Zero Hour

by Clive Cussler

“Better save the battery,” Kurt said.

  Joe waited until he and Kurt were safely in the huddle with the others before he shut it off.

  “Thirty-nine men and women,” the captain said. “What happened to the sea? What was that? I’ve never seen waves like that. They looked like craters appearing in our path.”

  Kurt glanced at Hayley.

  “Thero’s weapon did this,” she said grimly. “It distorts gravity.”

  “And that gravity affects liquids far more easily than solids,” Kurt added, repeating her earlier statement in a somber tone.

  “It’s like a bubble,” she managed. “Highly localized but very powerful. It forces the water to the side, and then, when it passes, the crater, as you called it, collapses on itself.”

  “And the water comes crashing back in,” the captain added, showing that he understood.

  She nodded. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” the captain said.

  “But it is,” she replied. “I helped construct the theory. And the sensor I used must have given away our position somehow. That’s the only explanation. The only way they could find us.”

  Kurt tried to comfort her, but he didn’t have the words. Nor, in his most optimistic dreams, did he have any idea how they were going to survive, let alone prevent Thero from fulfilling his venomous threat.

  NUMA Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  A twelve-hour time difference separated Washington, D.C., and the small fleet of vessels approaching Antarctica. At eight o’clock, the morning shift took over from the night owls in the NUMA communications room, a large, modern workspace that looked something like an air traffic control center.

  From there, NUMA teams and vessels were monitored and tracked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, all around the globe. Data and communications were sent and received a variety of different ways, the preferred method becoming encrypted satellite communications. It was the most efficient means, the most secure, and the most reliable. Except when it wasn’t working.

  Within five minutes of arriving, Bernadette Conry could tell that this was going to be one of those days when all the technology was more trouble than it was worth.

  A ten-year NUMA veteran with short dark hair, light green eyes, and a strong sense of duty, Bernadette Conry wore fashionable glasses, little in the way of jewelry, and was known to be a detail-oriented manager.

  Her first order of duty on any shift was to run through the list of ongoing operations with the communications specialists, with an eye toward fixing or avoiding any problems. All week long, an uptick in solar flare activity had made that a difficult task.

  After going through a lengthy list of ships and operations teams that had experienced trouble during the night, she wondered how naval commanders had even functioned in the days without satellite tracking and communications.

  Thankfully, she noticed that almost all the problems from the previous twelve hours had been cleared up. All except one.

  She eased over to a console upon which the designation REGION 15 had been marked. Region 15 included most of the Southern Ocean beneath Australia and what NUMA termed Antarctic Zone 1.

  “What’s the story with Orion?” she asked the specialist.

  “No data for the last hour,” he replied. “But it’s been up and down like that for the past two days.”

  “Are you getting data from Dorado and Gemini?”

  The technician tapped away at the keys and received a positive answer. “We lost them for a while too,” he said. “But we have clean links to both ships now.”

  That raised the supervisor’s sense of doubt. She reached over and tapped the F5 key on the technician’s computer. It brought up a map, which included the Orion’s last-known position.

  “She is a lot farther south than the other ships, but the solar activity has backed off considerably. We should be getting a signal. Have you received any radio calls?”

  “They’re on a ‘run silent’ protocol,” the specialist reminded her.

  “Who’s on board?”

  “Austin and Zavala.”

  Ms. Conry sighed. “Those two are bad enough about reporting in to begin with. Who put the run silent order on?”

  “Came from Dirk Pitt himself.”

  The vast majority of NUMA’s work went off without any type of conflict, at least nothing greater than the usual bureaucratic rigmarole found throughout the world. But right from the beginning, the organization had been willing to tangle with those who were up to no good in one way or another. If a “no contact,” “run silent,” or “monitor and track only” order was in place, it usually meant that a delicate or outright-secret assignment was in the works. That ship or team was not to be disturbed or contacted in any way that might risk alerting other parties to its presence.

  Satellite communications gave them a way around that. The bursts could be coded and then sent and received without giving a ship’s position away like radio broadcasts could if they were intercepted. But if the satellites were being interfered with by a solar storm, it left the distant ships, and the supervisors who were supposed to keep track of them, in the dark.

  “Anything unusual in their last transmission?”

  The specialist shook his head. “All data was normal when the link was broken. There was no sign of trouble. Nor has Orion’s emergency beacon been activated.”

  The emergency beacons were automatic, designed to go off when a ship sank even if there was no one around to activate them. But Bernadette Conry recalled at least one instance of a ship going down so fast that the beacon never had a chance to send out a message.

  “What’s the weather report?”

  “Nothing to write home about,” he said. “Westerly swell, five to six feet. Moderate-sized storm forming about five hundred miles from their last-known position.”

  Not bad weather at all, she thought. And it was Austin and Zavala. “Keep an eye out for any change,” she said. “I’m going to let the Director know we’ve lost their telemetry.”

  • • •

  DIRK PITT NODDED AT THE REPORT. He had a sense that something was wrong. That feeling was reinforced by the next call, which came in from Hiram Yaeger.

