The crashing waters at the base of the vortex produced a rolling thunder, as if a hundred lightning storms were in progress. The clamor was amplified by the megaphone shape of the whirlpool. Even more terrifying were the loud snorts and chortles that came from the bottom, as if the Zodiac were being drawn into the hungry maw of a giant pig.
The Zodiac and its two passengers had slipped about two-thirds of the way down the steep sides of the funnel. As the cone narrowed in diameter, the speed of the whirling current increased until the inflatable boat spun around like a scrap of lettuce headed down the kitchen drain.
The lower the boat descended, the darker the stygian atmosphere around them became. The thick mists being churned up at the bottom of the whirlpool had thickened and further cut down the meager sunlight from the surface. Both Trouts were suffering from vertigo induced by the constant spinning. The moisture-soaked air would have been hard to breathe even without the choking exhalations from the pit: a foul combination of brine, fish, dead things and muck that smelled like the inside of a fisherman's boot.
The boat had remained at the same slanting attitude with its bottom parallel to the side of the vortex. Gamay and Paul sat side by side, so close they seemed to be joined at the hip. They were holding on to the boat's safety line, and to each other. They were numb with exhaustion from riding in a half-standing, half-sitting position, with their bodies angled and feet wedged under the lower pontoon. Moisture had seeped in around their rain gear, soaking their clothes, and the cold added to their misery.
At their accelerating rate of descent, it was clear that their suffering would end soon. They were minutes away from plunging into the thickest part of the billowing mists. Gamay glanced upward for one last look at the sun. She blinked, unable to believe her eyes.
A man was dangling above the Zodiac. He was silhouetted against the dull sunlight, and she couldn't make out his face, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders.
Kurt Austin.
He hung from a line attached to the helicopter. He'd been waving his arm and shouting himself hoarse, but the noise from the whirlpool had drowned out his voice as well as the sound of the whirling rotors.
Camay dug her elbow into Paul's side. He managed a grim smile when he followed her pointing finger with his eyes and saw Austin doing his Peter Pan imitation above their heads.
The helicopter was matching the Zodiac's speed around the inside of the whirlpool. In an amazing example of stunt flying, Zavala flew the chopper at a banking angle to keep its rotors from touching the funnel's watery walls. A miscalculation, a drift of a few feet, and the helicopter would come crashing down on the Zodiac in a whirl of broken rotors.
The rescue had been hastily improvised. As the helicopter descended into the whirlpool, Austin had spotted a small flash of bright yellow more than halfway down the side of the funnel. He recognized Trout's foul-weather gear immediately and pointed it out to Zavala.
The helicopter chased after the whirling Zodiac like a cop pursuing a speeding car. Austin quickly tied a series of man-harness hitches in the rescue line. He had his foot in one of these loops and his hand in another as he swung back and forth in the turbulence caused by the rotor downwash and the updraft from the whirlpool.
Trout motioned for Gamay to go first. She waved at Austin to signal that she was ready. The helicopter dropped lower until the bottom loop of the ladder was about a foot from her outstretched hands.
Austin had climbed to the lower end of the makeshift ladder in the hope that his weight would stabilize it. But the line still jerked and snapped like a bullwhip.
The lifeline grazed Camay's fingertips, only to evade her grasp. She tried two more times to grab the loop, but the same thing happened. In a desperate move, she stretched her body to every inch of its five-foot-eight height and pulled herself up until she was onto the higher pontoon.
The line came down again. She balanced herself precariously, threw her hands up like a volleyball player trying a block and this time she grabbed the lower loop with both hands.
She became airborne. With the weight of two people holding it down, the line became more stable. She hung on with one hand, grabbed the next loop and pulled herself higher. The rope spun as she climbed, increasing the effects of vertigo.
She faltered for a moment and might have fallen, but Austin saw that she was in trouble. He reached down, grabbed her wrist and hauled her to the next loop. She raised her chin, saw Austin's fierce grin a few feet above her and mouthed a silent thanks.
