by David Dun
The alarm ran off batteries and could not easily be silenced.
"I'm wondering if they've gone for their boat. It's probably in West Sound," Sam said.
"We can't outrun them then," Haley said. "They'll just board us, unless we resist. Then they'll sink us. Assuming that by some miracle we're still afloat."
The alarm continued unabated, reminding them that their bilges were filling.
"The hole is forward," Ben shouted above the din. "When the boat rises with speed, the hole must be above the water-line."
"I've got it floored," Haley shouted back.
"Head south," Sam said, "back toward Friday Harbor. Stay right near the beach."
Haley looked skeptical. "But that's the way they'll be coming."
"I have an idea."
"All right," Haley said. "It'd better be good. Their boat goes about fifty knots; ours goes about fourteen."
Frick tried to get Khan to talk to him, but Khan was too busy shooting.
"I think I may have hit Chase right when he was being picked up," Khan said. "I'm sure I saw blood on the back of the boat. Quite a bit of blood."
The reports slowed, then stopped.
"They're out of range," Khan said, his voice less animated. "Boat's still afloat, but I'm sure I punctured the hull at least once. Probably hit some of them. Headed your way."
"Good." Frick rounded the tip of Orcas and headed into the channel between Orcas and Jones Islands, knowing that around the next point he would find a crippled yacht and the people he desperately needed.
More clouds were moving in and the wind was rising. There would soon be small-craft advisories in the open water if there weren't already. Off to his port, dolphins were cruising along, but they were just humps in the water, disappearing and reappearing.
Frick felt not even a flicker of interest. It took two minutes to round the point. They'd have to be there.
At first the yacht appeared as a white blob on the horizon. It wasn't moving. Perhaps Khan and his men had disabled it, after all. With their combined firepower it was certainly possible.
He glanced down at the rocket launcher, waiting to get within fifty yards. Then he'd blow the bow off and pick off the survivors as the yacht sank. He'd keep Anderson and Haley Walther alive long enough to extract the real meat of the scientist's research. And in a way he would have his revenge on Mr. Chase, because as the guy went lights out, there would be no doubt in his mind as to what would happen to Haley Walther.
At fifty yards he cut the throttle and studied the craft, staying low so as not to take a bullet. They could have a rifle on board. He saw no sign of life. That told him he was facing an ambush. They might not anticipate a rocket launcher, though.
He shouldered the green tube and used the laser sight to put the red dot three feet in from the tip of the bow. He blinked sweat from his eyes despite the chill; he didn't like the quiet. There should be some sign, a gun barrel over the edge, anything. He saw nothing.
Curious, Frick lowered the launcher and glassed the boat. They remained well hidden.
"Damn," he muttered, and pulled the trigger. It was almost instantaneous. The whole boat exploded. In front of his eyes it disintegrated. Had he been closer, he would have been injured.
He saw no swimmers; no one could have survived the blast. The blast was unnatural.
Chase had turned on propane or the like. Then it struck him. This was no ambush. It was misdirection. They had gone ashore and he was wasting time. Frick cursed his mother, his father, God, and, most of all, Robert Chase.
He got on the cell phone.
"Khan."
"Get the men down Deer Harbor Road. They've gone ashore. I'll meet you at the dock.
If we don't find them quick, we'll get the octopus, McStott, and his papers and run."
"I figured they might do that," Khan said. "I already have men on Deer Harbor Road and the back lanes."
Khan was a smart man. They might get them yet.
CHAPTER 42
The Sinclairs were good people, Midwestern stock whose ancestors had been covered-wagon settlers. Retired, they lived year-round on Cormorant Bay Road. It was an idyllic setting, the house painted in pastels from the era of Elvis Presley and a sweeping water view. All they needed was an Edsel. Without a doubt, the Sinclairs were with their children in Seattle for Thanksgiving. Nobody was going to check.
Haley showed Sam the large new RV parked by their home.
"Could be tough to hot-wire," Sam said.
