Deception Point (48 page)

“Switch it on,” Tolland said.

The pilot looked confused. “Why? You missing someone?”

“No. I want everyone to see something.”

“We won’t see a thing on thermal from this high up unless there’s a burning oil slick.”

“Just switch it on,” Tolland said.

The pilot gave Tolland an odd look and then adjusted some dials, commanding the thermal lens beneath the chopper to survey a three-mile swatch of ocean in front of them. An LCD screen on his dashboard lit up. The image came into focus.

“Holy shit!” The helicopter lurched momentarily as the pilot recoiled in surprise and then recovered, staring at the screen.

Rachel and Corky leaned forward, looking at the image with equal surprise. The black background of the ocean was illuminated by an enormous swirling spiral of pulsating red.

Rachel turned to Tolland with trepidation. “It looks like a cyclone.”

“It is,” Tolland said. “A cyclone of warm currents. About a half mile across.”

The Coast Guard pilot chuckled in amazement. “That’s a big one. We see these now and then, but I hadn’t heard about this one yet.”

“Just surfaced last week,” Tolland said. “Probably won’t last more than another few days.”

“What causes it?” Rachel asked, understandably perplexed by the huge vortex of swirling water in the middle of the ocean.

“Magma dome,” the pilot said.

Rachel turned to Tolland, looking wary. “A volcano?”

“No,” Tolland said. “The East Coast typically doesn’t have active volcanoes, but occasionally we get rogue pockets of magma that well up under the seafloor and cause hot spots. The hot spot causes a reverse temperature gradient—hot water on the bottom and cooler water on top. It results in these giant spiral currents. They’re called megaplumes. They spin for a couple of weeks and then dissipate.”

The pilot looked at the pulsating spiral on his LCD screen. “Looks like this one’s still going strong.” He paused, checking the coordinates of Tolland’s ship, and then looked over his shoulder in surprise. “Mr. Tolland, it looks like you’re parked fairly near the middle of it.”

Tolland nodded. “Currents are a little slower near the eye. Eighteen knots. Like anchoring in a fast-moving river. Our chain’s been getting a real workout this week.”

“Jesus,” the pilot said. “Eighteen-knot current? Don’t fall overboard!” He laughed.

Rachel did not laugh. “Mike, you didn’t mention this megaplume, magma dome, hot-current situation.”

He put a reassuring hand on her knee. “It’s perfectly safe, trust me.”

Rachel frowned. “So this documentary you were making out here was about this magma dome phenomenon?”

“Megaplumes and
Sphyrna mokarran.”

“That’s right. You mentioned that earlier.”

Tolland gave a coy smile.
“Sphyrna mokarran
love warm water, and right now, every last one for a hundred miles is congregating in this mile-wide circle of heated ocean.”

“Neat.” Rachel gave an uneasy nod. “And what, pray tell, are
Sphyrna mokarran?”

“Ugliest fish in the sea.”

“Flounder?”

Tolland laughed. “Great hammerhead shark.”

Rachel stiffened beside him. “You’ve got hammerhead
sharks
around your boat?”

Tolland winked. “Relax, they’re not dangerous.”

“You wouldn’t say that unless they were dangerous.”

Tolland chuckled. “I guess you’re right.” He called playfully up to the pilot. “Hey, how long has it been since you guys saved anyone from an attack by a hammerhead?”

The pilot shrugged. “Gosh. We haven’t saved anyone from a hammerhead in decades.”

Tolland turned to Rachel. “See.
Decades.
No worries.”

“Just last month,” the pilot added, “we had an attack where some idiot skin diver was chumming—”

“Hold on!” Rachel said. “You said you hadn’t saved anyone in
decades!”

“Yeah,” the pilot replied.
“Saved
anyone. Usually, we’re too late. Those bastards kill in a hurry.”

F
rom the air, the flickering outline of the
Goya
loomed on the horizon. At half a mile, Tolland could make out the brilliant deck lights that his crewmember Xavia had wisely left glowing. When he saw the lights, he felt like a weary traveler pulling into his driveway.

“I thought you said only one person was onboard,” Rachel said, looking surprised to see all the lights.

“Don’t you leave a light on when you’re home alone?”

“One light. Not the entire house.”

