Quick got the message. The mattresses were cast aside and the door undogged and thrown open. The air that filtered into the room reeked with oil from the ship’s engine room but was welcomed by all as they slowly removed the sound deadeners from their heads. Vastly relieved the threat was over, they shouted and laughed like fans celebrating a win of their favorite football team. Then slowly, in an orderly manner, they filed from the storage room, up the companionways and into the fresh air.
Sandecker’s reaction time was almost inhuman. He ran up the companionways to the wheelhouse in a time that would have broken any existing record, if there had been one. He snatched up a pair of binoculars and rushed out onto the bridge wing. Anxiously, he focused the lenses on the island, only fifteen kilometers distant.
Cars were traveling routinely on the streets, and busy crowds of sunseekers moved freely about the beaches. Only then did he expel a long sigh and sag in relief over the railing, totally drained of emotion.
“An utter triumph, Admiral,” Ames said, pumping Sandecker’s hand. “You proved the best scientific minds in the country wrong.”
“I was blessed with your expertise and support, Doc,” Sandecker said as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “I’d have accomplished nothing but for you and your staff of bright young scientists.”
Overcome with exhilaration, Gunn and Molly both hugged Sandecker, an act considered unthinkable on any other occasion. “You did it!” said Gunn. “Nearly two million lives saved, thanks to your stubbornness.”
“We did it,” Sandecker corrected him. “From beginning to end it was a team effort.”
Gunn’s expression suddenly turned sober. “A great pity Dirk wasn’t here to see it.”
Sandecker nodded solemnly. “His concept was the spark that ignited the project.”
Ames studied the array of instruments he had set up during the voyage from Molokai.
“The reflector positioning was perfect,” he said happily. “The acoustic energy was reversed exactly as intended.”
“Where is it now?” asked Molly.
“Combined with the energy from the other three island mining operations, the sound waves are traveling back to Gladiator Island faster than any jet plane. Their combined force should strike the submerged base in roughly ninety-seven minutes.”
“I’d love to see his face.”
“Whose face?” asked Ames innocently.
“Arthur Dorsett’s,” answered Molly, “when his private island starts to rock and roll.”
The two men and the woman crouched in a clump of bushes off to one side of the great archway that broke the middle of a high, lava-rock wall enclosing the entire Dorsett estate. Beyond the archway, a brick driveway circled around a large, well-trimmed lawn through a grand port cochere, a tall structure extending from the front of the house to shelter people getting in and out of cars. The entire driveway and house were illuminated by bright lamps strategically spaced about the landscaped grounds. Entry was barred by a thick iron gate that looked like it came from a castle out of the Middle Ages. Nearly five meters thick, the archway itself housed a small office for the security guards.
“Is there another way in?” Pitt asked Maeve softly.
“The arched gate is the only way in or out,” she whispered back.
“No drainage pipe or small ravine conveniently running beneath the wall?”
“Believe me, when I think of all the times I wanted to run away from my father when I was a young girl, I’d have found a passage leading from the grounds.”
“Security detectors?”
“Laser beams along the top of the wall with infrared body-heat sensors installed at different intervals about the grounds. Anything larger than a cat will cause an alarm to sound in the security office. Television cameras automatically come on and aim their lenses at the intruder.”
“How many guards?”
“Two at night, four during the day.”
“No dogs?”
She shook her head in the darkness. “Father hates animals. I never forgave him for stomping on a small bird with a broken wing I was trying to nurse back to health.”
“Old Art certainly creates an image of barbarity and viciousness,” said Giordino. “Does he do cannibalism, too?”
“He’s capable of anything, as you very well found out,” said Maeve.
Pitt stared at the gate thoughtfully, carefully gauging visible activity by the guards. They seemed content to stay inside and monitor the security systems. Finally, he rose to his feet, rumpled his uniform and turned to Giordino.
“I’m going to bluff my way inside. Hang loose until I open the gate.”
He slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and pulled his Swiss army knife from a pocket. Extending a small blade he made a small cut in one thumb, squeezed out the blood and smeared it over his face. When he reached the gate, Pitt dropped to his knees and gripped the bars in both hands. Then he began to shout in a low moaning tone, as if in pain.
“Help me. I need help!”
A face appeared around the door, then disappeared. Seconds later, both guards ran out of the security office and opened the gate. Pitt fell forward into their waiting arms.
“What happened?” demanded a guard. “Who did this to you?”
“A gang of Chinese tunneled out of the camp. I was coming up the road from the dock when they jumped me from behind. I think I killed two of them before I got away.”
“We’d better alert the main security compound,” blurted one of the guards.
“Help me inside first,” Pitt groaned. “I think they fractured my skull.”
The guards lifted Pitt to his feet and slung his arms over their shoulders. They half carried, half dragged him into the security office. Slowly, Pitt moved his arms inward until the guards’ necks were in the crooks of his elbows. As they pressed together to pass through the doorway, he took a convulsive step backwards, hooked the guards’ necks in a tight grip and exerted every bit of strength in his biceps and shoulder muscles. The sound of their bared heads colliding was an audible thud. They both crashed to the floor, unconscious for at least the next two hours.
Safe from detection, Giordino and Maeve hurried through the opened gate and joined Pitt inside the office. Giordino picked up the guards as if they were straw scarecrows and sat them in chairs around a table facing a row of video monitors. “To anyone walking by,” he said, “it’ll look like they fell asleep during the movie.”
A quick scan of the security system, and Pitt closed down the alarms, while Giordino bound the guards with their own ties and belts. Then Pitt looked at Maeve. “Where’s Ferguson’s quarters?”
“There are two guest houses in a grove of trees behind the manor. He lives in one of them.”
“I don’t suppose you know which one?”
She shrugged. “This is the first time I’ve returned to the island since I ran away to Melbourne and the university. If I remember correctly, he lives in the one nearest the manor.”
“Time to repeat our break-in act,” said Pitt. “Let’s hope we haven’t lost our touch.”
They moved up the driveway at a steady, unhurried pace. They were too weakened from an inadequate diet and the hardships of the past weeks to run. They reached what Maeve believed was the living quarters of Jack Ferguson, superintendent of Dorsett’s mines on Gladiator Island.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east as they approached the front door. The search was taking too long. With the coming of dawn, their presence would most certainly be discovered. They had to move fast if they wanted to find the boys, reach the yacht and escape in Arthur Dorsett’s private helicopter before the remaining darkness was lost.
There was no stealth this time, no slinking quietly into the house. Pitt walked up to the front door, kicked it in with a splintering crunch and walked inside. A quick look around with the flashlight taken from the guards at the cliff told him all he needed to know. Ferguson lived there all right. There was a s
tack of mail on a desk that was addressed to him and a calendar with notations. Inside a closet, Pitt found neatly pressed men’s pants and coats.
“Nobody home,” he said. “Jack Ferguson has gone. No sign of suitcases, and half the hangers in the closet are empty.”
“He’s got to be here,” said Maeve in confusion.
“According to dates he’s marked on his calendar, Ferguson is on a tour of your father’s other mining properties”
She stared at the vacant room in futility and growing despair. “My boys are gone. We’re too late. Oh God, we’re too late. They’re dead.”
Pitt put his arm around her. “They’re as alive as you and I”
“But John Merchant—”
Giordino stood in the doorway. “Never trust a man with beady eyes.”
“No sense in wasting time here,” said Pitt, pushing past Giordino. “The boys are in the manor house, always have been, as a matter of fact.”
“You couldn’t have known Merchant was lying,” Maeve challenged Pitt.
He smiled. “Ah, but Merchant didn’t lie. You were the one who said the boys lived with Jack Ferguson in a guesthouse. Merchant merely went along with you. He guessed we were suckers enough to buy it. Well, maybe we did, but only for a second.”
