Vixen 03 by Clive Cussler Page A

for a closer look, shielding the outside light with a black cloth.
    “I think we just picked up Giordino’s horror movie,” he said.
    “What is it?” Steiger demanded excitedly.
    “Looks like an old log cabin.”
    “A log cabin?”
    “See for yourself.”
    Steiger bent around Pitt’s shoulder and gazed at the screen. The camera, one hundred forty feet below the boats, relayed through the icy water a picture of what seemed to be a distorted structure. The sun’s wavering light through the choppy surface and the hazy visibility at that depth combined to give it a ghostlike image.
    “How in the world did that get there?” asked a bewildered Steiger.
    “No great secret,” said Pitt. “Table Lake is man made. The state dammed up the stream that flows through this valley in 1945. An abandoned lumber mill that stood near the old streambed was submerged when the water rose. The cabin we see must have been one of the old bunkhouses.”
    Giordino rowed back for a look. “All that’s missing is a ‘for sale’ sign.”
    “Amazingly well preserved,” murmured Steiger.
    “Thanks to the near-freezing fresh water,” Pitt added. Then, “So much for the local tourist attraction. Shall we continue?”
    “How much longer?” Giordino asked him. “I could use some liquid nourishment, preferably the kind that comes out of a bottle.”
    “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours,” said Steiger. “I make a motion we call it a day.”
    “You win my vote.” Giordino looked across at Pitt. “How about it, Captain Bligh? Shall I reel in the camera?”
    “No, keep it dangling. We’ll troll it back to the dock.”
    Giordino awkwardly turned his boat a hundred eighty degrees and began pulling for home.
    “I think your theory has about shot its wad,” said Steiger. “We’ve been over the center of the lake twice and all we have to show for it is a
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    bundle of sore muscles and a picture of a tumbledown shack. Face the inevitable, Pitt: there’s nothing of interest in this lake but fish.” Steiger paused and nodded at the television equipment. “And speaking of the denizens of the deep-what a fisherman wouldn’t give to own a rig like this.”
    Pitt looked up at Steiger thoughtfully. “Al, make for the old man on your left who’s casting on the shore.”
    Giordino twisted around and noted the direction Pitt indicated. He nodded silently and altered his course. Steiger followed suit.
    A few more minutes’ rowing brought the boats within hailing distance of an elderly angler who was expertly laying a fly beside a massive boulder that protruded from the lake’s surface. He looked up and tipped his fly-festooned hat at Pitt’s greeting.
    “Having any luck?”
    “That’s not very original,” Steiger mumbled.
    “Business is a mite slow today,” answered the angler.
    “Do you fish Table Lake often?”
    “Off and on for twenty-two years.”
    “Can you tell me what part of the lake eats the most bait?”
    “Come again?”
    “Is there a section of Table Lake where fishermen frequently lose their lures?”
    “Over toward the dam there’s a submerged log that does a pretty good job of it.”
    “What depth?”
    “Eight, maybe twelve feet.”
    “I’m looking for a spot that’s deeper, much deeper,” said Pitt.
    The old angler thought a moment. “Up toward the big marsh at the north end of the lake there’s this big hole. Lost two of my best spinners in it last summer while trolling deep. A lot of the big fish swim deep during hot weather. I don’t recommend trying your luck there, though. Not unless you own part interest in a tackle shop.”
    “Much obliged for your help,” Pitt said, and waved. “Good luck!”
    “Same to you,” said the old angler. He went back to his casting and within a few moments his pole arched with a strong bite.
    “You heard, Al?”
    Giordino looked longingly at the dock and then at the lake’s north end, a quarter of a mile away. Resigning himself to the chore,