Mercer immediately called his old boss, Ira Lasko. Lasko had been deputy national security adviser to the former president of the United States, and Mercer had reported to him in his role as special science adviser. Since the last election, both men had been out of government work, but Mercer hoped Ira still had connections.
He had gotten only a minute into his story when Lasko, a retired admiral, said, “Stop right there. I don’t doubt what you’re telling me is true, but I have zero pull with the current administration. That’s what happens around here when the party in power switches. Not only was everything done by the predecessor in the Oval Office wrong, but his staffers were all idiots who can’t be trusted. Far from being the loyal opposition, everyone who served in the past becomes persona non grata.”
“Ira, this transcends politics.”
“Nothing transcends politics to the current occupant of the White House. The national security adviser is a former policy director for a leftist think tank who once opined that Neville Chamberlain didn’t appease Hitler enough. I can’t go to her with this. I can’t go to anyone.”
“All right, then keep it with your former family.”
“Huh?”
“The navy, Ira. You were an admiral. You still have pull there, don’t you?”
“Yeah but—”
“No buts on this,” Mercer said. “They just flew off with the crystals, and they’re on alert because they know we’re looking for them. If my friend is right, they could be used to cause a cascade effect within the earth’s magnetic field lines. At best it could cause a reversal of the poles, which is a phenomenon that occurs naturally every few million years, but it’s something mankind — a species now dependent on satellites and power grids and all kinds of other vulnerable technology — has never experienced.”
“And at worst?”
“Jason isn’t sure…nothing like this has ever happened. The fields could collapse entirely, leaving the planet exposed to massive amounts of solar and cosmic radiation. In a short time, Earth would become a lifeless cinder.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “You’re sure about this?”
“I am staking my reputation and our friendship on the fact that this is deadly serious, Ira. It’s why I called you. I need someone who can help me stop this, but there’s no time to bullshit with bureaucratic channels. If Jason’s right, they’re about to pump power through these crystals and attempt to geoengineer the planet’s magnetic fields. A slight miscalculation and we’re all dead. This needs to stop before it gets started.”
“What do you need?” Ira asked. “Your friend said they are likely working off of a ship.”
“Yes, a special kind of ship, one that only the Russians ever built. It has massive antennas for tracking objects in space. Jason thinks they can be used to beam radiation upward.”
“Where is this ship now?”
“Booker and I put a tracking chip onto the PBY Catalina they’re using to transfer the stones. We think it will link up with the ship in the next few hours. I’ll give you the coordinating information off the tracker so you can get me the GPS location. Jason tells me that it’ll be someplace close to the equator so both north and south polarity will be affected. These guys are ecoterrorists…what I’d like is a Tomahawk cruise missile to take out the ship, but it’s nuclear powered and I know that’s never going to happen.”
“Nuclear meltdown at sea because of a navy attack…No. That definitely isn’t going to happen. Besides, I couldn’t get you a cruise missile anymore — even if I pulled in every chit I’ve got. I can provide some logistical support on this, pass it off as a goodwill stunt or something, but I can’t get weapons or combat troops.”
“I’ll take anything you can give me, Ira. Jason is finding out everything he can about this ship, the Akademik Nikolay Zhukovsky. Once we’re familiar with her layout, Book and I will come up with a plan and get back to you.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready.”
Twenty hours later, true to his word, Ira Lasko had pulled in favor after favor, and Mercer and Book found themselves in the rear cargo compartment of a Marine Corps V-22 Osprey aboard the amphibious assault ship USS America, the latest in the navy’s fleet. The Osprey was a tilt-rotor hybrid of a plane and a helicopter. It could land and take off vertically, but the rotors then translated into a horizontal position to become giant propellers that gave it a top speed of 350 miles per hour at fifteen thousand feet.
Apart from the loadmaster, a young kid wearing an oversize helmet that made him look like a boy playing soldier, they were alone in a space designed for two dozen combat troops. The engine noise was nothing compared to the jaw-shaking thunder of the rotors when they got up to speed. They beat the air over the cabin into a screaming fury. The pilot waited for one last authorization from crewmen on the ship’s deck, and he applied even more power to lift the plane into the evening sky.
Out the tiny window next to his seat, Mercer could see the lights of the amphib’s control island, and a pair of sleek F-35 Lightning II strike fighters. Like the Osprey, those supersonic planes could also land and take off like helicopters. And then those sights all dropped away in a gut-wrenching climb that was the ultimate rebuke to gravity’s reign. The V-22 clawed for altitude, bucking like mad as it rose within an envelope of its own turbulence, but then the rotors started to tilt. They lost a little altitude but gained speed and lift across the wings. In seconds they were flying normally, the turbines cut back since they weren’t working nearly as hard.
“First time in one of these?” Book shouted to be heard.
Mercer grinned like a kid. It was all the answer he needed to give.
From Fiji, where they’d left Rory with the promise to cooperate with the insurance inquest, they’d continued on in the hired Gulfstream to Tarawa. There they were met by a Sea King helicopter sent for them from the America. The assault ship had just completed a friendly port call and was on her way to Indonesia, where her complement of over a thousand Marines was to hold joint exercises with several regional powers.
Mercer had followed Book’s lead on each flight and gotten as much sleep as he could, but he still felt like he’d accrued a sleep debt he’d never be able to repay. Now that they were on the last leg of their odyssey, Mercer was keyed up and ready.
They’d been able to borrow some equipment from the ship’s stores — wet suits and dive gear. They weren’t, however, allowed to take any weapons from the armory. That was a favor Ira couldn’t have called in. It wasn’t a problem for Booker since he still had the Kriss and four magazines. Mercer had lost his pistol. The America’s captain, William R. Tuttle, had met them in his cabin shortly after they’d arrived. He explained that he’d never served under Ira’s command at sea, since Lasko was a submariner, but they knew and respected each other immensely. Tuttle was sticking his neck out for Ira. At the end of their meeting, Tuttle went to his desk and slid out a wooden presentation box with a glass window in it. The case was a beautiful piece of workmanship that seemed too ornate for what it contained, until Tuttle explained the origins of the particular piece within.
“This was my great-uncle’s,” he said, opening the lid and pulling out a dull M1911 Colt .45 that looked like it had been through the wars. And in fact, it had. “He carried it on Guadalcanal, Saipan, and Iwo Jima. He gave it to me when I graduated Annapolis, and I’ve illegally brought it with me on every one of my floats to remind me that I stand upon the shoulders of giants.