Jinn tapped the remote, and the screen changed once again.
“Three years ago we began to seed the horde into the eastern quadrant of the Indian Ocean.”
On screen, a small, irregularly shaped triangle appeared near the equator.
“Each year—with your funds—we have seeded further sections. Each year, the horde, as promised, has grown on its own. Two years ago it covered ten percent of the target area.”
The irregular triangle elongated and stretched with the current. A second curving section stretched toward it from the west.
“A year ago it reached thirty percent saturation.”
Another click, another diagram. The two dark smears joined and were spreading across the southern loop of the Indian Ocean current.
“We already know that the rains have become less plentiful in India. Last year’s crop was the lightest in decades. This year they will be waiting on clouds that do not come.”
He clicked the remote one more time. The sparse black swaths had thinned, but a thicker, darker pattern in the central section of the Indian Ocean had grown. Through the natural action of the ocean currents, and Jinn’s manipulation, the horde had become highly concentrated in an area known to oceanographers as a gyre, the center of the Great Whirl. Concentrated this way, it would produce a far stronger effect on the water temperature, and the weather that flowed from it.
“Water temperatures are dropping, but the air temperatures above the sea are increasing, becoming more like the fluctuations one feels over the land,” Jinn said. “The weather patterns are changing course. Already it is raining more than ever in the highlands of Ethiopia and Sudan. After years of drought, Lake Nasser is in danger of exceeding maximum capacity.”
The group seemed impressed. All except Xhou.
“The starvation of India will do none of us any good,” he said. “Aside, perhaps, from Mustafa, who sees them as an old enemy. Our intent is to have grain to sell them when their silos are bare. Which cannot happen unless there is a corresponding change in the rainfall over our own countries.”
“Of course,” Jinn agreed. “But you cannot have the second effect without initially accomplishing the first. Your rain will fall, your worthless dry land will sprout with crops and you will make even greater fortunes than you already have by selling rice and grain to a billion starving people.”
Xhou settled back with a harrumph and folded his arms. He did not appear satisfied.
“The science is simple,” Jinn said. “Six thousand years ago the Middle East, the Arabian peninsula and North Africa were fertile, not dry. They were grasslands, savannahs and tree-covered plains. Then the weather pattern changed and turned them to deserts. The cause of this was a change in ocean currents and the temperature gradients of those currents. Almost any scientist you speak to will confirm this as a fact. We are in the process of changing it back. The first sign of progress was last year. This year will be undeniable.”
Sheik Alhrama of Saudi Arabia spoke next. “How is it no one has spotted your horde? Surely something this large cannot be missed by satellites.”
“The swarm remains below the surface during the day. It keeps the heat from penetrating into the ocean’s lower levels by absorbing it. When night falls, the swarm surfaces and radiates the heat back into the sky. There is nothing to see. A normal satellite picture will show only ocean water. A thermal image will show odd radiation.”
“What about water samples?” Xhou asked.
“Unless it, the horde, is placed in its most aggressive setting, even a sample of water will appear to the naked eye as little more than cloudy, perhaps polluted, water. Unless they are viewed under an extremely powerful microscope, the microbots of the horde cannot be seen individually. There is nothing to give us away. But just in case, we keep an eye on the research ships. The horde steers clear of them.”
“Not all of them.”
Jinn was taken by surprise. He guessed what Xhou was about to say but was surprised he had such information. Then again, one didn’t rise to the top as Xhou had without knowing how to dig up information.
“What is he talking about?” Mustafa asked.
“A small research vessel took us by surprise,” Jinn said. “Americans. They’ve been dealt with.”
Xhou shook his head. “The Americans you speak of come from an organization known as NUMA. The National Underwater and Marine Agency.”
A murmur went through the group, and Jinn sensed he had to control the situation quickly. He needed the next installment of funds or the whole operation would collapse.
“It could not be helped,” he said. “We had no reason to suspect a sailboat with a crew of three. They filed no permits, made no announcements. By the time we realized what they were up to, they were on the verge of discovering the horde. They had already sent data on the temperature gradient back to their headquarters.”
“What happened?” the Sheik asked.
“The horde consumed them.”
“Consumed them?”
Jinn nodded. “In a foraging mode, the horde can devour anything in its path. It’s a part of their program, required for reproduction and self-protection. In this case, it was activated from here.”
Xhou seemed to grow even angrier at hearing this. “You are a fool, Jinn. For each action taken, there is reaction. In this case, NUMA will investigate. They will be angered by the loss of their crew and highly motivated to discover what happened. They have a reputation for being tenacious. I fear you may have succeeded only in waking the dogs.”
Jinn fumed; he despised being questioned in this manner. “We had little choice. Now that the horde is concentrated, it is in a more vulnerable state. If the Americans found it, it’s possible—however unlikely—that action could have been taken before we initiate the final part of our plan, here and now, in this crucial growing season. If that had been allowed to happen, all our efforts would have been for nothing.”
“What’s to stop that in the future?”
