,” he snarled. “It took us weeks to come from Kiev. The temperature was thirty degrees below zero. The wind lashed our faces like whips. There was a burin, a blizzard like none I have ever seen. I had a full sontia of one hundred Cossacks when I started. These pitiful fellows are all I have left. My other men stayed behind to watch our backs when we came through German lines. If not for the Tartars' help, we would all be dead. We managed to find a way. You will, too.”

  Tovrov stifled the urge to cough. “Then I suggest we change our course and cut the lights.”

  “Do it then,” Yakelev ordered, releasing his iron grip.

  The captain caught his breath and dashed back to the bridge, with the major close behind. As they approached the ladder that led up to the wheelhouse, a bright square of light appeared on the deck above. Several people stepped out onto the open platform. The light was from behind, so their faces were in shadow.

  “Inside!” Yakelev shouted.

  “We came outside for air,” a woman said, speaking in a German accent. “It is stifling in the cabin.”

  “Please, Madame,” the major said in a softer, pleading voice.

  “As you wish,” the woman said, after a moment. She was clearly reluctant, but she herded the others back inside. As she turned, Tovrov saw her profile. She had a strong chin, and her nose was slightly curved at the tip.

  A guard emerged from the ship and called down. “I couldn't stop them, Major.”

  “Go back inside and shut the door before all the world hears your stupid excuses.”

  The guard vanished and slammed the door behind him. As Tovrov stared up at the empty platform, the major's fingers dug into his arm.

  Yakelev's voice was harsh and low. “You saw nothing, Captain.”

  “Those people - ”

  “Nothing! For God's sake, man. I do not want to kill you.”

  Tovrov started to reply, but the words never left his mouth. He had felt a change in the ship's movem
ent, and he jerked his arm away from Yakelev's grip. “I must go to the bridge.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “There's no one at the wheel. Can't you feel it? My stupid first mate is probably drunk.”

  Tovrov left the major behind and climbed to the wheelhouse. In the light from the binnacle, he saw the wheel slowly spinning back and forth as if moved by invisible hands. The captain stepped inside and stumbled over something soft and yielding. He swore, thinking that the mate had passed out. Then he turned on the light and saw how wrong he was.

  The mate lay facedown on the metal deck, a puddle of blood around his head. Tovrov's anger turned to alarm. He knelt beside the young officer and turned him over. A wound grinned at him like a second mouth where the poor wretch's throat had been cut.

  Eyes wide with horror, the captain stood and edged away from the corpse, only to back into a wall of solid flesh. He whirled and saw Yakelev.

  “What has happened?” the major said.

  “It's incredible! Someone has killed the first mate.”

  Yakelev nudged the bloody corpse with his boot. “Who could have done this?”

  “No one.”

  “No one slaughtered your mate like a pig? Come to your senses, Captain.”

  Tovrov shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the mate's body. “I meant that I know all the crew well.” He paused. “All except the two new men.”

  “What new men?” Yakelev's good eye blazed at Tovrov like a spotlight.

  “I hired them two days ago as stokers. They were in the bar when I was talking to Federoff, and they came by later looking for berths. They looked like ruffians, but I was short of crew - ”

  Uttering a curse, Yakelev pulled his pistol from its holster, shoved Tovrov aside and vaulted through the door, shouting commands to his men. Tovrov glanced at the first mate and vowed not to let the same thing happen to him without a fight. He tied the wheel, then he went into his stateroom and with trembling hands turned the combination dial on the ship's safe. Pulling out a 7.63-millimeter Mauser automatic, he unwrapped the soft velvet cloth protecting the gun, which he had acquired years before in a barter in the event of a mutiny, loaded the magazine, stuck the pistol in his belt and peered out the cabin door.

  Descending to the lower deck, he peeked through the small circular window in the door that led to the passengers' quarters. The passageway was empty. He went down to the main deck and crept forward. In the glow of the deck lights, he saw the Cossacks crouched near the rail.

  Suddenly, a small, dark object looped over the gunwale, bounced once and skittered along the wet deck, leaving a trail of sparks.

  “Grenade!” someone yelled. Moving like quicksilver, Yakelev dove for the sputtering grenade, rolled onto his back and snapped the metal pineapple over the side. An explosion sounded, and the screams of pain that followed were drowned out as the Cossacks poured rifle fire into the mist. One guard leaned over with a sharp: knife and slashed the lines tied to several grappling hooks, then a boat engine roared, as if it had been given full throttle. The Cossacks continued to fire until the boat was out of range.

  The major turned and his rifle snapped up to firing position. Then a grin crossed his face as he recognized the captain.

  “You'd better put that toy away before you shoot yourself, Captain.”

  Tovrov tucked the gun into his belt and walked over to Yakelev. “What happened?”

  “You were right about being followed. A fishing boat came alongside and some impolite fellows tried to invite themselves on board. We had to teach them manners. One of your new crewmen was signaling them with a light until we put a knife in his heart.” He indicated a body lying on the deck.

  “We gave our visitors a warm welcome,” another Cossack said, and his companions joined in the laughter. The guards picked the body up and threw it over the side. The captain was about to ask where the other stoker was. Too late.

  The missing stoker announced his arrival with deadly force. Rifle fire cut short the Cossacks' mirth, and four men were mowed down as if by an invisible scythe. A round caught Yakelev in the chest, and the force slammed him against the bulkhead. He refused to go down and mustered the strength to push the captain out of the line of fire. The remaining Cossack dropped to his belly and crawled along the deck, firing as he went, but he was killed before he gained the protection of an air vent.

