Deep Fire Rising

SANTORINI, GREECE

In the moments between sleep and consciousness, in the blending of the dream world and the real, there was a moment of clarity where Mercer often found inspiration. He was not yet aware of his surroundings — that was a minute away — but his mind felt unimpeded and open to new ideas. Without realizing why, he played back his conversation with Tisa about chi forces and locus points. Then that scene became over-dubbed with his own words to Ira Lasko a scant twenty-four hours earlier. They were talking about global warming and Mercer told his boss that the planet had rhythms and cycles we had yet to detect.

It seemed that he and Tisa had been discussing the same concepts, only she had a name for it. He’d dismissed her philosophy as Eastern legends and New Age bunk, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was the very same thing he believed, that we know more about outer space than our own planet and momentous discoveries await us if only we took the time to look.

And then the thoughts diverged once again, leaving him with two separate ideas that couldn’t be reconciled. That was his last thought before coming fully awake.

The light pouring into the room was pearly and wan. With the room’s door open, the air tasted fresh with the scent of the sea. As his eyes adjusted he saw Tisa on the balcony. Because the deck was screened on three sides and open only to the ancient volcanic caldera, she stood completely nude as she made the slow, balanced moves of the Tai Chi ritual, her supple body twisting in lissome poses. As he watched, his mind flashed back to their exploits during the night. He felt a familiar stirring.

Tisa’s moves became more complex, and intense. Soon she deviated from Tai Chi to commence her morning contortion exercises. She’d taken the quilt from the bed so she could practice more freely. As she moved, Mercer became entranced. She exercised without guile, but he found the poses increasingly erotic. At one point only the crown of her head and the tips of her toes remained on the ground as she formed a backward arch. Her skin was stretched across her torso and her breasts rode high and proud. He could not hold back a moan.

Tisa flipped around as agile as a cat, peering over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide and mischievous. “I was wondering when you’d notice me out here.” She swung up to her feet and sauntered to the bed. She dropped next to him and her hand disappeared under the covers. “So it is true. Men do have a thing for limber women.”

“Limber, hell. Some of what you were doing would shame Gumby.”

She bent and kissed him deeply, her lips soft against his. Mercer reached for her and dragged her into the bed. Her body had cooled from her exercises but quickly warmed against his and soon became almost hot to the touch.

It was another hour before they got out of bed. Tisa left Mercer in the shower so she could go to her own hotel and gather her things. They would meet at ten for brunch. When she returned, Mercer lounged on the terrace, a Bloody Mary at hand to ease the lingering effects of too much ouzo. She’d left her luggage with the concierge and carried only a beach bag.

She took a proprietary sip of Mercer’s drink. “Fur of the cat?”

He smiled. “Hair of the dog.”

“Ah, that’s right. English is an easy language to speak but has too many idioms.”

“What is your native language? If you don’t mind my asking, what is your ethnic background?”

“I grew up speaking Vietnamese at home. My father was half Vietnamese and half French. My mother was from Paris. In the village where I was born, the native language was a blend of Tibetan and Chinese.”

“You were born in China?”

“At Rinpoche-La,” she answered as if he should have known. “How do you think I know so much about Zhu and the archive and the oracle? I was raised to be a watcher until my mother fled the village with my half brother and me. I returned when I was eighteen.”

“Why?”

Tisa paused. “You must understand the size of the Order. Literally millions of people support us in one form or another. We control yoga studies, temples, and special schools. We also run organic farms on four continents. Go into any specialty food store in the United States and I can show you dozens of products that are produced by Order-owned companies. Most people who work for us have no idea. A yoga instructor in Miami pays a franchise fee to a company in California, who then pays a fee to another corporation in a country with loose banking laws. Eventually the money ends up in our coffers and no one knows we even exist.”

“That’s where the money for the tower came from?”

“Partially. Any group that lasts for as long as we have is usually wealthy beyond measure. If someone invests a dollar when they’re a child, it’s worth thousands when they retire, right? Now expand that scenario to span generations.”

“We’re talking millions.”

“Billions, actually.”

“You returned to be part of all that?” Mercer prompted after Tisa lapsed into silence.

“I returned because I was stupid and spiteful. I was never really happy in Paris. Rinpoche-La was a village of a thousand people and I was the daughter of an important man. In Paris I was another half-breed left over from France’s colonial past. I was isolated and lonely. There were a few people in the city who knew my identity. They were some high-ranking members of the Order. Because of my father they treated me as an object of veneration, not a person.

“Naturally, like any headstrong teenager I blamed my mother for all misery. When I was old enough, I sent word to my father that I wanted to join him. He arranged everything.”

“That must have been painful for your mother.”

“Doubly. My half brother had already returned to Rinpoche-La a couple of years earlier. She died a short time later in a train accident never knowing how sorry I was.” Behind her glasses Tisa’s eyes were wet. “I think we should talk about something happier than my childhood.”

“From the sound of it that should be easy. How about the violence in the Middle East? Or maybe world famine?”

She understood Mercer’s sense of humor. A smile touched her trembling lips. “What about the AIDS crisis? Much happier.”

“I do have one more question for you,” Mercer said seriously. “When we met, you told me how you knew about me and the work I’ve done.”

“Yes,” she answered cautiously.

“Why? I mean why me in particular? There are hundreds of prospecting geologists.”

