Kotak Field was sticky with humid heat. They walked to the small open shack that was marked KASTOM in roughly painted letters. To one side of the building was a wooden fence and a gate marked with a red hand-print and a sign that said, NOGOT ROT.
"Ah, nougat rot," Bradley said. "Must be a local tooth problem."
"Actually," Sanjong said, "the red hand means kapu. Forbidden.' The sign says No Got Right,' which is Pidgin for You don't have permission to pass.'"
"Huh. I see."
Evans found the heat almost unbearable. He was tired after the long plane ride, and anxious about what lay ahead of them. Alongside him, Jennifer walked casually, seemingly fresh and energetic. "You're not tired?" Evans said to her.
"I slept on the plane."
He looked back at Sarah. She, too, seemed to have plenty of energy, striding forward.
"Well, I'm pretty tired."
"You can sleep in the car," Jennifer said. She didn't seem very interested in his condition. He found it a little irritating.
And it was certainly debilitatingly hot and humid. By the time they reached the customs house, Evans's shirt was soaked. His hair was wet. Sweat was dripping off his nose and chin onto the papers he was supposed to fill out. The pen from the ink ran in the puddles of his sweat. He glanced up at the customs officer, a dark, muscular man with curly hair and wearing pressed white trousers and a white shirt. His skin was dry; he looked almost cool. He met Evans's eyes, and smiled. "Oh, waitman, dis no taim bilong san. You tumas hotpela."
Evans nodded. "Yes, true," he said. He had no idea what the man had said.
Sanjong translated. "It's not even the hot time of summer. But you're too much hot. You tumas hot. Ya?"
"He got that right. Where'd you learn Pidgin?"
"New Guinea. I worked there a year."
"Doing what?"
But Sanjong was hurrying on with Kenner, who was waving to a young man who had driven up in a Land Rover. The man jumped out. He was dark, wearing tan shorts and a T-shirt. His shoulders were covered in tattoos. His grin was infectious. "Hey, Jon Kanner! Hamamas klok!" He pounded his chest with his fist and hugged Kenner.
"He has a happy heart," Sanjong said. "They know each other."
The newcomer was introduced all around as Henry, with no other name. "Hanri!" he said, grinning broadly, pumping their hands. Then he turned to Kenner.
"I understand there is trouble with the helicopter," Kenner said.
"What? No trabel. Me got klostu long." He laughed. "It's just over there, my friend," he said, in perfectly accented British English.
"Good," Kenner said, "we were worried."
"Yas, but serious Jon. We better hariyap. Mi yet harim planti yangpelas, krosim, pasim birua, got plenti masket, noken stap gut, ya?"
Evans had the impression Henry was speaking Pidgin so the rest of them would not understand.
Kenner nodded. "I heard that, too," he said. "Lots of rebels here. They're mostly young boys? And angry? And well armed. Figures."
"I worry for the helicopter, my friend."
"Why? Do you know something about the pilot?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why? Who is the pilot?"
Henry giggled, and slapped Kenner on the back. "I am!"
"Well, then, we should go."
They all started down the road, away from the airfield. The jungle rose up on both sides of the road. The air buzzed with the sound of cicadas. Evans looked back with longing at the beautiful white Gulf-stream jet, poised on the runway against a blue sky. The pilots in their white shirts and black trousers were checking the wheels. He wondered if he would ever see the airplane again.
Kenner was saying, "And we heard, Henry, some people were killed?"
Henry made a face. "No just killed, Jon. Olpela. Ya?"
"So we heard."
"Ya. Distru."
So it was true. "The rebels did it?"
Henry nodded. "Oh! this new chif, him name Sambuca, like a drink. Don't ask why this name. Him crazy man, Jon. Longlong man tru. Everything back to olpela for dis guy. Old ways are better. Allatime allatime."
"Well, the old ways are better," Ted Bradley said, trudging along behind, "if you ask me."
Henry turned. "You got cell phones, you got computers, you got antibiotics, medicines, hospitals. And you say the old ways are better?"
"Yes, because they are," Bradley said. "They were more human, they allowed more of the human texture to life. Believe me, if you ever had a chance to experience these so-called modern miracles yourself, you would know that they're not so great"
"I got a degree at the University of Melbourne," Henry said. "So I have some familiarity."
"Oh, well, then," Bradley said. And under his breath, he muttered, "Might have told me. Asshole."
"By the way," Henry said, "take my advice, don't do that here. Don't talk under your breath."
"Why not?"
"In this country, some pelas think it means you've been possessed by a demon and they'll get scared. And they might kill you."
"I see. Charming."
"So, in this country, if you have something to say, you speak up!"
"I'll remember that."
Sarah walked alongside Bradley, but she was not listening to the conversation. Henry was a character, caught between worlds, sometimes speaking in an Oxbridge accent, sometimes dropping into Pidgin. It didn't bother her.
She was looking at the jungle. The air on the road was hot and still, trapped between the huge trees that rose up on both sides of the path. The trees were forty, fifty feet high, covered in twisted vines. And at ground level, in the darkness beneath the canopy above, huge ferns grew so thickly they presented an impenetrable barrier, a solid green wall.
She thought: You could walk five feet into that and get lost forever. You'd never find your way out again.
Along the road were the rusted hulks of long-abandoned cars, windshields smashed, chassis crumpled and corroded brown and yellow. As she walked past she saw ripped upholstery, old dashboards with clocks and speedometers ripped out, leaving gaping holes.
They turned right onto a side path and she saw the helicopter ahead. She gasped. It was beautiful, painted green with a crisp white stripe, the metal blades and struts gleaming. Everybody commented on it.
"Yes, the outside is good," Henry said. "But I think the inside, the engine, maybe is not so good." He wiggled his hand. "So so."
"Great," Bradley said. "Speaking for myself, I'd prefer it the other way around."
They opened the doors to get in. In the back were stacks of wooden crates, with sawdust. They smelled of grease. "I got the supplies you wanted," he said to Kenner.
"And enough ammunition?"
"Oh ya. All things you asked for."
"Then we can go," Kenner said.
In the back, Sarah buckled her belt. She put on headphones. The engines whined, and the blades spun faster. The helicopter shuddered as it started to lift off. "We have too many people," Henry said, "so we will have to hope for the best! Cross your fingers!"
And giggling maniacally, he lifted off into the blue sky.
The jungle slid beneath them, mile after mile of dense canopy forest. In places, wisps of mist clung to the trees, particularly at the higher altitudes. Sarah was surprised at how mountainous the island was, how rugged the terrain. She saw no roads at all. From time to time, they passed over a small village in a jungle clearing. Otherwise, nothing but miles of trees. Henry was flying due north, intending to drop them off along the coast a few miles west of Resolution Bay.
"Charming villages," Ted Bradley said, as they flew over another one. "What do the people grow here?"
"Nothing. Land's no good here. They work the copper mines," Henry said.
"Oh, that's too bad."
"Not if you live here. Biggest money they ever saw. People kill to work in the mines. What I mean to say is, they kill. Some murders occur every year."
Bradley was shaking his head. "Terrible. Just terrible. But look down there," he said, pointing. "There's a village has actual thatched huts. Is that the old style, the old way of doing things, still kept alive?"
"No man," Henry said. "That's a rebel village. That's new style. Big thatch haus, very impressive, big house for chif." He explained that Sambuca had instructed the people in every village to build these huge, three-story structures of thatch, complete with ladders going up to high walk-ways at the third level. The idea was to give rebels a view over the jungle, so they could see the arrival of Australian troops.
But in the old days, Henry said, the people never had such buildings in Gareda. The architecture was low and open, erected mostly to protect against rain and let smoke out. There was no need for high buildings, which were impractical since they would blow down in the next cyclone anyway. "But Sambuca, he wants them now, so he makes the yangpelas, the young fellows, build them. There may be six or eight on this island now, in rebel territory."
"So we're going over rebel territory now?" Bradley said.
"So far, so good," Henry said. And he giggled again. "Not so long now, we'll see the coast in four, five minutes andOh damn shit!"
"What?" They were skimming the forest canopy.
"I made a big mistake."
"What mistake?" Bradley said.
"Tumas longwe es."
"You're too far east?" Kenner said.
"Damn shit. Damn damn shit. Hang on!" Henry banked the helicopter steeply, but not before they all glimpsed a huge clearing, with four of the enormous thatch structures interspersed with the more common houses of wood and corrugated tin. There were a half-dozen trucks clustered in the muddy center of the clearing. Some of the trucks had machine guns mounted on their backs.
"What is this?" Bradley said, looking down. "This is much bigger than the others"
"This Pavutu! Rebel headquarters!"
And then the clearing was gone, the helicopter moving swiftly away. Henry was breathing hard. They could hear his breath over the earphones.
Kenner said nothing. He was staring intently at Henry.
"Well, I think we're all right," Bradley said. "It looks like they didn't see us."
"Oh yeah," Henry said. "Nice wish."
"Why?" Bradley said. "Even if they did see uswhat can they do?"
"They have radios," Henry said. "They're not stupid, these yangpelas."
"What do you mean?"
"They want this helicopter."
"Why? Can they fly it?"
"Orait orait! Yes! Because they want me, too." Henry explained that for months now, no helicopters had been allowed on the island. This one had been brought over only because Kenner had pulled some very important strings. But it was specifically not to fall into rebel hands.
"Well, they probably think we're going south," Bradley said. "I mean, we are, aren't we?"
"These boys know better," Henry said. "They know."
"They know what?" Bradley said.
Kenner said, "The ELF would have had to buy off the rebels in order to land on the island. So the rebels know there's something going on at Resolution Bay. When they saw this helicopter, they knew where it was going."
"These boys aren't stupid," Henry said again.
"I never said they were," Bradley protested.
"Ya. But you think it. I know you, waitman. This in the back of your tongue. You think it."
"I promise you, I did not," Bradley said. "Really. I have no such feelings at all. You simply didn't understand me."
"Ya," Henry said.
Sarah was sitting in the middle of the second seat, wedged between Ted and Jennifer. Peter and Sanjong were behind in the little backseat, with all the boxes. She couldn't really see out the windows, so she had trouble following the discussion. She wasn't sure what it was all about.
So she asked Jennifer. "Do you understand what's going on?"
