Deep Fire Rising

by Du Brul, Jack

  Mercer saw the logic in delivering the W-54 bomb in one of the Manned Munition Utilities. The pods were designed to accurately and gently deliver a soldier to the battlefield. They couldn’t risk sending a chopper to the island until the volcanic fallout subsided. A regular parachute drop didn’t have the precision to land the weapon on the deck of a ship at sea, so the monkey bomb was the sensible choice.

  “I’m calling to verify your GPS coordinates,” Sykes went on. “And to let you know the trigger is a three-hour delay. Once it’s set there ain’t no turning back.”

  “Okay, Booker. I’m turning you over to Jim McKenzie—he’s the master of ceremonies for this particular ring of our circus. Good to hear your voice, man.”

  “Same to you. Good luck down there. Sounds like you’re going to need it.”

  “Hoo-yah!” Mercer returned the headset to Jim and went back to the deck, shouting for the crewman trying to hose mud over the side to clear the way.

  The Petromax Angel had about forty feet of open deck between the control van and her stubby superstructure, more than enough room to land the MMU. He waited in the shelter of the bridge wing, shielding his eyes against the acid rain and swirling ash to glimpse the stealthy black pod as it fell from the cheerless sky. He mistakenly looked straight up, not realizing the MMU’s onboard computers were constantly correcting the pod’s descent for the brutal windshears.

  The MMU actually swooped over the port side scant feet above the rail and dropped to the deck, falling lightly onto its back as the parachute was cut away. The billow of nylon vanished over the starboard rail, as fleeting as a ghost.

  The seals around the lid hissed and the coffinlike door opened a crack. Mercer couldn’t help the eerie feeling he got as he approached the MMU. He almost didn’t want to touch it. He swung open the lid and stared in wonder at what lay nestled in the protective foam.

  The bomb was white and nearly featureless, just a rectangular box that really was about the size of a large Samsonite suitcase. He placed a hand on its casing. It was cold.

  Mercer shivered in the rain. Beneath the steel and lead shielding lay a ball of explosives that would implode an even smaller sphere of plutonium. It had the power to level a city.

  He prayed it had the power to save a planet.

  ABOARD THE PETROMAX ANGEL OFF LA PALMA

  A deckhand approached hauling a small winch on wheels. Together he and Mercer slung a cradle under the nuclear bomb and lifted it from the MMU. The weapon swung and twisted on the end of the cable in a way that reminded Mercer of an obscene piñata. The absurdity of his observation brought a smile to his face.

  “What’s so funny, Doctor?” the crewman asked.

  “Just that it’s a good thing I don’t have a blindfold and a stick.”

  They wheeled the bomb across the slick deck to the container at the stern of the service boat. The ashfall had smothered the waves so the ship sat as solidly as if she were in drydock. Fire hoses had been directed over the fantail to open a spot in the muck so the divers could be safely lowered into the sea. Gantry lights showed the pace of the ashfall was slowing, as was the rain. The sky had even brightened to a dull pewter.

  Mercer passed his side of the winch dolly to another crewman to answer his vibrating phone. The signal was the clearest it had been since the eruption four hours ago.

  “You must pull some serious weight with the president,” Ira said without preamble.

  “What happened?”

  “I’ve been trying to get through to tell you that he decided to wait until morning on the East Coast to make the announcement.”

  “I doubt it was my influence,” Mercer said, overjoyed by the news. “Waiting until daylight to start the evacuation makes better sense than starting it at eleven o’clock at night.”

  “Either way you have five hours. If you can set off that nuke and prevent the avalanche he won’t call for the evacuation. Has it arrived?”

  “About two minutes ago. Good thinking using an MMU.”

  “Thought you’d like that,” Ira said. “We’ll make sure that anyone on the western sides of the other islands will be above the surge line of any wave created when that bomb goes off. The navy is pushing out their quarantine zone. An Aegis cruiser is going to remain inside the cordon if you need it.”

  “What about the North African coast?” Mercer asked, still amazed by the level of coordination even though he was at the center of it.

