It was of little matter to Theresa, though. The petroleum engineer's true love was traveling and she would have gladly visited the lake in January just for the experience. Bright and analytical, she had chosen her career less for the intellectual challenge than for the opportunity to travel to remote places around the globe. Extended stints in Indonesia, Venezuela, and the Baltic were broken up by the occasional two-week assignment like this one, where she was sent to survey an offbeat prospective oil field.
Working in a man's field proved to be no setback, as her vivacious personality and humorous outlook on life easily broke down barriers with men who weren't already attracted to her athletic build, dark hair, and walnut eyes.
Forty miles north of Listvyanka, a shallow bay called Peschanaya cut into the western shoreline, protecting a narrow sandy beach. As the captain nosed the boat's prow into the bay, Tatiana turned to Theresa and proclaimed, "We will start here."
With the engine thrown into neutral and the boat drifting, Roy and Wofford lowered the side-scan sonar towfish over the stern as Theresa mounted a GPS antenna onto the side rail and plugged it into the sonar's computer. Tatiana glanced at a fathometer mounted in the wheelhouse and shouted, "Depth, thirty meters."
"Not too deep, that's good," Theresa said as the boat moved forward again, towing the sensor a hundred feet behind. A digitally enhanced image of the lake bed scrolled by on a color monitor that captured the processed sound waves emitted from the towfish.
"We can acquire meaningful results as long as the depth stays under fifty meters," Wofford said.
"Anything deeper and we'll need more cable and a bigger boat."
"And more caviar," Roy added with a hungry look.
Slowly the fishing boat swept back and forth across the bay, its hardened captain spinning the ship's wheel lightly in his hands as the four visitors 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.
"Back 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.
"That wraps it up for the opening act of today's program," Wofford said. "Where to next?"
"We 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."
"Might 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.
"No 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.
"Towfish bouncing off the bottom?" he asked.
"No," 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.
"Maybe 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.
"Some sort of construction?" Theresa asked, searching for an answer.
"Maybe," 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.
"Whatever it is," Wofford grimaced, "I just wish it would stop messing with our equipment."
-2-
Ten miles to the north, Rudi Gunn walked onto the bridge wing of the gray-hulled Russian research vessel Vereshchagin and looked up at the azure sky overhead. Removing a thick pair of horn-rimmed glasses, he carefully cleaned the lenses and then peered upward again. Shaking his head, he walked back onto the bridge and muttered, "Sounds like thunder, but there's hardly a cloud in the sky."
A hearty laugh erupted at his words, flowing from a portly man with black hair and matching beard. Dr.
Alexander Sarghov resembled a circus bear, his large frame softened by a jovial demeanor and warm ebony eyes that twinkled with life. The geophysicist from the Russian Academy of Sciences Limnological Institute enjoyed a good laugh, especially if it was at the expense of his newfound American friends.
"You Westerners are very amusing," he chuckled in a heavily accented voice.
"Alexander, you'll have to excuse Rudi," answered a warm, deep voice from the opposite side of the bridge. "He's never lived in an earthquake zone."
The green opaline eyes of Dirk Pitt sparkled with mirth as he helped heckle his deputy. The head of the National Underwater and Marine Agency stood up from a bank of video monitors and stretched his six-foot-three frame, his palms scraping against the deckhead. Though more than two decades of undersea adventures had exacted a toll on his rugged body, he still had a lean and fit form. Just a few more wrinkles around the eyes and a growing tussle of gray at the temples indicated a wavering battle with age.
"An earthquake?" Gunn speculated. The brainy deputy director of NUMA, an Annapolis graduate and former Navy commander, stared out the bridge in wonder.
"I've only been in one or two, but those were felt and not heard."
"Puny ones just rattled the dishes, but larger quakes can sound like a string of locomotives running by,"
Pitt said.
"There is a great deal of tectonic activity under Lake Baikal," Sarghov added. "Earthquakes occur frequently in this region."