Tisa paused. “When I rejoined my father at Rinpoche-La, my first job for the Order was to collect information about large-scale mining operations. It was part of our efforts to determine how much human development was affecting the earth’s chi. Over the course of a few years I saw your name come up again and again. I was a bit intrigued about how you were at the epicenter of so much work. While I’ve followed the careers of many mining engineers, I think I paid special attention to yours. More than anyone else I came across I saw you balance humanity’s need for raw materials with a sense of environmental awareness.”

“There are a few dozen conservation groups who’d disagree with you,” demurred Mercer.

She made a face. “Most of whom are so misguided they don’t think we even need raw materials. Like I said there’s a balance and I believe that on this issue your views parallel mine. I know you’ve refused jobs that others greedily took because you felt the damage far outweighed the benefit.”

“Or maybe they weren’t offering enough money,” Mercer countered, just to hear her reaction.

“You’re being disingenuous.”

He grinned. “Okay, you found my dirty little secret. I’m not a corporate money grubber after all.”

Tisa’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I wouldn’t go that far. How about a money grubber with a heart?”

The rest of the day passed in a sweet blur of meandering strolls and aimless conversations. They blocked out everything but themselves and the perfection of the island. For Mercer only one thing marred the day. It seemed that ten times an hour Tisa would ask him the time. She did not wear the watch he’d given her, which he didn’t mind, but her obsession with time was something he couldn’t understand.

They were sitting on a quiet beach on the eastern coast of Santorini when she asked yet again and he told her it was quarter of five. She bit her lip, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Mercer knew that their idyllic escape was at an end.

“We have to go,” she said sadly. “It’s almost time for you to see your proof.” She placed her hands on each side of Mercer’s face. “I want you to know that today was the most enjoyable I’ve had in a long time. I can forget so much when I’m with you.”

“Tell me what’s so horrible that you have to forget, Tisa.”

She released him and got to her feet, brushing sand from her backside. “You’ll know in a little while.”

They found a taxi in the village of Monolithos and negotiated a fare back to Fira to pick up their luggage and take them to the city’s main dock south of town. The road hugged the cliff and descended to sea level in a dizzying string of switchbacks. The narrow tract was clogged with trucks climbing up from the dock. The vehicles were laden with produce and supplies that kept the island habitable. Teens on rented motorcycles darted between the trucks and tore up the road, their whining exhaust echoing off the mountains. The driver cursed one particular biker who came around a blind curve in his lane as he overtook a lumbering ten-wheeled truck. The silver bike juked back into his own lane with inches to spare.

Tisa turned to Mercer. “I read that at the height of the tourist season there’s a motorcycle accident every day on Santorini and a death at least once a week.”

“To a kid only old people are mortal.”

They rounded another curve and could see the open dock far below. Beyond ranks of shipping containers a ferry even larger and older than the one that had brought Mercer here disgorged a stream of cars and trucks while an equally long line of vehicles waited their turn to board. The double-ended ferry had the battered appearance of a veteran New York taxicab. Her paintwork had been faded by years in the fierce sun and she had fared poorly in her fight against the tough Aegean storms. Her lines were boxy and blunt and her flanks were deeply scarred by careless captains who used her bulk in port to push aside other craft.

Because her forward loading ramp gaped open, she reminded Mercer of a bloated fish trapped on a beach and gasping for air.

“Looks like they’re running late,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“What does it matter? It’ll take a half hour to load all those cars.”

“Please.”

“It’s six fifteen.”

Tisa ticked off on her fingers as she made a mental calculation. She let out a relieved breath. “We’ll be okay as long as we’re not too late shoving off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Proof, dear doctor. Your proof.”

Tisa had to pay the cabbie because last night Mercer had given the hundred dollars’ worth of drachmas to the couple that ran the restaurant as appreciation for the sumptuous meal.

“So where are we going?” he asked as they joined the line of people at the amidships passenger ramp loading.

“I think the ferry’s next port of call is Crete, but I’m not sure.”

The vague answer made little sense to Mercer. “You don’t know where this proof of yours is?”

“Oh, it’s right here on Santorini, but the best way to see it is from a distance.”

On board, Mercer and Tisa stashed their meager luggage in one of the coin-operated storage bins outside a shabby middeck cafeteria. Tisa kept a single bag and Mercer asked to stash his pistol in it so he didn’t have to wear his sports coat. The day had been a hot one and inside the ship the press of humanity already made sweat ooze from his pores.

Tisa bought several bottled waters in the cafeteria and said enigmatically, “We might need them later.”

They climbed to the top deck and found a space at the ship’s rail shaded by one of the smoke-darkened funnels. Twenty minutes later the ferry’s horn gave a great mournful blast as the vehicle door was secured and lines cast off. She eased from her slip with ponderous dignity, and as soon as she felt waves broadside she started to roll like an overweight woman on uneven pavement. Just a few dozen yards from the black cliffs that reflected the last of the day’s heat like mirrors, the air was much cooler, freshened by the trade winds blowing past the island.

Tisa set her bag at her feet and rummaged through it until she found what she wanted. She handed the bundle to Mercer. It was a book wrapped in stiff waterproofed canvas. The volume was leather bound and ancient; the binding crackled as he opened it.

“You are the first person outside the Order to ever see one of our chronicles.” She gazed at the book with reverence.

“What is this?” Mercer scanned a brittle parchment page but couldn’t read the words, or even recognize the language.

“For almost two hundred years the monks and villagers from Rinpoche-La and later others who became part of us have left the mountain redoubt in order to verify the predictions made about the earth’s chi forces. Each person carried a journal like this to write observations about the event.”

