The Storm - Cussler Clive. Страница 54

He and Leilani worked rapidly. The boat was equipped with a half dozen separate handholds and a pair of cleat handles up front. In a minute, the lines of both parachutes were tied off to these eight points and were snapping taut as the chutes billowed out in front of the boat.

They filled like sails, and the boat began to move, pulled along by the two parachutes as if they were a pair of magical horses. As the chutes caught more and more wind, the boat picked up some speed. The deflated parts of the boat kept it from moving as fast as it had with the outboard running, but at least it was going.

Kurt had no idea where a wind in these doldrums had appeared from, but he didn’t care. They were moving again and moving was better than sitting any day.

Gusts blew in, the lines snapped and strained, yanking the boat forward.

“Hang on!” Kurt shouted for at least the third or fourth time that day. “I have a feeling this is going to be a wild ride.”

CHAPTER 42

AQUA-TERRA’S BRIG SAT ON THE LOWEST LEVEL OF THE island that was above the waterline. Now back in their luxury cell, Paul, Gamay and Marchetti were similarly at their absolute lowest. For exactly fifty-three minutes Jinn had kept them cuffed to the rail out in the blazing solar reflection, the swirling gusts and the heat.

Paul Trout had never seen the inside of a tanning booth in his life, but it felt like the observation deck had been turned into just that, with heat and blinding light added for good measure.

It had been a surreal experience as reflections danced across Aqua-Terra in a dizzying, almost hypnotic display. Because the tiny mirrors moved independently on the water, the light they reflected also moved independently, making it impossible to really study the effect. Paul could only get a sense of it, like being in a swirling fog and yet knowing that it was made up of billions of independent molecules of water vapor as opposed to being a single thing.

And as hard as it was to look at the decks and structures around them, it was impossible to look at the ocean for any length of time. To protect his eyes, Paul had kept them shut tight for most of the fifty-three minutes. As a result, his main impression of the ocean’s surface was a glittering mass like an endless sea of diamonds. Low ripples ran through it, brought on by minor swells that hadn’t been present an hour before. Wind currents stirred up by the reflected heat swept across the shimmering surface, making it appear almost like a living thing. It was breathing, moving, waiting. In a way, it was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Eventually the time expired and Jinn had given the order, turning the sea of diamonds gray once again. The bots quickly submerged and the ocean looked like any other throughout the world.

“I feel like I fell asleep on the beach,” Paul said, amazed at how taut and red his skin was.

Across from him, Marchetti paced and occasionally checked the view through the large windows while Gamay sat beside him and attempted to apply some sort of first-aid balm to his split lip and bloody tongue.

“At least we know how they’ve been able to tamper with the water temperature,” Marchetti said.

“Please hold still,” Gamay asked.

She held a swab and some antibacterial ointment from a first-aid kit at the ready, but each time she’d moved in Paul started to speak again.

“Fat lot of good it’ll do us,” he said.

“Paul.”

“I am holding still.”

“Not the part I’m trying to fix.”

Paul nodded and held his mouth open like a patient at the dentist.

Marchetti stopped his pacing. “The question is, what will happen now that they’ve put their plan into overdrive?”

Paul hesitated, waiting as long as he could. “I can tell you exactly what’s going to happen,” he said finally.

Gamay exhaled sharply and pulled back.

“They’re creating a massive column of cold water, with temperatures more at home in the North Atlantic than here in the middle of a tropical sea. Temperature gradients like that are known to intensify or even create storms and cyclones. Not just in the air but under the surface.”

“And once they stop radiating the heat back into the air, the cold water will start absorbing heat from the air above it again,” Marchetti said, “reversing the equation.”

“If this plan continues,” Paul added, “the ambient air temperature will drop rapidly, but only above the one area they’ve affected. The rest of the ocean will still be hot and humid. Have you ever seen what happens when hot and humid air combines with cold?”

“Storms,” Marchetti said.

Paul nodded. “I was in Oklahoma several years back when a cold front blew through after three days of humidity. They had a hundred tornadoes touch down over a three-day period. I’m guessing out here we’ll see one big storm: a tropical depression or a cyclone. We might see a hurricane form all around us.”

Gamay had given up trying to dab Paul’s lip. “But this is the dead zone,” she said. “The storms don’t usually form here. They form to the north and east, and they track toward India. That’s where the monsoons come from.”

Paul considering the implications. “We’re almost on the equator. A storm forming here will track west and get swept up toward Somalia, Ethiopia and Egypt,” he guessed.

“That’s already happening,” Marchetti said. “I read something about record rains in the Sudanese highlands and southern Egypt. The article said Lake Nasser had risen to a level not seen in thirty years.”

Paul remembered hearing something similar. “And that’s probably just the beginning.”

Marchetti was pacing, rubbing his chin with one hand and looking very shaky. “What happens once the air is destabilized into a storm?”

Paul looked off toward the windows, facing southwest. He was recalling lectures on storm generation and the factors that built them. “Hurricanes in the Gulf intensify over hot spots. Jinn’s storms will travel over nothing but that. They’ll steal the heat, moisture and the energy that usually goes into the monsoon. They’ll carry it off like thieves.”

“Leaving India and Southeast Asia unusually dry at this time of year,” Gamay said. “This madman has done what people have sought to do for all eternity: he’s taken control of the weather, turning it away from its normal pattern.”

Marchetti sat down awkwardly. He all but collapsed on the edge of the seat. “And he’s used my design to do it,” he said.

He looked over at them. The billionaire with overflowing confidence was gone, as was the proud designer with the bold ideas and even the rational engineer. All the different personas seemed to vanish before their eyes, leaving only a broken man behind.

“All those people,” he whispered. “A billion people waiting for a monsoon that’s never going to come. I’ll be the worst mass murderer in history.”

Gamay looked as if she were about to jump in and say something to buck Marchetti up. This was the moment when she usually did, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.

Paul gave it a try. “Your legacy isn’t written yet. Alfred Nobel invented dynamite and ran a company that built weapons and armaments, but nobody remembers him for that. And you still have a chance to change the direction of things.”

“But we’re alone,” Marchetti said. “Your friends are gone. No one even knows what’s happening out here.”

Paul looked at Gamay because he shared her grief for their friends and because he loved her and wanted her to feel something more than despair. He squeezed her hands and looked into her eyes. “I know all that,” he said to Marchetti. “But we’ll find a way. First we have to get out of here.”

Gamay smiled a bit. It was a hopeful look, not quite enough to replace all the doubt and pain, but it was a start.

“Any inkling as to how?” Marchetti asked.