Polar Shift

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

Published by the Penguin Group

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Copyright © 2005 by Sandecker, RLLLP

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Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cussler, Clive.

Polar shift / Clive Cussler with Paul Kemprecos.

p
. cm.

ISBN 0-399-15271-7

1. Austin, Kurt (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Underwater exploration—Fiction.

3. Marine scientists—Fiction. 4. Polar regions—Fiction I. Kemprecos, Paul. II. Title

PS3553.U75P65 2005
2005050911

813'.54—dc22

Printed in the United States of America 13579 10 8642

Book design by Lovedog Studio

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies,

events
, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers

and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the

author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after

publication
. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not
assume

any
responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Prologue

East Prussia, 1944

The Mercedes-Benz 770 W150
Grosser Tourenwagen weighed more than four tons and was armored like a Panzer. But the seven-passenger limousine seemed to float like a ghost over the cushion of new-fallen snow, gliding with unlit headlights past slumbering cornfields that sparkled in the blue light of the moon.

As the car neared a darkened farmhouse that lay in a gentle hollow, the driver gently touched the brakes. The car slowed to the speed of a walk and approached the low-slung, fieldstone structure with the stealth of a cat stalking a mouse.

The driver gazed thoughtfully through the frosted windshield with eyes the color of arctic ice. The building appeared to be abandoned, but he knew better than to take chances. White paint had been hastily slapped over the car's sculpted black steel body. The crude attempt at camouflage made the automobile practically invisible to the Stormovic ground attack planes that prowled the skies like angry hawks, but the Mercedes had barely escaped the Russian patrols that materialized out of the snow like wraiths. Rifle bullets had cratered the armor in a dozen places.

So he waited.

The man stretched out on the spacious backseat of the four-door sedan had felt the car decelerate. He sat up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, speaking German with a Hungarian accent. His voice was fuzzy from sleep.

The driver hushed his passenger. "Something's not—"

The rattle of gunfire shattered the glassy stillness of the night.

The driver mashed the brake pedal. The massive vehicle hissed to a skidding stop about fifty yards from the farmhouse. He switched off the engine and snatched the 9 mm Lugar pistol from the front seat. His fingers tightened on the Lugar's grip as a burly figure dressed in the olive uniform and fur hat of the Red Army staggered out the front door of the farmhouse.

The soldier was clutching his arm and bellowing like a bee-stung bull.

"Damn fascist whore!"
he bawled repeatedly. His voice was hoarse with rage and pain.

The Russian soldier had broken into the farmhouse only minutes before. The farm couple had been hiding in a closet, huddling under a blanket like children afraid of the dark. He had put a bullet in the husband and turned his attention to the woman, who had fled into the tiny kitchen.

Shouldering his weapon, he had crooked his finger and crooned,
"Frau, komm,"
the soothing prelude to rape.

The soldier's vodka-soaked brain failed to warn him that he was in danger. The farmer's wife hadn't begged for mercy or burst into tears like the other women he had raped and murdered. She had glared at him with hot eyes, whipped a carving knife out from behind her back and slashed at his face. He had seen a flash of steel in the moonlight streaming through the windows and had thrown up his left arm to defend himself, but the sharp blade sliced through his sleeve and forearm. He punched her to the floor with his other hand. Even then she had lunged for the knife. Consumed with white-hot fury, he cut her in half with frenzied bursts of his PPS-43 machine gun.

As he stood outside the farmhouse, the soldier examined his wound. The cut was not severe, and the blood flow was down to a trickle. He pulled a pint of homemade vodka from his pocket and drained the bottle. The fiery hundred-proof liquor trickling down his throat helped numb the searing pain in his arm. He tossed the empty bottle into the snow, wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and set off to rejoin his comrades. He would brag that he'd been wounded fighting a gang of fascists.

The soldier trudged a few steps in the snow only to stop as his sharp ears picked up the
tick-tick
sound of the car's engine cooling down. He squinted at the large grayish smudge in the moon shadows. A suspicious scowl appeared on his broad peasant face. He slipped his machine gun from his shoulder and brought it to bear on the vague object. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Four headlights blazed on. The powerful in-line eight-cylinder engine roared into life and the car sprang forward, its rear end fish-tailing in the snow. The Russian tried to dodge the oncoming vehicle. The corner of the heavy bumper caught his leg, and he was thrown to the side of the road.

