Clive Cussler's Serpent Ver 1

Clive Cussler's Serpent Ver 1.0 INTRODUCING A FRIEND When I was asked to introduce Kurt Austin, Joe Zavala, and their friends
who serve the National Underwater and Marine Agency, I accepted with great
pleasure and enthusiasm. I've had the privilege of knowing Kurt and Joe for
many years. We first met when they joined NUMA at Admiral Sandecker's
invitation not long after Al Giordino and I came on board. Although we've
never had the opportunity to work on the same project together, Kurt and
Joe's escapades above and underwater have often fired my imagination and
left me wishing I'd done that.
In some ways Kurt and I are similar. He's a few years younger, and we
hardly look alike, but he lives in an old remodeled boathouse on the
Potomac River and collects antique dueling pistols, a wise choice when you
consider how much simpler they are to maintain and store than the old. cars
in my aircraft hangar. He's also into rowing and sailing, which sends me
into exhaustion just thinking about it. Kurt is resourceful and shrewd, and he has more guts than a white shark on
steroids. He's also a genuine nice guy with two tons of integrity who
believes in the flag, mothers, and apple pie. To my chagrin, the ladies
find him very attractive, even more attractive than they find me. The only obscure conclusion I can reachit pains me deeply to say sois that
between the two of us he's better looking. I'm happy that Kurt and Joe's exploits are finally being chronicled from
the NUMA Files. There is not the slightest doubt that you will find them
entertaining as well as an intriguing way to while away the time. I know
that I have. Dirk Pitt ACKNOWLEDGMENTS WITH APPRECIATION TO DON STEVENS for taking us down to the Andrea Doria
without getting our feet wet, and for the work of two fine writers, Alvin
Moscow and William Hoffer, whose books Collision Course and Saved so
vividly describe the human side of that great sea tragedy. And for the
tenacity of that intrepid explorer John L. Stephens, who braved mosquitoes
and malaria as he trekked through the Yucatan discovering the wonders of
the lost Mayan civilization. PROLOGUE July 25, 1956
South of Nantucket Island SO QUICKLY DID THE PALE SHIP appear, she seemed to spring whole from the
depths, gliding like a ghost across the silver pool of luminescence cast by
the near full moon. Tiaras of porthole lights glittered along her bone-
white sides as she raced eastward in the warm night, her sharply raked bow
knifing through the flat seas as easily as a stiletto cutting through black
satin. High in the darkened bridge of the Swedish American liner Stockholm, seven
hours and 130 miles east of New York City Second Mate Gunnar Nillson
scanned the moonlit ocean. The big rectangular windows that wrapped around
the wheelhouse gave him a panoramic view as far as he could see. The
surface was calm except for a ragged swell here and there. The temperature
was in the seventies, a pleasant change from the heavy humid air that
weighed over the Stockholm that morning as the liner left its berth at the
Fifty Seventh Street pier and headed down the Hudson River. Remains of the
woolly overcast drifted in tattered shrouds across the porcelain moon.
Visibility was a half dozen miles to starboard. Nillson swept his eyes to port, where the thin, dark horizon line became
lost behind a hazy murkiness that veiled the stars and welded the sky and
sea. For a moment he was lost in the drama of the scene, sobered by the thought
of the vast and trackless emptiness yet to be crossed. It was a common
feeling among mariners, and it would have lasted longer if not for the
tingling in the soles of his feet. The power produced by the massive twin
14,600horsepower diesels seemed to flow up from the engine room through the
vibrating deck and into his body, which swayed almost imperceptibly to
adjust for the slight roll. Dread and wonder ebbed, to be replaced by the
omnipotent sensation that comes with being in command of a swift liner
racing across the ocean at top speed. At 525 feet sterntostern and 69 feet in the beam, the Stockholm was the
smallest liner in the transatlantic trade. Yet she was a special ship,
sleek as a yacht, with racy lines that swept back from her long forecastle
to a stern as softly rounded as a wine glass. Her gleaming skin was all
white except for a single yellow funnel. Nillson luxuriated in the power of
command. With a snap of his fingers the three crewmen on watch would jump
to his orders. With a flick of a lever on the ship's telegraphs he could
set bells clanging and men scurrying to action. He chuckled, recognizing his hubris for what it was. His four-hour watch
was essentially a series of routine tasks aimed at keeping the ship on an
imaginary line that would bring it to an imaginary point near the stubby
red lightship that guarded Nantucket's treacherous shoals. There the
Stockholm would make the northeasterly turn onto a course that would take
its 534 passengers past Sable Island on a straight shot across the Atlantic
to the north of Scotland and, finally Copenhagen Harbor. Even though he was only twenty eight and had joined the Stockholm barely
three months earlier, Nillson had been on boats since he could walk. As a
teenager he'd worked the Baltic Sea herring bats and later served as an
apprentice seaman with a huge shipping company. Then came the Swedish
Nautical College and a stint in the Swedish navy. The Stockholm was one
more step in achieving his dream, to be master of his own ship. Nillson was an exception to the common tall blond Scandinavian stereotype.