“You knew?”
“It goes without saying that your father wouldn’t harm your sons. He may threaten, but a dime will get you a quarter they’re sequestered in your old room, where they’ve been all along, playing with a room full of toys, courtesy of their old granddad.”
Maeve looked at him in confusion. “He didn’t force them to work in the mines?”
“Probably not. He turned the screws on your maternal instincts to make you think your babies were suffering so he could make you suffer. The dirty bastard wanted you to go to your death believing he would enslave the twins, place them in the care of a sadistic foreman and work them until they died. Face facts. With Boudicca and Deirdre childless, your boys are the only heirs he’s got. With you out of the way, he figured he could raise and mold them into his own image. In your eyes a fate worse than death.”
Maeve looked at Pitt for a long moment, her expression turning from disbelief to understanding, then she shivered. “What kind of fool am I?”
“A great song title,” said Giordino. “I hate to dampen good news, but this time the people of the house are stirring about.” He gestured at lights shining in the windows of the manor house.
“My father always rises before dawn,” said Maeve. “He never allowed my sisters and me to sleep after sunrise.”
“What I wouldn’t give to join them for breakfast,” moaned Giordino.
“Not to sound like an echo chamber,” said Pitt, “but we need a way in without provoking the inhabitants.”
“All rooms of the manor open onto interior verandas except one. Daddy’s study has a side door that leads onto a squash court.”
“What’s a squash court?” inquired Giordino.
“A court where they play squash,” answered Pitt. Then to Maeve “In what direction is your old bedroom?”
“Across the garden and past the swimming pool to the east wing, second door on the right.”
“That’s it then. You two go after the boys.”
“What will you do?”
“Me, I’m going to borrow Daddy’s phone and stick him with a long-distance call.”
The atmosphere on board the Glomar Explorer was relaxed and partylike. The NUMA team and the ship’s personnel that were gathered in the spacious lounge next to the galley celebrated their success in repelling the acoustic plague. Admiral Sandecker and Dr. Ames were sitting opposite each other, sipping champagne poured from a bottle produced by Captain Quick from his private stock for special occasions.
After further consideration, it was decided to reclaim the antenna/reflector from the water and dismantle it again in case Dorsett Consolidated’s disastrous mining operations could not be terminated and it became essential to stop another acoustic convergence in order to save lives. The reflector shield was raised, and the hull below the Moon Pool was sealed off and the sea pumped from its cavernous interior. Within an hour, the historic ship was on its return course to Molokai.
Sandecker heaved himself out of his chair after being informed by the ship’s communications officer that he had an important call from his chief geologist, Charlie Bakewell. He walked to a quiet part of the lounge and pulled a compact satellite phone from his pocket. “Yes, Charlie.”
“I understand congratulations are in order.” Bakewell’s voice came clearly.
“It was a close thing. We barely positioned the ship and dropped the reflector shield before the convergence occurred. Where are you now?”
“I’m here at the Joseph Marmon Volcanic Observatory in Auckland, New Zealand. I have an update for you from their staff of geophysicists. Their most recent analysis of the sound ray energy’s impact cars Gladiator Island isn’t very encouraging.”
“Can they compute the repercussions?”
“I’m sorry to say the predicted magnitude is worse than I originally thought,” answered Bakewell. “The two volcanoes on the island, I’ve since learned, are called Mount Scaggs and Mount Winkleman, after two survivors from the raft of the Gladiator. They’re part of a chain of potentially explosive volcanoes that encircles the Pacific Ocean known as the `Ring of Fire’ and lie not far from a tectonic plate similar to the ones separating the San Andreas Fault in California. Most volcanic activity and earthquakes are caused by a movement of these plates. Studies indicate the volcanoes’ last major activity occurred sometime between 1225 and 1275 A.D., when they erupted simultaneously.”
“As I recall, you said the chances of them erupting from the convergence impact was one in five.”
