by Jack Du Brul
Staring at the ceiling, Mercer knew the only explanation was sabotage. Someone on board wanted them to fail. His suspicion turned first to Spirit Williams. Only she didn’t have a motive. As he sought one, it dawned on him that the signal Jim McKenzie had intercepted in the moments before the hydrate cooling tower had activated could have been sent from the Surveyor and not some mystery ship that no one had been able to locate. Someone on the research ship would have known exactly when to turn on the massive impellers in order to kill the divers.
That realization took Spirit off his suspect list. He could accuse her of a lot of things but she was obviously devoted to her husband. He couldn’t picture her sending the signal, knowing that C.W. was right in the path of the boiling methane hydrate.
He folded his arms under his pillow as Tisa tucked herself tighter against him, her mouth near his neck.
If not Spirit, then who? Scott Glass, the alternate diver, hadn’t been on the Surveyor. He’d joined Jim and C.W. in California. And those two hadn’t done it, he was sure. That left the five technicians who had made the trip from Guam with McKenzie.
Mercer didn’t even know their names, which he supposed made it easier for him to have them confined to their quarters until after the bomb went off. For good measure, he’d lock up Spirit too, just so he wouldn’t have to listen to her mouth. Maybe he’d ask Tisa to be her jailer.
Now that he’d satisfied himself as to the who — and the why didn’t really concern him; who knew why fanatics did anything? — he still found himself wondering about the how. How had they made the ship drift off course?
Tisa shifted. Mercer knew he’d remain awake until he solved the mystery, so he moved her a little farther and swung off the bed. She gave a soft moue of annoyance and settled back to sleep.
He dressed in the dark, not bothering with his boxers or socks, and slipped out of the cramped cabin. The corridor was deserted, but he felt the presence of the ship, the thrum of her generators and the whoosh of air through the ventilators. He passed the cabin Jim was sharing with Scott Glass. He could hear Jim’s snores through the closed door and pitied the diver. The next cabin in line was Spirit and C.W.’s. He heard voices.
He paused. It was three o’clock in the morning.
He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded like an argument. Charlie must have told her that the ROV had been lost and he and Scott were going to have to place the nuclear weapon themselves. Mercer could imagine her reaction.
He moved on, found a flight of stairs and climbed to the bridge. He didn’t know the watch officer, but the red-haired Irishman knew him and greeted him by name. “Kind of late for a stroll, Dr. Mercer. I’m Seamus Rourke.” Most of the Petromax Angel’s officers and crew were from the British Isles.
“No rest for the wicked.” They shook hands.
“I thought it was the weary.”
“Both.” He helped himself to coffee from the urn on a counter at the back of the spartan bridge. “Can you show me the GPS receivers.”
“You too, huh? I’ve been sitting here thinking about that since I heard what happened and I kind of thought sabotage. But the receivers are on the antenna mast outside. You can’t get to them without accessing a service ladder that’s kept locked. Only the captain and chief engineer have keys and I already checked the padlock. No one messed with it.”
“That blows my theory.”
“There is another way,” Rourke suggested.
“I’m all ears.”
“There is such a thing as a GPS scrambler. It’s only available to the military so they can prevent enemies from accessing the positioning satellites or at least messing with their reception.”
“That’s right! I think Saddam Hussein tried to use them during Iraqi Freedom. As I recall they didn’t work.”
“Not against the equipment used by the U.S. Air Force and Navy, but it might confuse our gear long enough for us to drift off station. The Angel’s a good boat but she was state-o’-the-art when Maggie Thatcher was hanging her girdle at Number Ten.”
Rourke’s idea had merit. “What would one of these scramblers look like?”
“Probably just a little black box. Something that could be tossed overboard. I doubt we’d ever find it even if the saboteur kept it with him. And there’s also the chance that our receivers were scrambled by somebody onshore. We’re close enough.”