Jennifer nodded. "As soon as the rebels saw the helicopter they knew it was going to Resolution. Now, whatever we do, they'll be expecting it to show up in that area. They have radios, and they're in different groups scattered around. They can keep an eye on us. And they'll be there when we land."
"I am very sorry," Henry said. "So very sorry."
"Never mind," Kenner said. His voice was neutral.
"What do we do now?" Henry said.
Kenner said, "Continue exactly as planned. Go north and put us down on the coast."
There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.
In the backseat, pushed up against Sanjong, smelling the grease that coated the machine guns, Peter Evans wondered where this urgency came from. He looked at his watch. It was nine in the morning, which meant that of their original twenty-four hours, only twenty remained. But this was a small island, and it should allow plenty of time And then he had a thought. "Wait a minute," he said. "What time is it in Los Angeles?"
Sanjong said, "They're on the other side of the dateline. Twenty-seven hours behind."
"No, I mean elapsed time. Actual time difference."
"Six hours."
"And you calculated a transit time of what?"
"Thirteen hours," Sanjong said.
"I think we made a mistake," Evans said, biting his lip. He wasn't sure how much he should say in front of Henry. And indeed, Sanjong was shaking his head, indicating not now.
But they had made a mistake. There was no doubt about it. Assuming that Drake wanted the tidal wave to hit on the last day of the conference, he would surely want it to happen during the morning. That would provide the most visible disaster. And it would allow the whole afternoon for discussion and media interviews afterward. Every television camera in America would be at that conference, talking to the scientists who just happened to be there. It would create a gigantic media event.
So, Evans thought, assume the wave was to hit Los Angeles no later than noon tomorrow.
Subtract thirteen hours for the wave front to cross the Pacific.
That meant the wave had to be propagated at eleven P.M. Los Angeles time. Which meant that the local time in Gareda would be amp;five P.M.
Five P.M. today.
They didn't have a day to stop this thing from happening.
They had just eight hours.
So that was the reason for Kenner's urgency. That was why he was going ahead with his plan, despite the new problem. He had no choice, and he knew it. He had to land on the coast somewhere very near Resolution. There wasn't enough time to do anything else.
Even though it was possible they were heading right into a trap.
Leaving the forest behind, the helicopter burst out over blue water and turned around, going east. Evans saw a narrow sandy beach with patches of ragged lava rock, and mangrove swamps clinging to the water's edge. The helicopter swung low and followed the beach, heading east.
"How far from Resolution are we?" Kenner said.
"Five, six kilometers," Henry said.
"And how far from Pavutu?"
"Maybe ten kilometers, on a mud track."
"Okay," Kenner said. "Let's find a place to put down."
"There's a good place I know maybe one kilometer ahead."
"Fine. Go there."
Evans was thinking. Five kilometers walking on a beach, that was about three miles, should take them an hour and a half at most. They could make it to Resolution Bay well before noon. That would give them "This the spot," Henry said. A finger of rugged lava protruded into the ocean. Centuries of waves had smoothed it enough to make a landing possible.
"Do it," Kenner said.
The helicopter circled, prepared to descend. Evans was looking out over at the dense wall of jungle, where it met the beach. He saw tire tracks in the sand and a sort of gap in the trees that was probably a road. And those tire tracks "Say listen," Evans said. "I think"
Sanjong jabbed him in the ribs. Hard.
Evans grunted.
"What is it, Peter?" Kenner said.
"Uh, nothing."
"We're going down," Henry said. The helicopter descended smoothly, slowly settling onto the lava. Waves lapped at the edge of the rock pad. It was peaceful. Kenner looked out the bubble canopy, scanning the area.
"Okay? This good spot?" Henry said. He seemed nervous now that they were down. "I don't want to stay so long, Jon. Because maybe they come soon amp;"
"Yeah, I understand."
Kenner cracked open the door, then paused.
"So, alla okay. Jon?"
"Just fine, Henry. Very nice spot. Get out and open this back door for us, will you?"
"Yeah, Jon, I think you can get it"
"Get out!" And with astonishing swiftness there was a gun jammed against Henry's head. Henry sputtered and moaned in fear as he fumbled with his door. "But Jon, I need to stay inside, Jon"
"You've been a bad boy, Henry," Kenner said.
"You going to shoot me now, Jon?"
"Not now," Kenner said, and abruptly he shoved him out. Henry tumbled onto the sharp lava, howling in pain. Kenner slid over to the pilot's seat and shut the door. Immediately Henry was up, pounding on the canopy, his eyes wild. He was terrified.
"Jon! Jon! Please, Jon!"
"Sorry, Henry." Kenner pushed the stick, and the helicopter began to rise into the air. They had not climbed twenty feet before a dozen men emerged from the jungle all along the beach and began firing at them with rifles. Kenner swung out over the ocean, going north, away from the island. Looking back, they could see Henry standing forlorn on the lava. Some of the men were running toward him. He threw up his hands.
"Little shit," Bradley said. "He would have gotten us killed."
"He may still," Kenner said.
They flew due north, over open water.
"So what do we do now," Sarah said, "land on the other side of the bay? Walk in from the other side?"
"No," Kenner said. "That's what they'll expect us to do."
"So, then amp;"
"We wait a few minutes and go back to the western side, same as before."
"They won't be expecting that?"
"They may. We'll go to a different spot."
"Farther away from the bay?"
"No. Closer."
"Won't ELF hear us?"
"Doesn't matter. By now, they know we're coming."
In the back, Sanjong was breaking open the wooden cases and reaching for the guns. He stopped abruptly.
"Bad news," he said.
"What?"
"No guns." He pushed a lid higher. "These crates contain ammunition. But no guns."
"That little bastard," Bradley said.
"What do we do now?" Sarah said.
"We go in anyway," Kenner said.
He turned the helicopter and, skimming the water, headed back to Gareda.
The western arc of Resolution Bay consisted of a hilly, jungle-covered spine that jutted out into the water, terminating in a rocky point. The outer side of the spine flattened into a rocky plateau, some fifty feet above the beach, which curved off to the west. The plateau was protected by high overhanging trees.
That was where the helicopter now stood, covered in a camouflage tarp, overlooking the beach below. Evans glanced back at it, hoping that it would blend into the landscape, but instead it was only too obviously visible, especially when seen from above. The group was now already fifty feet above it, as they scrambled and clawed up the jungle slope that rose steeply from the beach. It was surprisingly tough going. They were climbing single file, and had to be careful because the ground underfoot was muddy. Bradley had already slipped, and slid some ten yards down. His whole left side was covered in black mud. And Evans could see that there was a fat leech on the back of his neck, but he decided not to point it out just then.
No one spoke. The team of six climbed in silence, trying to make as little noise as possible. Despite their best efforts, they were fairly noisy, the undergrowth crackling beneath their feet, small branches snapping as they reached to pull themselves up.
Kenner was somewhere farther ahead, leading the way. Evans couldn't see him. Sanjong was bringing up the rear. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder; he had brought it with him and assembled it from a small briefcase in the copter. Kenner carried a pistol. The rest of them were unarmed.
The air was still, wet, and stupefyingly hot. The jungle buzzed, an incessant background drone of insects. Halfway up the slope, it began to rain, lightly at first and then a stupendous tropical downpour. In a moment they were drenched. Water streamed down the hillside. It was slipperier than ever.
Now they were two hundred feet above the beach, and the prospect of losing footing was clearly nervous-making. Peter looked up at Sarah, who was just ahead of him. She moved with her usual agility and grace. She seemed to be dancing up the hillside.
There were times, he thought, huffing his way along, when he really resented her.
And Jennifer, who was ahead of Sarah, was climbing with equal ease. She hardly reached for the tree limbs, though Evans was grabbing for them constantly, feeling panic as his fingers slipped on the fungus-covered bark. Watching Jennifer, he had the sense that she was almost too good at this, too skilled. Going up this treacherous jungle hill, she radiated a kind of indifference, as if it were all to be expected. It was the attitude of an Army Ranger, or the member of some elite force, tough, experienced, conditioned. Unusual, he thought, for a lawyer. More than unusual. But then, she was Kenner's niece.
And farther up was Bradley, with the leech on his neck. He was muttering and cursing and grunting with every step. Finally Jennifer punched him, then held a finger to her lips: be quiet. Bradley nodded, and though he clearly disliked taking advice from her, he was silent from then on.
At around three hundred feet they felt the stirring of a breeze, and soon after, they climbed onto the crest of the ridge. The foliage was so thick they could not see down into Resolution Bay below, but they could hear the shouts of working men and the intermittent rumble of machinery. Briefly, there was a kind of electronic hum, a sound that started softly, then built quickly until in a few moments it seemed literally to fill the air, and to make Evans's eardrums ache.
Then the sound was gone.
Evans looked at Kenner.
Kenner just nodded.
Sanjong climbed a tree, scaling it quickly. From his vantage point, he could look down on the valley. He came back down, and pointed to a hill leading down to the bay. He shook his head: too steep at this point. He indicated they should circle around, and descend on a more gentle slope.
So they started out, following the ridge around the bay. Most of the time they could see nothing but the six-foot-tall ferns dripping with water. After half an hour, there was a sudden break in the foliage, and they had a panoramic view of Resolution Bay spread out below them.
The bay was about a mile wide, and had structures set at intervals on the sand. The largest one was to the far right, at the eastern edge of the bay. Three others of equal size were arranged at intervals, making a sort of triangle in the western section of the bay.
Evans could see there was something funny about the houses, though. Something odd about the wood that was used. He squinted.
Sanjong nudged him. He wiggled his hand in the air.
Evans looked. Yes, it was true. The wooden structures were moving, fluttering in the air.
They were tents.
Tents made to look like wooden structures. And pretty good ones, too. It was no wonder they had fooled the aerial survey, Evans thought.
As they watched, men emerged from one or another of the tents and shouted to others down the beach. They were speaking English, but it was difficult to make out what they were saying at this distance. Most of it seemed to be technical.
Sanjong nudged Evans again. Evans saw him make a kind of pyramid with three fingers. Then he began to wiggle the fingers.
So, apparently they were tuning the generators in the tent. Or something like that.
The others in the group did not seem to be interested in the details. They were breathing hard, catching their breaths in the soft breeze, and staring down at the bay. And probably thinking, as Evans was, that there were a lot of men down there. At least eight or ten. All in jeans and work shirts.