“After consulting with the experts here at the Marmon Observatory, I’ve lowered the odds to less than even.”
“I can’t believe the sound ray traveling toward the island has the strength to cause a volcanic eruption,” said Sandecker incredulously.
“Not by itself,” replied Bakewell. “But what we neglected to consider was Dorsett’s mining operations making the volcanoes most susceptible to outside tremors. Even a minor seismic disturbance could trigger volcanic activity from Mounts Scaggs and Winkleman, because years of excavating diamonds has removed much of the ancestral deposits containing the gaseous pressure from below. In short, if Dorsett doesn’t stop digging, it’s only a matter of time before his miners uncork the central conduit, releasing an explosion of molten lava.”
“An explosion of molten lava,” Sandecker repeated mechanically. “Dear God, what have we done? Hundreds of lives will be lost.”
“Don’t be in a rush to confess your sins,” said Bakewell seriously. “There are no women and children known to be on Gladiator Island. You’ve already saved the lives of countless families on Oahu from certain extinction. Your action is bound to wake up the White House and State Department to the threat. Sanctions and legal actions against Dorsett Consolidated Mining will occur, I guarantee it. Without your intervention the acoustic plague would have continued, and there is no telling what harbor city the next convergence zone might have intersected.”
“Still ... I might have ordered the reflector shield to divert the sound waves toward an uninhabited landmass,” said Sandecker slowly.
“And watch it surge through another unsuspecting fishing fleet or cruise ship. We all agreed this was the safest path. Give it a rest, Jim, you have no reason to condemn yourself.”
“You mean I have no choice but to live with it.”
“What is Dr. Ames’ estimate of the sound wave’s arrival at Gladiator?” inquired Bakewell, steering Sandecker away from a guilt trip.
Sandecker glanced at his watch. “Twenty-one minutes to impact.”
“There’s still time to warn the inhabitants to evacuate the island.”
“My people in Washington have already tried to alert Dorsett Consolidated Mining management of
the potential danger,” said Sandecker. “But under orders from Arthur Dorsett, all communications between his mining operations and the outside have been cut off.”
“It sounds almost as if Dorsett wanted something to happen.”
“He’s taking no chances of interference before his deadline.”
“There is still a possibility no eruption will happen. The sound ray’s energy might dissipate before impact.”
“According to Dr. Ames’ calculations, there’s little chance of that,” said Sandecker. “What is your worst case scenario?”
“Mount Scaggs and Mount Winkleman are described as shield volcanoes, having built gently sloping mounds during their former activity. This class is seldom highly explosive like cinder cones, but Scaggs and Winkleman are not ordinary shield volcanoes. Their last eruption was quite violent. The experts here at the observatory expect explosions around the base or flanks of the mounds that will produce rivers of lava.”
“Can anyone on the island survive such a cataclysm?” asked Sandecker.
“Depends on which side the violence takes place. Al, most no chance if the volcanoes blow out toward the inhabited part of the island on the west.”
“And if they blow to the east?”
“Then the odds of survival should rise slightly, even with repercussions from enough seismic activity to bring down most if not all of the island’s buildings.”
“Is there a danger of the eruption causing tidal waves?”
“Our analysis does not indicate a seismic disturbance with the strength to produce monstrous tidal activity,” explained Bakewell. “Certainly nothing on the magnitude of the Krakatoa holocaust near Java in 1883. The shores of Tasmania, Australia and New Zealand shouldn’t be touched by waves higher thaw one and a half meters.”
“That’s a plus,” Sandecker sighed.
“I’ll get back to you when I know more,” said Bakewell. “Hopefully, I’ve given you the worst, and all news from now on will be good.”
“Thank you, Charlie. I hope so too.”
Sandecker switched off the phone and stood there thoughtfully. Anxiety and foreboding did not show on his face, not a twitch of an eyelid, not even a tightening of the lips, but there was a dread running deep beneath the surface. He did not notice Rudi Gunn approaching him until he felt his shoulder tapped.
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