Deep Fire Rising - v4 (57 page)

Luc held up his hands. “No. We must save her. Help me to get her out of here.”

Mercer hooked the corner of the basket under the edge of the shipping container and threw three coils of the wire line around Luc’s chest. Luc didn’t understand; perhaps he even thought Mercer was going to save him too. Mercer didn’t take his eyes off the madman as he spiraled his hand over his head, a universal sign to take up slack on a cable.

The pilot heaved back on his controls, tightening the wire around Luc’s chest until he could not scream. Mercer’s face was an inhuman mask as he repeated the gesture.

The chopper heaved again. The coils sliced into Luc Nguyen’s chest, and as they cut through to his spine and snapped his backbone the recoil sent his legs skittering across the deck like a crab. He flopped sideways, trying to reach out for the severed limbs as they came to rest a few feet away.

His eyes swiveled to Mercer. “At least you won’t have her.” And he was dead.

Those words drained everything from Mercer. He could barely see through the tears as he freed the safety basket from under the container. “Hold on,” he cried. “Hold on.”

Tisa was alive, but barely. She’d taken three rounds, two in the abdomen and one in the chest that leaked frothy blood. A lung shot. “Mercer?” Her voice came as a soft whisper.

“I’m here, darling. Hold on.”

She was so deeply in shock she hardly reacted as he rolled her into the litter. Mercer placed himself over her, keeping his weight off her body, and felt the stretcher lift from the
Petromax Angel
.

The wave bore down on the ship in an unchecked rampage, a wall of water stretching across the breadth of the sea. True to his word Seamus Rourke had gotten the ship turned so she faced the wave that towered over the ship. She started to scale the front of the tsunami as the Seahawk began to winch Mercer and Tisa from the deck. The litter remained rooted as angry black water foamed around the ship’s bows and covered the deck.

Mercer and Tisa were soaked and the litter began to skid toward the stern. An instant before it slammed into the NewtSuit garage, it flew up and off the deck, lifting clear of the watery frenzy.

The
Angel
rose ever higher, her inclinometer pegged at ninety degrees as the wave’s momentum kept her pinned to the wall of water. And then her bow reached the crest, cleaving a fat wedge from the wave’s apex, and she vanished into the trough, dropping as fast as a runaway roller coaster. She should have been driven straight under the surface when she reached the bottom. Or at least snapped in two. But the
Angel
buried her prow deep, then fought her way back. Her deck had been scoured clean. The garage, the control van, and the cranes had all been torn away. Not a single piece of glass, from her windscreen to her smallest porthole, was left intact. But she fought it off, pouring water off her deck as though she were a surfacing submarine. The next wave was half the size of the first and she met it almost contemptuously. The ship was safe.

Tisa kept her eyes open as they were winched into the helicopter, a smile on her lips as she stared up at Mercer. “Hold on,” he kept repeating, although his words were lost in the noise of the rotors and the wind that buffeted the stretcher.

When they reached the chopper, strong hands hauled the basket into the cargo hold and the side door was slammed closed. The PJ helped Mercer out and then cut away Tisa’s shirt and assessed her wounds.

“How is she?” Mercer shouted.

The PJ continued to work as if he hadn’t heard.

“I said how is she?”

A minute passed before the man slumped away from her. His arms were bloody to the elbows. “There’s nothing I can do.”

Mercer shoved him aside and knelt next to Tisa. He took her hand. It was cold, much colder than anything he’d ever felt.

“Mercer?” He put his ear close to her mouth. “Mercer, what time is it?”

That’s when he finally understood. Her request was a plea, an attempt to find her place in a future she’d always known. She’d lived at a lonely crossroads between the past and inevitability. She’d been denied the promise of the unknown, the sense of wonder each new day could bring because she knew somewhere how it would end.

He’d worn the TAG Heuer for almost two decades. It was almost a part of him. He unsnapped it and fit its steel band over her wrist. “You tell me,” he sobbed gently.

She touched the watch and smiled up at him again. “It’s my time.”

“I know.”

“I wish…”

“So do I.”

“Say it once,” said Tisa. “We will never be able to experience it, but please at least let me hear it.”

Mercer couldn’t see her through his tears. “I love you, Tisa.”

She never heard. She was already gone.

Of course
Deep Fire Rising
is a work of fiction. However, I have based its premise on scientific fact. Quantum teleportation has been carried out in a dozen experiments around the globe involving clouds of atoms that are “zapped,” for lack of a better word, across a room in an instant. The ability to transport a submarine into a mountain is beyond our capabilities. For now. But as Dr. Marie points out, tomorrow’s breakthroughs are made by people inspired by some of today’s scientific speculation. Methane hydrate, methane gas trapped in ice crystals, is very real and will likely become the next great source of fossil fuel energy once the technology to develop it becomes available. The story of Admiral He and the Chinese treasure fleets is a true one. I recommend Louise Levathes’s book
When China Ruled the Seas
to anyone wanting to know more about this little-known time in China’s history.

As for the Canary Island La Palma — well, this is where I started working my imagination. If the island stays true to its history of eruptions, the Cumbre Vieja volcano will become active again in the next two hundred years or so. The eruption will further fracture the island’s western flank and it is probable that the trillion-ton slab of rock will crash into the Atlantic. The devastation to the United States, Europe and Africa described by Mercer will occur. The truly fictional element of
Deep Fire Rising
is that there is something that can be done to stop it. There isn’t.

As always, I have to thank my wife, Debbie. The past year has been the most tumultuous in my life and I wouldn’t have gotten through it without her. I also must thank my editor at NAL, Doug Grad, for his understanding and infinite patience. In the post-September 11 world, I’ve found sources more reluctant to discuss technical matters, even though my books are fiction. Those that do lend their expertise tend to wish to remain anonymous. I suspect other authors have seen this as well. Rest assured there are dozens of people who helped me in writing this novel and it certainly wouldn’t have been possible without them.

I am very excited about
Deep Fire Rising
. This book went in a slightly different direction from my previous efforts and I’d like to know how you, the reader, felt about it. When you finish, please drop me a line at www.jackdubrul.com and let me know. I won’t be able to respond to everyone, but I’ll answer as many as I can. Now sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story.

Deep Fire Rising
River of Ruin
Pandora’s Curse
The Medusa Stone
Charon’s Landing
Vulcan’s Forge