"Christ, there's a lot of those bastards," Bradley muttered.
Jennifer nudged him hard in the ribs.
He mouthed: Oh, sorry.
She shook her head. She mouthed: You'll get us killed.
Bradley made a face. He clearly thought she was being melodramatic.
Then, from the jungle below them, they heard a cough.
They froze.
They waited in silence. They heard the buzz of cicadas, the occasional call of distant birds.
It came again, the same soft cough. As if the person was trying not to make noise.
Sanjong crouched down, listening hard. The cough came a third time, and to Evans there was the strangest sensation of familiarity about it. It reminded him of his grandfather, who had had heart failure when Evans was a kid. His grandfather used to cough like that, in the hospital. Weakly. Little coughs.
Now there was silence. They had not heard the cougher move awayif he had, he was truly noiselessbut the sound stopped.
Kenner looked at his watch. They waited five minutes, then he signaled for them to continue moving east, curving around the bay.
Just as they were leaving, they heard the cough once more. This time, there were three, in succession: uh uh uh. Then nothing.
Kenner signaled. Move out.
They had not gone a hundred yards when they came upon a path. It was a clear trail, even though the overhanging branches hung low. It must be an animal trail, Evans thought, wondering vaguely what kind of animals they might be. There were probably feral pigs here. There were pigs everywhere. He vaguely remembered stories of people being surprised by pigs, gored by the tusks of an aggressive boar that charged out of the underbrush The first thing he heard, however, was a mechanical click. He knew instantly what it was: the sound of a gun being cocked.
The entire group froze, strung out in single file. Nobody moved.
Another click.
And another. Click!
Evans looked around quickly. He saw nobody. It seemed they were alone in the jungle.
Then he heard a voice: "Dai. Nogot sok, waitman. Indai. Stopim!"
Evans had no idea what it meant, but the meaning was clear enough to them all. Nobody moved.
From the bushes ahead, a young boy emerged. He was wearing boots without socks, green shorts, a "Madonna World Tour" T-shirt, and a baseball cap that said "Perth Glory." A half-smoked cigarette stub hung from his lips. He had an ammunition belt over one shoulder and a machine gun slung over the other shoulder. He was five feet tall and could not have been more than ten or eleven. He pointed his gun with casual insolence. "Okay, waitman. You prisner biulong me, savve? Bookim dano!" And he jerked his thumb, indicating they should move forward. "Gohet!"
For a moment, they were all too astonished to move. Then, from the jungle on both sides of the path, other boys emerged.
Bradley said, "What is this, the lost boys?"
Without expression, one of the kids slammed the butt of his rifle into Bradley's stomach. Bradley gasped and went down.
"Stopim waitman bilong toktok."
"Oh, Jesus," Bradley said, rolling on the ground.
The kid hit him again, this time in the head, and kicked him hard. Bradley moaned.
"Antap! Antap!" the kid said, gesturing for him to get up. When Bradley didn't respond, the kid kicked him again. "Antap!"
Sarah went over and helped Bradley to his feet. Bradley was coughing. Sarah was smart enough not to say anything.
"Oh, nais mari," the kid said. Then he pushed her away from Bradley.
"Antap!"
But as they trudged forward, one of the kids went over to Bradley, and squeezed the back of his arm, the triceps. He laughed. "Taiis gut!"
Evans felt a chill, as the words sank in. These boys were speaking a version of English. He could decipher it, if he thought about it a little, and played the words back in his head. Nais mari was "Nice Mary." Maybe Mary was a word for woman. Antap was "And up."
And taiis gut was "Taste good."
They walked single file through the jungle, the kids at their side. Kenner was in the lead, then Ted, who was bleeding from his head, and Sarah, and Jennifer. Then Evans.
Evans glanced over his shoulder.
Sanjong was not behind him.
All he saw was another ragged kid with a rifle. "Antap! Antap!"
The kid made a threatening gesture with his rifle.
Evans turned, and hurried forward.
There was something chilling about being herded by children. Except these weren't children. He was only too aware of the cold look in their eyes. They had seen a lot in their lives. They lived in another world. It was not Evans's world.
But he was now in theirs.
Up ahead, he saw a pair of jeeps at the side of a muddy road.
He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock.
Seven hours to go.
But somehow it didn't seem important anymore.
The kids pushed them into the jeeps, and then they drove off, down a muddy track, into the dark and trackless interior of the jungle.
There were times, Sarah thought, when she really did not want to be a woman. That was how she felt as she was driven into the muddy village of Pavutu, the rebel stronghold, in the back of an open jeep. The village seemed to be populated almost entirely by men, who came yelling into the clearing to see who had arrived. But there were women, too, including older women who stared at her height and her hair, and then came up and poked at her, as if she might not be real.
Jennifer, who was shorter and darker, stood beside her and attracted no attention at all. Nevertheless, they were herded together into one of the huge thatch houses. Inside the house was a large open space, a kind of central room, three stories high. There was a ladder made of wood leading up to a series of landings, going all the way to the top, where there was a kind of catwalk and a viewing area. In the center of the room was a fire, and at the fire sat a heavyset man with pale skin and a dark beard. He wore sunglasses and had a sort of beret with the Jamaican flag on it.
This, it seemed, was Sambuca. They were shoved in front of him, and he leered at them, but it was clear to Sarahshe had an instinct for these thingsthat he was not interested in them. He was interested in Ted, and in Peter. Kenner he inspected briefly, then looked away.
"Killim."
They pushed Kenner out the door, poking him with the butts of their rifles. They were clearly excited at the prospect of executing him.
"No nau," Sambuca said, in a growl. "Behain."
It took Sarah a moment to translate in her head. Not now. Behind. Which must mean later on, she thought. So Kenner had a reprieve, at least for a while.
Sambuca turned and stared at the others in the room.
"Meris," he said, with a dismissive wave. "Goapim meri behain."
Sarah had the distinct impression, from the grins on the faces of the boys, that they were being given the freedom to do with the two women what they wanted. Go up 'em. She and Jennifer were led off to a back room.
Sarah remained calm. Of course she knew things were bad. But they were not bad yet. She was noticing that Jennifer did not appear to be shaken in the least. She had the same flat, uninterested expression that she might have if she was walking toward a company cocktail party.
The boys took the two women into a thatched room at the back of the larger building. There were two posts sunk in the earthen floor. One of the kids took out a pair of handcuffs and cuffed Jennifer to one post, her hands behind her back. Then he cuffed Sarah to the other post in the same way. Then another kid reached up and squeezed Sarah's tit, smiled knowingly, and walked out of the room.
"Charming," Jennifer said, when they were alone. "You all right?"
"So far, yes." There were drums starting to beat from somewhere outside, in the courtyard between the thatch buildings.
"Good," Jennifer said. "It's not over yet."
"Sanjong is"
"Right. He is."
"But we came a long way in the jeeps."
"Yes. At least two or three miles. I tried to see the odometer, but it was spattered with mud. But on foot, even running, it'll take him a while."
"He had a rifle."
"Yes."
"Can you get free?"
Jennifer shook her head. "It's too tight."
Through the open door, they saw Bradley and Evans being led away to another room. They glimpsed the two men only for a moment. Not long after, Kenner followed. He glanced into their room, giving what seemed to Sarah a meaningful look.
But she couldn't be sure.
Jennifer sat down on the bare earth, leaning back against the pole. She said, "Might as well sit down. It could be a long night." Sarah sat down, too.
A moment later, a young boy looked in and saw that they were sitting. He came into the room, looked at their handcuffs, and then walked out again.
Outside, the drums were louder. People must have been starting to gather, because the women could hear shouts and murmurs.
"Going to be a ceremony," Jennifer said. "And I'm afraid I know what it is."
In the next room, Evans and Kenner were also handcuffed around two posts. Because there was not a third post, Ted Bradley was handcuffed and left seated on the ground. His head was no longer bleeding, but he had a huge bruise over his left eye. And he looked distinctly frightened. But his eyelids were drooping, as if he might fall asleep.
"What's your impression of village life so far, Ted?" Kenner said. "Still think it's the best way to live?"
"This isn't village life. This is savagery."
"It's all part of it."
"No, it's not. These young kids, that fat creepy guy amp;this is lunacy. This is everything gone wrong."
"You just don't get it, do you?" Kenner said. "You think civilization is some horrible, polluting human invention that separates us from the state of nature. But civilization doesn't separate us from nature, Ted. Civilization protects us from nature. Because what you see right now, all around youthis is nature."
"Oh no. No, no. Humans are kind, cooperative amp;"
"Horseshit, Ted."
"There are genes for altruism."
"Wishful thinking, Ted."
"All cruelty springs from weakness."
"Some people like cruelty, Ted."
"Leave him alone," Evans said.
"Why should I? Come on, Ted. Aren't you going to answer me?"
"Oh, fuck you," Ted said. "Maybe we're all going to get killed here by these juvenile delinquent creeps, but I want you to know, if it's the last fucking thing I say in my life, that you are a major and unrelenting ass-hole, Kenner. You bring out the worst in everybody. You're a pessimist, you're an obstructionist, you're against all progress, against everything that is good and noble. You are a right-wing pig in amp;in amp;in whatever the fuck you are wearing. Whatever those clothes are. Where's your gun?"
"I dropped it."
"Where?"
"Back in the jungle."
"You think Sanjong has it?"
"I hope so."
"Is he coming to get us?"
Kenner shook his head. "He's doing the job we came to do."
"You mean he's going to the bay."
"Yes."
"So nobody is coming to get us?"
"No, Ted. Nobody."
"We're fucked," he said. "We're fucking fucked. I can't believe it." And he started to cry.
Two boys entered the room, carrying two heavy hemp ropes. They attached one rope to each of Bradley's wrists, tying them firmly. Then they walked out again.
The drums beat louder.
Out in the center of the village, people took up a rhythmic chant.
Jennifer said, "Can you see out the door from where you are?"
"Yes."
"Keep an eye out. Tell me if someone is coming."
"All right," Sarah said.
She glanced back and saw that Jennifer had arched her back and was gripping the pole between her hands. She had also bent her legs so her soles touched the wood, and proceeded to shimmy up the pole at a remarkable speed, like an acrobat. She got to the top, raised her cuffed hands clear of the top of the pole, and then jumped lightly to the ground.