Mercer hadn’t thought of that. Had there really been a ship over the horizon from the Sea Surveyor? That opened the possibility that someone on the island had the jammer. Eleven thousand workers were currently on La Palma along with about a thousand diehard locals who had yet to evacuate. Not one had been screened by security. There hadn’t been time.
The tall officer looked Mercer in the eye. “I want to know why. Why would they do it? We’re trying to save the world. Why would someone want to stop us. No one gains.”
“It’s not about gain.” Mercer set his cup next to the coffeemaker and turned to the door. “I think it’s about maximizing loss.” He hadn’t forgotten that Tisa’s brother, Luc, hadn’t been at Rinpoche-La and was still at large.
Mercer found his way to the deck. The air felt heavier than before and charged with static. Lightning licked along the distant Cumbre ridge, caused by the ash and gas erupting from the southern part of the island. Mercer watched strike after strike. On the far side of the ridge he had teams drilling into the mountain trying to stabilize the slope. The drill trucks were well grounded, but it was only a matter of time before one of the men was struck.
With just one week left he considered evacuating them. The extra support pipes they were pinning into the rock wasn’t worth the risk of one or more being killed. He knew from the beginning that the whole scheme had been a long shot at best. His hopes had always lain with the nuke.
But what if each pipe prevented one ton of debris from slamming into the ocean? And what if that one ton meant saving a family trapped on the Bahamas, or in the Belgian lowlands?
On his numerous inspection tours he’d talked to enough of the roughnecks to know that they’d probably ignore his evacuation order anyway. He was pretty sure a few of the tougher ones would even continue to drill as the Cumbre Vieja split and slid down to the sea.
He turned his back on the atmospheric discharges and looked to the east. Dawn was hours away, but the glow from the erupting Teneguia volcano painted the sky in oranges and flickering reds. The light danced like the mindless rage of an artillery barrage. Cracks of thunder added to the illusion.
It would be ten o’clock on Saturday night back home, he realized. Harry would be slouched on his stool at Tiny’s. Paul would be in his cramped office getting tomorrow’s odds for his sports book. Doobie Lapoint would be behind the bar, the crisp towel over his shoulder the cleanest item in the place. Mercer desperately wanted to be a part of that normalcy, not here making decisions that affected the lives of millions of people.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and started to dial the Arlington number when he realized he didn’t have a signal. The lightning, he guessed, and turned back to appraise the island.
Mercer had a second to realize the sky had been shredded — the burst of ash had already climbed to five thousand feet — before the wall of sound rocked the Petromax Angel and threw him off his feet.
San Juan was erupting.
Lit from below by its own fiery heart, the top of the volcano had been blown skyward, a seething, billowing column of ash and rock that spread as it rose, a bruised purple mushroom cloud that cleaved the darkness.
The ship was a mile from shore, and the volcano was another eleven miles inland, and yet the shock wave slammed the Angel with hurricane force. Mercer clung to the rail as the wind ripped and tore at his precarious grip. He had to find cover. In moments the first ash and chunks of pumice would rain on the deck, yet he could not let go until the wave passed.
His head was filled with the ceaseless bellow of the explosion, a sound that seemed to shake his fle
sh loose from his bones. When the concussion finally dissipated, he felt like a dried husk. His fingers were bent into claws from his grip on the metal stanchion.
He staggered to his feet, his first concern for the crews working to pin the side of the mountain. He had to find a working phone or radio. He had to know how many he’d lost. At least five drill trucks were working the lower flank of San Juan. Fifty men had been within three miles of the blast, more when he considered the tanker drivers and relief workers, who rarely ventured far from their machines.
A door into the superstructure flew open. Spirit Williams was backlit against the interior lights. Her T-shirt was cropped so high that the bottom of her breasts were visible, two heavy crescents of white skin. Her panties were little more than a triangle of silk. Mercer brushed past her without a glance.
“What happened?” she cried and raced to keep pace.
