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 ship and climbed to an altitude 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 fishing 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?"
Gunn paused as he keyed in a command on the computer. "ETA to the Vereshchagin is approximately thirty-seven minutes. We'll be shy of Listvyanka by about five miles."
"Thanks, Rudi. Keep the hatches battened down. We'll be overhead for the show once we get the fishing boat alerted."
"Roger," Gunn replied, suddenly wishing he could trade seats with Pitt.
The wave was still forty miles away and the hills of Listvyanka were now plainly visible to the men on the Vereshchagin. The ship would safely be out of the main force of the wave when the tempest arrived, but there was no protecting the shoreline. Counting the minutes to go, Gunn peered out the bridge window and silently wondered what the
picturesque lakeside community would look like in another hour.
-3-
"LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT some company," Wofford said, pointing off the fishing boat's stern toward the horizon. Though Theresa had already spotted the aircraft, Wofford's words made everyone else aboard the boat stop and look. The stubby silver helicopter was approaching from the west and there was no mistaking its beeline path directly toward them.
The fishing boat was cruising toward the eastern shore with its survey gear tailing behind, the crew oblivious to any impending danger. No one aboard had noticed the sudden disappearance of all other surface boats, though an absence of vessel sightings was hardly unusual on the huge lake.
All eyes turned skyward as the ungainly helicopter roared up to the small boat, then pivoted and hovered off the port beam. The survey crew gazed up at an ebony-haired figure in the passenger's seat who waved a microphone toward the window and pointed a finger at his headset.
"He's trying to call us on the radio," Wofford observed. "Do you have your ears on, Captain?"
Tatiana translated to the annoyed captain, who shook his head and spoke indignantly back to the Russian woman. He then grabbed a radio microphone from the wheelhouse and held it up toward the helicopter while slicing his free hand horizontally across the front of his throat.
"The captain says his radio has not operated for two years," Tatiana said, reporting the obvious. "He states that there is no need for one, he sails efficiently without it."
"Now why does that not surprise me?" Roy said, rolling his eyes.
"He obviously wasn't in the Boy Scouts," Wofford added.
"It looks like they want us to turn around," Theresa said, interpreting new motions from the helicopter copilot. "I think they want us to return to Listvyanka."
"The helicopter is from the Limnological Institute," Tatiana noted. "They have no authority. We can ignore them."
"I think they are trying to warn us," Theresa protested, as the helicopter dipped its rotors several times, while the passenger continued making motions with his hands.
"We're probably intruding on an insignificant experiment of theirs," Tatiana said. Shooing her arms at the helicopter, she yelled, "Otbyt', otbyt'... go away."
• • • •
Giordino peered out the cockpit windshield and grinned in amusement. The crusty captain of the fishing boat appeared to be yelling obscenities at the helicopter, while Tatiana stood shooing them away. "Apparently, they don't like what we're selling," Giordino remarked.
"I think their captain is either short on brains or long on undistilled vodka," Pitt replied, shaking his head in frustration.
"Could be your lousy Marcel Marceau imitation."
"Take a look at the waterline on that bucket."