"I hope the news is good."
"Not from the tone of his voice," Sandecker said soberly. "I suspect he discovered something none of us wants to know."
Yaeger was slouched in his chair, feet stretched out, contemplating the image on an oversized video display computer terminal when Sandecker and Gunn walked into his private office. He turned and greeted them without rising from his chair.
"What do you have for us?" Sandecker asked, not wasting words.
Yaeger straightened and nodded at the video screen. "I've arrived at a method for estimating convergence positions for the acoustic energy emanating from Dorsett's mining operations."
"Good work, Hiram," said Gunn, pulling up a chair and staring at the screen. "Have you determined where the next convergence will be?"
Yaeger nodded. "I have, but first, let me explain the process." He typed in a series of commands and then sat back. "The speed of sound through seawater varies with the temperatures of the sea and the hydrostatic pressure at different depths. The deeper you go and the heavier the column of water above, the faster sound travels. There are a hundred other variables I could go into, dealing with atmospheric conditions, seasonal differences, convergence-zone propagation access and the formation of sound caustics, but I'll keep it simple and illustrate my findings."
The image on the viewing screen displayed a chart of the Pacific Ocean, with four green lines, beginning at the locations of the Dorsett mines and intersecting at Seymour Island in the Antarctic. "I began by working backward to the source from the point where the acoustic plague struck. Tackling the hardest nut to crack, Seymour Island, because it actually sits around the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula in the Weddell Sea, which is part of the South Atlantic, I determined that deep ocean sound rays were reflected by the mountainous geology on the seafloor. This was kind of a fluke and didn't fit the normal pattern. Having established a method, I calculated the occurrence of a more elementary event, the one that killed the crew of the Mentawai."
"That was off Howland Island, almost dead center in the Pacific Ocean," commented Sandecker.
"Far simpler to compute than the Seymour convergence," said Yaeger as he typed in the data that altered the screen to show four blue lines beginning from Kunghit, Gladiator, Easter and the Komandorskie Islands and meeting off Howland Island. Then he added four additional lines in red. "The intersection of convergence zones that wiped out the Russian fishing fleet northeast of Hawaii," he explained.
"So where do you fix the next convergence-zone inter section?" asked Gunn.
"If conditions are stable for the next three days, the latest death spot should be about here."
The lines, this time in yellow, met nine hundred kilo meters south of Easter Island.
"Not much danger of it striking a passing ship in that part of the ocean," mused Sandecker. "Just to be on the safe side, I'll issue a warning for all ships to detour around the area."
Gunn moved in closer to the screen. "What is your degree of error?"
"Plus or minus twelve kilometers," answered Yaeger "And the circumference where death occurs?"
"We're looking at a diameter anywhere from forty to ninety kilometers, depending on the energy of the sound rays after traveling great distances."
"The numbers of sea creatures caught in such a large area must be enormous."
"How far in advance can you predict a convergence zone intersection?" Sandecker queried.
"Ocean conditions are tricky to predict as it is," replied Yaeger. "I can't guarantee a reasonably accurate projection beyond thirty days into the future. After that; it becomes a crapshoot."
"Have you calculated any other convergence sites beyond the next one?"
"Seventeen days from now." Yaeger glanced at a large calendar with a picture of a lovely girl in a tight skirt sitting at a computer. "February twenty-second."
"That soon."
Yaeger looked at the admiral, a polar-cold expression on his face. "I was saving the worst till last." His fingers played over the keyboard. "Gentlemen, I give you February twenty-second and a catastrophe of staggering magnitude."
They were not prepared for what flashed on the screen. What Sandecker and Gunn saw on the video screen was an unthinkable event they had no control over, an encircling web of disaster that they could see no way to stop. They stared in sick fascination at the four purple lines that met and crossed on the screen.
"There can be no mistake?" asked Gunn.
"I've run my calculations over thirty times," said Yaeger wearily, "trying to find a flaw, an error, a variable that will prove me wrong. No matter how I shake and bake it, the result always comes out the same."