"I don't think you'll have to," Haley said. "They loaned it to us a while back so we could put up some visiting scientists. I know where they have a key inside it, I think. All you gotta do is break in through the side window."
"Oh, my God," Ben groaned. "Have we sunk this low?"
"Some of us have," Haley said. Sam figured she was still a bit pissed about the experimenting on people.
It worked just the way Haley said it would. There was a horn alarm and Sam yanked the wires on the horn. Now they'd stolen an RV, if they couldn't convince somebody that it was borrowed.
They drove the Sinclairs' RV to the end of Deer Harbor Road into a large cul-de-sac.
When they parked at the bottom of the street, the deputies were just arriving and starting to screen people.
Sam and Nelson had gotten the bleeding stopped on Stu's leg and applied a dressing, but Stu was in no condition to go anywhere. Sam took a moment to look out through the RV's curtained windows. Attracted by motion, his eye went to the outer docks, and in the distance he saw someone standing behind a piling. It was Frick, gesticulating and talking with a tall man. Sam recalled the guards at Sanker talking about a second-in-command.
Khan, if he remembered correctly.
Luckily, the RV remained on the far side of the deputies' search wave. A deputy was still a hundred feet off and approaching when Sam, Haley, and Ben made for the boat. The RV started up and headed out. The deputy made no attempt to stop either the RV or Sam's group.
When Sam had almost reached the Whaler, Frick realized what was happening and began screaming, the phone to his ear.
Once in the Whaler, they wasted no time. After casting off, they applied the power, pulling away from the docks and heading to the far side of the bay. Sam saw Frick and Khan each raise a pistol and fire repeatedly. Several bullets hit their craft above the waterline, but none connected with flesh.
Sam turned sharply and headed right for Frick and the sheriff's boat.
"Get down," he shouted at Haley and Ben. Khan seemed to have reloaded quickly. As he took aim, Sam raised the Uzi, hoping it wouldn't misfire. The man's rapid fire drove Sam to the floor and peppered the foredeck of the Whaler, but not before Sam had put a burst under the bow of the San Juan sheriff's boat.
The opposing fire stopped. Reloading, Sam thought.
Swinging the Whaler in a partial turn, Sam put another burst into the Orcas Island deputy's boat as well. It was almost painful to imagine the bullets popping through the aluminum hull.
Sam was almost certain that the Lopez boat was at West Sound Harbor.
Now they had the head start they needed.
Succumbing to exhaustion and the extreme cold of still-sodden clothes, Sam gave Ben the helm and retreated to the Whaler's tiny cabin, where a diesel forced-air heater created momentary nirvana. The others still wore dry clothes, having stepped off the boat and onto shore. After they had lifted the dead captain's body to the beach, Sam had forced himself to take the Alice B. away from the shore and swim one last time.
Sam got naked and dried off; then he lucked out when he found a pair of swimming trunks. No doubt the owner used them when he had to go under the boat and cut a fouled line on the prop. Sam knew he was right about the trunks when he found a diving mask in the next drawer down. He put on the swimsuit, and after he had wrung the water from his clothes, he hung them in front of the heater outlet. He kept the cabin door open so that he could hear Haley and Ben. The size of the boat was such that he sat only two fee
t away from the helm.
Haley had clearly gotten over the hurt of Ben's keeping secrets from her. She nuzzled against Ben while he touched her hair. As if reading Sam's mind, she told Ben, "I forgive you."
Ben's craggy face broke into a half-smile. "But I haven't asked for forgiveness."
She punched his thigh. "I'll give it to you just the same."
Ben put his hand on hers, and she unclenched the fist, hugging him harder.
"I've always been a bit of a renegade. In the end the government won't care that I bought these men more time than their genetics had ordained. The bureaucrats will huff and puff and then want the secret. It's the way things are."
"Can't you tell me how you did it?" Haley said.
"Did what?"
"Don't be coy." She pulled away and looked in Ben's eyes. "Used Arcs to lengthen human life. Everything."