“It blew. The son-of-a-bitching mountain blew.” Crewmen and scientists tumbled from their cabins in various states of undress.
Mercer climbed for the bridge. Third Officer Rourke stood at the windscreen, binoculars pressed to his eyes. “Get on the radio, Seamus. See if you can get a signal. We need to know what’s going on.” Mercer tried his cell again but there was no signal.
“Your little girlfriend said we had two more weeks,” Spirit accused.
“Go find Jim,” Mercer ordered. “And your husband. We have to push up the dive.”
“Dr. Mercer, I have someone onshore.” The watch stander handed him the radiophone handset.
“This is Philip Mercer. Who is this and where are you?”
“Bill Farley, Doctor. I’m an assistant supervisor for the drilling crews. I’m about eight miles south of the volcano.”
“What’s the situation?”
“Chaos. I don’t know what’s happening. There were three crews up near the summit and another two farther down. I haven’t heard from them and from what I can see here I don’t think they made it.”
That news wasn’t unexpected but still hit like a body blow. “What about the fault?” Mercer asked. “Has it slipped?”
“If it had I wouldn’t be here. I’m standing on it now.”
“Bill, I want you to reach as many of your people as you can. Evacuate everyone. I don’t know why San Juan erupted early, but you need to get everyone off the island any way you can.” Mercer’s cell vibrated. The atmospheric disturbances must have abated enough for the signal to reach him from the towers on the island. “Keep this line open.” He passed the phone to the officer and flipped open the little Nokia. “Mercer.”
“It’s Ira. What the hell happened? I just got a call from the USGS. They’re recording a massive eruption on La Palma.”
“The San Juan volcano just lit off. I just talked to a guy in the field. He says the fault hasn’t slipped so we may have time.”
“It doesn’t matter. As soon as the president hears about this he’s going to order the evacuation.”
Mercer was forced to agree. “I would too.”
How had Tisa been so wrong? That question had hidden in his subconscious since the first instant of the eruption and now stood at the forefront of his mind. On Santorini she’d predicted the earthquake to the minute. How could she miss this by three weeks?
“Where’s the warhead?” he asked the admiral.
“Still at Livermore Labs.”
“How fast can you get it here?”
“Four hours.”
Even the SR-71 Blackbird couldn’t travel the thousands of miles from California to Spain that fast. Mercer suspected that the world was about to get their first look at the SR-1 Wraith, the secret hypersonic reconnaissance aircraft mistakenly called Aurora.
“Get me that bomb, Ira. There’s still a chance.”
“Mercer, if that mountain goes it won’t matter that you’re on the other side of the island. The wave’s going to nail you. Maybe you should get out of there.”
“I’ve ordered everyone off La Palma, but we’re not running. I have to make a try with the nuke.”
“If you’re wrong, that’s a death sentence for the crew with you.”
“I don’t need you telling me the obvious.” Mercer tried to calm himself. Snapping at his friend wasn’t going to help. “Ira, can you buy me twelve hours with the president? We both know if that evacuation order comes, thousands are going to die in the panic.”
“And millions would be saved if the island collapses. There’s no way he’s going to take the chance.”
“What if this wasn’t the main eruption? What if we still have time? Tisa hasn’t been wrong before. I don’t think she’s wrong now.”
“Then tell me why that volcano’s erupting as we speak.”
“I can’t,” Mercer admitted. “Not until I talk to her.”
“And if Tisa can’t explain it either?” Mercer had no reply. “I’m sorry. He’s not going to have a choice about ordering the evacuation tonight. And I think I back him on this one.”
“All right, do what you have to, but get me that bomb.”
“That I can promise.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Mercer folded the phone into his pocket. Jim and Tisa stood at the back of the bridge. Tisa’s face reflected anguish as she looked at the towering ash cloud spreading over the dark island. Yet her voice was resolute when she said, “This isn’t the eruption from the prophecy. This is just a prelude.”