Jinn puffed out his chest. “Once the weather pattern has been diverted, the horde can be dispersed again. Through its natural reproduction process it will grow large enough and spread far enough that even a concerted effort by all the world’s nations will be insufficient to destroy it.”
“Where will it go?” Mustafa asked.
“Everywhere,” Jinn said. “Eventually it will spread to all the oceans of the world. We will be able to affect not only the weather over our continents but across every landmass in the world. The rich countries of the world will pay us tribute to provide what they once received for free.”
“And if they attack the horde?” Xhou asked.
“They would have to burn the entire surface of the ocean just to damage it in any significant way. And even if they did, the survivors would reproduce and the horde would come back to life like the forest after a fire.”
The members of the consortium looked around and nodded to one another. They seemed to truly understand the power of the weapon Jinn was wielding. A weapon they had a hand in.
“Jinn has done correctly,” the Sheik said, supporting his Arab brother.
“Agreed,” Mustafa said.
Xhou remained less than satisfied. “We shall see,” he said. “It is my understanding that specialists from NUMA are on their way to Malé to begin investigating. If the horde is still vulnerable because of this concentration, I suggest we disperse it.”
“Now is not the time for that,” Jinn said. “But don’t worry, we know who was on the catamaran and we know who they’re sending to investigate. I have a plan in place to deal with them.”
CHAPTER 5
THE ISLAND OF MALÉ IS THE MOST POPULATED OF THE twenty-six atolls known as the Maldives. In centuries past Malé had been the king’s private island, the citizens living on the other islands spread out across two hundred miles of ocean. Now Malé was the nation’s capital. A hundred thousand people lived on it, packed into less than three square miles.
In contrast to volcanic is
lands like Hawaii or Tahiti, the Maldives have no peaks or rocky outcroppings. In fact, the highest natural point on Malé is only seven feet above sea level, though multistory condos and other buildings sprout in every section of ground right up to the water’s edge.
Flying there from Washington, D.C., was a daylong trip. Fourteen hours to Doha, Qatar, a three-hour layover, which seemed short by comparison, and then another five-hour flight that took great willpower even to board after so much time in the air already. Finally, after all that, travelers touched down at their destination. Sort of.
Malé itself was so small and so built up that no room for an airport remained on the circular-shaped island. To reach it meant landing on the neighboring island of Hulhulé, which was shaped something like an aircraft carrier and pretty much covered entirely by the airport’s main runway.
Aboard a four-engine A380, Kurt watched other passengers grip the armrests with white knuckles as the plane dropped closer and closer to the water. Just as it seemed like the landing gear would clip the waves, solid ground appeared and the big Airbus planted itself on the concrete runway.
“Whoa,” a voice said from beside him.
Kurt looked over. Joe Zavala had been jolted awake by the landing. His short black hair was a little disheveled and his dark brown eyes wide open as if he’d been zapped with a cattle prod. He’d been sound asleep until the wheels hit the ground.
“How about a little warning next time?”
Kurt smiled. “And ruin the surprise? A little adrenaline spike like that will get the day started right.”
Joe looked at Kurt suspiciously. “Remind me not to let you choose my ringtones or alarm. You’d probably pick an air horn or something.”
Kurt laughed. He and Joe had been through a decade of adventures together. They’d been in endless scrapes and fights and faced dozens of moments that loomed like utter disaster until somehow they’d managed to turn the tide, usually at the last second.
Kurt had risked his life many times to pull Joe out of the fire. Joe had done the same for him. Somehow, that gave them the right to needle each other mercilessly in the downtime.
“The way you snore,” Kurt said, “I don’t know if an air horn would do the trick.”
Thirty minutes later, after a quick run through baggage claim and customs, Kurt and Joe found themselves in an open boat, otherwise known as a water taxi, crossing the narrow straight between Hulhulé and Malé.
Kurt was studying the open water. Joe had his nose in a crossword puzzle he’d been working on for half the flight.
“Five-letter word for African cat?” Joe asked.
Kurt hesitated. “I wouldn’t go with tiger,” he replied.
“Really?” Joe said. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure,” Kurt said. “How come you look so tired?”
Joe normally traveled well. In fact, Kurt often wondered if he had some secret handed down from generations of explorers in his family that allowed him to cross a dozen time zones and feel no ill effects of the journey. But right now, there were dark circles under Joe’s eyes, and despite his rangy, athletic physique, Joe looked bushed.
“You were in D.C. when the call came in,” Joe said. “Ten minutes from the airport. I was in West Virginia, with fifteen kids from the youth program. We’ve been running cross-country and doing confidence courses all weekend.”
In his spare time, Joe ran a program for inner-city kids. Kurt often helped with the outings, though he’d missed out on this one.
“Trying to keep up with the teenagers, huh?”
“It keeps me young,” Joe insisted.
Kurt nodded. The fact was they were both athletes. To withstand the rigors of NUMA’s Special Projects branch, one had to be. There was literally no telling what would come their way, only a fairly high probability that it would be strenuous, demanding, and likely to exhaust every last bit of mental and physical energy a man or woman had.