With the bottom loop free, it was Trout's turn to abandon the Zodiac. He reached above his head to signal that he was ready. The line dropped to within inches of his outstretched hand. As Trout went to grab the line, turbulence battered the helicopter, and it shifted toward the slanting water wall. Trout's fingers grasped at air, and he almost lost his balance.
Zavala had been struggling to compensate for the added weight on one side of the chopper. With a cool hand at the controls, he moved the helicopter back into position. Trout concentrated his full attention on the lowest loop, estimated its distance, then, using the springiness in the pontoon of the rubberized boat, he lunged up and grabbed the line. He held on to the single loop with one hand, unable to grab on to a higher handhold as he twisted in the wind.
The helicopter began a slow, steady ascent, moving up at an angle roughly parallel to the whirlpool's sloping side. The water walls fell away as the aircraft gained altitude. They had reached the funnel's midpoint when the Zodiac made one last revolution around the funnel and disappeared into the seething cauldron. Soon the helicopter was even with the water level at the surface, then above it. Zavala began to move the helicopter laterally, away from the vortex.
Trout had been unable to pull himself up to another loop. He still dangled with one outstretched arm. His fingers were raw from rope burn. He felt as if his elbow socket would pop at any second. Throughout the entire ascent, he had twisted at the end of the swinging line.
Zavala was trying to balance the need to put distance between the helicopter and the whirlpool with the added strain that would be placed on his human cargo by an increase in the chopper's speed.
The helicopter was about two hundred feet from the whirlpool's edge when Trout's strength gave out. He lost his grip and fell into the sea, hitting the water with a mighty splash.
He was fortunate that he hit the surface feetfirst. His legs cushioned the shock, but his knees came up into his chest and knocked the wind out of his lungs. He plunged several feet under the surface before the buoyancy in his flotation vest took hold. He came up spitting seawater. Trout didn't think his body could get much colder, but the frigid Atlantic immediately penetrated to his bones.
Zavala had felt a slight jounce when the load lightened and suspected he had lost one of his passengers. He brought the helicopter around in a banking turn, hovered for an instant, then dropped down so his friend could reach the rope ladder. For the second time that day, Trout was reaching for the rope. But as his stiff, sore fingers came within inches of the loop, he found himself dragged away by a strong current. Trout was a strong swimmer who had been around the ocean all his life, but the more he stroked, the farther from the rope he found himself.
The helicopter tried to keep pace.
The current was pulling Trout with such force that he found it impossible to stay in place long enough to reach for the loop. Time and again, he tried. He was rapidly drawn back to the edge of the whirlpool, sucked into the ring of breakers and swept under the wall of foam.
It was all he could do to keep his head above water to breathe. The whirlpool seemed to be trying to drag back at least one of the humans who had the audacity to escape its clutches.
The current carried him around the rim. Trout struggled to keep his head above water in the surflike conditions around the whirlpool.
Austin had no intention of giving up on his friend. He pulled himself up the line hand over hand and back into the helicopter. Then he braced his legs,
grabbed the rope in two hands and hauled Gamay aboard.
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then threw the line back through the open door and climbed down to the end of the crude ladder.
Zavala was following Trout around the frothing rim. Again he brought the helicopter down until the rope was close enough for Trout to reach. Trout made a feeble grab for the line but it again eluded his grasp.
Austin guessed that Trout was too exhausted to pull himself out. He saw Gamay peering anxiously down at him from the helicopter. He gave her a wave, took a deep breath and jumped from the helicopter.
He came down in the water several feet from Trout and stroked his way closer to his friend. Trout croaked like a bullfrog with a bad cold:
“What... the ... hell ... are ... you ... doing ... here?”
“You looked like you were having fun, so I thought I'd join you.”
“You're crazy!”
Austin gave him a soggy grin. He struggled to buckle their flotation vests together. With that task finally accomplished, he looked up and saw the helicopter swooping back and forth over their heads.