"Anybody?" she said.
"No amp;How'd you learn to do that?"
"Keep looking out the door."
Jennifer slid back against her pole again, as if she were still handcuffed to it.
"Anybody yet?"
"No, not yet."
Jennifer sighed. "We need one of those kids to come in," she said. "Soon."
Outside, Sambuca was giving a speech, screaming brief phrases that were each answered by a shout from the crowd. Their leader was building them up, working them into a frenzy. Even in Ted's room, they could feel it building.
Bradley was curled in fetal position, crying softly.
Two men came in, much older than the boys. They unlocked his handcuffs. They lifted him to his feet. Each man took a rope. Together they led him outside.
A moment later, the crowd roared.
"Hey, cutie pie," Jennifer said, when a boy stuck his head in the door. She grinned. "You like what you see, cutie pie?" She shifted her pelvis suggestively.
The boy looked suspicious at first, but he came deeper into the room. He was older than the others, maybe fourteen or fifteen, and he was bigger. He was carrying a rifle and wore a knife on his belt.
"You want to have some fun? Want to let me go?" Jennifer said, smiling with a little pout. "You understand me? My arms hurt, baby. Want to have fun?"
He gave a laugh, sort of a gurgle from deep in his throat. He moved toward her and pushed her legs open, then crouched down in front of her.
"Oh, let me go first, please amp;"
"No meri," he said, laughing and shaking his head. He knew he could have her while she remained cuffed to the pole. He was kneeling between her legs, fumbling with his shorts, but it was clumsy holding the gun, so he set the gun down.
What happened next was very fast. Jennifer arched her back and kicked her legs up, clipping the kid under the chin, snapping his head back. She continued the motion, crunching into a ball, swinging her arms under her hips and butt and then up her legs, so now her hands were in front of her instead of behind. As the kid staggered to his feet, she slammed him in the side of the head with both hands. He went down on his knees. She dove on him, knocking him over, and pounded his head into the ground. Then she pulled the knife off his belt and cut his throat.
She sat on his body while he shivered and spasmed and the blood poured from his throat and onto the bare earth. It seemed to take a long time. When the body was finally motionless, she got off him, and rifled through his pockets.
Sarah watched the whole thing, her mouth open.
"Damn it," Jennifer said. "Damn it."
"What's the matter?"
"He doesn't have the key!"
She rolled the body over, grunting with the effort. She got blood on her arms from the flowing throat. She paid no attention to it.
"Where are the damn keys?"
"Maybe the other kid has it."
"Which one cuffed us?"
"I don't remember," Sarah said. "I was confused." She was staring at the body, looking at all the blood.
"Hey," Jennifer said, "get over it. You know what these guys are going to do? They're going to beat us up, gang-bang us, and then kill us. Fuck 'em. We kill as many as we can and try to get out of here alive. But I need the damn key!"
Sarah struggled to her feet.
"Good idea," Jennifer said. She came over and crouched down in front of Sarah.
"What?"
"Stand on my back and shimmy up. Get yourself off the pole. And hurry."
Outside, the crowd was screaming and roaring, a constant and ugly sound.
Ted Bradley blinked in the bright sunlight. He was disoriented by pain and fear and by the sight that greeted his eyes: two lines of old women, forming a corridor for him to walk down, all applauding him wildly. In fact, beyond the old women was a sea of facesdark-skinned men and young girls and kids hardly waist high. And they were all yelling and cheering. Dozens of people, crowded together.
They were cheering him!
Despite himself, Ted smiled. It was a weak smile, sort of a half-smile, because he was tired and hurt, but he knew from experience that it would convey just the right hint of subtle pleasure at their response. As he was carried forward by the two men, he nodded and smiled. He allowed his smile to become broader.
At the far end of the women was Sambuca himselfbut he, too, was applauding wildly, his hands high in the air, a broad smile on his face.
Ted didn't know what was happening here, but obviously he had misunderstood the meaning of the whole thing. Either that or they had figured out who he was and now thought better of their original plan. It wouldn't be the first time. The women were cheering so loudly as he was carried forward, their mouths gaping with excitement, that he tried to shake off the men who were holding him, he tried to walk unaided. And he did!
But now that he was closer he noticed that the applauding women had heavy sticks resting against their hips as they cheered. Some had baseball bats and some lengths of metal pipe. And as he came closer they continued to shout, but they picked up their bats and sticks and began to strike him, heavy blows on the face and shoulders and body. The pain was instant and incredible, and he sank down to the ground, but immediately the men with the ropes hauled him up again, and dragged him while the women beat him and screamed and beat him. And the pain streaked through his body and he felt a vague detachment, an emptiness, but still the blows came, merciless, again and again.
And finally, barely conscious, he came to the end of the line of women and saw a pair of poles. The men quickly tied his arms to the two poles in a way that kept him upright. And now the crowd fell silent. His head was bowed, he saw blood dripping from his head onto the ground. And he saw two naked feet appear in his line of vision, and the blood spattered on the feet, and someone lifted his head.
It was Sambuca, though Bradley could barely focus on his face. The world was gray and faint. But he saw that Sambuca was grinning at him, revealing a row of yellow pointed teeth. And then Sambuca held up a knife so Ted could see it, and smiled again, and with two fingers grabbed the flesh of Ted's cheek and sliced it off with the knife.
There was no pain, surprisingly no pain but it made him dizzy to see Sambuca hold up the bloody chunk of his cheek and, grinning, open his mouth and take a bite. The blood ran down Sambuca's chin as he chewed, grinning all the while. Bradley's head was spinning now. He was nauseated and terrified and revolted, and he felt a pain at his chest. He looked down to see a young boy of eight or nine cutting flesh from his underarm with a pocket knife. And a woman raced forward, screaming for the others to get out of the way, and she hacked a slice from the back of his forearm. And then the whole crowd was upon him, and the knives were everywhere, and they were cutting and yelling and cutting and yelling and he saw one knife move toward his eyes, and felt his trousers tugged down, and he knew nothing more.
Evans listened to the crowd cheering and yelling. Somehow he knew what was happening. He looked at Kenner. But Kenner just shook his head.
There was nothing to do. No help was coming. There was no way out.
The door opened, and two boys appeared. They carried two heavy hemp ropes, now visibly soaked in blood. They walked up to Evans and carefully knotted the ropes to his hands. Evans felt his heart start to pound.
The boys finished and left the room.
Outside, the crowd was roaring.
"Don't worry," Kenner said. "They'll let you wait a while. There's still hope."
"Hope for what?" Evans said in a burst of anger.
Kenner shook his head. "Just amp;hope."
Jennifer was waiting for the next kid to come in the room. He did, finally, and took one look at the fallen boy and began to bolt, but Jennifer had her arms around his neck. She yanked him back into the room with her hands over his mouth so he couldn't scream and she made a sudden, quick twist and let him fall to the ground. He wasn't dead, but he would be there a while.
But in that moment when she had looked outside, she had seen the keys.
They were out in the thatch passageway, on a bench across the hall.
There were two guns in the room now, but there was no point in firing them. It would just bring everybody on them. Jennifer didn't want to look outside again. She heard murmuring voices. She couldn't be sure whether they were coming from the next room or from the hallway. She couldn't make a mistake.
She leaned back against the wall by the door and moaned. Softly at first, and then louder, because the crowd was still very noisy. She moaned and moaned.
Nobody came.
Did she dare to look out?
She took a breath and waited.
Evans was trembling. The blood-soaked ropes were cold on his wrists. He couldn't stand the waiting. He felt like he was going to pass out. Outside the crowd was slowly becoming quieter. They were settling down. He knew what that meant. Soon it would be time for the next victim.
Then he heard a quiet sound.
It was a man coughing. Softly, insistently.
Kenner understood first. "In here," he said loudly.
There was a whacking sound as a machete blade poked through the thatched wall. Evans turned. He saw the slash in the wall widen, and a thick, brown hand reached in to pull the slash wider open still. A heavily bearded face peered through the gash at them.
For a moment Evans did not recognize him, but then the man put his finger to his lips, and there was something in the gesture that was familiar, and Evans suddenly saw past the beard.
"George!"
It was George Morton.
Alive.
Morton stepped through into the room. "Keep it down," he hissed.
"You took your sweet time," Kenner said, turning so Morton could unlock his cuffs. Morton gave Kenner a pistol. Then it was Evans's turn. With a click, his hands were free. Evans tugged at the hemp ropes, trying to get them off his wrists. But they were securely tied.
Morton whispered, "Where are the others?"
Kenner pointed to the room next door. He took the machete from Morton. "You take Peter. I'll get the girls."
With the machete, Kenner stepped out into the hallway.
Morton grabbed Evans by the arm. Evans jerked his head.
"Let's go."
"But"
"Do as he says, kid."
They stepped through the slash in the wall, and into the jungle beyond.
Kenner moved down the empty hallway. There were openings at both ends. He could be surprised at any moment. If the alarm went up, they were all dead. He saw the keys on the bench, picked them up, and went to the door of the women's room. Looking into the room, he saw that the poles were abandoned. He didn't see either of the women.
Staying outside, he tossed the keys into the room.
"It's me," he whispered.
A moment later, he saw Jennifer scramble from her hiding place behind the door to grab the keys. In a few seconds she and Sarah had both unlocked each other. They grabbed the boys' guns and started for the door.
Too late. From around the corner three heavyset young men were coming toward Kenner. They all carried machine guns. They were talking and laughing, not paying attention.
Kenner slipped into the women's room. He pressed back against the wall, gestured for the two women to go back to the poles. They made it just in time as the men entered the room. Jennifer said, "Hi, guys," with a big smile. At that moment, the men registered the two fallen boys and the blood-soaked earth, but it was too late. Kenner took one; Jennifer got the second with her knife. The third was almost out the door when Kenner hit him with the butt of the gun. There was the crack of skull. He went down hard.
It was time to go.
Out in the courtyard, the crowd was growing restless. Sambuca squinted. The first waitman was long dead, the body cooling at his feet, no longer as appetizing as he was before. And those in the crowd who had not tasted glory were clamoring for their piece, for the next opportunity. The women were resting their bats and pipes on their shoulders, talking in small clusters, waiting for the game to continue.
Where was the next man?