  “The NSA just sent me a new batch of data,” Yaeger explained. “They picked up a large neutrino burst just over an hour ago. It was detected in the Orion’s general vicinity.”

  “That’s not good,” Pitt said.

  “Why?”

  “She’s gone dark,” Pitt replied. “We lost contact with her an hour ago, just as they were about to activate the zero-point detector. Either she’s suffered a massive failure or worse. Either way, our only hope of finding Thero is that the other ships can get their detectors online in a hurry.”

  Yaeger was silent for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said finally.

  “Why?”

  “None of us really understand how the sensor works,” Yaeger said. “And this zero-point energy is like a genie in a bottle, a moody genie at that. The simulations I’ve run do not yield consistent results. Considering that fact, it’s slightly possible, however unlikely, that the sensor itself interacted with the zero-point field and either shut all systems on the Orion down or caused a more catastrophic event.”

  Pitt considered the possibility before responding. “That’s not what you’re really concerned with, is it?”

  “No,” Yaeger replied. “More likely, the sensor gave away their position somehow. And if Thero knew he was being monitored . . .”

  “He would respond,” Pitt said.

  “Precisely,” Yaeger said. “And if he has the power to split a continent in half, attacking a small ship would be like swatting a fly.”

  Pitt thought of the Orion’s crew, there were thirty-nine men and women aboard that ship, including some of h
is closest friends. “Why wouldn’t she warn us?” he wondered aloud. “If there was a possibility of this, why wouldn’t Ms. Anderson make us aware of it?”

  “No idea,” Yaeger said. “But I’d say we have to leave those sensors off.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Pitt said. “We have a job to do and we’re running out of time.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were on any particular clock.”

  “A new letter has arrived,” Pitt explained. “Bradshaw from the ASIO sent it over, even used e-mail. I’ll forward it to you. Thero claims he’s waited long enough. He promises to strike Australia as the sun rises over Sydney two days from now. He’s calling the moment zero hour.”

  Yaeger remained silent.

  “I need answers and I need them fast, Hiram. Right now, those detectors are the only way of finding Thero. I need to know if they’re safe. And if they aren’t, I need you to find me another way to locate him before this zero hour hits. Or, better yet, a way to stop it from hitting even if he makes his move.”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Yaeger said. “So far, we’ve identified a strange sequence to these energy bursts. According to Ms. Anderson’s research, they create a type of three-dimensional wave, somewhat like a bubble. Perhaps we can figure out some way to stop that bubble from forming. Or a way to collapse it once it does.”

  “Let me know as soon as you have more.”

  Yaeger acknowledged him, and Pitt hung up. He hesitated for only a second before deciding to dial the communications room.

  He spoke quickly. “Ms. Conry, please attempt to contact Orion by any means at your disposal. If you hear nothing from them, alert Dorado and Gemini. Transmit the Orion’s last-known position to them and order them to begin search-and-rescue operations.”

  “Anything else?”

  Pitt gave one more order. “Advise the other ships not to activate the new sensors they’ve been working on. Not under any circumstances, unless further ordered by me.”

  As he hung up the phone, his second line buzzed. It was Vice President Sandecker. His voice was distorted by a shrill electronic hum. It sounded like he was airborne.

  “There’s going to be a marine Black Hawk on your roof in four minutes,” Sandecker said. “I need you to be on it.”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” Pitt replied.

  “I know,” Sandecker said. “Hiram’s been busting the NSA’s chops to release more data on Tesla. When they didn’t give in, he hacked their computer system to liberate a few extra files. Knowing Hiram, he wouldn’t do that without your orders.”

  Pitt figured they’d get caught, just not this quickly. “I may have given him the impression I’d look the other way,” he said, “but they shouldn’t be holding back on us. Not at a time like this.”

  “You’re lucky, old friend, because I’ve finally gotten them to agree with you. They’re going to give you everything they have on Tesla. But they want you to see something first. You now have three minutes. See you on the roof.”

  Pitt really had no choice. He exhaled. “Where are we going?”

  “The chopper will take us to Andrews,” Sandecker explained, referring to the air force base ten miles to the southeast of Washington.

  “And from there?”

  “You’ll find that out when our wheels leave the ground.”

  NUMA vessel Gemini, approximately 750 miles northeast of Orion’s last-known position

  In the Gemini’s darkened communications room, Gamay Trout stared at the computer screen. A new set of operational orders were coming in from NUMA HQ.

  Paul sat beside her, reading it out loud.

  “Orion is not responding to any method of communication. Proceed to Orion’s last-known position with all possible speed. Be prepared to launch search-and-rescue operations or search-and-recovery if no survivors are found. A satellite pass detected no infrared signature within fifty miles of Orion’s position. Due to heavy cloud cover, visual confirmation is not possible at this time.”

  The report seemed so cold. As if the ship weren’t filled with their friends and colleagues.

  “It can’t be,” Gamay said. “No emergency signal? No distress call? There’s no way one of our ships could go down that fast.”