  While the attacker was diverted, Tovrov and the major made their escape, but after a few steps, the major's knees buckled and his great body dropped to the deck, his tunic soaked in blood. He gestured toward the captain, who brought his ear close to the Cossack's mouth.

  “See to the family,” he said in a wet, guttural voice.

  “They must live.” His hand groped for Tovrov's jacket. “Remember. Without a tsar, Russia cannot exist.” He blinked in astonishment that he should be in such a position, and a soggy chuckle escaped his frothy lips. “Damn this ship. give me a horse any day....” The life went out of his fierce eye, his chin slumped forward and his fingers went limp.

  Just then, the ship was rocked by a tremendous blast.

  Crouching low, Tovrov ran to the rail and saw the fishing boat a hundred yards away. A bright flash from the muzzle of a deck gun, and a second shell slammed into the freighter.

  The ship rocked violently.

  A muffled thud came from below, as the fuel tanks caught fire, and burning fuel gushed from the tanks and spread in flaming sheets across the surface of the water. The second stoker decided to abandon ship. He ran across the deck, threw the rifle over the side, then he climbed onto the rail, leaped into a clear section of water and stroked for the fishing boat. He underestimated the speed of the spreading fuel, however. Within seconds, it caught up with him, and his screams were drowned out by the loud crackle of flames.

  The cannonade had dislodged the rest of the crew from their hiding places. Men ran in desperation toward the lifeboat on the side away from the fire. Tovrov went to follow them, then he remembered Yakelev's dying words. Gasping as he tried to pull air into his ravaged lungs, Tovrov climbed to the passenger quarters and threw the door open.

  A pitiful sight greeted his eyes. Four girls in their teens cowered against the wall, along with the cook. Standing protectively in front of them was a middle-aged woman with sad blue-gray eyes. She had a long thin nose, slightly aquiline, with a firm but delicate chin. Her lips were closely pressed together in determination. They could have been any group of refugees huddling in terror, but Tovrov knew they weren't. He fumbled as he tried to decide on the right form of address.

  “Madame,” he said finally. “You and the children must come to the lifeboat.”

  “Who are you?” the woman said, with the same German accent the captain had heard earlier.

  “Captain Tovrov. I am master of this vessel.”

  “Tell me what has happened. What is all that noise?”

  “Your guards are all dead. The ship is under attack. We must abandon it.”

  She glanced at the girls and seemed to gain renewed courage. “Captain Tovrov, if you guide me and my family to safety, great rewards await you.”

  "I will do my best, Madame.

  She nodded. “Go, and we will follow.”

  Tovrov checked to see if the way was clear, then held the door open for the family and led the way across the deck away from the fire. The Star tilted at a pronounced angle and they had to climb up a slanting slippery metal surface. They fell, helped one another up and pushed on.

  The crew was piling into the lifeboat, struggling to work the davits. Taking control, the captain ordered the men to help the family. When everyone was in the boat, he told the crewmen to look smart and lower the boat. He was worried that the ship was at such an angle that the davits would not work, but the boat began to descend, although it bumped against the slanting hull.

  The lifeboat was a few yards above the water when one of the men shouted. The fishing boat had come around from the other side and the deck gun was leve
led directly at the lifeboat. The gun fired and the shell smashed through one end of the boat, and then the air was filled with flying splinters of wood, hot steel and body parts.

  Tovrov had stretched his arm around the girl nearest to him. He still had his arm around her when he came to in the freezing water, calling out the name of his long-lost daughter. Spotting a wooden hatch cover floating nearby, and moving slowly so as not to alert the attackers, he swam toward the debris, hauling the semiconscious girl behind him.

  He helped her climb aboard the precarious raft, gave it a shove, and the cover and its cargo drifted away from the light of the dying ship and merged with the darkness. Then, frozen and exhausted, with nothing to keep him afloat, Tovrov slipped beneath the embracing waters, taking with him his dream of a cottage by the sea.

  NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

  -1- OFF THE MAINE COAST, THE PRESENT

  LEROY JENKINS WAS hauling in a barnacle- encrusted lobster trap aboard his boat, The Kestrel, when he looked up and saw the giant ship on the horizon. He gingerly extracted a fat pair of angry crustaceans from the trap, pegged the claws and tossed the lobsters into a holding tank, then he rebaited the trap with a fish head, pushed the wire cage over the side and went into the pilothouse for his binoculars. He peered through the lenses and silently mouthed the word “Wow!”

  The ship was huge. Jenkins examined the vessel from stem to stem with an expert eye. Before retiring to take up lobster-fishing, he had taught oceanography for years at the University of Maine, and he had spent many summer breaks on survey ships - but this vessel was like nothing he had ever seen. He estimated its length at about six hundred feet. Derricks and cranes sprouted from its deck. Jenkins guessed it was some sort of ocean mining or exploration vessel. He watched until the ship vanished from sight, then went back to pull the rest of the string of pots.

  Jenkins was a tall, rangy man in his sixties, whose rugged features mirrored the rockbound coast of his native Maine. A smile crossed his deeply tanned face as he hauled in the last trap. It had been an exceptionally good day. He had found the honey hole by accident a couple of months earlier. The spot produced an endless supply of lobsters, and he kept coming back even though he had to go farther from land than normal. Fortunately, his thirty-six-foot wooden boat was seaworthy even with a full load. Setting a course for land, he put the boat on autopilot and went below to reward himself with what they used to call a Dagwood sandwich when he was a kid. He had just layered in another slice of baloney on top of the pile of ham, cheese and salami when he heard a muffled“ Boom!” It sounded like a thunderclap, but it seemed to come from below.