"God, no," whispered Sandecker. "Not there, not of all places in the middle of a vast and empty ocean."
"Unless some unpredictable upheaval of nature alters the sea and atmosphere," said Yaeger quietly,
"the convergence zones will intersect approximately fifteen kilometers off the city of Honolulu."
This President, unlike his predecessor, made decisions quickly and firmly without vacillating. He refused to take part in advisory meetings that took forever and accomplished little or nothing, and he particularly disliked aides running around lamenting or cheering the latest presidential polls. Conferences to build defenses against criticism from the media or the public failed to shake him. He was set on accomplishing as much as possible in four years. If he failed, then no amount of rhetoric, no sugarcoated excuses or casting the blame on the opposing party would win him another election. Party hacks tore their hair and pleaded with him to present a more receptive image, but he ignored them and went about the business of governing in the nation's interest without giving a second thought to whose toes he stepped on.
Sandecker's request to see the President hadn't impressed White House Chief of Staff Wilbur Hutton.
He was quite impervious to such requests from anyone who wasn't one of the party leaders of Congress or the Vice President. Even members of the President's own cabinet had difficulty in arranging a face-to-face meeting. Hutton pursued his job as Executive Office gatekeeper overzealously.
Hutton was not a man who was easily intimidated. He was as big and beefy as a Saturday night arena wrestler. He kept his thinning blond hair carefully trimmed in a crewcut. With a head and face like an egg dyed red, he stared from limpid smoke-blue eyes that were always fixed ahead and never darted from side to side. A graduate of Arizona State with a doctorate in economics from Stanford, he was known to be quite testy and abrupt with anyone who bragged of coming from an Ivy League school.
Unlike many White House aides, he held members of the Pentagon in great respect. Having enlisted and served as an infantryman in the Army and with an enviable record of heroism during the Gulf War, he had a fondness for the military. Generals and admirals consistently received more courteous recognition than dark-suited politicians.
"Jim, it's always good to see you." He greeted Sandecker warmly despite the fact that the admiral showed up unannounced. "Your request to see the President sounded urgent, but I'm afraid he has a full schedule. You needn't have made a special trip for nothing."
Sandecker smiled, then turned serious. "My mission is too delicate to explain over the phone, Will.
There is no time to go through channels. The fewer people who know about the danger, the better."
Hutton motioned Sandecker to a chair as he walked over and closed the door to his office. "Forgive me for sounding cold and heartless, but I hear that story with frequent regularity."
"Here's one you haven't heard. Sixteen days from now every man, woman and child in the city of Honolulu and on most of the island of Oahu will be dead."
Sandecker felt Hutton's eyes delving into the back of his head. "Oh, come now, Jim. What is this all about?"
"My scientists and data analysts at NUMA have cracked the mystery behind the menace that's killing people and devastating the sea life in the Pacific Ocean."
Sandecker opened his briefcase and
laid a folder on Hutton's desk. "Here is a report on our findings.
We call it the acoustic plague because the deaths are caused by high-intensity sound rays that are concentrated by refraction. This extraordinary energy then propagates through the sea until it converges and surfaces, killing anyone and anything within a radius up to ninety kilometers."
Hutton said nothing for a few moments, wondering for a brief instant if the admiral had slipped off the deep end, but only for an instant. He had known Sandecker too long not to take him as a serious, no-nonsense man dedicated to his job. He opened the cover of the report and scanned the contents while the admiral sat patiently. At last he looked up.
"Your people are sure of this%"
"Absolutely," Sandecker said flatly.
"There is always the possibility of a mistake."'
"No mistake," Sandecker said firmly. "My only concession is a less than five percent chance the convergence could take place a safe distance away from the island."
"I hear through the congressional grapevine that you've approached Senators Raymond and Ybarra on this matter but were unable to get their backing for a military strike against Dorsett Consolidated property."
"I failed to convince them of the seriousness of the situation."