Austin waved, and Zavala brought the helicopter in for another rescue attempt. After several tries, Austin saw that he would have to have the speed of a rattlesnake to grab the flapping rope. The cold water had sapped his energy, and he knew there was little chance he'd be able to pull them both from the water. But he kept on trying for the line, and didn't notice right away that something odd was occurring.
They were moving more slowly around the whirlpool. The angle of the water in the great watery pit was less steep than it had been. He thought it was his imagination, or simply an optical illusion, but after a moment or two he saw that the bottom of the whirlpool was rising, giving the gyre a bowl shape.
Around the rim of the gyre, the raging circle of breakers seemed to be subsiding. The water was dropping back to ordinary sea level.
The bottom continued to rise. At the same time, their forward motion slowed, until they were moving at the pace of a walk.
Zavala had seen the change in the whirlpool's configuration, and once more brought the helicopter in low over the struggling figures.
Austin felt a surge of adrenaline-fueled energy. He reached up and his fingers closed around the line. Gamay was tending it and giving him plenty of slack. His cold, fumbling fingers slipped the line under Trout's armpits, then around himself, and he signaled Zavala to haul them out.
As they rose above the wavetops, Austin could see the NOAA ship and the Throckmorton cutting the distance in their direction.
He glanced down, and his eyes grew wide at the sight that greeted them. The whirlpool had virtually vanished, and in its place was a great, dark circle of slowly rotating water filled with every kind of ocean debris imaginable.
At the center of the puckered area was a massive bubbling, like that made when a scuba diver is about to surface, only much bigger. Then the water rose in a greenish white mound, and a huge object emerged from the sea and wallowed in the waves.
In its death throes, the maelstrom had disgorged a ship.
NUMA 6 - Polar Shift
11
THE LA-250 RENEGADE AMPHIBIOUS airplane had followed the rocky Maine coast to Camden, where it wheeled above a line of swanlike windjammers leaving the picturesque harbor and then headed east over Penobscot Bay. Its destination was a pear-shaped island easily identified by the candy-striped red-and-white lighthouse that stood on a high promontory at its narrower end.
The plane made a water landing near the lighthouse and taxied up to a mooring buoy. Two men got out of the plane, climbed into an outboard skiff that was tied up at the mooring and headed toward a wooden dock, where a cigarette boat and a forty-eight-foot schooner were tied up. They left the skiff and walked along the dock to a steep flight of stairs that led up the side of a rugged cliff. The bright Maine sunshine reflected off Spider Barrett's shaved head and colorful tattoo. Barrett looked as if he could single-handedly cause a biker riot. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt that revealed thick arms covered with skull tattoos. His eyes were hidden behind round-framed, reflecting blue sunglasses. A gold ring dangled from one ear, he had a silver stud in his nostril and an Iron Cross hung from a silver chain around his neck.
The Hell's Angel look was deceiving. Although Barrett owned a fortune in classic Harley-Davidson motorcycles, he was an honors graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology where he had majored in quantum physics.
The pilot was named Mickey Doyle. He was a compactly built man who looked like a walking sports bar. He wore a Celtics T-shirt and a New England Patriots zippered sweatshirt. A Red Sox baseball cap was jammed down on a thatch of unruly hair the color of carrot juice. He was chewing on a thick cigar stub. Doyle had grown up in tough, working-class South Boston. He had a quick, street-smart intelligence and antic Irish sense of humor, and a disarming smile that charmed the unwary but failed to soften the hardness in his blue eyes.
A man carrying an automatic rifle materialized from a thicket of low-growing blueberry bushes. He was dressed in a camouflage uniform and wore a black beret at a rakish angle. He gave the two men a hostile stare, jerked the gun barrel toward the base of the cliff and followed a few paces behind, his weapon cradled in his arm.
At the foot of the bluff, the guard clicked a remote and a door disguised as rock facing opened. On the other side was an elevator that whisked them up to the lighthouse.
