Frozen Fire (53 page)

They had been on Taino for nearly an hour when they rounded a curve and saw piles of books lying open on their spines in a haphazard trail leading in the direction they were going. The pages she could see were stained with something.

She knew there would be only one reason to douse books with anything, and that was if you intended to burn them. Setting them on fire in this methane-enriched environment would turn the island into an inferno.

Hot, sweaty, and already exhausted, Victoria continued up the trail at as fast a pace as she could manage. She was in good shape, but running up a mountain with fifty or sixty extra pounds on her back was a strain, and she couldn’t keep up the pace for too long. She came to a stop, sucking hard against the regulator. Too hard, she knew. Especially considering that she was already into her second tank.

Tough
.

She stood against a tree as she caught her breath and realized that she was hearing things.

Live things.

The silence of the southern end of the island had been replaced by the normal sounds of the jungle. A bird careened past. Victoria looked at the ground. Insects were thriving on the shadowed path.

She signaled to the security agent that they should continue their trek, and after moving forward several more yards, Victoria slowly removed the regulator from her mouth and took a shallow, cautious breath.

With a relieved grin, she dropped the regulator and reached behind her to shut the valve on her tank. Pulling off her mask, she felt like laughing out loud. She was still alive.

That could change any minute
.

The thought sobered her and, dropping to a crouch, she carefully lifted one of the sodden books and gave it a cautious sniff, then looked up at her companion.

“Tommy, what is this? It smells familiar but I can’t place it,” she said and handed it to him.

Tommy Friedman didn’t even need to bring it close to his face. “It’s propane.”

She dropped the book and sprang to her feet. “Good God.”

As if all that methane isn’t enough? What madman is doing this?

“We gotta keep moving. If this stuff goes up, we’re toast,” he said.

The adrenaline burst that followed his words was what Victoria needed and, now able to breathe more easily, they resumed hiking.

The unmistakable stink of rotting meat began to assail them when they were about one hundred yards from the bunker’s entrance, and Victoria’s sense of elation disappeared. Without a word passing between them, each unholstered the sidearm they wore and then eased into the clearing.

The presence of dead bodies up here would not be due to the methane, and she braced herself for more death. For murder.

“Let me go first,” the officer behind her whispered fiercely, and Victoria looked back at him with a tight smile.

“It’s all right. I know how to use this thing,” she replied and kept moving forward, listening carefully for any human sounds as they drew closer to their target. It was probably futile. The cacophony of the jungle would have masked any low conversations as efficiently as it masked the sound of their own movement.

They slowed as they approached the curve in the trail that would lead them into the clearing near the bunker’s entrance. The stench was nearly
unbearable, and holding up her hand, Victoria counted down from three. Then they both rounded the bend, arms extended and hammers cocked.

Ignoring the hissed “no” of her companion, Victoria uncocked her gun and holstered it as she rushed to Dennis’s still form.

She was about to feel for the pulse in his neck when he shifted and let out a soft . . .
snore
.

Rocking back on her heels, Victoria didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or strangle him while she had the opportunity. She settled for grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a hard shake. And then another, until his eyes finally blinked open.

When he focused on her, she saw him start as if he were seeing a ghost. She stood up and took a step away from him.

“What are you doing with all those books?” she demanded, jerking her thumb in the direction of the trail.

Clumsy and still disoriented with sleep, he rose to his feet. “What are you doing here? Vic—how did you get here?”

“We came up from the south end.”

“But that’s—”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Toxic. I know. Who else is here?”

“Just me. Alive, I mean. Micki is in there.” He motioned toward the bunker. “Simon Broadhurst and two other security officers are over there. Micki killed them.”

“And you killed her?” she asked dispassionately.

“Yes.”

Before she could respond, the first of a series of small, distant explosions shattered the eerie tranquillity and Victoria felt the blood drain from her head.

The missiles
.

The microbes were out there.

11:08
A.M
., Monday, October 27, aboard the USS
Eutaw Springs
, off the coast of Taino

“All systems are go, sir.”

Sam’s head snapped up as the words came from the mouth of the sailor at one of the terminals across the room from where Sam and Marty were sitting.

“This is it,” Marty whispered harshly. “I hope to fuck you know what you’re doing.”

We’re only here because of your big mouth
. Sam didn’t spare him a glance but kept his eyes on Commander Duffy as his crew answered the staccato questions he fired at them. The commander had been righteously pissed off when his lieutenant had arrived back on board without Victoria. And with Cyn.

They’d only let him see her for a few minutes and he’d nearly fallen over at the sight because, Jesus, she looked bad, like she had been rode hard and put away wet. Dopey on drugs and hugging him with one arm, half crying and half moaning all sorts of nonsense about boats and foam and seagulls. It had been tough to leave her like that, but he had to get back to the command
and control center. Since then she’d had X-rays taken and had gone into surgery. She wouldn’t be conscious until the excitement was over.

That was probably a good thing or she’d want to be in the middle of it
.

Sam could feel the tension in the room rising until it finally spiked when Commander Duffy gave the order to release the first torpedo.

The sonar images showed the tube racing through the water, then its abrupt disappearance. It was as if everyone in the room held their breath and waited in suspended animation until the first report came back seconds later.

“Strike.”

Other calm voices from around the room called out their results.

Sam was really only concerned with one result, and his eyes were glued to the monitor in front of him. When the numbers on the screen began to change, he felt himself go limp.

“There’s no spike in the methane readings,” he murmured and looked at Marty, who seemed about ready to pass out.

“What does that mean?” the commander barked.

“It means we haven’t opened a new fissure. It’s the best news we could have at the moment, sir.”

