Another voice called from somewhere behind. "Hey! We gotta get outta here. Now !"
"What?" the man's voice hitched with disbelief.
"They found another bomb!"
The instinct for self-preservation abruptly took over, and Jordan clutched his hand. Her would-be rescuer moved so that she could see his face. Carefully lying down across the rubble, he whispered, "I'm not leaving you. I promise."
She knew she must have passed in and out of consciousness then, because the next thing she was aware of was the man saying, "Okay, Agent Spinner, we're gonna have to use jacks to get this masonry off you. But first the EMT's coming to hook you up with some juice."
"Bomb… My son."
He said nothing, but his face was bleak.
"Jamie," she whispered, and a terrible coldness shattered her soul.
-Chapter 2-
Republic of Vanuatu, SW Pacific, December 12, 1995
Dispersal: Minus 19 hours
Doctor Nathaniel Sturgess sat on a worn wooden bench inside Port Vila's Bauerfield Airport, typing his monthly WHO report on his laptop, waiting for the flight south to Mathew Island. The plane was due to depart in ten minutes, but that could equally well mean three hours, and Nate always made good use of his time.
The terminal was crowded with ni-Vanuatu; Melanesian natives of the South Pacific island nation. Women garbed in colourful Mother-Hubbard dresses, and men in shorts and t-shirts stood waiting amidst cardboard boxes tied with string and baskets woven from coconut-fronds.
Something caught Nate's eye. A Hessian sack was moving across the linoleum floor, tango style-two shuffles forward, one back-between huge bales of rice and a wicked-looking machete. An Australian couple, their noses wrinkled with distaste at the odour of sweaty, deodorant-free bodies, exotic food crops and animal droppings, looked on, fascinated and apprehensive. Behind them, someone was manoeuvring through the crowd with practiced ease.
"Hey, Mike!" Nate closed his laptop, stood, and pushed past the tourists-who still hadn't figured out where the check-in line was.
Michael Warner, a tall, burly American in his mid-fifties, stepped on the scales at the ticket counter. At the sound of his name, he looked around expectantly. "Sturgess! What are you doing here?" Warner's smile turned to a scowl when he noticed his weight. Stepping down, he shook Nate's hand.
"I could ask you the same thing." Nate winced at the vulcanologist's powerful grip. The Hessian sack bumped against his foot. Its ni-Vanuatu owner picked it up, mumbled an apology and tucked it under his arm. The bag squirmed.
"I was checking Ambae volcano. Figured I'd replace the old sensors on Mathew and Hunter Islands while I was in the neighbourhood." Warner turned to the ni-Vanuatu ORSTOM technician with him, and said, "Keep forwarding me the data on Ambae. I'm not convinced it's going quiescent, no matter what your boss thinks."
Since the volcanic island dubbed Bali Hai by James Michener had bubbled to life in March, it had attracted the attention of vulcanologists worldwide. Despite ORSTOM-the French scientific research organization-downgrading it to a Level 2 alert status, Ambae was still considered the most dangerous of Vanuatu's many active volcanoes. The technician nodded, and began piling bags on the scale.
Motioning to Nate's wispy blond beard, Warner said, "When are you gonna give up on that thing?"
"When you give up carrying excess luggage." Nate's eyes shifted from Warner's luggage to the big man's slight paunch.
Grinning ruefully, Warner made a half-hearted attempt to suck in his stomach. He said something in reply, but his words were drowned out by the noise of a twin engine Otter aircraft taxiing close to the terminal's doors. A group of very large women dressed in their Sunday best burst into tears while around them, other people cheered. When the rumble of the engines died, a surge of humanity pushed forward. Familiar with the islander's emotional farewells, Nate ignored the bumping and shoving until a persistent hand forced his shoulder around.
"Your name Warner?" the Australian tourist yelled above the noise.
Nate pointed to the vulcanologist.
Turning a malevolent eye on Warner, Tourist demanded, "The ticket guy said you took my seat. We were here first. What's the story, mate?"
A second cheer filled the terminal. The Australian looked around, bewildered by the mercurial islanders, while his girlfriend shot nervous glances at the machete-wielding men crowding them. Her face said it all. Personal space clearly meant nothing to these people.
