Treasure of Khan by Clive Cussler Page A

south.
    â€œIt’s a rolling wave, all right. The sensors are getting kicked up almost five meters as it passes,” Gunn reported. He double-checked his measurements, then nodded silently to Pitt and Sarghov with a grim look on his face.
    â€œOf course, a landslide would produce such a wave,” Sarghov said, comprehending the electronic images. The Russian pointed to a map of the lake pinned to the bulkhead. “The wave will pass through the shallow delta of the Selenga River as it moves south. Perhaps that will dilute its force.”
    Pitt shook his head. “As the wave moves into shallower water, it will likely have the opposite effect and increase its surface force,” he said. “How fast is she moving, Rudi?”
    Gunn toggled the computer mouse and drew a line between two pods, measuring their distance apart. “Based on the spikes in the sensors, the wave looks to be traveling about one hundred twenty-five miles per hour.”
    â€œWhich will put it upon us in about fifty minutes,” Pitt calculated. His mind was already racing in overdrive. The Vereshchagin was a stout and stable vessel, he knew, and stood a good chance of steaming through the wave with minimal damage. The greater harm would be to the lake’s prevailing marine traffic, small fishing boats and transport vessels not designed to withstand the onslaught of a ten-foot wave. Then there were the shoreline inhabitants, who would be subject to an unexpected flooding of the low-lying areas around the lake.
    â€œDr. Sarghov, I suggest you have the captain issue an immediate emergency warning to all vessels on the lake. By the time anyone catches sight of the wave, it will be too late to get out of its way. We’ll need to contact the authorities on shore to evacuate all residents at risk to flooding. There’s no time to lose.”
    Sarghov beat a path to the ship’s radio and issued the warning himself. The radio hummed with chatter as a myriad of respondents called back to confirm the emergency. Though Pitt didn’t speak Russian, he could tell by the tone of skepticism in the replying voices that at least some thought Sarghov was either drunk or crazy. Pitt could only smile when the normally jovial scientist turned red and spat a series of obvious obscenities into the microphone.
    â€œIdiot fishermen! They’re calling me a fool!” he cursed.
    The warnings took heed when a fishing boat in the protected cove of Aya Bay barely survived capsizing as the fringe of the wave passed by and its captain hysterically reported the event. Pitt scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars and could make out a half dozen black fishing boats motoring toward the safety of Listvyanka, in addition to a small freighter and a hydrofoil ferry.
    â€œI guess you got their attention, Alex,” Pitt said.
    â€œYes,” Sarghov replied with some relief. “The Listvyanka Police Department has issued alerts to all stations around the lake and is going door-to-door to evacuate risky areas. We’ve done all we can do.”
    â€œPerhaps you would be kind enough to have the captain apply full speed and move us toward Listvyanka and the western shore of the lake as quickly as possible,” Pitt said, smiling that Sarghov had neglected their own plight.
    As the Vereshchagin turned toward Listvyanka and increased speed, Gunn eyed the map of Lake Baikal, rubbing his finger across the lower toe of the lake, which angled to the west.
    â€œIf the wave holds its southerly track, we should be positioned away from its primary force,” he remarked.
    â€œThat’s what I’m banking on,” Pitt replied.
    â€œWe are eighteen miles from Listvyanka,” Sarghov said, peering out the bridge window toward the western shoreline. “We will be cutting it close, as you say.”
    At Listvyanka, an old air-raid alarm was sounded as the panic-stricken residents pulled ashore their small boats, while