"Clive Cussler - Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clive Cussler)

The chiming of a wall-mounted chronometer startled him, and he swore he felt his hair rise. He finished his search and beat a quick path back to the bridge.
Sakagawa was sitting in the chart room, his feet perched on a small cabinet, studying the ship's log.
"You found it," said Steen.
"In one of the open briefcases." He turned back to the opening pages and began to read. " `Divine Star, seven hundred feet, delivered March sixteenth, nineteen eighty-eight. Operated and owned by the Sushimo Steamship Company, Limited. Home port, Kobe.' On this voyage she's carrying seven thousand, two hundred and eighty-eight new Murmoto automobiles to Los Angeles."
"Any clues as to why the crew abandoned her?" Steen asked.
Sakagawa gave a puzzled shake of his head. "No mention of disaster, plague, or mutiny. No report of the typhoon. The last entry is a bit odd."
"Read it."
Sakagawa took a few moments to be sure his translation of Japanese characters into English was reasonably correct. "The best I can get out of it is: `Weather deteriorating. Seas increasing. Crew suffering from unknown illness. Everyone sick including Captain. Food poisoning suspected. Our passenger, Mr. Yamada, a most important company director, demands we abandon and sink ship during hysterical outburst. Captain thinks Mr. Yamada has suffered nervous breakdown and has ordered him placed under restraint in his quarters.' "

Stem looked down at Sakagawa, his face expressionless. "That's all?"
"The final entry," said Sakagawa. "There is no more."
"What's the date?"
"October first."
"That's two days ago."
Sakagawa nodded absently. "They must have fled the ship shortly after. Damned funny they didn't take the log with them."
Slowly, unhurriedly, Steen walked into the communications room, his mind trying to make sense out of the final log entry. Suddenly he stopped and reached out to support himself in the doorway. The room seemed to swim before his eyes and he felt nauseous. Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it down. Then, as quickly as the attack came, it passed.
He walked unevenly over to the radio and hailed the Narvik. "This is First Officer Steen calling Captain Korvold, over."
"Yes, Oscar," answered Korvold. "Go ahead."
"Do not waste time on a search effort. The Divine Star's log suggests the crew left the ship before they were struck by the full force of the typhoon. They departed nearly two days ago. The winds would have swept them two hundred kilometers away by now."
"Providing they survived."
"An unlikely event."
"All right, Oscar. I agree, a search by the Narvik will be useless. We've done all that can be expected of us. I've alerted American sea rescue units at Midway and Hawaii and all vessels in the general area. Soon as you regain steerageway we'll resume course for San Francisco."
"Acknowledged," Steen replied. "I'm on my way to the engine room to check with Andersson now."
Just as Steen finished transmitting, the ship's phone buzzed. "This is the bridge."
"Mr. Stem," said a weak voice.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Seaman Arne Midgaard, sir. Can you come down to C cargo deck right away? I think I've found something--"

Midgaard's voice stopped abruptly, and Steen could hear the sounds of retching.
"Midgaard, are you sick?"
"Please hurry, sir."
Then the line went dead.
Stem yelled at Sakagawa. "What button do I push for the engine room?"
There was no reply. Stem stepped back into the chart room. Sakagawa was sitting there pale as death, breathing rapidly. He looked up and spoke, gasping the words with every breath.
"The fourth button. . . rings the engine room."
"What's wrong with you?" Steen asked anxiously.
"Don't know. I. . . I feel. . . awful. . . vomited twice."
"Hang on," snapped Steen. "I'll gather up the others. We're getting off this death ship." He snatched the phone and rang the engine room. There was no answer. Fear flooded his mind. Fear of an unknown that was striking them down. He imagined the smell of death pervading the whole ship.
Stem took a swift glance at a deck diagram that was mounted on a bulkhead, then leaped down the companionway six steps at a time. He tried to run toward the vast holds containing the autos, but a nausea cramped his stomach and he weaved through the passageway like a drunk through a back alley.
At last he stumbled through the doorway onto C cargo deck. A great sea of multicolored automobiles stretched a hundred meters fore and aft. Amazingly, despite the buffeting from the storm and the list of the ship, they were all firmly in place.
Stem shouted frantically for Midgaard, his voice echoing from the steel bulkheads. Silence was his only reply. Then he spotted it, the oddity that stood out like the only man in a crowd holding aloft a sign.
One of the cars had its hood up.
He staggered between the long rows, falling against doors and fenders, bruising his knees on the protruding bumpers. As he approached the car with the open hood, he shouted again. "Anyone here?"
This time he heard a faint moan. In ten paces he had reached the car and stared frozen at the sight of Midgaard lying beside one tire.
The young seaman's face was festered with running sores. Froth mixed with blood streamed from his mouth. His eyes stared unseeing. His arms were purple from bleeding beneath the skin. He seemed to be decaying before Steen's eyes.
Steen sagged against the car, stricken with horror. He clutched his head between his hands in helplessness and despair, not noticing the thicket of hair that came away when he dropped them to his sides.
"Why in God's name are we dying?" he whispered, seeing his own grisly death mirrored by Midgaard. "What is killing us?"