The words “event” and “predictions” sent a chill down Mercer’s spine as he finally understood what Tisa had been saying all along. “You’re talking about earthquakes?”

“Yes,” she said somberly, “and volcanic eruptions too.”

“No one can predict earthquakes.” Mercer shook his head. “It’s impossible.”

“Which is why I didn’t tell you the truth that night in Las Vegas. You would have thought me more insane than I probably seemed. Admit it. Had I said we could predict earthquakes you never would have agreed to meet me. I had to get you here so I could show you proof.”

“This book isn’t proof, Tisa.”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter of seven.” And then he got it, what Tisa meant by proof. He felt breathless. “My God, we’re here to watch an earthquake.”

“According to the original journal entry it should have hit the island two days ago at noon. I said last night that ever since the Tunguska blast the oracle’s predictions have been off. The new calculations say it should hit in about twenty minutes.” She took the book back from him and opened to one of the latter pages. She handed it back. Mercer couldn’t read the faded script so he concentrated on the numbers written along the side of the page. One he saw was the date two days past and others he recognized as longitude and latitude coordinates. Tisa then gave him a modern tourist map. Santorini was circled and he saw that the coordinates matched exactly.

“When was this written?” Mercer whispered, still unable to fully grasp the implications.

“In 1850,” she answered. “This particular chronicle is of seismic activity around the Mediterranean. There are others for the other parts of the planet. If you’d like I can show you where it mentions the Izmit, Turkey, quake that hit in 1999 and killed so many, or the cycles of Mount Etna’s eruptions.”

“You knew about these events before they happened?”

She nodded. “The journals are kept by a council of archivists and were only given to watchers a short time before an eruption or earthquake, just long enough for them to get there so they could report their findings. Over the past twenty years, as the media has become globalized and the Internet has grown, the council has stopped sending watchers because news reaches Rinpoche-La on its own.

“We do have groups around the world, members who don’t know the full scope of our prognostication. They provide details if we need them to help us correct the time differences that cropped up in the prophecy since 1908.”

“Jesus, Tisa, if an earthquake is about to strike the island we have to warn people, we can’t let them die.”

Mercer launched himself from the railing. Tisa had to race to grab his arm before he descended down to the lower deck to find someone to take him to the captain. “Relax. The oracle says the quake is a small one. I would never put you in danger.”

“How small?” he asked dubiously.

“Just enough to rattle some windows and panic a few cats.” She smiled.

“But the others, like the one that struck Turkey? Why didn’t you send out a warning? My God, you could have saved thousands of lives.”

She shook her head. “It is forbidden. I told you, only the archivists have access to the chronicles and only they understand how the oracle works. Because watchers aren’t really needed anymore, we never learn what the oracle had said until after it happens. We then verify the prophecy in order to determine if our efforts to correct the chi imbalance have had an effect. I’m not supposed to have this book,” she admitted in a soft, remorseful voice. “I stole it from the archive so I could convince you.”

She suddenly became angry. “This is what has caused the schism within the Order. Some of us feel that it is our duty to humanity to tell the world what we know. Others, like those that tried to kill you at the Luxor, take a harder line and want to remain in the shadows. They don’t even believe we should actively try to correct the growing chi disparity.”

“That’s how you knew about the experiment,” Mercer said, more to himself than her. “Those quakes that hit in Washington and near Reno hadn’t been predicted, had they? They were triggered somehow by Dr. Marie’s experiment.”

“After they happened, it sent the archivists into a panic because the chronicle said there wouldn’t be any activity in those areas for many months. This was something far beyond the previous imbalances we’d detected before. Something severe had occurred. Something we had never seen before. They dispatched several teams to the United States to discover the cause. Some felt certain that the oracle was no longer reliable.”

“What is the oracle?”

“I’ve only seen it once, when I was a child, but—”

The rumble came from all around them, a vibration that built in their bodies before it became a sound that reached their ears. It was low on the register, a bass that struck in a continuous wave. Several passengers lining the rail to watch the island in the twilight looked at each other in confusion. The moment stretched. A woman screamed as the sea puckered under the seismic onslaught of a mild earthquake. A few rocks dislodged from the massif ringing the caldera and tumbled to the water. The splashes looked like torpedo strikes against the base of the bluffs. Flocks of birds took wing all over Santorini and seemed to further darken the sky.

And then the quake subsided, the sound fading even faster than it had grown. An uneasy buzz flew through the passengers, a few looked sickly pale, a few dismissed the moment with nervous laughter.

Mercer remained rooted in place, his knuckles white on the steel railing, the line of his mouth grim. Even before it had struck, Mercer knew Tisa hadn’t made up her story. She hadn’t lied about a single thing and the implications were beyond belief. The best minds in science, experts in geo-mechanics and fluid dynamics and other branches of geology, had been working for years to give citizens a few hours’ notice of an impending quake. Their efforts had failed miserably. They couldn’t give even a moment’s warning. And now here he stood with a centuries-old book that gave the exact time and place of an earthquake, a feat of prediction he couldn’t possibly explain. He was overcome by superstitious awe but also the thrill of the potential. He had to understand. He had to learn everything Tisa knew about the oracle.

As he turned to face her a figure striding across the crowded deck caught his eye. It took him a fraction of a second to understand who he was seeing, place him in context and react to the threat. He dropped the journal and tore at Tisa’s hand at the same instant the person closing in on them realized he’d been spotted.

Donny “the Handle” Randall shot Mercer a wolfish grin and reached under the left arm of his windbreaker.

