Sutera presses his face to the periscope and takes a quick 360-degree scan of the surface. ‘Confirm, skipper, we’re in the eye.’
‘Sonar, Captain, is the fleet in position?’
‘Conn, sonar, still waiting on the Wyoming and Kentucky. ETA four minutes. All other ships have come about and are standing by.’
Wilkins reverses his cap and looks through the periscope.
Sunshine reflects off an ominous olive green sea, its rolling waves peaking at thirty feet.
An oasis of calm within a vortex of hell…
The captain rotates to the west and focuses on the advancing eye wall. It is as if he is looking out from inside the heart of a tornado. A dark purple wall of clouds-swirling, twisting, igniting every few seconds in bursts of lightning-the storm is a living, raging beast.
‘Conn, sonar, all ships now in position.’
Wilkins pulls himself away from the periscope and readjusts his cap. ‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, put us on the ceiling. Increase speed to sixteen knots.’
‘Aye, sir, surfacing ship. Increasing my speed to sixteen knots.’
‘Conn, sonar, give me two pings down the fleet’s bearings.’
‘Aye, sir, two pings.’
Two thunderous gongs echo across the sea, alerting the other Trident subs, which have fanned out along the eastern eye wall.
‘Weather Net Officer, this is the captain. Begin ejecting MPK gas.’
‘Aye, sir. Ejecting MPK gas.’
Located amidships, standing in pairs like steel redwood trees, are the sub’s twenty-four vertical missile silos, each rising more than three stories. Originally designed to launch sixty-five-ton Trident D-5 II nuclear ballistic missiles, the tubes have been refitted to hold compatibly sized canisters of pressurized cryogenic nitrogen gas mix.
Weather Net Officer Matt Winegar activates the digital clock on his control board, then presses EJECT -1 and EJECT -2.
Exterior hatches pop open along the top of the submarine. Seconds later, a clear stream of gas is forcibly expelled through venturi tubes. As the MPK gas mixes with the low-pressure, high-humidity atmosphere, it expands and crystallizes, forming a thick fog, which is quickly suctioned toward the approaching wall of the cyclone.
Immense waves lift and drop the sub, sending several off-duty sailors scampering to the head.
WNO Winegar tries his best to ignore the building queasiness in his gut as he watches his clock. Each MPK tank release must be timed to feed the storm, too much gas at once, and the storm will choke.
At four minutes a green light flashes, alerting Winegar to release the next two batches of compound.
The storm continues east as it feeds, its western eye sucking the chemical up into its vortex, dispersing it within its cumulus fury.
High overhead, flying back and forth through the supercane’s clouds like steel falcons are ESMA’s Unmanned Cyclone Aerial Labs. These four-foot-long winged darts, known affectionately as UNCLE, traverse the walls of the eye, gathering precious data.
The officers and crew of the Pennsylvania hold on and watch as UNCLE’s data appears on screen.
SUPER -CANE KENNETH: SUSTAINED WINDS: 193 MPH
The hurricane’s winds continue dropping. 182mph… 181mph… 179mph
…
‘Conn, Weather Net Officer. All silos flushed, skipper.’
‘Officer of the Deck, take us down. Make your depth one hundred feet.’
‘Aye, sir, taking us down. Making my depth one hundred feet.’
Captain Wilkins stares at UNCLE’s numbers, silently rooting for them to descend faster. From experience he knows the MPK gas must decrease sustained winds below 140 mph for the storm’s feedback cycle to be significantly disrupted.
168mph… 167mph… 166mph… 167mph…
The crew groans.
Wilkins grits his teeth. Wasn’t enough… not nearly enough. He lets out a frustrated breath. ‘Conn, radio. Contact ESMA headquarters. Alert them the weather net has failed to cap the storm.’
South Beach, Florida
Friday Afternoon
The surf laps gently along a deserted stretch of beach. The sun beats down upon a coconut tree, a gust of tropical air causing one of its fruit to fall. Sandpipers dip, then soar away, racing inland.
Immanuel Gabriel opens his eyes.
He is strapped within the bucket seat of the Amphibian, which has beached itself on shore. Releasing the shoulder harness, he turns around to face Lauren, who is strapped in the seat behind him. ‘Lauren? Lauren, wake up.’
She opens her eyes, spitting a strand of hair from her mouth. ‘Oww, my head… what happened?’
‘We got zapped by a taser. I managed to activate the autopilot before it hit us. Looks like we made it to Miami.’
He climbs slowly out of the cockpit, then helps her from her seat.
She hugs him, laying her head wearily against his chest. ‘Why were you at NASA?’
‘God, don’t ask. It was sort of, I don’t know… call it a family obligation. I’ll tell you about it later. What were you doing there?’
She pulls herself from his embrace. ‘I’m in real trouble. Someone killed Professor Gabeheart, and now they’re after me!’
‘Whoa, slow down. Who’s after you?’
‘Government thugs. Something’s happening in Yellowstone. We have to go public-’
ATTENTION.
They look up, startled.
It is a PAWS (Public Aerial Warning System), a flying vehicle operated by the Earth Systems Management Agency to assist in evacuating populated areas prior to storms.
THIS AREA HAS BEEN CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE ESMA. EVACUATE THE AREA AND REPORT TO A STORM SHELTER IMMEDIATELY OR FACE PROSECUTION.
‘Super-Cane Kenneth-I completely forgot.’
‘Come on.’ Sam climbs back in the Amphibian and tries the power switch.
Nothing.
‘ Fubitchshitting piece of junk.’
DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE?
‘No, no, we’re waiting to re-charge.’ Lauren activates the battery re-charger, then drags him out of the boat. The two hurry off the beach.
PAWS keeps pace, hovering twenty feet above.
She whispers frantically in his ear. ‘They’re watching both of our apartments.’
‘Who’s watching?’
‘Them! The guys who killed Gabeheart.’ She digs her nails into his arm. ‘One of them came for me in the lab. I hid under the computer decking. I heard him say they were watching my dorm. If they find me, I’m dead.’
They exit the beach, crossing Collins Avenue. South Beach is deserted. There is no traffic, not a single car or street vendor present.
‘Kind of spooky.’
‘Sam!’
‘Okay, okay-’ He looks around, then pulls her beneath a floating walkway. ‘All right, start from the beginning.’
Lauren tells him everything, showing him her scarred hand.
When she is through, he leans back against a lamp post, rubbing his brow. ‘Jesus, Lauren, how’d you get yourself into this mess?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And you really think these people have connections within our government?’
‘Yes! Weren’t you paying attention?’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Sam, that PAWS drone will alert the cops. We have to get out of here.’
He recalls Jacob’s last words. ‘I think I know somewhere we can go.’
Hangar 13
Friday Evening
The parking lot of Hangar 13 is filled beyond capacity.
HOPE employees are arriving by car and bus, board members by private helojet. An invading army of technicians and scientists, engineers and associates-all waiting their turn to view the alien starship berthed in the main hangar bay.
Inside the complex, away from the action, four people emerge from their hiding place beneath the Japanese A-frame.
The two bodyguards, Salt and Pepper, stand vigil at the front porch. Each is wearing an aluminum foil EMP suit, designed to shield their nervous systems from the effects of taser fire. Dominique is inside Jacob’s home, anxiously waiting for her son to finish working at his computer.
Mitchell Kurtz scans the atrium using his smart-glasses. ‘Here we go. Northern entrance. I see four guards, all carrying stun guns.’