Free Treasure of Khan by Clive Cussler Page A

on the stern hunched over the sonar monitor. Unusual geological formations were noted and their positions marked, as the experienced oil surveyors looked for lake bed features that might indicate a hydrocarbon seep. Further studies, using core sampling or geochemical analysis of water samples, would still need to be undertaken to verify a seep, but the side-scan sonar would allow the surveyors to zero in on future geological points to examine.
    As they reached the northern edge of the bay, Theresa stood and stretched as the captain swung the boat around and aligned it for the last survey lane. Toward the center of the lake, she noticed a large dirty-gray ship sailing north. It appeared to be some sort of research vessel, with an old-style helicopter wedged on the stern deck. The rotors on the helicopter were sweeping in an arc, as if preparing to take off. Scanning above the bridge, she noted oddly that the ship’s mast appeared to be flying both a Russian and an American flag. Likely a joint scientific study, she mused. Reading up on Lake Baikal, she was surprised to learn of the West’s scientific interest in the picturesque lake and its unique flora and fauna. Geophysicists, microbiologists, and environmental scientists migrated from around the world to study the lake and its pure waters.
    â€œBack on line,” Roy’s voice shouted across the deck. Twenty minutes later, they reached the southern edge of the bay, completing their multilane sweep. Theresa determined that there were three lake bed structures seen with the sonar that would warrant further examination.
    â€œThat wraps it up for the opening act of today’s program,” Wofford said. “Where to next?”
    â€œWe will cross the lake to a position here,” Tatiana said, tapping the map with a slender finger. “Thirty-five kilometers southeast of our current position.”
    â€œMight as well leave the sonar in the water. I don’t think this boat can go much faster than our survey speed anyway, and we’ll get a look at the water depths as we cross over,” Theresa said.
    â€œNo problem,” Wofford said, taking a seat on the deck and stretching his legs up onto the side railing. As he casually watched the sonar monitor, a quizzical expression suddenly appeared on his face. “That’s odd,” he muttered.
    Roy leaned over and studied the monitor. The shadowy image of the lake bottom had abruptly gone haywire, replaced by a barrage of spiked lines running back and forth across the monitor.
    â€œTowfish bouncing off the bottom?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” Wofford replied, checking the depth. “She’s riding forty meters above the lake floor.”
    The interference continued for several more seconds, then, as abruptly as it started, it suddenly ceased. The contours of the lake bottom again rolled down the screen in clear imagery.
    â€œMaybe one of those giant sturgeon tried to take a bite out of our towfish,” Wofford joked, relieved that the equipment was working properly again. But his words were followed by a low, deep rumble that echoed across the water.
    Far longer and lower pitched than a clap of thunder, the sound had an odd muffled quality to it. For nearly half a minute, the strange murmur echoed across the lake. All eyes on the boat scanned north in the direction of the noise, but no visible source was evident.
    â€œSome sort of construction?” Theresa asked, searching for an answer.
    â€œMaybe,” Roy replied. “It’s a long ways off, though.”
    Glancing at the sonar monitor, he noticed a brief spate of noise that minimally disrupted the image before a clean contour of the lake bed reappeared.
    â€œWhatever it is,” Wofford grimaced, “I just wish it would stop messing with our equipment.”

2
    T EN MILES TO THE NORTH , Rudi Gunn walked onto the bridge wing of the gray-hulled Russian research vessel Vereshchagin and looked up at the