"Welcome to the South Pacific!" Warner shouted above the noise. "Nothing's confirmed until your butt's in the air. Where were you going?"
"Mathew Island. We were booked to see the volcano."
The Australian's beer belly was considerably larger than Warner's . Tourists. Nate sighed and tucked his laptop away. Seem to think they're visiting Disneyland. He pulled off his wire-framed reading glasses and replaced them with a pair of Polarised sunglasses.
"Well," Warner drawled, "I'd personally recommend Tanna Island. The volcano is smaller and more accessible, and the plane's stopping by there on the way south. Why don't you ask? Maybe there are still seats available for that sector of the flight."
"So you go to Tanna and gimme my seat! I paid a lot of money to get visas."
The technician placed a placatory hand on the Australian's arm. Tourist, mistaking the tech's ORSTOM uniform for that of an airline official, handed over his ticket.
Nate glanced across the crowd at the airline clerk, who mouthed, "Tanna."
"No place to sleep on Mathew." Sounding more like a third-world hustler than a university-educated field officer, the tech added, "No restaurants. No hot showers, just bush toilets." He looked pointedly at the woman's high-heeled shoes, then his eyes turned meaningfully to the leaden sky. "No roads, just mud. Two kilometres from airport to village. Sleep in spare hut on ground. You bring bed? Mosquito net? Food? And rum to pay volcano guide. Tanna better. Active, lots of lava, good guesthouses, less mud."
"Then why are you two going to Mathew?" Tourist demanded.
"I'm a WHO epidemiologist," Nate replied seriously. "Just flew in from Noumea to investigate an outbreak of haemorrhagic dengue fever."
The boarding announcement echoed through tinny loudspeakers. Warner was clearly having difficulty keeping a straight face as Tourist's girlfriend paled. She tugged at her partner's sleeve and whined, "C'mon Brian, let's just go to Tanna. What difference does it make? It's got a volcano as well."
"Get full refund from travel agent for trouble," the tech added with a helpful grin.
Brian Tourist was vacillating, but the surging crowds almost knocked his girlfriend down. Sour faced and grumbling, he returned to the ticket counter.
With the first rush of passengers past them, Brian's girlfriend smiled gratefully at Warner. The smile slipped when they went out on to the tarmac. "Oh, honey," she said to Brian. "The plane looks like a prop from some fifties movie!"
"It'll be fine," Brian assured her, chewing his lip. "Have you ever heard of a plane crashing in Vanuatu?"
Climbing aboard, her heel caught on an exposed rivet sticking up through threadbare carpeting. "I'd never even heard of Vanuatu," she muttered, and perched on nearest vacant seat. "I hope they have toilets on the volcano."
Several rows up front, Nate waited until they were airborne, then said quietly to Warner, "I wonder how they wangled visas out of Noumea?"
Warner's bushy grey beard turned up in a grin. "The Froggies are probably hoping they'll get themselves killed."
"With that gut he'll have a cardiac arrest before he gets high enough up the volcano to worry about lava bombs."
When the Otter levelled out, Warner unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped into the narrow aisle, and almost tripped over a black piglet. The animal slipped through his grasping fingers but could not escape the more agile Nate, who dived on top of it.
"Good catch!" declared Warner, and headed forward to the cockpit.
Nate returned the squealing animal to its owner, a grinning Mathew Island boy whose
name, he recalled, was Tom Kaleo. "You keep a tight hold of him, Tom, or I might steal him for dinner!"
On the aisle floor, the Hessian sack had also come to life. An angry rooster squeezed its head out and squawked its objections at being trampled by the piglet. Brian Tourist and his girlfriend stared saucer-eyed. "What the hell kind of airline is this?" Brian asked of no one in particular.
"Maybe Tanna wasn't such a bad idea," his girlfriend said, clinging to his hand.
Brian glowered. "Yeah. Hopefully they'll be able to keep their damned livestock under control that long."
The pig's wet snout nuzzled the boy's hand, tickling him. "Thank you Dr Nate," Tom replied, averting his eyes from Brian's.
Warner returned from the cockpit, ruffled Tom's hair and sat down again. "If the island is cloud-free, the pilot'll do a run over the top. So," he added in a lower voice, "are you really checking for dengue? Or were you just saving my ass from Crocodile Dundee?"