As they stepped from the lighthouse they saw Tristan Margrave, who had been chopping wood and stacking it into a neat pile. He put his ax down, waved the armed man away and walked over to greet the newcomers with a handshake.
“So much for my peace and quiet,” he said, a mock frown on his thin, satanic face.
He was taller than the other two men by a foot. Although his hands were callused from cutting wood, he was neither a laborer nor a New York Times reporter named Barnes, as he had introduced himself to the detective Frank Malloy. He had met Barrett at MIT, where he had graduated with a degree in advanced computer science. Working together, they had developed innovative software that had made them millionaires many times over.
Barrett watched the departing guard disappear into the trees. “You didn't have the guard dog the last time I was here.”
“Guy from the security company I hired,” Margrave said dismissively. “There's a contingent of them camped farther down the island. Gant and I thought it might be good to hire them.”
“And what Gant wants, Gant gets.”
“I know you don't like the guy, but Jordan is vital to our efforts. We need his foundation to negotiate the political agreements we're going to get after our work is done.”
“Lucifer's Legion not good enough for you anymore?”
Margrave chuckled. “My so-called legion began to fall apart as soon as there was any hint of discipline. You know how anarchists hate authority. I needed professionals. They call themselves 'consultants' these days, and charge an arm and a leg for their services. He was just doing his job.”
“What is his job?”
“To make sure no unauthorized visitors come onto the island.”
“Were you expecting visitors?”
“Our enterprise is too important to fail.” Margrave grinned. “Hell, what if someone saw a guy with a spider tattoo on his head and began asking questions?”
Barrett shrugged and glanced at the woodpile. “Glad to see you're living your retro philosophy, but cutting all those logs would be a lot easier with a chain saw. I know you can afford one.”
“I'm a neo-anarchist, not a neo-Luddite. I believe in technology when it's for the good of mankind. Besides, the chain saw is broken.” He turned to the pilot. “How was the flight from Portland, Mickey?”
“Smooth. I flew over Camden, hoping the pretty sailboats would cheer your partner up.”
“Why should he need cheering up?” Margrave said. “He's about to enter the pantheon of science. What's going on, Spider?”
&
nbsp; “We've got problems.”
“That's what you said on the phone. I thought you were kidding.”
Barrett gave him a bleak smile. “Not this time.”
“In that case, I think we all need a drink.” Margrave led the way up a flagstone walkway that led to the big, two-story, white clapboard building attached to the lighthouse.
When Margrave bought the island three years earlier, he had decided to preserve the keeper's house as it had been in the days when it quartered the taciturn men who manned the lonely station. The pine-board walls had bead-board wainscoting, and the worn linoleum flooring was original, as were the slate sink and hand pump in the kitchen.
Margrave gave Doyle's shoulder a squeeze. “Hey, Mickey, Spider and I have some stuff to discuss. There's a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the pantry. Rustle up a couple of drinks, like a good fellow. There's beer in the fridge for you.”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” the pilot said with a grin and a brisk salute.
The other two men ascended a painted wrought-iron spiral staircase to the second floor. The upper level, which once housed bedrooms for the keeper and his family, had been gutted to create one large room.
The clinical minimalist decor stood in stark contrast to the preservation on the ground floor. A laptop computer sat on a black teak table on one side of the room. A chrome-and-leather sofa and a couple of armchairs were the only furniture on the other side. Windows on three walls offered views of the island, with its tall pine trees, and the sparkling waters of the bay. Flowing through the open windows was the salty scent of the sea.
Margrave motioned Barrett into the sofa and settled into a chair. Doyle arrived a few minutes later and served the drinks. He popped a can of Budweiser for himself and took a seat at the table.
Margrave raised his glass in a toast. “Here's to you, Spider. The bright lights of New York City will never be the same. Too bad your genius must go unrecognized.”
“Genius had nothing to do with it. Electromagnetism runs almost every part of our lives. Fiddle around with the magnetic fields and it's easy to mess stuff up.”