"Prepare to surface," Logan told the pilot. Dr. Pulaski was standing directly behind the captain's chair. "I don't think so," he said.

Preoccupied with the task at hand, Logan was only half listening. "Pardon me, Doctor. What did you say?"

"I said we're not going to the surface."

Logan spun his chair around, an amused expression on his face. "I hope you didn't take my bragging about the ability to stay down for a month at face value. We only brought enough food for a few days."

Pulaski slipped a hand under his windbreaker and pulled out a Tokarev TT-33 pistol. Speaking calmly, he said, "You will do as I say or I will shoot your pilot." He brought the weapon around and placed the muzzle against the pilot's head.

Logan's eyes focused on the gun, then darted to Pulaski's face. There was no hint of mercy in the rock-hard features.

"Who are you?" Logan said.

"It makes no difference who I am. I will repeat this only one more time. You will follow my orders."

"All right," Logan said, his voice hoarse with tension. "What do you want me to do?"

"First, switch off all communications with your support ship." Pulaski watched carefully as Logan clicked all the radio switches off. "Thank you," he said, checking his watch. "Next, inform the rest of the crew that the sub has been hijacked. Warn them that anyone who comes forward without permission will be shot."

The captain glared at Pulaski as he got on the internal communications system. "This is the captain. There is a man with a gun in the control area. The sub is now under his command. We will do what he says. Stay out of the control area. This is not a joke. Repeat: This is not a joke. Remain at your posts. Anyone coming forward will be shot."

Startled voices could be heard coming from the aft section, and the captain issued the warning a second time to make sure his men knew he was serious.

"Very good," Pulaski said. "Now you will bring the sub up to the five-hundred-foot level."

"You heard him," Logan said to the pilot, as if reluctant to give the direct order.

The pilot had been frozen in his chair. At Logan's command, he reached for the controls and pumped water from the variable ballast tanks. Working the planes, he elevated the sub's nose and moved the NR-1 upward with short bursts of the main propulsion. At five hundred feet, he leveled the sub off.

"Okay," Logan said. "Now what?" His eyes blazed with anger.

Pulaski glanced at his watch like a man worrying over a late train. "Now we wait." He shifted the gun away from the pilot, but kept it leveled and at ready.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Logan's patience was wearing thin. "If you don't mind, could you tell me what we're waiting for?"

Pulaski put his finger to his lips. "You'll see," he said with a mysterious smile.

Several more minutes passed. The tension was suffocating. Logan stared at the sail cam monitor, wondering who this man was and what he wanted-and the answer was soon in coming. A huge shadow moved beyond the sharply pointed bow.

Logan leaned forward and peered at the screen. "What the hell is that?"

The shadow glided under the sub like a monstrous shark coming up for a belly bite. A horrendous metal clang reverberated from one end of the sub to the other as if the NR-1 had been slammed by a giant sledgehammer. The vessel shivered from the shock and rose several feet.

"We've been hit!" the pilot yelled, instinctively reaching f for the controls.

"Stay where you are!" Pulaski barked, bringing his gun to bear.

The pilot's hand froze in midair and his eyes stared at the overhead. Those in the sub could hear scraping and dragging as if big metal bugs were crawling on the hull.

Pulaski beamed with pleasure. "Our welcoming party has arrived to greet us."

The noise continued for several minutes before it stopped, to be replaced by the vibration of powerful engines. The speed dial on the control panel began to move even though no power had been given to the thrusters.

"We're moving," the pilot said, his eyes glued to the speed indicator. "What should I do?"

He turned to the captain. They were up to ten, then twenty knots and still accelerating.

"Nothing," Pulaski answered. Turning to Logan, he said, "Captain, if you would give a message to your crew."

"What do you want me to say?"

Pulaski smiled. "I think that is fairly obvious," he said. "Tell them to sit back and enjoy the ride."

THE BLACK SEA

THE SIXTEEN-FOOT ZODIAC inflatable boat sped toward the distant shore, its flat bottom thumping against the wave like a hand beating a tom-tom. Hunkered down in the bow, hands clutching the lifeline to keep from being bounced out, Kaela Dorn looked like a finely carved figurehead. The spray that splashed over the blunt prow stung her face and her dusky features dripped with water, but she turned away only once, and that was to yell at the man who knelt in the boat with his hand on the tiller.

"Mehmet, crank this thing up, crank it up!" She made circular motions with her hand as if she were twirling a lariat.

The wizened Turk answered with a toothless grin that was wider than his face. He goosed the throttle and the Zodiac porpoised over the next wave and slammed down with even greater gut-wrenching force. Kaela reinforced her grip on the lifeline and laughed with delight.

The two men jouncing around in the boat like dice in a shaker were less enthusiastic. They held tight to keep from being thrown into the sea, their teeth clacking with every jolt. Neither passenger was surprised to hear Kaela tell Mehmet to kick up the speed. After three months of working with the young reporter on the Unbelievable Mysteries television series, they were accustomed to her recklessness. Mickey Lombardo, the crew's senior member, was a short, thickset native New Yorker with arms made powerful from hefting sound and light equipment in and out of every conceivable means of transport around the globe. A wave had extinguished the cigar clenched between his teeth seconds after their wild ride began. His assistant, Hank Simpson, was a blond and muscled Australian beach boy Lombardo had nicknamed "Dundee."

When they'd first learned that they would be working closely with the beautiful reporter, neither man could believe his good luck. That was before Kaela had led them through a dung-filled bat cave in Arizona, down the rapids in the Green Hell of the Amazon and crashed a voodoo ceremony in Haiti. Lombardo said Kaela was living proof of the old axiom: Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it. She'd turned out to be a cross between Amelia Earhart and Wonder Woman, and their libidos had diminished in direct proportion to their growing respect for her audacity. Instead of regarding Kaela as a potential conquest, they now guarded her like a precocious kid sister who had to be protected from her own impetuousness.

Lombardo and Dundee could hardly be classified as shrinking violets themselves. The crews that worked for Unbelievable Mysteries had to be physically fit, aggressive in pursuing a story and preferably brain-dead. The cable TV series had a high turnover and injury rate. With its emphasis on high-risk adventures, the series was tough on production crews – in fact, the misadventures of the crews, rather than their main assignments, often became the topic of each episode. It was the logical continuation of the "true-life" adventure inspired by the success of the Survivor series and its clones. If a reporter or technician were swept into the sea or pursued by cannibals, it made for a better story. As long as a crew didn't lose expensive equipment, management didn't care how hazardous working conditions were.