Mercer kept racing for Alofi Island, but he also kept looking back to see the Catalina circling again, like a buzzard waiting for its intended meal to die. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Book was supposed to get clear with Rory Reyes, not end up taking the brunt of the attack.
Sixty seconds after the first explosion, a second massive detonation ripped across the ocean’s surface. The Suva Surprise’s diesel tanks lit off in a towering plume of orange, red, and black. Moments later, the sea was peppered with flying debris — shards of fiberglass and wood and steel that had once been the beautiful sportsfisherman. Anyone left aboard would have been carbonized by such a massive fireball.
Not satisfied with its first victims, the antique seaplane maneuvered around, low to the water, and turned toward Mercer. Its engines were pitched so it sounded like a dive-bomber dropping out of the sky. It wasn’t a vulture now, but a screaming bird of prey.
25
It was the end of the first full day of the conference, and Jason Rutland was exhausted — and he still had to get changed for a dinner he would have rather avoided. He got back to his room, threw his briefcase on the bed, and hung his suit coat over the back of the desk chair. It was the same generic mid-price room where he’d stayed dozens of nights in dozens of cities, attending dozens of near-identical symposiums. As a fresh-faced PhD he’d loved these events — the travel, the new places — but after twelve years he found the experience tedious and, worse, pointless.
He thumbed the remote and new age music filled the room while the television screen brightened to display the events currently taking place at the hotel. He had to flick through eight more promotional screens before actually finding a television station. It was the local news, running a story on global warming. He turned the sound down and decided to close his eyes for fifteen minutes.
Rutland lay on the bed, staring at the cream-colored hotel ceiling. He had been thinking constantly about the strange crystal Mercer had brought him and its fascinating electricity-conducting properties. Jason wondered if Mercer had had success in the South Pacific based on the calculations he’d done.
Suddenly an idea jolted him out of bed as if he’d been hit with a defibrillator. Maybe it was the mention of global warming on the local news, or maybe it was just a terrifying connecting of the dots, but Rutland had an ominous thought. He grabbed his tablet and started scrolling through the notes he’d made on the crystal sample.
Rutland worked for an hour, ignoring the buzz of his cell phone from the guys he was supposed to dine with. During the second hour of work, what had begun as a crazy idea was gelling into a likely scenario. Was somebody about to tinker with the earth’s environment? Why anybody would attempt geoengineering at this scale was beyond his ability to comprehend, but it was a gamble of unimaginable consequences. If he was right, and didn’t find a way to stop it, the world would pine for the days when climate change promised just two or three degrees of additional heat.
Rutland reached for his phone and frantically dialed Philip Mercer.
It was Mercer’s old buddy who answered. “H’lo.”
“Harry, is that you?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Jason Rutland. We met at—”
“Pimlico,” Harry supplied. “You’re the young fella dating my future wife, the Weather Lady.”
The man sounded drunk but earnest. “Thanks, Harry. She told me if she ever gets tired of me, you’re the next on her list. Listen, I need to get in touch with Mercer right away. Is he still out of reach?”
Harry was suddenly all business. “Booker has a satellite phone. Give me a minute to get the number.”
When Harry came back on the line he rattled off the string of digits. Jason thanked him, killed the connection, and immediately dialed the new number.
He got a computer-generated request for him to leave a message. “Mr. Sykes, this is Jason Rutland. It’s critical that Mercer calls me. I think I know what they’re going to do with the crystals if they ever get their hands on them. It could be a disaster if they screw up…I mean a real global catastrophe. I’m going to see if I can get some help, but we need to stop them. Please tell Mercer to call me right away.” He gave his cell number and clicked off.
Rutland recalled a line from a science fiction movie, saying that in a battle with a sentient computer system, humanity had been forced to torch the sky.
It sickened him to think that someone was playing with the technology to bring that about.
26
Mercer timed his move to the second. The PBY flying boat was coming in low and slow, bearing down on him like a lumbering beast, so the waist gunner would have the best angle, and the longest window, to fire. He watched over his shoulder as it came closer, steeling himself to the growing roar of its engines, knowing he had one chance to get this right and a million to get it wrong.
The plane began to turn, its engines so close he could see the twin brown ribbons of exhaust spewing into the slipstream. The door gunner was doubtlessly in position, though Mercer couldn’t yet see him. The pilot twisted the aircraft, and suddenly Mercer was exposed to the open door. He could see the man braced there, an assault rifle to his shoulder, his one arm up in a classic firing stance. Even in the uncertain light of the aircraft’s cabin and despite the pitching and rolling, Mercer recognized the shooter instantly — as he knew he would.
Without hesitation, and before the marksman could draw a bead, Mercer hauled over the outboard, and he crossed under the string of bullets that tore over his head and kicked up little fountains from the Pacific’s surface. The inflatable was just too maneuverable. The plane made a wide turn and came back for another pass, and this time Mercer simply cut the throttle and the next fusillade tore at the sea in front of him.
He played mouse to their cat the entire way in to shore, with Mercer winning each round. The only time they came close was during the final run-up to the beach. The plane was coming at him at an angle, and until he made his passage through the breakers, he couldn’t turn or he’d capsize in the surf.
The rifle barked its repetitive mechanical cracks, and the water around him erupted with the impacts. The Zodiac began to hiss as two cells were hit and started to deflate. Mercer’s bare shoulder was singed by a passing bullet, but he made it through without being struck.
The large plane banked off, turning so tightly he could imagine the old aluminum struts and supports groaning at the G-load. They wanted one more pass before he beached the boat and vanished into the jungle. Mercer raced through the pounding waves, even as the plucky little inflatable sagged. He recalled the roles being reversed in Iowa.
The boat burst through one large curling wave, and suddenly he was through the breakers. The Catalina was coming around, slower and lower, and Mercer realized that this strafing run would be parallel to the beach because they were landing just inside the reef line. It was a gutsy move, but one he didn’t waste time appreciating. He gunned the boat, and just when he was sure he could feel the crosshairs on his spine he threw himself over the side and into the water.
Bullets shredded the air overhead, while the wave action and momentum shoved the Zodiac on the shelving beach. Mercer stayed underwater for another few seconds, then rose up when the plane had flown past. Standing knee-deep in the surf, he untied the dive bag from the oarlock and tossed it over his shoulder. A quarter mile up the beach the PBY skimmed the water and then alit with the grace of a swan. Spray erupted around the hull and engines as the propellers’ pitch was changed to augment the deceleration of planing into the sea.