There was more of Venice than Viking in him. He had inherited his mother's
Italian genes, along with her chestnut hair, olive skin, smallboned
stature, and sunny temperament. Darkhaired Swedes were not unusual. At
times Nillson wondered if the Mediterranean warmth lurking in his large
brown eyes had anything to do with his captain's frostiness. More likely it
was a combination of Scandinavian reserve and the rigid Swedish maritime
tradition of strict discipline: Nevertheless, Nillson worked harder than he
had to. He didn't want to give the captain a single reason to find fault.
Even on this peaceful night, with no traffic,. near flat seas, and perfect
weather, Nillson paced from one wing of the bridge to the other as if the
ship were in the teeth of a hurricane. The Stockholm's bridge was divided into two spaces, the twentyfootwide
wheelhouse in front and the separate chartroom behind it. The doors leading
out to the wings were left open to the light southwest breeze. At each side
of the bridge was an RCA radar set and a ship's telegraph. At the center of
the wheelhouse the helmsman stood on a wooden platform a few inches off the
polished deck, his back to the dividing wall, hands gripping the steering
wheel, eyes on the face of a gyrocompass to his left. Directly in front of
the helm, below the center window, was a course box. The three wooden
blocks in the box were printed with numbers to keep the helmsman's mind
focused on the heading. The blocks were set at 090. Nillson had come up a few minutes before his eightthirty watch to look at
the weather reports. Fog was forecast for the area hear the Nantucket
lightship. No surprise there. The warm waters of the Nantucket shoals were
a virtual fog factory. The officer going off duty told him the Stockholm
was just north of the course set by the captain. How far north he couldn't
tell. The radio positioning beacons were too far away to get a fix. Nillson smiled. No surprise here, either. The captain always took the same
course, twenty miles north of the eastbound sealane recommended by
international agreement. The route wasn't mandatory, and the captain
preferred the more northerly track because it saved time and fuel. Scandinavian captains did not do bridge watch, customarily leaving the ship
in charge of a single officer. Nillson quickly settled into a series of
tasks. Pace the bridge. Check the righthand radar. Glance at the engine
telegraphs on each wing of the bridge to make sure they were set Full Speed
Ahead. Scan the sea from a wing. Make sure the two white masthead
navigation lights were on. Stroll back into the wheelhouse. Study the
gyrocompass. Keep the helmsman on his toes. Pace some more. The captain came up around nine after having dinner in his cabin directly
below the bridge. A taciturn man in his late fifties, he looked older, his
craggy profile worn around the edges like a rocky promontory ground smooth
by the unrelenting sea. His posture was still ramrod straight, his uniform
razorcreased. Icebergblue eyes glinted alertly from the weathered ruins of
his ruddy face. For ten minutes he paced behind the bridge, gazing at the
ocean and sniffing the warm air like a bird dog catching the scent of
pheasant. Then he went into the wheelhouse and studied the navigation chart
as if in search of an omen. After a moment he said, "Change course to eightyseven degrees." Nillson turned the oversized dice in the course box to read 087. The
captain stayed long enough to watch the helmsman adjust the wheel, then
returned to his cabin. Back in the chartroom Nillson erased the ninetydegree line, penciled in the
captains new course, and figured the ship's position by dead reckoning. He
extended the track line according to speed and time elapsed and drew in an,
X. The new line would take them about five miles from the lightship.
Nillson figured strong northerly currents would push the ship as dose as
two miles. Nillson went over to the radar set near the right door and switched the
range from fifteen miles to fifty miles. The thin yellow sweep hand
highlighted the slender arias of Cape Cod and the islands of Nantucket and
Martha's Vineyard. Ships were too small for the radar to pick up at that
range. He returned the range to its original setting and resumed his
pacing. Around ten the captain returned to the bridge. "I'll be in my cabin doing
paperwork," he annou