Tisa glanced over her shoulder as Mercer pulled her from the rail. She didn’t recognize the big man who accelerated after them, but behind him was someone she did know, her brother, Luc. Her heart tripped like she’d just been shocked. In the stark illumination of the deck lights she saw the glow of a knife held flat against his leg.

At the top of the stairs leading into the ship, Mercer shouldered aside a pack of German students coming up from the cafeteria. Pitchers of beer went flying. One of the drunker ones cursed him and took an awkward swing at Mercer’s head. The blow missed and the kid punched one of his own friends, sending him down the metal stairway. Someone shouted and a panic began to radiate from the epicenter of the altercation. The surge of passengers slowed Randall’s rush across the deck.

“Give me my gun,” Mercer called as he dragged Tisa down the clogged stairs.

“It’s in my bag on deck!”

He gave her hand a squeeze as if to say that it wasn’t important while furiously thinking how to get out of this trap. No doubt Donny had backup. The slender guy behind him looked like he was part of Randall’s team. There would be others, too. They’d come after him with a half dozen men in Vegas, believing he would be trapped in his room. On board the ferry where he really was trapped they’d probably double the size of their team to be certain they got him.

At the bottom of the stairs was an open mezzanine stretching the width of the ship. Sickly potted palms lined the walls. To the left and right were corridors leading to cabins and passenger lounges. The whole area was jammed with people, some leaning against the walls or sitting on their luggage, others just milling around. A steady stream of passengers passed through the cafeteria doors. While no one paid him and Tisa any special interest, he knew Randall’s backup was coming. A second set of stairs across the mezzanine ascended to the top deck. Donny would expect Mercer to hide amid the twisting interior corridors, not double back, so he led Tisa up the stairs before Donny and the man with him could see where they were heading.

Back in the cooling breeze Mercer realized his body was bathed in sweat, although his breathing remained steady and his heart had slowed after the initial shock of seeing Randall on board. He cut through the crowd and scooped up Tisa’s bag from where she’d left it. Once the familiar heft of the Beretta was in his hand, he felt the odds had evened slightly.

The lights of Santorini were mere pricks against the darkening horizon. Between the ferry and the island, a white motor yacht seemed to be keeping pace with them, hanging a mere thirty yards or so from the side of the ship. Mercer doubted its presence was a coincidence. He looked beyond the cabin cruiser at the receding island. Estimating distance at night was notoriously difficult but he judged the island was too far away to swim to. They had to get off the ferry, and if they were to survive they needed a boat. The ship’s life rafts were inflatable and capable of carrying forty people. Each was encased in bulbous fiberglass capsules. Mercer briefly examined the complex tangle of wires and pulleys that launched them and knew he’d never get one overboard in the minutes he had before Randall found him on deck.

“What are we going to do?” Tisa’s eyes were wide with fright, but not for herself. Her half brother would never hurt her. She feared for Mercer.

With Tisa in tow he took off toward the ferry’s bow. “When we came aboard, I noticed a big chest near the gangway. The label said it contained a six-man inflatable. If we can get to it we can get off this tub.”

They cut past a circle of students ringing a young woman playing guitar and were a dozen paces from another stairway when a pair of men in matching nylon windbreakers came around a ventilator stack. Mercer paused for an instant, judging angles and distances, mindful of the passengers farther forward.

The gunmen gave no such thought. Automatic pistols appeared from under their jackets and the first shots exploded across the open deck. Amid the screams of panic from the teens behind Mercer came the higher keen of an injured woman. He dropped to the deck, shoving Tisa to the side, and fired intentionally above the gunmen to avoid hitting anyone on the far side. The assassins ducked out of view, giving him precious seconds to roll out of their line of fire.

The crowds still lingering at the rails had started a headlong stampede off the top deck. One person ended up going over the rail and into the black water below. Mercer and Tisa became caught in the tide of fleeing bodies, fighting to stay on their feet as the mass of people half ran, half fell down a staircase.

Once through the bottleneck of the stairs, the crowd spread. Mercer and Tisa lost the cover they provided. Just a few feet away, another pair of men wearing the same windbreakers were studying faces, searching for their quarry. This time Mercer didn’t hesitate. He hammered the first with the butt of his pistol, a savage blow to the back of his head that dropped the gunman instantly. The second was angled away from the crowd enough for Mercer to ram the Beretta into his gut and pull the trigger without worrying about the bullet’s follow-through.

The shot was muffled by the man’s body, but not enough to prevent another stampede. An alert crewman hit the fire alarm and its piercing shriek added to the din. Mercer fought against the flow of the crowd, shoving and punching a path until breaking clear into a corridor.

“They’re trying to kill us,” Tisa gasped as they ran from the melee behind them.

“You just noticed?”

“But one of those men, up on deck. It was my brother, Luc.” She still couldn’t believe it. “He’d never hurt me. He, he, he loves me.”

Mercer didn’t know what to say, although he understood the bitterness in her voice when she talked about the schism within the Order. Her brother was on the other side and now felt that his beliefs meant more than his sister’s life. Who the hell were these people? he wondered. Obviously fanatics, but about what? Nothing Tisa had told him the night before made him consider this level of zealotry.

The only answer was that there were parts that she hadn’t explained yet, something that had triggered violence in a group that had remained passive for centuries. Fear or power, those were the only two motivations he could think of. They feared some upcoming event or sought power through their oracle. And considering what the oracle did, he could imagine what they feared.

“You have got to tell me what’s going on,” he said sharply, checking that a cross corridor was deserted before continuing his flight. “In Vegas they were after me. Now I think they want you.”