  “Even more deserted than normal. The UN has done a good job there. Are the divers set to go?”

  Just as Mercer didn’t need to know the details of the world reaction to the crisis, he wouldn’t bother Ira with the attack on Charlie Williams or how he would be making the dive. “Ready and willing.” Mercer didn’t know how to ask the next question. It wasn’t in his nature to question success, but he had to make plans. “Listen, Ira, I’d like you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “If this doesn’t work and they call for a full evacuation I want you to look after Harry.”

  “Already taken care of. He and Tiny have your car gassed and loaded, and a hotel reservation near Lynchburg, Tennessee.”

  Their choice of destination was no surprise.

  Lynchburg was the home of the Jack Daniel’s distillery. “Just make sure they leave.”

  “I will but you shouldn’t worry. I think they’re going whether the president makes the announcement or not.”

  That brought a smile to Mercer’s face. “Then tell him if his dog scratches my leather seats I’m going to reupholster them with his wrinkled hide.”

  “You got it. I have to go, Mercer. Keep me posted.”

  “I might be out of touch but I’ll make sure Jim McKenzie or Tisa are available.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  Mercer returned the phone to the pocket of the overalls he’d been given by Scott. Glass stood by his ADS talking with Spirit. “How’s C.W.?” Mercer asked.

  Spirit glowered at him and said nothing.

  “Still unconscious,” Scott answered, not understanding the animosity. “The engineer pumped a third IV into him. Spirit says his color is better and the bleeding has stopped.”

  “That’s good.”

  Tisa stepped through the open container doors. Spirit shot her a sharp glare and wheeled on Mercer. “I see you’re not man enough to use Charlie’s suit.” Then she stormed out.

  “Told you,” Tisa said to Mercer.

  “I’m afraid you’re way off base about her. If possible she hates me even more.”

  She stroked his arm. “You don’t know much about women. Bad for you. Good for me.”

  “How is that bad for me?”

  “You’ll never see my feminine tricks coming.”

  Of all the burdens and distractions Mercer was shouldering, all the directions he was being pulled in, all the demands that were draining him down, only Tisa, and the promise of their relationship, gave him sustenance and the strength to carry on. Sometimes all it took was a sly comment to make him forget everything else. He reached for her hand as he addressed Scott. “We have five hours before the president orders the evacuation of the eastern U.S. and causes a panic that will claim thousands. The bomb has a three-hour delay timer once it’s set and I want at least an hour after the blast to evaluate the results.”

  “Leaves us an hour to pull Conseil out of the vent and place the bomb,” Scott grunted. “Not a whole lot of time.”

  “All the more reason to get going. How are we going to carry the weapon?”

  “My suit will take the brunt of the weight from the towline. We’ll mount the bomb to yours in a quick-release harness. Onboard gyroscopes will compensate for the added weight and keep the ADS trimmed.”

  “Okay then.” Mercer shook Scott’s hand.

  Two Petromax workers helped Mercer and Scott Glass climb into the NewtSuits. Before sealing the back, Mercer motioned Tisa over to him. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “What time is it?”

/>   “Ah, eight thirty. Oh God! Did the oracle predict something else for today?”

  “No. I was just curious.” She smiled and kissed his cheek. “If I hadn’t lost it on the ferry, I think I’d start wearing the watch you gave me.”

  “I’ll get you another,” he promised.

  Tisa stepped back and Mercer’s suit was closed and the seals engaged. The ventilation fans were already working, but he needed several deep breaths to feel his lungs fill with air.

  “Can you hear me, Mercer?” Scott called from his own suit.

  “Loud and clear. Jim, are we on-line in the van?”

  “I read you both. Everything looks good from my end. Say the word and they’ll maneuver the cradle to the stern and lower you in.”

  “Give us a minute,” Scott requested. “Mercer, do one more check of your motors. Make sure everything’s okay.”

  Mercer rocked his feet on the large toggle switches in the base of each leg and was rewarded with the buzz of the appropriate propeller. Outside the thick faceplate, Tisa gave Mercer a thumbs-up, then pretended to be impressed with the size of his biceps by squeezing the suit’s armored skin. In the air, the suit was too heavy to move so he couldn’t respond other than to flash a smile she couldn’t see.