To survive such rigors, both men kept themselves in great shape. Kurt was taller and more lean and agile. He rowed the Potomac or ran nearly every single day. He lifted weights and took tai kwan do, as much for the agility, balance, and discipline as for its value in combat.
Joe was shorter, with broader shoulders and the build of a boxer. He also played soccer in an amateur league and swore he could have gone pro if he’d only been just a little faster. Right now he seemed obsessed with finishing the crossword.
Kurt grabbed the paper out of his hands and tossed it into a basket. “Rest your eyes,” he said. “You’re going to need them.”
Joe stared forlornly at the folded bit of newspaper for a second, shrugged, and then tilted his head back against the headrest. He shut his eyes and began soaking in the warm sun for the ten-minute ride across the strait.
“You come here for vacation?” the water taxi’s pilot asked, trying to make conversation.
In a white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Kurt looked every bit the tourist arriving at an eagerly awaited destination. The taxi driver couldn’t know any different.
“We’re here on business,” he said.
“That’s good,” the man replied. “Lots of business on Malé. What kind do you do?”
Kurt thought about that for a second. It was all but impossible to explain exactly what NUMA’s Special Projects Team did since they basically did a little bit of everything. The truth came to him, simple and quick.
“We solve problems,” he said finally.
“Then you come to the wrong place,” the driver said. “Maldives are paradise. No problems here.”
Kurt smiled. He only wished the man was right.
The transit continued, slow and easy, until the buildings of Malé began to loom in front of them. The taxi moved through the breakwater and slowed. The turquoise color gave way to clear shallow water with only the slightest hint of blue.
As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.
Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the shore, tourists strolled in the sunlight, moving in and out of the shops of the waterfront. A group of men in bright reflective vests worked on a broken section of concrete, stopping mid-project to lean on their shovels and stare at a rather attractive Polynesian woman who walked by.
Kurt really couldn’t blame them. Her lush black hair draped like ink against a sleeveless white top. Her tan face, high cheekbones and full lips glistened in the sun. And while her legs were covered by conservative gray slacks, Kurt had no doubt they were toned and tan like the rest of her.
She ducked into a jewelry store, and both Kurt and the construction workers went back to their respective tasks.
“You ready?” Kurt said.
“As I’ll ever be,” Joe replied.
Kurt pulled on his pack, and the two men hiked up the dock. Two other figures waited for them: a man of great height, nearly six foot eight, with a stern, intense look securely plastered on his face; and a woman with a kind yet mischievous look on her face, blue-green eyes and slightly curly hair the color of red wine. She stood about five foot ten, but she looked petite by the man’s side.
“Looks like the Trouts beat us here,” Kurt said, pointing them out to Joe.
Paul and Gamay Trout were two of their closest friends and invaluable members of the Special Projects team. Her irrepressible spirit and mischievous nature was the yin to his serious, sensible yang.
“Welcome to paradise,” Gamay said. Originally from Wisconsin, she still spoke with a soft midwestern accent.
“You’re the second person to call it that,” Kurt said.
“It’s in the brochure.”
Kurt hugged her and then shook Paul’s hand. Joe did the same.
“How in the world did you guys get here so fast?”
Gamay smiled. “We had a head start. We were in Thailand, sampling some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever tasted.”
&nb
sp; “Lucky you,” Kurt said.
“Do you want to check into the hotel?” Paul asked.
Kurt shook his head. “I want to get a look at the catamaran. They bring it in yet?”
“A rescue boat from the Maldives NDF (National Defense Force) towed it in an hour ago. At our request, they’ve kept it quarantined.”
That was good news. “Then let’s go see what we can find.”
A seven-minute walk took them along the harbor to a jetty manned by a few sailors. Two fast patrol boats were moored just beyond it, while the burned-out hulk of the NUMA catamaran was tied to the dock cleats at its side.
At a small kiosk, Kurt filled out some paperwork and handed over copies of his ID and passport. As they waited for the stamp of approval, Kurt glanced around the dockside and noticed something odd. He kept it to himself for a moment, took his identification back and addressed the man in the uniform.
“Do you speak English?”
“Very much so,” the young man said proudly.
“Tell me,” Kurt continued, “without staring—is there a beautiful brunette in a white blouse watching us from the walkway?”
The guard began to move his head for a better look.
“Without staring,” Kurt reminded him.
He was more cautious this time. “Yes, she’s there. Is she a problem?”
“Not if you don’t mind being followed by beautiful women,” Kurt replied. “Keep an eye on her for us.”
The man smiled. “Gladly,” he said, then added before Kurt could, “without staring.”
“Exactly.”
Kurt left the kiosk. And then he, Joe, and the Trouts went aboard the catamaran.
“What a mess,” Gamay said, hands on her hips.
That it was. Fire had charred and blackened half the boat, melting the fiberglass near the aft, where it must have burned the hottest. Equipment and supplies were strewn everywhere.
“What are we looking for?” Paul asked.
“Anything that tells us what might have happened,” Kurt replied. “Was it an accident or foul play? Were they having continuous problems or did something suddenly go wrong?”
The Storm Page 4