“I believe you.” Mercer touched her shoulder. “Unfortunately no one else does.”
“They’re going to try to evacuate the East Coast?” Jim asked.
“The president will probably make the announcement tonight.”
“What are we going to do?”
Mercer’s reply was never in doubt. “Finish what we started.” Jim nodded. “The bomb will be here in four hours. We need to pull Conseil from the vent so we can set it as soon as it arrives. We have to implode the mountain and stabilize the ridge in the next few hours. Where are C.W. and Scott?”
“I saw Scott heading for the control van,” Tisa said. “I haven’t seen Charlie.”
Spirit raced onto the bridge at that moment. She was nearly hysterical, sobbing and trying to catch her breath at the same time. She hadn’t yet put on anything to cover her near-naked body. “C.W.’s hurt. His head is bleeding bad and he won’t wake up.”
The pieces fell into place. “Jim, get down to the van and prep for the dive,” Mercer snapped the order. “Tisa, stay with him.” He addressed Seamus Rourke. “Are there any firearms on this ship?”
“Firearms? Why?” And then Rourke had the same thought as Mercer. The saboteur. “No, nothing. I’ll call the crew together and sweep the ship.”
“Good. Lock up everyone who came aboard with the Surveyor team except Jim here and Scott Glass. Put them in the mess hall.”
“What are you doing?” Jim protested.
“C.W. was attacked.”
“What?!” Spirit and McKenzie cried.
“The signal to turn on the turbines when we were on the Sea Surveyor, the glitch in the GPS yesterday that cut the cable to the ROV and now C.W., the best diver we’ve got, is hurt. It’s not a coincidence. Someone you brought with you has been sabotaging our work.”
“It could have been…” Jim’s voice trailed off as he made the connection, and came to the same conclusion. “Son of a bitch!”
“Tisa warned me that the Order had thousands of members and potentially millions of sympathizers. There’s no way we could have known they already had an agent in place.”
“I left him alone,” Spirit wailed, making no attempt to wipe at the tears pouring down her cheeks. “They could come back to attack him again.”
“Come on,” Mercer pulled her along as he rushed from the bridge, calling over his shoulder to Jim, “Prep both suits. Maybe C.W.’s okay.”
They ran down to the second deck. Mercer threw open the door to C.W.’s cabin. The young diver lay on the floor at the foot of their bunk, wearing jeans and shoes but n
o shirt. Around his upper body was a pool of his own blood. His blond hair was matted to his head, and his normal tan had faded to a ghostly white.
Spirit couldn’t enter the room. She stood at the door, her fist jammed against her mouth to keep from crying out. Her whole body trembled. Mercer knelt next to C.W. and felt for a pulse. It was there, but weak. Next he felt along Charlie’s head until his fingers sank into a sticky dent above his temple. Bits of bone grated as he pulled his fingers from the wound.
“Is he-?”
“He’s alive, but this is serious.” Mercer checked Charlie’s eyes. One pupil was dilated, the other just a black point. “His skull is fractured and he has a concussion. He needs medical attention.” There were twenty Ph.D.’s on the ship but not one medical doctor. “I don’t want to move him, but we have to cover him up. Give me a hand.”
Together Mercer and Spirit stripped the bed and tucked the blankets under and around Charlie so he wasn’t lying on the linoleum floor. Mercer turned up the cabin’s heat and found more blankets in a storage closet.
By the time they finished, the ship’s second engineer arrived with a hard plastic medical chest. “What happened?”
“It looks like someone hit him over the head,” Mercer said, kneeling back to let the engineer, who obviously knew what he was doing, make his own examination. “Good job with the blankets,” he said in a rich Scottish accent. “He’s in shock. Hold this.” He handed Mercer a plasma bag and inserted the needle into Charlie’s muscled arm. “Blood loss is just as dangerous as the head trauma.”
“Are you a doctor?” Spirit asked, heartened by the man’s efficient manner.