  “We’re ready, Jim.”

  Mercer watched one of the technicians motion Tisa away from the heavy steel cage that would lower the divers to the tunnel entrance. Before she would allow him to vanish, Tisa stepped forward, leaning over the bomb strapped to the suit’s torso, and left a lipstick kiss on Mercer’s helmet. With her face inches from his there was no mistaking the words she mouthed.

  “I love you.”

  Adrenaline surged through Mercer’s heart. But before he could react the A-frame crane hanging over the stern took up the slack and the cradle rolled back on tracks embedded in the deck. The drizzling rain couldn’t smear the impression of her mouth from the plastic.

  He shook thoughts of her words, and his reply, from his head and concentrated on the task at hand. With a quick glance he checked the electronic monitors ringing the bottom of his helmet. Power, oxygen and coolant levels were all in the green. Condensation formed on his faceplate. Mercer used the finger controls to adjust the ventilator and concentrated on slowing his breathing. He had more than enough air for the dive, but Scott, and his scuba instructor months earlier, cautioned about taking nothing for granted.

  The cradle reached the end of the track and the crane lifted the large basket into the air. Mercer and Scott stood solid as statues as the heavy-duty hydraulics raised them up and over the crane’s apex and held them suspended over the scummy water. With the suits in a neutral hunched position, Mercer could just see the ocean under his feet.

  “Okay, Jim, we’re set,” Scott radioed. “Lower away. Just keep an eye on the tow spool.” The drum of thick cable was bolted just below the crane’s legs.

  “Here you go.”

  The crane unwound its line and the basket sank past the deck height. In a moment they could see where the service boat’s name had been painted on her stern and then the top few inches of her rudder. Inside the armored suits there was no sensation when water began to fill the lifting basket and surge around their legs. Mercer watched it climb higher, past the bomb on his chest and up his torso. A weak wave splashed filthy water against his helmet. Tisa’s kiss washed away.

  And then they were submerged. The water was completely black, choked with sediment. The lights atop the cradle gave them barely two feet of visibility.

  “It’ll clear when we get under the layers of ash,” Scott remarked.

  The cradle and crane acted like an elevator, dropping the divers into the abyss without them having to rely on their suit’s batteries. When the mission was over they’d be able to climb into it again for the ride to the surface.

  The descent took ten minutes, but with no references it felt much longer. The water was as cloudy at this depth as it was near the surface. Mercer and Scott would have to work virtually blind.

  “Jim, we’re here,” Scott reported after turning on his suit’s powerful halogen lamps. “I can see the vent opening. It’s right in front of us. Only problem is the water temperature is up to ninety degrees.”

  “The suits can take it,” Jim reassured.

  “I know the suits can, but I just don’t want to get cooked alive in this thing.”

  “We’ll serve you like lobster with drawn butter and corn on the cob. We’ll even put your picture on the little plastic bibs.”

  “You’re one sick man.”

  McKenzie knew how to banter to keep his people from thinking too much about their jobs, but not too much to lose their concentration. “We’ve got five hundred fifty feet of cable stripped from the drum and enough floats to keep it neutrally buoyant. Proceed when you’re ready.”

  “Roger,” he replied. Then to Mercer he said, “I’ve got the end of the tow cable. Take your grip about ten feet back. Don’t forget the thumb toggle lets you lock the pincer so you don’t need to maintain pressure.”

  Impossible to move on the boat, the NewtSuit’s joints were amazingly flexible underwater, thanks to their ingenious fluid-filled design. Mercer raised his arm and took hold of the inch-thick cable where Scott had requested then locked the mechanical claw so it wouldn’t slip. “Got it.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Propellers on Scott’s suit burst into life and he lifted himself from the cradle before pitching the swivel nacelles back and moving off into the gloom.

  Mercer applied pressure with the toes of his right foot. Like the rocket packs worn by shuttle astronauts, the NewtSuit gently skidded from the cradle and entered the realm for which it was designed, indifferent to the hundreds of pounds of pressure bearing down on its thick aluminum skin.