Several more minutes passed with hardly a word being said in the room. At one point, Sam felt his hand begin to tingle and looked down to see it curled so tightly that his knuckles were white. Unclenching it, he returned his attention to the screens.

The order was given to fire the second torpedo, and then the third, and Sam didn’t think it was possible that the room could have gotten any quieter than it had the first time, but it did. Even the equipment seemed to stop making noise.

The strength of the second concussion knocked out one of the sensors, and the sudden extreme turbidity in the water confused a few of the others. Overall, it took longer this time for meaningful readings to register and, to Sam, the wait seemed endless. When solid information finally started to become available, it was announced in hushed voices.

“We scored a hat trick, sir.”

“The abyssal floor has been penetrated.”

“Seismic readings indicate there’s slight lateral movement.”

“Dr. Briscoe? Do you have anything?” the commander asked.

“Yes, sir.” Sam took in a hard breath and pointed at the screen. “The
volume of methane in the water column is decreasing,” he said in a voice gone hoarse with emotion. “And the water density is increasing.”

As Sam watched the monitor, the numbers next to the notation for methane were dropping rapidly.

“What does that mean? Did we seal the rupture?” Commander Duffy demanded.

He shook his head. “It’s too early to tell. But something closed part of it, anyway.”

“Then let’s deploy the microbes.”

There wasn’t much excitement in the room when that first microbe-filled torpedo burst, because there was nothing to watch blow up.
No flash and no bang
, as he’d been warned, but Sam thought he would nearly lose his cookies anyway at the thought of it.

“Dr. Briscoe.”

Sam had to give his head a little shake before he could focus on the man in front of him, who was watching him curiously through half-squinted eyes. “Yes, Commander?”

“We’re going to deploy the missiles now. Would you like to watch from the bridge or would you like to remain here?”

The sight of all that water was a sight Sam was willing to forgo, especially in his current condition. “I’ll stay here, sir. Thank you.”

The commander nodded and then the hum in the room resumed immediately. Sam’s attention was torn between watching the slowly changing numbers on his monitor and the real-time images on the monitors across the room. The day was sunny and clear, with a nearly cloudless sky. It was a perfect day in a tropical paradise.

Except for the deadly plume of methane and phyrruluxine that was killing everything in its widening path.

“Systems ready, sir.”

“Dr. Briscoe, do you have anything to say?”

Oh, hell
. Sam looked at the commander, wondering if he meant something like a prayer.
As if I could think of one now
.

“Uh, bombs away. Sir.”

The commander and a few of the officers surrounding him smiled. “That’s what the flyboys say, son. Air force.”

Sam mumbled his apologies as low laughter erupted from a few corners, and the tension in the room dropped for a moment until the countdown to firing the first microbe-laden missile began. The missile was gone in a blink,
the stream of smoke behind it the only evidence it had been fired. Seconds later one of the monitors captured the visual of it shattering in midair.

“Take that, you son of a bitch.” Marty’s muttered words seemed almost a shout in the heady quietude of the room.

The firing sequence was repeated four more times, with the missiles streaking along different trajectories so as to disperse their payloads at different places and levels in the toxic plume.

When the last one had fired and its shrapnel had been lost from view, the commander turned back to look at Sam. “Not bad figuring for a landlubber.”

Sam’s smile was a bit shaky, but broad and genuine. “Thank you, sir.”

“What now? How long before we know anything?”

“At least an hour, sir. Probably a lot longer. Even with the diminished rate of methane coming up through the water column and the dispersal of millions of microbes, it’s going to take a while before the atmospheric readings start showing any changes.”

The commander nodded and then left the room, as if his presence had been just a routine visit. Sam, on the other hand, couldn’t have stood up if he’d wanted to. His kneecaps were shaking like they had a mind of their own, and his heart was fit to give out.

He slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. And hoped like hell that this madness worked.

11:15
A.M
., Monday, October 27, Taino

“What the hell is that?” Dennis demanded, looking, as Victoria was, at the slim lines of white smoke streaking across his sky.

“The Americans devised a plan to close the rupture on the seafloor and launch missiles into the methane plume.”

“How dare they—Who gave them permission—”

“I did,” Victoria said bluntly, so bluntly that he swung his head to look at her, his eyes full of outrage.

“You had no right—”

“Yes I did. Somebody had to fix what you did.”

“What I—”

“Shut up, Dennis,” she snapped and spun away from him. She wasn’t a violent person, but she knew if she remained within reach of him, she’d end up slugging him. And she’d enjoy it.

Victoria stalked a few yards away and then turned back to face him.
“Your precious dennisium made the methane dense. It’s changing into phyrruluxine, Dennis. It’s turned into a murderous cloud of gas that’s killing people and animals everywhere it goes. Those missiles are full of microbes that eat methane.”

“That’s insane. They have no right to do that to the atmosphere,” he shouted.

“Whether that’s insane remains to be seen. And you had no right to do what you did, either.”

“Victoria, how can you say that? You were part of—”

“Yes, I was, Dennis. I fell for your very convincing madness. And I’m going to be paying for it for a long time,” she muttered. “Now stand up. Are those tanks full? You’ll need full ones. We’re going back to the boat. We can continue talking there.”

“What boat? I’m not going anywhere,” he snarled. “And you shouldn’t be here, you disloyal bitch. I know it was Micki who sold me out, but apparently you have, too. You go back to the Americans and tell Winslow Benson he can shove those missiles up his presidential ass. This is
my
island and that’s
my
sky. And
I’m
going to fix what I started.”

“You can’t fix anything, Dennis,” Victoria said tiredly, the strain of the last few days and the exertion of the hike to the bunker suddenly weighing her down. “The atmosphere is irrevocably altered. The microbes are the only thing that can possibly help the situation, and even that’s an incredible long shot.”