Tisa opened her mouth to reply when a shot passed between them an instant before the concussive roar of the pistol filled the corridor. Mercer fired a snap counter shot and pushed Tisa ahead of him as they ran down the hall. At a sharp bend in the corridor, Mercer paused to see who was behind them. The hallway was clear, but as he watched, Donny Randall ducked his head from around a set of double doors. Mercer fired two quick shots. As he turned to flee farther into the ship, he caught sight of another man behind Donny. It was the guy with the knife he’d seen on deck. Two things he knew right away. The first was that this was the same guy who’d indifferently tossed the woman over the balcony at the Luxor, and the second was that he looked like Tisa’s twin, not just a brother.

Tisa waited at an open hatchway, an access to the utilitarian parts of the ship prohibited to passengers. The lighting was flat and metallic, bare bulbs in wire cages. The walls were gray steel. A staircase as steep as a ladder descended into the gloom below. The air was hot and heavy with the stench of burned engine oil. Mercer stepped over the coaming and followed Tisa down.

Their lead would only last a few seconds before the confines of the stairwell became a slaughterhouse. Tisa nimbly danced down the steep steps, Mercer hot on her heels. When they reached the next landing, the level where the gangway was located, she tried the hatch only to find it jammed. She stepped aside. Not only couldn’t Mercer move the handle, he saw that long ago the door itself had been welded to the frame.

“Remind me to take this up with the captain,” he remarked offhandedly as he moved Tisa back to the ladder.

A shot split the air, a sharp noise that beat on their eardrums. The bullet sparked a half dozen times as it ricocheted off railings and walls. Barely in control of their descent, Tisa and Mercer plunged down one more level. Though his ears were ringing, Mercer heard the sounds of pursuit. He was too low on ammo to fire a delaying shot.

The next landing was the main car deck and also the bottom of the access shaft. If this door was welded too, Tisa and Mercer were as good as dead. The mechanism to unlock the heavy hatch was stiff and creaked like nails on a chalkboard. Mercer heaved the lever upward at the same time he pounded his shoulder into the steel. A thick crust of corrosion around the jamb held the door in place. He stepped back and launched himself again. The door crashed open and his momentum carried him onto the ferry deck. He fell and rolled into a parked Volvo hard enough to dent the driver’s door. Tisa already had the door closed behind them by the time he regained his feet. He helped her resecure the lock. A red fire ax hung from a rack nearby. Mercer wedged the handle into the mechanism to prevent it from opening again. Both he and Tisa fell against the wall, feeling safe for the first time since seeing Donny on deck. They’d run just a short distance yet panted like they’d completed a marathon.

As he struggled to calm his breathing, Mercer surveyed their surroundings. The ferry’s car deck stretched from stem to stern, a forty-foot-wide steel tunnel with a twenty-foot ceiling of support girders. The paint had been yellowed by years of exhaust and neglect. The air reeked of diesel fumes. The steel decking was covered in a nonskid material that had long ago become smooth.

The hold was divided into three rows, automobiles flanking the inner lane, which was reserved for heavy trucks in order to maintain the ferry’s stability in rough seas. With massive cables holding them closed against the rush of the sea, the tall loading doors at bow and stern resembled the drawbridges of a castle.

The cavernous space vibrated with the power of the engines, which had to be nearby. Thick exhaust stacks rose along the wall from floor to ceiling. Waste heat made the hold uncomfortably hot.

This close to the waterline, the steady whoosh of water rushing along the hull had a lulling resonance that drowned out nearly all other sounds. Mercer tightened his grip on the Beretta to remind himself they weren’t out of danger yet. More than likely Donny had enough men to cover all the exits from the hold. He could then take his time hunting down him and Tisa.

The clank of steel on steel was muffled by the heavy door. Mercer whirled, bringing up the Beretta, ready to meet Randall’s charge if he somehow broke through the hatch. A second passed and then a few more. Nothing happened.

“Hey, Mercer, can you hear me?” Donny shouted from inside the access shaft.

Mercer scanned the ranks of vehicles looking for movement. He suspected Randall would try to keep him talking while his men gained entry to the hold from another direction. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Come on, buddy. I know you’re there,” Donny called. When Mercer remained silent, Randall continued. “No matter, bud, I’ll do the talking. See, here’s the deal. In about ten minutes a lot of folks are going to die because you had to survive the flood in the mine back in Nevada. Ironic, huh? You got more lives than a cat and the people on this boat have to suffer for it. I can’t blame Luc for underestimating you at your hotel. Hell, we both done that.

“Not this time. Luc figured you and his sister would be here tonight to watch that earthquake. Hey, hell of a thing, being able to predict quakes, huh? Anyway, we been on this boat since it left the mainland. Had us plenty of time to make certain, ah, preparations. Soon as we took off from Santorini, my men secured all entrances to the car deck except this one. If we couldn’t get you topside, the plan was to force you down here, and we gotcha good.

“Now you tell that girl with you that Luc didn’t want her hurt, but hey, shit happens.”

“Cut the crap, Donny, and tell me what the hell you want.”

“I knew you were there,” Randall crowed.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a master strategist, Donny,” Mercer spat. “Congratulations. What do you want?”

“I want to watch you die, but that ain’t gonna happen. Instead I’m going to get off this tub and about five minutes later explosives are going to blow the bottom out of her. I bet you’ll be the first to drown.”

Mercer and Tisa exchanged a stricken look. “You sick bastard, why are you doing this?”