The car slid to a stop, the door opened and the driver got out. The tall man walked through the snow to the soldier, his black leather overcoat slapping softly against his thighs. The man had a long face and a lantern jaw. His close-cropped blond hair was uncovered even though the temperature was below zero.

He squatted next to the stricken man.

"Are you hurt,
tovarich?"
he said in Russian. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with the detached sympathy of a physician.

The soldier groaned. He couldn't believe his bad luck. First that German bitch with the knife, now
this.

He cursed through spittle-covered lips. "Damn your mother! Of
course
I'm hurt."

The tall man lit a cigarette and placed it between the Russian's lips. "Is there anyone in the farmhouse?"

The soldier took a deep drag and exhaled through his nostrils. He assumed that the stranger was one of the political officers who infested the army like fleas.

"Two fascists," the Russian said.
"A man and a woman."

The stranger went inside the farmhouse and emerged minutes later.

"What happened?" he said, again kneeling by the soldier's side.

"I shot the man. The fascist witch came after me with a knife."

"Good work." He patted the Russian on the shoulder. "You're here alone?"

The soldier growled like a dog with his bone. "I don't share my loot or my women."

"What is your unit?"

"General Galitsky's Eleventh Guards army," the soldier replied with pride in his voice.

"You attacked Nemmersdorf on the border?"

The soldier bared his bad teeth. "We nailed the fascists to their barns.
Men, women and children.
You should have heard the fascist dogs scream for mercy."

The tall man nodded. "Well done. I can take you to your comrades. Where are they?"

"Close by.
Getting ready for another push west."

The tall man gazed toward a distant line of trees. The rumble of huge T-34 battle tanks was like distant thunder. "Where are the Germans?"

"The swine are running for their lives." The soldier puffed on the cigarette. "Long live Mother Russia."

"Yes," the tall man said. "Long live Mother Russia." He reached into his overcoat, pulled out the Lugar and placed the muzzle against the soldier's temple.
"Auf Wiedersehen,
comrade."

The pistol barked once. The stranger slid the smoking pistol into its holster and returned to the car. As he got behind the wheel, a hoarse cry came from the passenger in the backseat.

"You killed that soldier in cold blood!"

The dark-haired man was in his mid-thirties, and he had the handsome chiseled face of an actor. A thin mustache adorned a sensitive mouth. But there was nothing delicate about the way his expressive gray eyes burned with anger.

"I simply helped another Ivan sacrifice himself for the greater glory of Mother Russia," the driver said, speaking in German.

"I understand this is war," the passenger said, his voice tight with emotion. "But even you must admit the Russians are human, like us."

"Yes, Professor Kovacs, we are
very
much alike. We have committed unspeakable atrocities against their people, and now they are taking their revenge." He described the horrors of the Nemmersdorf massacre.

"I'm sorry for those people," Kovacs said in a subdued tone, "but the fact that the Russians behave like animals doesn't mean that the rest of the world must descend into savagery."

The driver heaved a heavy sigh. "The front is beyond that ridge," he said. "You are welcome to discuss the goodness of mankind with your Russian friends. I won't stop you."

The professor drew in on himself like an oyster.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled to himself.

"A wise decision."
He lit a cigarette, bending low to shield the light from his match. "Let me explain the situation. The Red Army has crossed the border and blown through the German front as if it were made of fog. Nearly all the inhabitants of this lovely countryside have fled their homes and fields. Our valiant army has been fighting a rearguard action as it runs for its life. The Russians have a ten-to-one advantage in men and arms, and they are cutting off all land routes west as they race toward Berlin. Millions of people are on the move to the coast, where the only escape is by sea."

"God help us all," the professor said.

"He
seems to have evacuated East Prussia as well. Consider
yourself
a fortunate man," the driver said cheerfully. He backed the car up, threw the shift into low gear and drove around the Russian's body. "You are seeing history."