Sambuca barked an order, and three men ran toward the thatch building.
It was a long, muddy slide down the steep hill, but Evans didn't mind. He was following Morton, who seemed to know his way around the jungle very well. They fell to the bottom, landing in a shallow running stream, the water pale brown with peat. Morton signaled for him to follow, and ran splashing down the streambed. Morton had lost a lot of weight; his body was trim and fit, his face tight, hard looking.
Evans said, "We thought you were dead."
"Don't talk. Just go. They'll be after us in a minute."
And even as he spoke, Evans could hear someone sliding down the hillside after them. He turned and ran down the stream, slipping over wet rocks, falling, getting up and running again.
Kenner came down the hillside with the two women right behind him. They banged against gnarled roots and protruding brambles as they slid down, but it was still the fastest way to get away from the village. He could see from the streaks in the mud ahead of him that Morton had gone that way, too. And he was sure that he had no more than a minute's head start before the alarm was sounded.
They came crashing down through the last of the undergrowth to the streambed. They heard gunshots from the village above. So their escape had already been discovered.
The bay, Kenner knew, was off to the left. He told the others to go ahead, running in the streambed.
"What about you?" Evans said.
"I'll be with you in a minute."
The women headed off, moving surprisingly quickly. Kenner eased back to the muddy track, raised his gun, and waited. It was only a few seconds before the first of the rebels came down the slope. He fired three quick bursts. The bodies caught in the gnarled branches. One tumbled all the way to the streambed.
Kenner waited.
The men above would expect him to run now. So he waited. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes he heard them starting down again. They were noisyfrightened kids. He fired again, and heard screams. But he didn't think he'd hit anything. They were just screams of fear.
But from now on, he was sure they would take a different route down. And it would be slower.
Kenner turned and ran.
Sarah and Jennifer were moving fast through the water when a bullet whined past Sarah's ear. "Hey," she shouted. "It's us!"
"Oh, sorry," Morton said, as they caught up to him.
"Which way?" Jennifer said.
Morton pointed downstream.
They ran.
Evans looked for his watch, but one of the kids had taken it from him. His wrist was bare. But Morton had a watch. "What time is it?" Evans asked him.
"Three-fifteen."
They had less than two hours remaining.
"How far to the bay?"
"Maybe another hour," Morton said, "if we go cross jungle. And we must. Those boys are fearsome trackers. Many times they've almost gotten me. They know I'm here, but so far I've eluded them."
"How long have you been here?"
"Nine days. Seems like nine years."
Running down a streambed, they crouched low beneath overhanging branches. Evans's thighs burned. His knees ached. But somehow it didn't matter to him. For some reason, the pain felt like an affirmation. He didn't care about the heat or the bugs or the leeches that he knew were all over his ankles and legs. He was just glad to be alive.
"We turn here," Morton said. He left the streambed, dashing off to the right, scrambling over big boulders, and then crashing into dense, waist-high ferns.
"Any snakes in here?" Sarah said.
"Yeah, plenty," Morton said. "But I don't worry about them."
"What do you worry about?"
"Plenti pukpuk."
"And they are?"
"Crocodiles."
And he plunged onward, vanishing into dense foliage.
"Great," Evans said.
Kenner stopped in the middle of the river. Something was wrong. Until now, he had seen signs of previous runners in the stream. Bits of mud on rocks, wet finger marks or shoe prints, or disturbed algae. But for the last few minutes, nothing.
The others had left the stream.
He'd missed where.
Morton would make sure of that, he thought. Morton would know a good place to leave the river where their exit wouldn't be noticed. Probably somewhere with ferns and swampy, marshy grass between boulders on riverbanksgrass that would be spongy underfoot and would spring back at once.
Kenner had missed it.
He turned around and headed upstream, moving slowly. He knew that if he didn't find their tracks, he couldn't leave the river. He would be sure to get lost. And if he stayed in the river too long, the kids would find him. And they'd kill him.
There was one hour left, now. Morton crouched among the mangroves and rocks near the center of Resolution Bay. The others were clustered around him. The water lapped softly against the sand, a few feet away.
"This is what I know," he said, speaking low. "The submarine tender is hidden under a camouflage tarp at the east end of the bay. You can't see it from here. They have been sending the submarine down every day for a week. The sub has limited battery power, so it can stay at depth for only an hour at a time. But it seems pretty clear they are placing a kind of cone-shaped explosive that depends on accurately timed detonation"
"They had them in Antarctica," Sarah said.
"All right, then you know. Here, they're intended to trigger an underwater avalanche. Judging how long the sub stays down, I figure they are placing them at about the ninety-meter level, which happens to be the most efficient level for tsunami-causing avalanches."
"What about the tents up here?" Evans said.
"It seems they're taking no chances. Either they don't have enough cone explosives or they don't trust them to do the job, because they have placed something called hypersonic cavitation generators in the tents. They're big pieces of equipment about the size of a small truck. Diesel powered, make a lot of noise when they fire them up to test them, which they've been doing for days. They moved the tents several times, just a foot or two each time, so I assume there's some critical issue about placement. Maybe they're focusing the beams, or whatever it is those things generate. I'm not entirely clear about what they do. But apparently they're important for creating the landslide."
Sarah said, "And what do we do?"
"There's no way we can stop them," Morton said. "We are only fourfive, if Kenner makes it, which he doesn't seem to be doing. There are thirteen of them. Seven on the ship and six on shore. All armed with automatic weapons."
"But we have Sanjong," Evans said. "Don't forget him."
"That Nepali guy? I'm sure the rebels got him. There were gunshots about an hour ago along the ridge where they first found you. I was a few yards below, just before they picked you up. I tried to signal you by coughing, but amp;" He shrugged, turned back to the beach. "Anyway. Assuming the three cavitation generators are meant to work together to create some effect on the underwater slope, I figure our best chance is to take one of the generators outor maybe two of them. That would disrupt their plan or at least weaken the effect."
Jennifer said, "Can we cut the power supply?"
Morton shook his head. "They're self-powered. Diesel attached to the main units."
"Battery ignition?"
"No. Solar panels. They're autonomous."
"Then we have to take out the guys running the units."
"Yes. And they've been alerted to our presence. As you can see, there's one standing outside each tent, guarding it, and they've got a sentry somewhere up on that ridge." He pointed to the western slope. "We can't see where he is, but I assume he is watching the whole bay."
"So? Big deal. Let him watch," Jennifer said. "I say we just take out all these guys in the tents, and trash the machines. We've got enough weapons here to do the job, and" She paused. She had removed the magazine from her rifle; it was empty. "Better check your loads."
There was a moment of fumbling. They were all shaking their heads. Evans had four rounds. Sarah had two. Morton's rifle had none. "Those guys had practically no ammo amp;"
"And we don't either." Jennifer took a long breath. "This is going to be a little tougher without weapons." She edged forward and looked out on the beach, squinting in the bright light. "There's ten yards between the jungle and those tents. Open beach, no cover. If we charge the tents we'll never make it."
"What about a distraction?"
"I don't know what it could be. There's one guy outside each tent and one guy inside. They both armed?"
Morton nodded. "Automatic weapons."
"Not good," she said. "Not good at all."
Kenner splashed down the river, looking hard left and right. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he saw the faint imprint of a wet hand on a boulder. The damp print had almost dried. He looked more closely. He saw the grass at the edge of the stream had been trampled.
This was where they had left the stream.
He set out, heading toward the bay. Morton obviously knew his way around. This was another streambed, but much smaller. Kenner noticed with some unease that it sloped downward fairly steeply. That was a bad sign. But it was a passable route through the jungle. Somewhere up ahead, he heard the barking of a dog. It sounded like the dog was hoarse, or sick, or something.
Kenner hurried ahead, ducking beneath the branches.
He had to get to the others, before it was too late.
Morton heard the barking and frowned.
"What's the matter?" Jennifer said. "The rebels chasing us with dogs?"
"No. That's not a dog."
"It didn't really sound like a dog."
"It's not. They've learned a trick in this part of the world. They bark like a dog, and then when the dogs come out, they eat them."
"Who does?"
"Crocs. That's a crocodile you hear. Somewhere behind us."
Out on the beach, they heard the sudden rumbling of automobile engines. Peering forward through the mangroves, they saw three jeeps coming from the east side of the bay, rumbling across the sand toward them.
"What's this?" Evans said.
"They've been practicing this," Morton said. "All week. Watch. One stops at each tent. See? Tent one amp;tent two amp;tent three. They all stop. They all keep the motors running. All pointed west."
"What's west?"
"There's a dirt track, goes up the hill about a hundred yards and then dead-ends."
"Something used to be up there?"
"No. They cut the road themselves. First thing they did when they got here." Morton looked toward the eastern curve of the bay. "Usually by this time, the ship has pulled out, and moved into deep water. But it's not doing it yet."
"Uh-oh," Evans said.
"What is it?"
"I think we've forgotten something."
"What's that?"
"We've been worried about this tsunami wave heading toward the California coast. But a landslide would suck water downward, right? And then it would rise back up again. But that's kind of like dropping this pebble into this ditch." He dropped a pebble into a muddy puddle at their feet. "And the wave the pebble generates amp;is circular."
"It goes in all directions amp;"
"Oh no," Sarah said.
"Oh yes. All directions, including back to this coast. The tsunami will hit here, too. And fast. How far offshore is the Solomon Trench?"
Morton shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe two miles. I really don't know, Peter."
"If these waves travel five hundred miles an hour," Evans said, "then that means it gets to this coast in amp;"
"Twenty-four seconds," Sarah said.
"Right. That's how much time we have to get out of here, once the undersea landslide begins. Twenty-four seconds."
With a sudden chugging rumble, they heard the first diesel generator come to life. Then the second, then the third. All three were running.
Morton glanced at his watch. "This is it," he said. "They've started."
And now they heard an electronic whine, faint at first but rapidly building to a deep electronic hum. It filled the air.
"Those're the cavitators," Morton said. "Kicking in."
Jennifer slung her rifle over her shoulder. "Let's get ready."
Sanjong slid silently from the branches of the overhanging tree, onto the deck of the AV Scorpion. The forty-foot ship must have a very shallow draft, because it was pulled up close to the peninsula on the eastern side, so that the huge jungle trees overhung it. The ship couldn't really be seen from the beach; Sanjong had only realized that it was there when he heard the crackle of radios coming from the jungle.