“ ’Cause you missed your chance to die in the mine, buddy.”

Swamped by feelings of responsibility, Mercer didn’t hesitate. “If you only want me then open the goddamned door and get me. Leave Tisa and the other passengers out of it.”

“No can do. I already busted the lock on this side and my finger’s real itchy to trigger the fifty pounds of ’splosives we stuck down in the engine room. When the water finally closes over your head and you’re about to suck it into your lungs, I want you to think about how this was all your fault.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Mercer raged. The blood pounding in his ears blocked out any other thoughts. “I swear to God I am going to reach down your throat and pull out your heart.”

Randall laughed. “Two little problems there, Mercer. One, you ain’t gonna get out off this ship alive, and two, you should know by now I don’t have a heart.”

“Randall!” Mercer shouted, pounding his fists against the hatch. “Hey!”

Randall was gone.

“Mercer?” Tisa called, touching his arm, trying to calm him. “Stop, please. There must be another way out of here, a ventilator shaft or something.”

He slapped the door a final time, certain he heard Randall’s laughter as he climbed up the stairs. “Okay, you’re right.” He took several deep breaths, purging his anger, turning it into action. “You take this side. I’ll check along the port side.” He looked into her eyes. “We’ll get out of this, I promise you.”

Her smile was genuine. “I know we will.”

Mercer crossed the deck at a sprint, zigzagging around cars and trucks until he reached the bow. This side of the ferry was identical to the opposite, steel walls ribbed by structural girders. He found two doorways, but as Donny had promised, the locks wouldn’t budge, even when he used another fire ax as a lever. He swept farther aft. There were a couple of vent grilles, but they were too small for even Tisa and her contortion skills to slip through. The hold’s main vents were on the ceiling, hopelessly out of reach and also too narrow to allow them to escape.

He met up with Tisa at the stern loading ramp. “Anything?”

She shook her head. “What time is it?”

“Jesus, Tisa, not that again.”

She wasn’t stung by his tone and said gently, “No, I mean how much time before he detonates the explosives?”

Mercer didn’t bother looking at his watch. “It could come at any time.” He hopped onto the hood of the nearest car, an old Audi, then climbed onto the roof. He scanned the hold, looking for the safest place to wait out the explosion. To plant charges that would blow out the bottom of the ferry, Donny must have gained access to the machinery spaces below the car deck, like he’d boasted. Logically there would be areas at the very bow and stern he couldn’t reach, nor would he need to. Enough plastique near an amidships fuel bunker would turn the ferry into an inferno. Surviving that was their first priority.

He jumped off the car and looked into other vehicles. A nearby Fiat was unlocked. He opened the rear door. “Inside, quick.” Mercer shoved the front seats forward and motioned Tisa to fold herself onto the floor. He got in after her and covered her body with his own. “Keep your eyes shut and your mouth open — it will keep the pressure wave from blowing out your eardrums.”

Mercer knew the wait would be intolerable. The minutes would drag by like molasses as the inevitable approached, not knowing if the initial blast would erupt right below them.

But it wasn’t. They waited only seconds before the ship lurched under them, a jarring rattle that shoved the Fiat into an adjacent ten-wheeled tanker truck. Then a second explosion rocked the ship, a brutal onslaught much worse than the initial blast. A fuel tank? Mercer wondered, even as a third charge detonated near the ferry’s bow.

After the roaring echo died away, he chanced opening his eyes. The lights high in the ceiling had gone out, leaving the hold in the muted glow of emergency lamps. There was no fire he could see, no telltale flickering. For that he was thankful, yet over the chorus of car alarms he heard something just as deadly when he levered open the Fiat’s door — the unmistakable rush of water pouring into the ferry. Fire alarms had gone off and several red strobe lights pulsed urgent warnings in time with the Klaxon.

He stepped from the sedan and knew the ferry was doomed. Mercer had to give Randall credit for placing his explosives at the bow. Traveling at fifteen knots, the vessel’s forward motion would act like a pump to force seawater into her bilges and engineering spaces. Against such a torrent, there was no way to swim out through the torn hull plating. If they waited for the ship to equalize enough to make their escape, the ferryboat would likely be resting on the bottom of the Aegean.

“What are we going to do?” Tisa asked as she stood at his side.

“I’m working on it,” Mercer said absently as the merest outline of a plan formed in his mind. He slapped the polished steel tank of the fuel truck parked next to the Fiat. It returned a dull ring. Full. Plenty of mass.

The stern door was twenty-five feet wide and nearly as tall, covered with horizontal ripples to improve traction for vehicles struggling into or out of the boat. The large hatch was held closed by tension maintained on cables connected to large drum-shaped motors mounted high on the wall. Although the ship had lost power, the cables remained rigid. In theory, it would be possible to force open the door if Mercer could cut the cables. The doors had reminded him of castle gates and he thought the fuel tanker would make the perfect battering ram.

The driver had left the cab door unlocked and Mercer swung himself onto the seat. Already he could feel the ship tilting toward the bow. The truck reeked of stale cigars, sweat, and garlic. A porn magazine lay open on the passenger seat. The key wasn’t in the ignition or atop the sun visor. Mercer reached under him to feel along the floor, then checked the glove compartment and the small trays built into the plastic dashboard. Nothing. There was a map pocket built into the door panel. He reached in and came out with a hand covered in dark, sticky goo.

Cursing, he smeared the gunk on the seat and leapt back to the deck. The ship’s list was even more pronounced, maybe ten degrees.