"Essentially," Ben said, "we looked at the problems that humans have and that Arcs don't. We then tried to think of ways to emulate the DNA protection that Arcs enjoy. It's counterintuitive because we burn oxygen, and oxidation destroys our DNA. Arcs don't use oxygen."
"People rust. Arcs don't. Right?"
"Exactly." Ben smiled. "But it gets complicated quickly when you try to understand why."
While Sam listened, he glanced at the nearly flat wake as they passed Reef Island in the Wasp group. Even the small islands had trees and one a resident hawk, another an eagle.
There was no sign of any boat following yet. Sam imagined Frick cursing two leaking sheriff's boats and a third coming all the way around from West Sound. Though the leaking boats would still float, they'd be slowed significantly; each bullet hole would be a fountain-at speed, a geyser.
"The simple answer is that we activated a gene," Ben was saying. "Human mitochondria, it turns out, have an extra crumb of DNA that's not functional. In the Arc it is functional. We activated it in humans with an Arc peptide that controls the production of the Arc protein. Kind of like a hormone-which is just how it acts in humans."
"Is that what you were doing with the vat?" Haley asked. "Making Arc hormone?"
"Mm-hmm. We found this unusual gene in a deep-mud/ deep-ocean Arc. At least we think so. I'll get to that in a moment. There was no point in trying to grow those particular Arcs, because they live under tremendous pressure and they reproduce very slowly."
"So you used a related Arc species and changed its genetic makeup to include the Arc gene you wanted?" Haley guessed.
"Very good. The Arc we used reproduces much faster. That's why we have the vat in the cave. It grows Arcs in an oxygen-free environment in three atmospheres of pressure- the equivalent of one hundred feet underwater."
Haley leaned forward for more, the eager protegee completely absorbed in the scientific process.
"Part of the joke there is that we had thousands and thousands of Arc genes from numerous drilling rigs, all brought up under pressure. Through an unfortunate string of circumstances we don't know exactly where the magic gene came from."
"You mean you have the Arc, but you don't know where to find more?"
"It's not even that good. Now all we have is yet another Arc species that has been genetically modified to contain the original special Arc gene."
"These would be the Arcs you kept a sample of?"
"Right," Ben said. "Unlike their deep-sea cousins, these Arcs can be mass-produced somewhat quickly, and I do have a supply of the necessary peptide in a Seattle lab. But that's just the product. The only place I have the gene that produces the peptide is in the genetically engineered Arc."
Sam wondered whether Ben had hidden the flask of the genetically engineered Arcs on his person or elsewhere. As if reading his mind, Haley asked that very question of Ben.
Ben smiled and opened his coat and removed what looked to be a custom-made flask. It was roughly two inches thick, flat in appearance, and a little larger in surface area than a phone book. It could be strapped to Ben's chest using shoulder straps.
"Of course, having this on me," Ben said, "leaves me with an obvious problem. I can't have Frick catching us and somehow getting these." He patted the flask. "That's the first problem. Frick aside, I have no place to multiply them at the moment. And no idea where to find the original Arc that naturally carries the gene."
"But you found them once," Haley said.
"Yes, and I'm sure someone will find them again," Ben said. "Most of the Arcs were in the North Sea, but others came from off South America, southern California, and even from below stagnant freshwater ponds."
Haley didn't look like she wanted to believe in the enormity of the task. "There must be some way to trace… I mean forensics.. mud…?"
"All long gone, and nothing saved. Everything's gone now, except what's in the flask,"
Ben said, "and if for any reason we can't mass-produce it, we could spend the next one hundred years looking for the special Arc, the original, and still never find it."
Haley groaned. "The Sargasso stew. That's why you want a Venter-like system, to sort through gazillions of Arc genes."
"You got it."
Carefully Ben handed the heavy flask to Haley. After she had examined it for a moment, Ben spoke again, his tone different. "Maybe I should lose these Arcs."
Haley cradled the container in her hands. "You don't think the world's ready for it."
"Look at us. Look at Frick, willing to murder. Look at the subjects, moved to kidnapping by their paranoia. Who can you trust? The government?"