He crouched in the stern, hiding behind the winch that raised the submarine, listening. He heard voices from all sides, it seemed like. He guessed that there were six or seven men onboard. But what he wanted was to find the timing detonators. He guessed that they were in the pilot-house, but he couldn't be sure. And between his hiding place and the pilothouse was a long expanse of open deck.
He looked at the mini-sub hanging above him. It was bright blue, about seven feet long, with a bubble canopy, now raised. The sub was raised and lowered into the water by the winch.
And the winch amp; He looked for the control panel. He knew it had to be nearby because the operator would have to be able to see the submarine as it was lowered. Finally he saw it: a closed metal box on the other side of the ship. He crept over, opened the box, and looked at the buttons. There were six, marked with arrows in all directions. Like a big keypad.
He pressed the down arrow.
With a rumble, the winch began to lower the submarine into the water.
An alarm began to sound.
He heard running feet.
He ducked back into a doorway and waited.
From the beach, they faintly heard the sound of an alarm over the rumble of the generators and the cavitation hum. Evans looked around. "Where's it coming from?"
"It must be from the ship, over there."
Out on the beach, the men heard it, too. They were standing in pairs by the entrance to the tents, pointing. Wondering what to do.
And then, from the jungle behind them, a sudden burst of machine-gun fire opened up. The men on the beach were alarmed now, swinging their guns, looking this way and that.
"Screw it," Jennifer said, taking Evans's rifle. "This is it. It won't get any better."
And firing, she ran out onto the beach.
The crocodile had charged Kenner with frightening speed. He had little more than a glimpse of huge white jaws open wide and thrashing water before he fired with his machine gun. The jaw smashed down, just missing his leg; the animal writhed, twisted, and attacked again, jaws closing on a low-hanging branch.
The bullets hadn't done anything. Kenner turned and ran, sprinting down the streambed.
The croc roared behind him.
Jennifer was running across the sand, heading for the nearest tent. She went about ten yards before two bullets struck her left leg and knocked her down. She fell onto hot sand, still firing as she fell. She saw the guard at the entrance to the tent drop. She knew he was dead.
Evans came up behind her and started to crouch down. She shouted, "Keep going! Go!" Evans ran forward, toward the tent.
On the ship, the men halted the descent of the submarine, stopping the winch. Now they could hear the gunshots coming from the beach. They had all rushed to the starboard side of the ship, and now they were looking over the railing, trying to see what was going on.
Sanjong went down the deck on the port side. No one was there. He came to the cabin. There was a big board there, dense with electronics. A man in shorts and a T-shirt was crouched over it, making adjustments. At the top of the board were three rows of lights, marked with numerals.
The timing board.
For the undersea detonations.
Sarah and Morton were sprinting along the edge of the beach, staying close to the jungle, as they headed for the second tent. The man outside the tent saw them almost at once and was firing bursts of machine-gun fire at them, but he must have been very nervous, Sarah thought, because he wasn't hitting them. Branches and leaves snapped all around them from the bullets. And with every step, they were getting close enough for Sarah to fire back. She was carrying Morton's pistol. At twenty yards, she stopped and leaned against the nearest tree trunk. She held her arm stiffly and aimed. The first shot missed. The second one hit the man outside the tent in the right shoulder, and he dropped his gun in the sand. Morton saw it, and left the forest, running across the sand toward the tent. The man was struggling to get up. Sarah shot again.
And then Morton disappeared inside the tent. And she heard two quick gunshots and a scream of pain.
She ran.
Evans was inside the tent. He faced a wall of chugging machinery, a huge complex of twisting pipes and vents, ending in a flat, round plate eight feet wide, set about two feet above the surface of the sand. The generator was about seven feet high; all the metal was hot to the touch. The noise was deafening. He didn't see anybody there. Holding his rifle readypainfully aware that the magazine was emptyhe swung around the first corner, then the second.
And then he saw him.
It was Bolden. The guy from the Antarctic. He was working at a control panel, adjusting big knobs while he looked at a shaded LCD screen and a row of dials. He was so preoccupied, he didn't even notice Evans at first.
Evans felt a burst of pure rage. If his gun had been loaded he would have shot him. Bolden's gun was leaning against the wall of the tent. He needed both hands to adjust the controls.
Evans shouted. Bolden turned. Evans gestured for him to put up his hands.
Bolden charged.
Morton had just stepped into the tent when the first bullet struck his ear and the second hit his shoulder. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. The movement saved his life because the next bullet whined past his forehead, ripping through the tent cloth. He was lying on the ground next to the chugging machinery when the gunman came around, holding his rifle ready. He was a twentyish man, bearded, grim, all business. He aimed at Morton.
And then he fell against the machine, blood hissing as it splattered on hot metal. Sarah was standing inside the tent, firing her pistol once, twice, three times, lowering her arm each time as the man fell. She turned to Morton.
"I forgot you were a good shot," he said.
"You okay?" she said. He nodded. "Then how do I turn this thing off?"
Evans grunted as Bolden smashed into his body. The two men stumbled back against the tent fabric, then forward again. Evans brought the butt of his gun down on Bolden's back, but it had no effect. He kept trying to hit him in the head, but only connected with his back. Bolden, for his part, seemed to be trying to drive Evans out of the tent.
The two men fell to the ground. The machinery was thumping above them. And now Evans realized what Bolden was trying to do.
He was trying to push Evans under the plate. Even by being near the edge, Evans could feel the air vibrating intensely. The air was much hotter here.
Bolden hit Evans in the head, and his sunglasses went flying across the ground, beneath the flat plate. Instantly, they shattered. Then the frames crumpled.
Then they pulverized.
Vanished into nothing.
Evans watched with horror. And little by little, Bolden was pushing him closer to the edge, closer, closer amp; Evans struggled, with the sudden strength of desperation. Abruptly, he kicked up.
Bolden's face mashed against hot metal. He howled. His cheek was smoking and black. Evans kicked again, and got out from beneath him. Got to his feet. Standing over Bolden, he kicked him hard in the ribs, as hard as he could. He tried to kill him.
That's for Antarctica.
Bolden grabbed Evans's leg on the next kick, and Evans went down. But he kicked once more as he fell, hitting Bolden in the head, and with the impact, Bolden rolled once.
And rolled under the plate.
His body was half under, half out. It began to shake, to vibrate. Bolden opened his mouth to scream but there was no sound. Evans kicked him a final time, and the body went entirely under.
By the time Evans had dropped to his hands and knees, to look under the plate, nothing was there. Just a haze of acrid smoke.
He got to his feet, and went outside.
Glancing over her shoulder, Jennifer ripped her blouse with her teeth and tore a strip of cloth for a tourniquet. She didn't think an artery had been hit, but there was a lot of blood on one leg and a lot of blood in the sand, and she was feeling a little dizzy.
She had to keep watching because there was one more tent, and if the guys from that tent showed up amp; She spun, raising her gun as a figure emerged from the forest.
It was John Kenner. She lowered the gun.
He ran toward her.
Sanjong fired into the glass in front of the control deck, but nothing happened. The glass didn't even shatter. Bulletproof glass, he thought in surprise. The technician inside looked up in shock. By then Sanjong was moving toward the door.
The technician reached for the control switches. Sanjong fired twice, once hitting the technician, once aiming for the control panel.
But it was too late. Across the top of the panel, red lights flashed, one after another. The undersea detonations were taking place.
Automatically, a loud alarm began to sound, like a submarine claxon. The men on the other side of the ship were shouting, terror in their voices, and with good reason, Sanjong thought.
The tsunami had been generated.
It was only a matter of seconds now before it would hit them.
The air was filled with sound.
Evans ran from the tent. Directly ahead he saw Kenner lifting Jennifer in his arms. Kenner was shouting something, but Evans couldn't hear. He could vaguely see that Jennifer was soaked in blood. Evans ran for the jeep, jumped in, and drove it over to Kenner.
Kenner put Jennifer in the back. She was breathing shallowly. Directly ahead, they saw Sarah helping Morton into the other jeep. Kenner had to shout over the noise. For a minute Evans couldn't understand.
Then he realized what Kenner was saying. "Sanjong! Where is Sanjong!"
Evans shook his head. "Morton says he's dead! Rebels!"
"Do you know for sure?"
"No!"
Kenner looked back down the beach.
"Drive!"
Sarah was in the car, trying to hold Morton upright and drive at the same time. But she had to let go of him to shift gears, and as soon as she did he'd flop over against her shoulder. He was wheezing, breathing with difficulty. She suspected that his lung was punctured. She was distracted, trying to count in her head. She thought it was already ten seconds since the landslide.
Which meant they had fifteen seconds to get up the hill.
Sanjong leapt from the ship to the trees on the shore. He grabbed a handful of leaves and branches. He scrambled down to the ground and began to climb the hill frantically. On the ship, the men saw him, and they jumped, too, trying to follow him.
Sanjong guessed that they all had half a minute before the first wave struck. It would be the smallest wave, but it would still probably be five meters high. The runupthe splash on the hillsidecould be another five meters. That meant he had to scramble at least thirty feet up the muddy slope in the next thirty seconds.
He knew he would never make it.
He couldn't do it.
He climbed anyway.
Sarah drove up the muddy track, the jeep slipping precariously on the incline. Beside her, Morton was not saying anything and his skin had turned an ugly blue gray. She yelled, "Hold on, George! Hold on! Just a little!" The jeep fishtailed in the mud, and Sarah howled in panic. She downshifted, grinding gears, got control, and continued up. In the rearview mirror, she saw Evans behind her.
In her mind, she was counting:
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
From the third tent on the beach, two men with machine guns jumped into the last remaining jeep. They drove up the hill after Evans, firing at him as they drove. Kenner was firing back. The bullets shattered Evans's windshield. Evans slowed.
"Keep driving!" Kenner yelled. "Go!"
Evans couldn't really see. Where the windshield wasn't shattered it was spattered with mud. He kept moving his head, trying to see the route ahead.
"Go!" Kenner yelled.
The bullets were whizzing around them.
Kenner was shooting at the tires of the jeep behind them. He hit them, and the jeep lurched over onto its side. The two men fell out into the mud. They scrambled to their feet, limping. They were only about fifteen feet above the beach.