"Haemorrhagic dengue has broken out on Ambrym and Epi Islands, and the wet season hasn't even started. There have been fourteen deaths so far. The local clinics can't handle it; so new victims are being medevac-ed to Vila. Mathew is probably too far south for dengue, but since New Caledonia is still claiming Mathew and Hunter, the French want to paint themselves the good guys."
"Two hospitals to service eighty islands." Warner grunted. "God help this country if there's ever a serious outbreak."
"There already is." Nate scowled. "Malaria, TB, Hepatitis B, and now AIDS-which the government denies. It'll tear through this place like every other sexually transmitted disease." He glanced out the window. There was only so much he could do, and he wasn't about to let it eat him alive. "How long are you going down for?"
"Just 'till next week. I hope."
Weekly flights to Mathew Island were notoriously unreliable, especially in the wet season, when the single dirt strip could become a bog within hours. "What's the volcano doing?"
"Sensors are busted. I'm not worried, though. Mathew and Hunter are just babies, venting steam and fluff." Warner's look turned conspiratorial and, leaning closer, he whispered, "You bring any dive gear?"
"Why? You got some tanks stashed away?"
Nodding smugly, the vulcanologist replied, "Had four sent from Noumea on the last boat, 'bout two months back. I want to see that submarine vent off the west coast. Figured I might get lucky with the weather. Ever dived in an underwater volcano?"
Nate shot him a withering look. "You want a dive buddy or not?"
"Don't be a wimp." Warner chuckled and closed his eyes.
Shaking his head, Nate opened his laptop to finish his report. Beside him, Warner dozed.
At Tanna Island, Brian and his girlfriend gratefully left the flight. From there, the Otter flew south for another hour and a half. When the engines changed pitch, Warner stretched and yawned, then pulled a camera from his bag and went forward again. Nate closed his laptop and followed.
The pilot smiled a greeting, handed them both a set of headphones and nodded to Warner. Nate squatted on the floor while the vulcanologist strapped himself into the right cockpit seat and lowered the side window. A hot, gritty rush of air tainted with the stench of rotting eggs filled the cabin. The fumes tore into the back of Nate' throat and scoured his sinuses. He almost choked.
"Man, that's the clearest I've ever seen it!" Warner picked up his Nikon and carefully focussed. "How close can we get?"
Most inter-island pilots cheerfully ignored regulations about flying over active volcanoes. Half the reason why they worked in Vanuatu was that, while the civil aviation boss in Vila might be pedantic son of a bitch, they could do pretty much as they pleased once out of sight. The pilot angled the Otter until all three of them could see deep into the heart of Mathew Island's active volcano. An incandescent orange lake swirled angrily around the vent, smashing against the interior walls like storm tossed waves. Hot air surged upwards, jostling the aircraft. Nate swallowed and braced himself.
"That's what keeps this baby quiet." Warner nodded in satisfaction. "Nothin' clogging up the works."
Nate had seen lava lakes before; there were two on Ambrym Island. They always affected him the same way. But he kept coming back, hoping to face it down. It was a visceral sensation that began deep inside the primitive part of his brain, sending a spasm of raw terror through his spine and into his gut. The churning lake was a brutal reminder that six billion humans inhabited a thin crust of congealed rock coating a shockingly violent ball of hell. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat, telling himself it was just the stench. It wasn't until the pilot turned towards Mathew Island's short runway that he noticed Warner's frown. Adjusting the microphone, he said, "What's up?"
"I can't see the sensor box at the airport."
The vulcanologist kept two sensor arrays on Mathew Island. One was at the airport, which the ORSTOM team regularly monitored on its rounds of the country's volcanoes. The second was a much bigger unit near the volcano's crater. Access to it involved a two-day walk through rainforest followed by a precarious balancing act along narrow ridges of loose scoria that crumbled away into gorges. Brian Tourist wouldn't have made it across the first jagged-edged lava flow.
"Still," Warner added, smiling happily, "I've just taken the best aerial photographs of Mathew's lava lake on record. The level's way down."
"That means the pressure in the magma chambers has fallen, right?" Nate said hopefully.