“So much for driving us out of here,” he said to Tisa, who watched him silently, “but I’m not through with the truck yet.”

He’d earlier tucked the Beretta into the waistband of his pants and now drew it as he approached the cables securing the loading ramp. He’d counted his shots and knew there were four left. “Go get the ax I wedged into the door we came through,” he ordered and placed the automatic’s muzzle an inch from the thick cable.

Mercer fired one deliberate shot, angling the barrel so the ricochet wouldn’t come back at him. The nine-millimeter slug cut through half of the inch-thick wire braid. He aimed again and fired a second time, cutting through half of the half that remained. Tisa returned and stayed at Mercer’s side as he crossed athwartships to repeat the procedure with the second cable, nearly severing it with his last two bullets.

She handed him the ax. Mercer had to brace his feet. The ship was down by the head and the angle continued to grow. In a few minutes, any cars not firmly held by the nonskid deck would begin to fall toward the bow. He hefted the ax and chopped at the cable. The metal vibrated with each hit, sending painful shivers up his arm even as he cut a dozen strands with each blow. He chopped again and again using a smooth rhythm learned long ago in the forests of Vermont, where he and his grandfather had cut trees for firewood to heat their home for the winter.

The seventh strike did it. The cable parted with a writhing snap as the sudden release of tension yanked the stay through several pulleys. Without wasting a moment he returned to the first cable and managed to shave off three strokes to part the wire. With the ship sinking by the bow, the stern door remained firmly in place, held fast by gravity.

Toward the front of the ship, a compact car with bald tires lost its fight with the ever-increasing deck pitch and the vehicle skidded into the automobile in front of it. The momentum caused this car to begin to slide forward. In seconds, half the port-side row of cars were in motion, careening down the inclined deck in a chain reaction. Their slide ended with cars crashing into the bow doors. Mercer distinctly heard the slosh of water amid the crunch of metal. The hold was beginning to flood quicker than he’d hoped.

Perfect.

They returned to the tanker truck. “Tisa, I want you to go around and find as many blankets as you can, plastic sheeting too, tarps, things like that.”

“Okay.” She was off without questioning his odd request.

Mercer turned his attention to the valves that controlled the fuel in the giant tanker. The valves required a special tool, which he found in a storage bin mounted to the chassis in front of the back wheels. He opened one of the valves and a jet of gasoline arced from the tank in a noxious golden stream. The stream was powerful enough to climb as high as the stern doors before falling to the deck and running back under the tanker. It sluiced down the deck in sheets, mixing with the water bubbling up at the distant bow. The stench made Mercer’s head spin.

A car on the starboard side lost its battle with gravity and smashed into the ferry’s prow.

“Are you all right?” he shouted, fearing for Tisa.

“I’m fine. What’s that smell?”

“Gasoline. I’m emptying the tank.”

“Oh.”

Mercer opened a second valve, doubling the flow. He had no idea how long it would take so he moved down the line of trucks. The next rig was an eighteen-wheeler, and the cab was unlocked. The ferry hadn’t settled enough to overcome the truck’s massive weight, but as Mercer climbed in he saw the parking brake had been set and the transmission left in gear. Once he had everything in place he planned on launching the truck down the sloping deck then easing the tanker after it. For his scheme to work he needed plenty of open deck if the tanker’s momentum was going to be able to smash open the stern door.

Tisa returned a few minutes later with her arms full of sleeping bags and a roll of plastic. She had to brace her hip against the tanker’s front fender to stay upright. “I got what you wanted,” she called to Mercer, who had remained up at the valve controls. “Will you tell me why now?”

“Get near the cab,” he ordered. More than two-thirds of the gasoline in the truck had drained down into the growing pool of water filling the forward section of the sinking ferry. Mercer noticed that the air had cooled dramatically and realized the engines had long since been silenced. He cranked the valves closed and joined Tisa near the driver’s door.

“Water weighs eight pounds per gallon, seawater a little less. I estimate this tanker holds five thousand gallons and I’ve drained about three thousand.”

“Leaving two,” Tisa said.

“Leaving air,” Mercer corrected. “Three thousand gallons worth of air, or buoyancy equal to twenty-four thousand pounds. Factoring in that the remaining gas is also lighter than water, I estimate that this tank is more than buoyant enough to make the entire truck float like a piece of Styrofoam.”

Tisa’s eyes lit up. “When the hold fills with water, the truck will float up and smash open the door. We’ll rise to the surface.”

Mercer nodded. “Provided the cab doesn’t flood first.”

Tisa held up her bundle. “That’s what this is for.”

“You got it.”

They worked side by side, tearing sleeping bags into strips to stuff into the air vents, and using a roll of duct tape they found in the glove compartment to tape over the gaps around the windows and along the passenger door, sealing off where the brake, clutch, and gas pedals came through the floorboards, and anyplace else they thought water could enter the cab. Through it all, they ignored the sounds of the ship sinking deeper into the water and the growing surge of water creeping up the deck. The remaining automobiles on the port side slid down into the pile of smashed vehicles at the bow.

By the time they finished most of the car alarms had gone silent because their electronics had been shorted by the advancing seawater.

“I think we’re set,” Mercer pronounced. “I need to clear the deck behind us so I can control our slide down. We can’t allow the truck to get tangled in that pileup down there. I’ll be right back. I’ll be coming back fast so stay on the passenger side but keep your foot on the brake.”