Not high enough.
Kenner looked back at the ocean.
He saw the wave coming toward the shore.
It was enormous, as wide as the eye could see, a foaming line of surf, a white arc spreading as it came toward the beach. It was not a very high wave, but it grew as it came ashore, rising up, rising higher amp; The jeep lurched to a halt.
"Why did you stop?" Kenner yelled.
"It's the end of the damn road!" Evans shouted.
The wave was now about fifteen feet high.
With a roar of surf, the wave struck the beach and raced inland toward them.
To Evans, it seemed as if everything was happening in slow motionthe big wave churning white, boiling over the sand, and somehow keeping its crest all the way across the beach, and into the jungle, completely covering the green landscape in white as the water boiled up the slope toward them.
He couldn't take his eyes off it, because it seemed never to lose its power, but just kept coming. Farther down the muddy track the two men were scrambling away from their fallen jeep, and then they were covered in white water and gone from sight.
The wave rushed up the slope another four or five feet, then suddenly slowed, receded, sweeping back. It left behind no trace of the men or their jeep. The jungle trees were ragged, many uprooted.
The wave slid back into the ocean, farther and farther away, exposing the beach far out to sea, before it finally died away, and the ocean was gentle again.
"That's the first," Kenner said. "The next ones will be bigger."
Sarah was holding Morton upright, trying to keep him comfortable. His lips were a terrible blue color and his skin was cold, but he seemed to be alert. He wasn't talking, but he was watching the water.
"Hang on, George," she said.
He nodded. He was mouthing something.
"What is it? What are you saying?"
She read his lips. A weak grin.
Wouldn't miss it if it was the last thing I did.
The next wave came in.
From a distance, it looked exactly like the first, but as it neared the shore they could see that it was noticeably bigger, half again as large as the first, and the roar as it smashed into the beach was like an explosion. A vast sheet of water raced up the hill toward them, coming much higher than before.
They were almost a hundred feet away. The wave had come a good sixty feet up the slope.
"The next one will be bigger," Kenner said.
The sea was quiet for several minutes. Evans turned to Jennifer. "Listen," he said, "do you want me to"
She wasn't there. For a moment he thought she had fallen out of the jeep. Then he saw she had fallen on the floor, where she lay curled in pain. Her face and shoulder were soaked in blood.
"Jennifer?"
Kenner grabbed Evans's hand, pushed it back gently. He shook his head. "Those guys in the jeep," he said. "She was okay until then." Evans was stunned. He felt dizzy. He looked at her. "Jennifer?"
Her eyes were closed. She was hardly breathing.
"Turn away," Kenner said. "She'll make it or she won't."
The next wave was coming in.
There was nowhere they could go. They had reached the end of the track. They were surrounded by jungle. They just waited, and watched the water rush up in a hissing, terrifying wall toward them. The wave had already broken. This was just surge rushing up the hillside, but it was still a wall of water nine or ten feet high.
Sarah was sure it was going to take them all, but the wave lost energy just a few yards away, thinning and slowing, and then sliding back down to the ocean.
Kenner looked at his watch. "We have a few minutes," he said. "Let's do what we can."
"What do you mean?" Sarah said.
"I mean, climb as high as we can."
"There's another wave?"
"At least."
"Bigger?"
"Yes."
Five minutes passed. They scrambled up the hillside another twenty yards. Kenner was carrying Jennifer's bleeding body. By now she had lost consciousness. Evans and Sarah were helping Morton, who was moving with great difficulty. Finally, Evans picked Morton up and carried him piggyback style.
"Glad you lost some weight," Evans said.
Morton, not speaking, just patted him on the shoulder.
Evans staggered up the hill.
The next wave came in.
When it receded, their jeeps had vanished. The spot where they had been parked was littered with the trunks of uprooted trees. They stared, very tired. They argued: Was that the fourth wave or the fifth? No one could remember. They decided it must have been the fourth.
"What do we do?" Sarah said to Kenner.
"We climb."
Eight minutes later, the next wave came in. It was smaller than the one before. Evans was too tired to do anything but stare at it. Kenner was trying to stop Jennifer's bleeding, but her skin was an ugly pale gray and her lips were blue. Down at the beach, there was no sign of human activity at all. The tents were gone. The generators were gone. There was nothing but piled-up debris, tree branches, pieces of wood, seaweed, foam.
"What's that?" Sarah said.
"What?"
"Someone is shouting."
They looked across to the opposite side of the bay. Someone was waving to them.
"It's Sanjong," Kenner said. "Son of a bitch." He grinned. "I hope he's smart enough to stay where he is. It'll take him a couple of hours to get across the debris. Let's go see if our helicopter is still there or if the wave took it. Then we'll go pick him up."
Eight thousand miles to the east, it was the middle of the night in Golden, Colorado, when the computers of the National Earthquake Information Center registered an atypical seismic disturbance originating from the Pacific basin, just north of the Solomon Islands, and measuring 6.3 Richter. That was a strong quake, but not unusually strong. The peculiar characteristics of the disturbance led the computer to categorize it as an "anomalous event," a fairly common designation for seismic events in that part of the world, where three tectonic plates met in strange overlapping patterns.
The NEIC computers assessed the earthquake as lacking the relatively slow movement associated with tsunamis, and thus did not classify it as a "tsunami-generating event." However, in the South Pacific, this designation was being reexamined, following the devastating New Guinea earthquake of 1998the single most destructive tsunami of the centurywhich also did not have the classic slow tsunami profile. Thus, as a precaution, the computers flagged the earthquake to the sensors of the MORN, the Mid-Ocean Relay Network, operating out of Hilo, Hawaii.
Six hours later, mid-ocean buoys detected a nine-inch rise in the ocean level consistent with a tsunami wave train. Because of the great depth of the mid-ocean, tsunamis often raised the sea level only a few inches. On this particular evening, ships in the area felt nothing at all as the big wave front passed beneath them. Nevertheless, the buoys felt it, and triggered an alarm.
It was the middle of the night in Hawaii when the computers pinged and the screens came up. The network manager, Joe Ohiri, had been dozing. He got up, poured himself a cup of coffee and inspected the data. It was clearly a tsunami profile, though one that appeared to be losing force in its ocean passage. Hawaii was of course in its path, but this wave would strike the south shore of the islands, a relative rarity. Ohiri made a quick wave-force calculation, was unimpressed with the results, and so sent a routine notification to civil defense units on all the inhabited islands. It began "This is an information message amp;" and finished with the usual boilerplate about the alert being based on preliminary information. Ohiri knew that nobody would pay much attention to it. Ohiri also notified the West Coast and Alaska Warning Centers, because the wave train was due to strike the coast in early mid-morning of the following day.
Five hours later, the DART buoys off the coast of California and Alaska detected the passage of a tsunami train, now further weakened. Computers calculated the velocity and wave force and recommended no action. This meant that the message went out to the local stations as a tsunami information bulletin, not an alert:
BASED ON LOCATION AND MAGNITUDE THE EARTHQUAKE WAS NOT SUFFICIENT TO GENERATE A TSUNAMI DAMAGING TO CALIFORNIAOREGONWASHINGTONBRITISH COLUMBIA OR ALASKA. SOME AREAS OREGONWASHINGTONBRITISH COLUMBIA OR ALASKA. SOME AREAS MAY EXPERIENCE SMALL SEA LEVEL CHANGES.
Kenner, who was monitoring the messages on his computer, shook his head when he saw this. "Nick Drake is not going to be a happy man today." It was Kenner's hypothesis that they had needed the cavitation generators to extend the effect of the underwater detonations, and to create the relatively long-lasting landslide that would have produced a truly powerful ocean-crossing tsunami. That had been thwarted.
Ninety minutes later, the much-weakened tsunami train struck the beaches of California. It consisted of a set of five waves averaging six feet in height that excited surfers briefly, but passed unnoticed by everyone else.
Belatedly, Kenner was notified that the FBI had been attempting to reach him for the past twelve hours. It turned out that V. Allen Willy had vacated his beach house at two A.M. local time. This was less than an hour after the events in Resolution Bay had taken place, and more than ten hours prior to the tsunami notification.
Kenner suspected that Willy had gotten cold feet, and had been unwilling to wait. But it was an important and telling mistake. Kenner called the agent and started proceedings to subpoena Willy's phone records.
None of them was allowed to leave the island for the next three days. There were formalities, forms, interrogations. There were problems with emergency care for Morton's collapsed lung and Jennifer's massive blood loss. Morton wanted to be taken to Sydney for surgery, but he was not allowed to leave because he had been reported as a missing person in America. Although he complained bitterly about witch doctors, a very good surgeon trained in Melbourne took care of his lung in Gareda Town. But Jennifer had not been able to wait for that surgeon; she had needed three transfusions during five hours of surgery to remove the bullets in her upper body, and then she was on a respirator, near death for the next forty-eight hours. But at the end of the second day she opened her eyes, pulled off her oxygen mask, and said to Evans, sitting at her bedside, "Stop looking so gloomy. I'm here, for God's sake." Her voice was weak, but she was smiling.
Then there were problems about their contact with the rebels. There were problems about the fact that one of their party had disappeared, the famous actor Ted Bradley. They all told the story of what had happened to Bradley, but there was no way to corroborate it. So the police made them tell it again.
And suddenly, abruptly, unaccountably, they were allowed to leave. Their papers were in order. Their passports were returned. There was no difficulty. They could leave whenever they wanted.
Evans slept most of the way to Honolulu. After the plane refueled and took off again, he sat up and talked to Morton and the others. Morton was explaining what had happened on the night of his car crash.
"There was obviously a problem with Nick and what he was doing with his money. NERF was not doing good things. Nick was very angrydangerously angry. He threatened me, and I took him at his word. I had established the link between his organization and ELF, and he was threatened, to put it mildly. Kenner and I thought he would try to kill me. Well, he did try. With that girl at the coffee shop, that morning in Beverly Hills."
"Oh yes." Evans remembered. "But how did you stage that car crash? It was so incredibly dangerous"
"What, do you think I'm crazy?" Morton said. "I never crashed."
"What do you mean?"
"I kept right on driving, that night."
"But." Evans fell silent, shaking his head. "I don't get it."
"Yes, you do," Sarah said. "Because I let it slip to you, by accident. Before George called me and told me to keep my mouth shut about it."