  The water cavitated off the multiple propellers on the back of Scott’s ADS as Mercer followed him into the volcanic conduit. The bubbles seemed sluggish as they rose through the soupy water.

  “I’m in,” Scott said when the glow from his lights was swallowed by the cave.

  Mercer followed him, trailing the long tether behind him. Scott’s suit was taking the strain of dragging the cable through the water. Mercer was there only if he needed a bit of extra leverage.

  “The temp’s up to one ten.”

  Mercer couldn’t feel the heat. His suit had an integrated meshwork of water pipes that circulated either cold or warm water depending on the conditions. C.W. had said it could keep a diver comfortable in temperatures up to two hundred degrees. In fact, the climate-control system could take more than that; it was the plastic faceplate that began to melt above two hundred.

  “How you doing, Mercer?”

  “No problems.” With gyroscopes keeping the ADS upright, and Scott steering their little train, all Mercer had to do was keep even pressure on the foot switch. This dive was far easier than his foray into the flooded DS-Two mine with Booker Sykes.

  “We’re in two hundred feet.”

  McKenzie’s reply was garbled.

  “Say again, Jim.”

  Static filled Mercer’s helmet.

  Scott wasn’t concerned. “Interference from the rock. We planned on this.”

  At three hundred feet from the vent opening the temperature had climbed to one hundred thirty degrees and the cave had constricted. Scott walked Mercer through the procedure for adjusting his trim so the NewtSuit floated at an angle to reduce its height. Before Mercer got it right he flew into the floor of the cave, grinding the warhead against the rock.

  “Takes a licking and keeps on ticking,” he said.

  “That thing better not be ticking.”

  Their pace into the volcano had slowed because of the weight and drag of the towline. Motors on Scott’s suit were overheating, but rather than wait to let them cool, they switched positions on the cable so Mercer had the lead and his suit did the lion’s share of the work. His steering lacked Scott’s finesse, but he managed to keep the suit from scraping the side
of the tunnel again.

  They rounded the first gentle bend in the otherwise straight shaft and found Conseil resting forlornly in the dark. With its camera eyes opaque in the wavering light of their lamps, the ROV looked dead.

  “And that’s why we brought the tow cable.” There was about three feet of clearance from the top of the robot to the cave roof, almost but not quite enough to climb over in the bulky suits. “It has to get dragged back until the cave is wide enough for us to get past.”

  “We’ve been down twenty minutes,” Mercer said. “Wouldn’t it be quicker if we smashed off the top struts and removed some of the gear to climb over right here.”

  Glass didn’t answer.

  “Scott, I said wouldn’t it be—” Mercer stopped talking when he heard the dive leader make a wet choking sound. “Scott? Scott?”

  It took a minute to swivel the suit in the tunnel so he could face his partner. Mercer beamed his lights into Scott’s helmet but could not see the man’s face. The suit had filled with some dense white gas.

  “What the—?”

  Suddenly Scott pressed his face to the thick plastic. His eyes were smeared with bloody tears and his tongue was swollen to twice its size. “Something shorted,” he croaked. “I can feel wires burning.”

  Scott Glass’s greatest fear was being realized as he was parboiled in the suit. His skin turned red and began to blister as the fire grew at his feet. His suit jerked spastically with his frantic attempts to stamp out the flames. Mercer had to turn the volume on his underwater phone down to its minimum setting. He couldn’t bear to listen to the agonizing screams, though he did not pull away from Scott’s suit until the last gasping cry.

  Mercer’s anger built until he almost couldn’t see. Something in Scott’s suit hadn’t shorted. It had been tampered with. The saboteur had struck again and this time he had a good idea who that person was.

  Later, he seethed and turned from Scott’s inert form.

  Conseil was basically a strut framework around an inner body housing its cameras, sensors and propulsion nacelles. Mercer gripped the top of one cross support and tore it bodily from the ROV. He slashed and tore at the robot, scissoring wires with the pincers and using the suit’s tremendous weight as leverage to rip it apart.