Tolland smiled. Despite Rachel’s attempts to be lighthearted, he could tell she was extremely apprehensive about being out here. He wanted to put an arm around her and reassure her, but he knew there was nothing he could say. “The lights are on for security. Makes the ship look active.”

Corky chuckled. “Afraid of pirates, Mike?”

“Nope. Biggest danger out here is the idiots who don’t know how to read radar. Best defense against getting rammed is to make sure everyone can see you.”

Corky squinted down at the glowing vessel.
“See
you? It looks like a Carnival Cruise line on New Year’s Eve. Obviously, NBC pays your electric.”

The Coast Guard chopper slowed and banked around the huge illuminated ship, and the pilot began maneuvering toward the helipad on the stern deck. Even from the air, Tolland could make out the raging current pulling at the ship’s hull struts. Anchored from its bow, the
Goya
was aimed into the current, straining at its massive anchor line like a chained beast.

“She really is a beauty,” the pilot said, laughing.

Tolland knew the comment was sarcastic. The
Goya
was ugly. “Butt-ugly” according to one television reviewer. One of only seventeen SWATH ships ever built, the
Goya
’s Small-Waterplane-Area Twin-Hull was anything but attractive.

The vessel was essentially a massive horizontal platform floating thirty feet above the ocean on four huge struts affixed to pontoons. From a distance, the ship looked like a low-slung drilling platform. Up close, it resembled a deck barge on stilts. The crew quarters, research labs, and navigation bridge were housed in a series of tiered structures on top, giving one the rough impression of a giant floating coffee table supporting a hodgepodge of multistaged buildings.

Despite its less than streamlined appearance, the
Goya
’s design enjoyed significantly less water-plane area, resulting in increased stability. The suspended platform enabled better filming, easier lab work, and fewer seasick scientists. Although NBC was pressuring Tolland to let them buy him something
newer, Tolland had refused. Granted, there were better ships out there now, even more stable ones, but the
Goya
had been his home for almost a decade now—the ship on which he had fought his way back after Celia’s death. Some nights he still heard her voice in the wind out on deck. If and when the ghosts ever disappeared, Tolland would consider another ship.

Not yet.

•   •   •

When the chopper finally set down on the
Goya
’s stern deck, Rachel Sexton felt only half-relieved. The good news was that she was no longer flying over the ocean. The bad news was that she was now standing on it. She fought off the shaky sensation in her legs as she climbed onto the deck and looked around. The deck was surprisingly cramped, particularly with the helicopter on its pad. Moving her eyes toward the bow, Rachel gazed at the ungainly, stacked edifice that made up the bulk of the ship.

Tolland stood close beside her. “I know,” he said, talking loudly over the sound of the raging current. “It looks bigger on television.”

Rachel nodded. “And more stable.”

“This is one of the safest ships on the sea. I promise.” Tolland put a hand on her shoulder and guided her across the deck.

The warmth of his hand did more to calm Rachel’s nerves than anything he could have said. Nonetheless, as she looked toward the rear of the ship, she saw the roiling current streaming out behind them as though the ship was at full throttle.
We’re sitting on a megaplume
, she thought.

Centered on the foremost section of rear deck, Rachel spied a familiar, one-man Triton submersible hanging on a giant winch. The Triton—named for the Greek god of the sea—looked nothing like its predecessor, the steel-encased Alvin. The Triton had a hemispherical acrylic dome in front, making it look more like a giant fishbowl than a sub. Rachel could think of few things more terrifying than submerging hundreds of feet into the ocean with nothing between her face and the ocean but a sheet of clear acrylic. Of course, according to Tolland, the only unpleasant part of riding in the Triton was the initial deployment—being slowly winched
down through the trap door in the
Goya
’s deck, hanging like a pendulum thirty feet above the sea.

“Xavia is probably in the hydrolab,” Tolland said, moving across the deck. “This way.”

Rachel and Corky followed Tolland across the stern deck. The Coast Guard pilot remained in his chopper with strict instructions not to use the radio.

“Have a look at this,” Tolland said, pausing at the stern railing of the ship.

Hesitantly, Rachel neared the railing. They were very high up. The water was a good thirty feet below them, and yet Rachel could still feel the heat rising off the water.