"And now you've come to the President."
"I'll go to God if I can save two million lives."
Hutton stared at Sandecker, head tilted to the side, his eyes dubious. He tapped a pencil on his desktop for a few moments, then nodded and stood, convinced that the admiral could not be ignored.
"Wait right here," he commanded. He stepped through a doorway that led to the Oval Office and disappeared for a solid ten minutes. When he reappeared, Hutton motioned Sandecker inside. "This way, Jim. The President will see you."
Sandecker looked at Hutton. "Thank you, Will. I owe you one."
As the admiral entered the Oval Office, the President graciously came from around President Roosevelt's old desk and shook his hand. "Admiral Sandecker, this is a pleasure."
"I'm grateful for your time, Mr. President."
"Will says this is an urgent matter concerning the cause of all those deaths on the Polar Queen."
"And many more."
"Tell the President what you told me," said Hutton, handing the report on the acoustic plague to the President to read while the admiral explained the threat.
Sandecker presented his case with every gun blazing. He was forceful and vibrant. He believed passionately in his people at NUMA, their judgments and conclusions. He paused for emphasis, then wound up by requesting military force to stop Arthur Dorsett's mining operations.
The President listened intently until Sandecker finished, then continued reading in silence for a few more minutes before looking up. "You realize, of course, Admiral, that I cannot arbitrarily destroy personal property on foreign soil."
"Not to mention the taking of innocent lives," Hutton added.
"If we can stop the operations of only one of the Dorsett Consolidated mines," said Sandecker, "and prevent the acoustic energy from traveling from its source, we could weaken the convergence enough to save nearly two million men, women and children who live in and around Honolulu from an agonizing death."
"You must admit, Admiral, acoustic energy is not a threat the government is prepared to guard against.
This is completely new to me. I'll need time for my advisers on the National Science Board to investigate NUMA's findings."
"The convergence will occur in sixteen days," said Sandecker darkly.
"I'll be back to you in four," the President assured him.
"That still leaves us plenty of time to carry out a plan of action," said Hutton.
The President reached out his hand. "Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Admiral," he said in official jargon. "I promise to give your report my fullest attention."
"Thank you, Mr. President," said Sandecker. "I couldn't ask for more."
As Hutton showed him out of the Oval Office, he said, "Don't worry, Jim. I'll personally shepherd your warning through the proper channels."
Sandecker fixed him with a blistering glare. "Just make damned sure the President doesn't let it fall through the cracks, or there won't be anyone left in Honolulu to vote for him."
Four days without water. The sun's unrelenting heat and the constant humidity sucked the perspiration from their bodies. Pitt would not let them dwell on the empty vastness that could depress all physical energy and creative thought. The monotonous lapping of the waves against the boat nearly drove them mad until they became immune to it. Ingenuity was the key to survival. Pitt had studied many shipwreck accounts and knew that too many shipwrecked mariners expired from lethargy and hopelessness. He drove Maeve and Giordino, urging them to sleep only at night and keep as busy as possible during daylight hours.
The prodding worked. Besides serving as the ship's butcher, Maeve tied lines to a silk handkerchief and trailed it over the stern of the boat. Acting as a finely meshed net, the handkerchief gathered a varied collection of plankton and microscopic sea life. After a few hours, she divided her specimens into three neat piles on a seat lid, as if it were some sort of salad-of-the-sea.
Giordino used the harder steel of the Swiss army knife to notch barbs into the hook fashioned from Pitt's belt buckle. He took over the fishing duties, while Maeve put her knowledge of biology and zoology to work, expertly cleaning and dissecting the day's catch. Most shipwrecked sailors would have simply lowered the hook into the sea and waited. Giordino skipped preliminary fish seduction. After baiting the hook with the choicer, more appetizing, to fish at any rate, morsels from the shark's entrails, he began casting the line as if he were a cowboy roping a calf, slowly reeling it in over his elbow and the valley between his thumb and forefinger, jiggling it every meter to give life to the bait. Apparently, finding a moving dinner acted as an enticement to his prey, and soon Giordino hooked his first fish. A small tuna bit the lure, and less than ten minutes later the bonito was reeled on board.