It came back to him then. The conversation from days ago. He hadn't paid much attention at the time. Sarah had said:
He told me to buy a new Ferrari from a guy in Monterey and have it shipped to San Francisco.
When Evans expressed surprise that George was buying another Ferrari:
I know. How many Ferraris can one man use? And this one doesn't seem up to his usual standard. From the e-mail pictures it looks kind of beat up.
And then she said:
The Ferrari he bought is a 1972 365 GTS Daytona Spyder. He already has one, Peter. It's like he doesn't know amp; "Oh, I knew all right," Morton said. "What a waste of money. The car was a piece of crap. And then I had to fly a couple of Hollywood prop guys up to Sonoma to beat the hell out of it and make it look like a crash. Then they flat-bedded it out that night, set it on the road, fired up the smoke pots amp;"
"And you drove right past a wreck that was already in place," Evans said.
"Yes," Morton said, nodding. "Drove right around the corner. Pulled off the road, climbed up the hill, and watched you guys."
"You son of a bitch."
"I'm sorry," Morton said, "but we needed real emotion to distract the police from the problems."
"What problems?"
"Ice-cold engine block, for one," Kenner said. "That engine hadn't run for days. One of the cops noticed it was cold while the car was being put on the truck. He came back and asked you the time of the accident, all of that. I was concerned they would figure it out."
"But they didn't," Morton said.
"No. They knew something was wrong. But I don't think they ever guessed identical Ferraris."
"No one in his right mind," Morton said, "would intentionally destroy a 1972 365 GTS. Even a crappy one."
Morton was smiling, but Evans was angry. "Somebody could have told me"
"No," Kenner said. "We needed you to work Drake. Like the cell phone."
"What about it?"
"The cell phone was a very low-quality bug. We needed Drake to suspect that you were part of the investigation. We needed him pressured."
"Well, it worked. That's why I got poisoned in my apartment, isn't it?" Evans said. "You guys were willing to take a lot of risks with my life."
"It turned out all right," Kenner said.
"You did this car crash to pressure Drake?"
"And to get me free," Morton said. "I needed to go down to the Solomons and find out what they were doing. I knew Nick would save the best for last. Although if they had been able to modify that hurricanethat was the third stunt they plannedso that it hit Miami, that would have been spectacular."
"Fuck you, George," Evans said.
"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Kenner said.
"And fuck you, too."
Then Evans got up and went to the front of the plane. Sarah was sitting alone. He was so angry he refused to speak to her. He spent the next hour staring out the window. Finally, she began talking quietly to him, and at the end of half an hour, they embraced.
Evans slept for a while, restless, his body sore. He couldn't find a comfortable position to rest. Intermittently, he would wake up, groggy. One time he thought he heard Kenner talking to Sarah.
Let's remember where we live, Kenner was saying. We live on the third planet from a medium-size sun. Our planet is five billion years old, and it has been changing constantly all during that time. The Earth is now on its third atmosphere.
The first atmosphere was helium and hydrogen. It dissipated early on, because the planet was so hot. Then, as the planet cooled, volcanic eruptions produced a second atmosphere of steam and carbon dioxide. Later the water vapor condensed, forming the oceans that cover most of the planet. Then, around three billion years ago, some bacteria evolved to consume carbon dioxide and excrete a highly toxic gas, oxygen. Other bacteria released nitrogen. The atmospheric concentration of these gases slowly increased. Organisms that could not adapt died out.
Meanwhile, the planet's land masses, floating on huge tectonic plates, eventually came together in a configuration that interfered with the circulation of ocean currents. It began to get cold for the first time. The first ice appeared two billion years ago.
And for the last seven hundred thousand years, our planet has been in a geological ice age, characterized by advancing and retreating glacial ice. No one is entirely sure why, but ice now covers the planet every hundred thousand years, with smaller advances every twenty thousand or so. The last advance was twenty thousand years ago, so we're due for the next one.
And even today, after five billion years, our planet remains amazingly active. We have five hundred volcanoes, and an eruption every two weeks. Earthquakes are continuous: a million and a half a year, a moderate Richter 5 quake every six hours, a big earthquake every ten days. Tsunamis race across the Pacific Ocean every three months.
Our atmosphere is as violent as the land beneath it. At any moment there are one thousand five hundred electrical storms across the planet. Eleven lightning bolts strike the ground each second. A tornado tears across the surface every six hours. And every four days, a giant cyclonic storm, hundreds of miles in diameter, spins over the ocean and wreaks havoc on the land.
The nasty little apes that call themselves human beings can do nothing except run and hide. For these same apes to imagine they can stabilize this atmosphere is arrogant beyond belief. They can't control the climate.
The reality is, they run from the storms.
"What do we do now?"
"I'll tell you what we do," Morton said. "You work for me. I'm starting a new environmental organization. I have to think of a name. I don't want one of these pretentious names with the words world and resource and defense and wildlife and fund and preservation and wilderness in them. You can string those words together in any combination. World Wildlife Preservation Fund. Wilderness Resource Defense Fund. Fund for the Defense of World Resources. Anyway, those fake names are all taken. I need something plain and new. Something honest. I was thinking of Study the Problem And Fix It.' Except the acronym doesn't work. But maybe that's a plus. We will have scientists and field researchers and economists and engineersand one lawyer."
"What would this organization do?"
"There is so much to do! For example: Nobody knows how to manage wilderness. We would set aside a wide variety of wilderness tracts and run them under different management strategies. Then we'd ask outside teams to assess how we are doing, and modify the strategies. And then do it again. A true iterative process, externally assessed. Nobody's ever done that. And in the end we'll have a body of knowledge about how to manage different terrains. Not preserve them. You can't preserve them. They're going to change all the time, no matter what. But you could manage themif you knew how to do it. Which nobody does. That's one big area. Management of complex environmental systems."
"Okay amp;"
"Then we'd do developing-world problems. The biggest cause of environmental destruction is poverty. Starving people can't worry about pollution. They worry about food. Half a billion people are starving in the world right now. More than half a billion without clean water. We need to design delivery systems that really work, test them, have them verified by outsiders, and once we know they work, replicate them."
"It sounds difficult."
"It's difficult if you are a government agency or an ideologue. But if you just want to study the problem and fix it, you can. And this would be entirely private. Private funding, private land. No bureaucrats. Administration is five percent of staff and resources. Everybody is out working. We'd run environmental research as a business. And cut the crap."
"Why hasn't somebody done it?"
"Are you kidding? Because it's radical. Face the facts, all these environmental organizations are thirty, forty, fifty years old. They have big buildings, big obligations, big staffs. They may trade on their youthful dreams, but the truth is, they're now part of the establishment. And the establishment works to preserve the status quo. It just does."
"Okay. What else?"
"Technology assessment. Third world countries can leapfrog. They skip telephone lines and go right to cellular. But nobody is doing decent technology assessment in terms of what works and how to balance the inevitable drawbacks. Wind power's great, unless you're a bird. Those things are giant bird guillotines. Maybe we should build them anyway. But people don't know how to think about this stuff. They just posture and pontificate. Nobody tests. Nobody does field research. Nobody dares to solve the problemsbecause the solution might contradict your philosophy, and for most people clinging to beliefs is more important than succeeding in the world."
"Really?"
"Trust me. When you're my age, you'll know it is true. Next, how about recreational land usemultipurpose land use. It's a rat's nest. Nobody has figured out how to do it, and it's so hot, so fierce that good people just give up and quit, or vanish in a blizzard of lawsuits. But that doesn't help. The answer probably lies in a range of solutions. It may be necessary to designate certain areas for one or another use. But everybody lives on the same planet. Some people like opera, some people like Vegas. And there's a lot of people that like Vegas."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. We need a new mechanism to fund research. Right now, scientists are in exactly the same position as Renaissance painters, commissioned to make the portrait the patron wants done. And if they are smart, they'll make sure their work subtly flatters the patron. Not overtly. Subtly. This is not a good system for research into those areas of science that affect policy. Even worse, the system works against problem solving. Because if you solve a problem, your funding ends. All that's got to change."
"How?"
"I have some ideas. Make scientists blind to their funding. Make assessment of research blind. We can have major policy-oriented research carried out by multiple teams doing the same work. Why not, if it's really important? We'll push to change how journals report research. Publish the article and the peer reviews in the same issue. That'll clean up everybody's act real fast. Get the journals out of politics. Their editors openly take sides on certain issues. Bad dogs."
Evans said, "Anything else?"
"New labels. If you read some authors who say, We find that anthropogenic greenhouse gases and sulphates have had a detectable influence on sea-level pressure' it sounds like they went into the world and measured something. Actually, they just ran a simulation. They talk as if simulations were real-world data. They're not. That's a problem that has to be fixed. I favor a stamp: WARNING: COMPUTER SIMULATIONMAY BE ERRONEOUS and UNVERIFIABLE. Like on cigarettes. Put the same stamp on newspaper articles, and in the corner of newscasts. WARNING: SPECULATIONMAY BE FACT-FREE. Can you see that peppered all over the front pages?"
"Anything else?" Evans was smiling now.
"There are a few more things," Morton said, "but those are the major points. It's going to be very difficult. It's going to be uphill all the way. We'll be opposed, sabotaged, denigrated. We'll be called terrible names. The establishment will not like it. Newspapers will sneer. But, eventually, money will start to flow to us because we'll show results. And then everybody will shut up. And then we will get lionized, which is the most dangerous time of all."
"And?"
"By then, I'm long dead. You and Sarah will have run the organization for twenty years. And your final job will be to disband it, before it becomes another tired old environmental organization spouting outmoded wisdom, wasting resources, and doing more harm than good."
"I see," Evans said. "And when it's disbanded?"
"You'll find a bright young person and try to excite him or her to do what really needs to be done in the next generation."
Evans looked at Sarah.
She shrugged. "Unless you have a better idea," she said.
Half an hour before they reached the California coast, they saw the spreading brown haze hanging over the ocean. It grew thicker and darker as they approached land. Soon they saw the lights of the city, stretching away for miles. It was blurred by the atmosphere above.
"It looks a bit like hell, doesn't it," Sarah said. "Hard to think we're going to land in that."
"We have a lot of work to do," Morton said.
The plane descended smoothly toward Los Angeles.