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Sam knew there was an underlying, damnable truth. Humankind could sometimes only take so much good stuff; then it had to digest it before it could advance. Like nuclear energy, for example. During the digestion, just about anything could happen, and it usually wasn't good.
"We discovered antibiotics without murder and mayhem," Haley said as if reading Sam's mind.
"I'm afraid the fountain of youth has a lot more food for greed and the lust to live, than do ordinary discoveries. Antibiotics only cure a disease until the next resistant disease or aging gets you."
Haley remained silent, as did Ben. The Whaler was now just south of the Wasp Islands.
Sam stepped out of the cabin and scanned the horizon for a moment. Still no sign of a sheriff's boat. There were breaks in the overcast and with them came a little sun.
"We read about the manifesto," Sam said, breaking the silence. "No surprise that the government wouldn't play ball, but I'm curious about the thinking behind your manifesto."
Ben sighed and sat back in his seat, looking as if he'd suddenly aged a bit.
"Nelson called me an idealist. I suppose he's right. It was beautiful, at least to me."
"What?" Haley asked, turning to face him and putting her hand on his knee.
Ben shrugged and snorted a small laugh. "Everything. Nothing. You read about methane mining, other alternative-energy sources, energy potential, and the risks involved. Yes?"
They both nodded. "Some of it, we tried to learn; there's a lot of material," Haley said.
"Did you read about the other alternative-energy sources, like tidal, methane from coal mines, and solar?"
They shook their heads.
"Well, you couldn't be expected to find it all in twenty-four hours. It's an extensive and grand scheme. For me, it was a beautiful integration, like the symmetry of a snowflake.
The secrets of the Archaea. ARCLES means abundance, replenishment, climate, longevity, energy, and security. It's a global cycle, and it begins with mining the methane and other alternative-energy sources. You do that in a planned way, with government oversight, and you not only get massive energy benefits, but you reduce the long-term risk of methane eruptions. Everybody agrees that greenhouse effect is going to materialize if you put enough junk in the air; it's just a question of whether it has started yet to cause global warming. To me, that's not the issue.
"Anyway, back to the point. Greenhouse
gases will be an issue if we keep emitting volumes of CO. If methane escapes in abundance, the CO will be a bigger issue. We need to learn to cope with it.
"We must get over the notion that if it's natural, it's good. Polio is natural; cancer is natural; tsunamis, volcanoes, earthquakes and forest fires are natural; ice ages are natural. We're moving into the age where humankind must begin to act as the custodian of its environment. It requires thoughtful leaders. Probably an oxymoron."
"We read about possible thermonuclear methane release." Ben waved his hand as if to dismiss it. "Good political talk to stimulate methane research. Some of the guys calculated that one well-placed nuclear device in the right deep-sea trench could start a chain reaction of methane release, but in the end I didn't think this was the key risk for our planet. After all, it's hard to heat enough water or change enough water pressure or salinity even with an atomic weapon. No… the risk is elsewhere."
"We read about asphyxiation, conflagrations," Haley said.
"I'm not a big believer in the instantaneous, all-at-once methane release theory.
Although I believe it happens, and could theoretically happen perhaps from deep-sea events like volcanoes or the giant hot-vent system under the ocean undergoing a change, as it has in the past. These natural furnaces can really heat water and it only takes a few degrees and the changing of ocean currents and the like-not many realize it, but a five-degree change in ocean temperatures could release half the methane on the planet.
Startling.
"But more likely than quick release in a matter of days, I think-given our knowledge of history and prehistory-is that the methane will be released more gradually. Is being released gradually. Global warming has already started or will start if our emissions continue. We have cars running all over the planet, and at some point.." Ben shrugged.
"So the methane release would only exacerbate it. Once atmospheric warming starts, it triggers more methane release. It's a potentially bad cycle.
"I think the real catastrophe is climate change, though it will happen over time-slowly, in human time."
"Will mining the methane help?" Haley asked.