  Paul continued. “Further orders refer to the sensing array provided by Ms. Anderson. Under no circumstance is the array to be activated. If already completed, the unit is to be rendered inoperable by hard-wire disconnection from Gemini’s systems. A direct time-based correlation has been made between the activation of Orion’s sensor array and a high-energy neutrino burst detected by the NSA ground stations and Orion’s last communication. It remains unknown if the array was at fault, but at this time it cannot be ruled out.”

  They were only hours away from activating their own array.

  “Could they really have blown themselves up?”

  “The explosion at Yagishiri that obliterated Thero’s lab was never adequately explained,” Paul said, “but Yaeger thinks it more likely that the sensor might have given away their location and allowed Thero to strike.”

  The Gemini was already turning. The thrum of her engines and propellers could be felt strengthening. Gamay looked at the map.

  “Seven hundred and fifty miles,” she muttered. “Thirty hours. That’s too long. They’ll never survive.”

  Paul looked glum as well. “If they’re in the water, they’re already gone,” he said. “Three hours or thirty, it won’t make a difference. Let’s just hope they made it to the boats.”

  Gamay appreciated what he was trying to do, but she knew the score. “If the ship went down too fast for the emergency beacon to send out a signal, what are the chances anyone got off in a lifeboat?”

  Her mind was imagining what the crew of the Orion might be experiencing. The water temps had to be in the thirties, with the ambient air temperature dropping into the teens at night.

  Paul reached over and wrapped his arms around her. “We can’t give up hope. And we won’t.”

  “This is why I love you, Paul,” she said. “No matter how crazy you make me at times, you really know what I need.”

  “I also know that Kurt and Joe are survivors,” he said. “And that every man and woman on that ship has been well trained. Let’s not write them off yet. Instead, let’s be ready to lend assistance when we get there.”

  She wrapped her arms around Paul’s waist and nodded. “Okay, but don’t stop hugging me just yet. I need a few more moments of this before I get back to the real world.”

  • • •

  SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILES from the Gemini, the Orion’s survivors huddled in the small orange life raft as it wallowed in the persistent western swell.

  For the better part of four hours, they rose and fell in a circular motion, surrounded by utter darkness. Neither the moon nor the stars were visible through the heavy layer of clouds. Aside from the dim glow of his watch, Kurt saw no light in any direction.

  Worse than the darkness was the silence. But, worst of all, was the cold.

  The frigid air was painfully debilitating to the men and women in their wet clothing. Even with them huddled together under a thermal blanket, their core temperatures were slowly dropping. A process that would only accelerate as their bodies digested the last meal they’d eaten.

  Kurt was already hungry, though he did his best not to think about food and instead tried to imagine himself on a beach in the Mediterranean with the sun beaming down on him and a drink in his hand. Somehow, the image wouldn’t last.

  A sort of trancelike state had come over them. It was akin to depression. Kurt figured they’d better break it somehow.

  “Any chance those alien friends of yours might come pick us up?” Kurt muttered to Joe. “I’d take a warm spaceship with little green men over this freezing life raft.”

  Joe shrugged. “They d
on’t seem to like cold weather either. Roswell. Ayers Rock. Chichen Itza. If we were shipwrecked a little closer to one of those locations, we’d have a shot.”

  Kurt didn’t bother to point out that there was little water near any of those places.

  “Dorado and Gemini are not too far away,” Kurt said. “If our beacon went off, they’ll be on their way.”

  “Do they have a hot chocolate dispenser on board?” Joe asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “What about a sauna?” someone else asked.

  “Something tells me NUMA didn’t spring for that.”

  “Too bad,” Joe added.

  “I’ll settle for dry clothes and a warm rack,” Kurt replied. “In the meantime, I’m trying to imagine a dry sauna, with smooth wood paneling and the smell of eucalyptus oil. But it doesn’t seem to be working. Apparently, this mind-over-matter stuff is harder than you think.”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “I’ve convinced myself I hear a ship approaching.”

  Kurt tilted his head. He heard nothing.

  “What kind of ship?” he asked. The words came out funny. Their lips were nearly frozen.

  “A nice big yacht,” Joe said. “With a few playmates, some Hawaiian Tropic girls, and a fully stocked bar. I think I even hear a jazz band playing some Louis Armstrong.”

  “You’re losing it,” Kurt said. “But if you must fantasize . . .”

  He stopped midsentence. Strange as it was, he thought he could hear the thrum of engines in the distance as well. Had there been any wind at all, he might not have heard it. But the still air was awfully quiet.

  He threw the edge of the thermal blanket back, much to the consternation of the others. “Hey,” someone grumbled. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet.”

  “What?”

  “Joe heard a ship, and so did I.”

  Kurt was staring out into the night. If there was a ship out there, its running lights should have been visible in the darkness. He saw nothing.

  “I hear it,” Hayley said. “I hear it too.”

  With an abundance of caution, Kurt considered the possibility of mass hysteria. It happened often enough among shipwreck survivors, but usually after days of exposure and dehydration.