The annals of shipwrecked sailors were rife with tales of those who died of starvation while surrounded by fish, because they lacked the basic skills to catch them. Not Giordino. Once he got the hang of it and sharpened his system to a fine science, he began to pull in fish with the virtuosity of a veteran fisherman. With a net, he could have filled the entire boat in a matter of hours. The water around and beneath the little craft looked like an aquarium. Fish of every size and luminescent color had congregated to escort the castaways. The smallest, vibrantly colored fish came and drew the larger fish that in turn attracted the larger sharks that made an ominous nuisance of themselves by bumping against the boat.
Menacing and graceful at the same time, the killers of the deep glided back and forth beside the boat, their triangular fins cutting the water surface like a cleaver. Accompanied by their entourage of legendary pilot fish, the sharks would roll on their sides as they slid under the boat. Rising on the crest of a swell when the boat was in a trough, they could actually stare down at their potential victims through catlike eyes as lifeless as ice cubes. Pitt was reminded of a Winslow Homer painting, a print of which had hung in a classroom of his elementary school. It was called the Gulf Stream. In the scene a black man was shown floating on a demasted sloop surrounded by a school of sharks, with a waterspout in the background. It was Homer's interpretation of man's uneven struggle against natural forces.
The old tried-and-true method devised by castaways and early navigators of chewing the moisture out of the raw fish was a feature of meals, along with the shark meat dried into jerky by the sun. Their sushi bar was also enhanced by two fair-sized flying fish they found flopping in the bottom of the boat during the night. The oily flavor of fresh, raw fish did not win any gourmet awards with their taste buds, but it went a long way in diminishing the agony of hunger and thirst. Their empty stomachs were appeased after only a few bites.
The need to replenish their body fluids was also lessened
by dropping briefly over the side every few hours while the others kept a sharp eye' out for sharks. The cooling sensation generated by lying in wet clothes under the shade of the boat cover helped fight the misery of dehydration as well as the torment of sunburn. It also helped to dissolve the coating of salt that rapidly accumulated on their bodies.
The elements made Pitt's job of navigating fairly simple. The westerly winds out of the Roaring Forties were carrying them east. The current cooperated and flowed in the same direction. For determining his approximate position, a rough estimate at best, he relied on the sun and stars while using a cross-staff he'd fashioned of two slivers of wood cut from the paddle.
The cross-shaft was a method of determining latitude devised by ancient mariners. With one end of the shaft held to the eye, a crosspiece was calibrated by sliding it back and forth until one end fit exactly between either the sun or star and the horizon. The angle of latitude was then read on notches carved on the stag. Once the angle was established, the mariner was able by crude reckoning to establish a rough latitude without published tables for reference. To determine his longitude-in Pitt's case, how far east they were being driven-was another matter.
The night sky blazed with stars that became glittering points on a celestial compass that revolved from east to west. After a few nights of fixing their positions, Pitt was able to record a rudimentary log by inscribing his calculations on one end of the nylon boat cover with a small pencil Maeve had fortuitously discovered stuffed under a buoyancy tube. His primary obstacle was that he was not as familiar with the stars and constellations this far south as he was with the ones found north of the equator, and he had to grope his way.
The light boat was sensitive to the wind's touch and often swept over the water as if it were under sail.
He measured their speed by tossing one of his rubber-soled sneakers in front of the boat that was tied to a five-meter line. Then he counted the seconds it took the boat to pass the shoe, pulling it from the water before it drifted astern. He discovered that they were being pushed along by the westerly wind at a little under three kilometers an hour. By rigging the nylon boat cover as a sail and using the paddle as a short mast, he found they could increase their speed to five kilometers, or an easy pace if they could have stepped out of the boat and walked alongside.