"I'll make a vulcanologist out of you yet." Warner shot him an approving look.
Nate's only reply was a glare. He pulled off his earphones and returned to his seat for the landing.
For the Mathew Island villagers, the weekly inter-island flight broke the monotony of routine. The runway was lined with curiosity, laughter, waving hands and a solitary Land Rover belonging to the Peace Corps.
The Otter came to a halt near a tin shed. A lean Mathew Islander, naked except for his nambas -penis sheath-rolled a 44-gallon fuel drum across the grass while six passengers, including Tom Kaleo, Warner and Nate Sturgess disembarked. The Land Rover pickup coughed into life, turned and backed up to the aircraft's cargo hold. The pilot opened the cargo door, allowing everyone to unload their own luggage while he supervised the refuelling.
"Where are you staying?" Nate asked Warner.
"The cottage?" Warner sent him a hopeful look, and tossed a bag into the pickup's tray. "I brought gifts."
The clinic and nearby four bedroom cottage were the only structures on the island with a waterproof roof, concrete walls, and running water. The wet season was due any day, and Warner's sensitive equipment needed to be kept under cover.
"Presents, huh?" Nate replied. "Peanut butter filled pretzels again?"
"Did you bring my soy sauce?" The door of the Land Rover opened and Katie Wood, an attractive, middle-aged woman dressed in white T-shirt and khaki shorts stepped out.
"Soya, wasabe and-" Reaching into his satchel, Nate dramatically flourished a gift-wrapped box and bundle of letters. "Chocolates and mail!"
A younger and somewhat chubbier version of Katie, complete with khaki shorts, rubber sandals and short dark hair, came around from the driver's side of the pickup. Whooping in delight, Judi Harris grabbed the letters, quickly kissed Nate, and began sorting through the mail.
"I can go one better." Warner reached into the Otter's cargo hold and lifted out a robust case. "Laptop and satellite. Anyone wanna surf the Internet?" he drawled seductively.
"Omigod!" Katie gaped. "It must have cost a fortune."
"Bloody Yank show-off," Nate muttered good-naturedly. He pulled the rest of his gear from the Otter and loaded it onto the truck.
Judi sidled up to the vulcanologist and hooked her arm through his. "Long time no see, Dr Warner. So, what does a girl have to do to send a few emails?"
"Gimme a bed for a week?" He stacked his bags next to Nate's, turned around and glanced meaningfully at Katie.
"Alone," Katie replied sternly. She picked up the
last of the boxes labelled 'medical supplies'.
"I would never infer otherwise, dear Katie," Warner replied. "I just gotta work out what time we can hook into the satellites."
"See you in a week," the pilot said, shutting the cargo door.
"Just promise me you'll land." Nate glanced at the sky.
The pilot shot him a knowing look. "We'll see."
"You darned well better!" Katie snapped. "I'm supposed to be home for Christmas."
Nate climbed into the back of the pickup, but Warner stood staring thoughtfully at the end of the runway. The white sensor box with its seismic measuring equipment was visible, but it looked like it had been knocked over. "You want to check that first?" Nate asked him.
"It can wait." Warner clambered in beside him. "I want to get unpacked and set up everything."
On the drive to the clinic, Katie called out through the window to Nate, "What'd you bring for dinner?"
"Take-out Chinese. Microwave still working?"
"Of course not. But we've made a cooking pond at the hot springs."
"You don't mean the big pools behind the cottage?" Warner asked with a frown.
Katie shook her head. "The bathing pools are only warm, but a hundred metres further up, where the water bubbles out of the ground, it's close to boiling."
Warner relaxed, and turning to Nate, said, "Okay, well, how 'bout we go for that dive first thing tomorrow morning?"
They were passing through the village, and Nate was pleased to see that everything looked clean and tidy. He returned everyone's waves and smiles. Despite his dislike of the volcano, it was always a pleasure seeing the people of Mathew Island. "As long as I can be at the clinic by 0730."
"Suits me. I want to climb up to the main vent while this weather holds."
Nate glanced at the sky again. It was clear, but he doubted that would last.
-Chapter 3-
Quantico Marine Base, December 12, 1995
Dispersal: Minus 1 hour
"Put the gun down," said Special Supervisory Agent Peter Brant.
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