“It’s about the temperature of a warm bath,” Tolland said over the sound of the current. He reached toward a switch-box on the railing. “Watch this.” He flipped a switch.

A wide arc of light spread through the water behind the ship, illuminating it from within like a lit swimming pool. Rachel and Corky gasped in unison.

The water around the ship was filled with dozens of ghostly shadows. Hovering only feet below the illuminated surface, armies of sleek, dark forms swam in parallel against the current, their unmistakable hammer-shaped skulls wagging back and forth as if to the beat of some prehistoric rhythm.

“Christ, Mike,” Corky stammered. “So glad you shared this with us.”

Rachel’s body went rigid. She wanted to step back from the railing, but she could not move. She was transfixed by the petrifying vista.

“Incredible, aren’t they?” Tolland said. His hand was on her shoulder again, comforting. “They’ll tread water in the warm spots for weeks. These guys have the best noses in the sea—enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes. They can smell blood up to a mile away.”

Corky looked skeptical. “Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes?”

“Don’t believe me?” Tolland began rooting around in an aluminum cabinet adjacent to where they were standing. After a moment, he pulled out a small, dead fish. “Perfect.” He took a
knife from the cooler and cut the limp fish in several places. It started to drip blood.

“Mike, for God’s sake,” Corky said. “That’s disgusting.”

Tolland tossed the bloody fish overboard and it fell thirty feet. The instant it hit the water, six or seven sharks darted in a tumbling ferocious brawl, their rows of silvery teeth gnashing wildly at the bloody fish. In an instant, the fish was gone.

Aghast, Rachel turned and stared at Tolland, who was already holding another fish. Same kind. Same size.

“This time, no blood,” Tolland said. Without cutting the fish, he threw it in the water. The fish splashed down, but nothing happened. The hammerheads seemed not to notice. The bait carried away on the current, having drawn no interest whatsoever.

“They attack
only
on sense of smell,” Tolland said, leading them away from the railing. “In fact, you could swim out here in total safety—provided you didn’t have any open wounds.”

Corky pointed to the stitches on his cheek.

Tolland frowned. “Right. No swimming for you.”

G
abrielle Ashe’s taxi was not moving.

Sitting at a roadblock near the FDR Memorial, Gabrielle looked out at the emergency vehicles in the distance and felt as if a surrealistic fog bank had settled over the city. Radio reports were coming in now that the exploded car might have contained a high-level government official.

Pulling out her cellphone, she dialed the senator. He was no doubt starting to wonder what was taking Gabrielle so long.

The line was busy.

Gabrielle looked at the taxi’s clicking meter and frowned. Some of the other cars stuck here were pulling up onto the curbs and turning around to find alternative routes.

The driver looked over his shoulder. “You wanna wait? Your dime.”

Gabrielle saw more official vehicles arriving now. “No. Let’s go around.”

The driver grunted in the affirmative and began maneuvering the awkward multipoint turn. As they bounced over the curbs, Gabrielle tried Sexton again.

Still busy.

Several minutes later, having made a wide loop, the taxi was traveling up C Street. Gabrielle saw the Philip A. Hart Office Building looming. She had intended to go straight to the senator’s apartment, but with her office this close . . .

“Pull over,” she blurted to the driver. “Right there. Thanks.” She pointed.

The cab stopped.

Gabrielle paid the amount on the meter and added ten dollars. “Can you wait ten minutes?”

The cabbie looked at the money and then at his watch. “Not a minute longer.”

Gabrielle hurried off.
I’ll be out in five.

The deserted marble corridors of the Senate office building felt almost sepulchral at this hour. Gabrielle’s muscles were tense as she hurried through the gauntlet of austere statues lining the third-floor entryway. Their stony eyes seemed to follow her like silent sentinels.

Arriving at the main door of Senator Sexton’s five-room office suite, Gabrielle used her key card to enter. The secretarial lobby was dimly lit. Crossing through the foyer, she went down a hallway to her office. She entered, flicked on the fluorescent lights, and strode directly to her file cabinets.

She had an entire file on the budgeting of NASA’s Earth Observing System, including plenty of information on PODS. Sexton would certainly want all the data he could possibly get on PODS as soon as she told him about Harper.