Stepping out of the cab and looking down the three-hundred-foot length of the ferry was like standing atop a ski jump. And at the bottom lay a pile of mangled automobiles pressed against the bow in a cauldron of water that swirled ever higher. The creeping surface spurted in foaming geysers as air pockets trapped within the tangle of cars erupted. The view was disorienting. So far none of the trucks, with their numerous tires and better traction, had started their inexorable slide.

Mercer had to grip the tanker’s bodywork with one hand and lean far back on his heels to keep his footing as he made his way down the inclined deck. Once at the truck’s front bumper, he dropped to his backside and crawled like a crab until reaching the rear of the eighteen-wheeler. On his feet once again, he clung to the trailer’s side and slowly eased his way along its length. He finally reached the tractor and clambered along it until he could open the driver’s door. He reached up for the handle, and as soon as he released the catch the door flew open with a violent jerk. Keeping his body partially outside the truck, he reached across the seat and jimmied the gearshift into neutral.

The truck shuddered as the strain of keeping it in place fell solely on the parking brake. The tires gave a single chirp as the eighteen-wheeler slid a fraction of an inch. Mercer wiggled farther out of the cab, took a shallow breath, and popped the brake release.

The truck dropped away like an avalanche of metal, smashing into the school bus in front of it, sending it into a moving van until the whole string of oversized vehicles raced for the bow. Mercer had just barely dropped clear as the semi hit the bus and he watched as the wall of trucks vanished into the gloom. He lay on the sloping deck like a fly stuck on sticky paper, his arms and legs spread flat.

With precise movements he turned onto his stomach, peered once more over his shoulder to see that the deck had become a steep featureless wall and began to climb up to the tanker, still holding tight, although it wouldn’t be for long. If its tires slipped now, the truck would roll right over him.

He climbed upward, his fingertips exploiting every irregularity in the deck to give him purchase. Once he reached the truck, he could feel the bodywork juddering as it wanted to succumb to gravity. Mercer climbed into the cab, placing his foot on the brake before Tisa took hers away. Without waiting, he cranked the transmission into neutral and took away just a fraction of the pressure he kept on the brake pedal. The truck moved an inch or two before he jammed in the pedal again.

Keeping the rig straight and his motions smooth, he eased the truck down the deck. It seemed to take forever and they were almost at the top of the pile of wrecked vehicles when the ferry lurched suddenly and a gout of water erupted from the pool at the bow. The truck slammed into the rear of the semitrailer and immediately water began to surge around the front wheels.

It was strange to consider that the water level wasn’t rising. The apparent upward advance came because the ferry was sinking. In minutes, roiling water lapped at the side windows and continued to climb even higher. Mercer recalled the feeling of diving in Bob, although this was a far cry from the high-tech submersible. Tisa reached for his hand.

The oily water passed over the hood, rising above the roof. The cab was completely submerged.

“The moment of truth.” For some reason he couldn’t explain, Mercer was whispering.

Tisa replied in kind. “For what?”

“To see if this old girl has some fight left in her.”

The cylindrical tank felt the first hint of buoyancy and the truck shuddered as it shifted against the wreckage. The shriek of metal seemed amplified by the water, a tearing sound worse than any Mercer had ever heard. But no matter how buoyant, the truck couldn’t break free of the other vehicles.

“Come on, come on,” Mercer urged under his breath, noting the cloth stuffed into an air vent was glistening with moisture. “Float, you pig, float.”

Without warning the truck did a sudden pirouette and fell onto its side. The tanker pulled its bumper free, allowing the vehicle to scrape against the canted deck as it remained level with the steadily rising tide of water.

An explosion outside the hold shook the entire ferry. The volume of water flooding the ship doubled. Held at sea level by the air trapped in its tank, the truck remained in one place as the ship sank into the abyss at an ever-increasing speed. She was near vertical now and Mercer could imagine her blunt stern raised high, her propellers gleaming in the moonlight.

Mercer wondered grimly how many hapless victims remained near enough to the doomed ship to be sucked under when she vanished beneath the waves.

Tisa cried out and lunged at a toggle switch on the dash that had broken away, allowing water to dribble in around the cracked plastic. She held her hand over the weeping gash. The blankets at Mercer’s feet were sodden. As the truck floated up from the bow, there was just enough light penetrating the dark waters for Mercer to count the support girders lining the wall. He estimated the stern door was at least seventy feet above them. Water found more openings into the cab.

“Are we going to—”

“It’ll be close,” he answered, not needing her to finish the question.

The ship continued to fill with water. The auto deck wasn’t the only space flooding. Her bilges and upper decks too were drowning, a few passengers too slow or too disoriented to escape after the initial explosion dying silently in the black water. The ferry was actually lower in the water than Mercer thought, and sinking faster than he believed possible. The truck was fifty feet from hitting the stern door when her stern rail vanished under the waves, leaving the sea littered with hastily launched lifeboats and hundreds of wailing passengers.

The water in the inverted cab was up to Mercer’s knees. Tisa braced her feet against the dash to keep them dry. The truck sloshed across the hold because the ferry corkscrewed as she sank. Mercer couldn’t tell how far they were from hitting the door.

“Tighten your lap belt,” he said unnecessarily. He and Tisa were buckled as tight at they could be. “Get into the crash position they teach you on airplanes. It’ll protect you from whiplash.”

They ducked down, holding their chests to their knees. The position was uncomfortable for Mercer, but he lacked a tenth of Tisa’s flexibility.

Outside the ferry, water pressure exploited the smallest entrances into the ship, forcing air from any voids with increasing fury. The last and greatest empty chamber on the ship was the car deck. Air trapped at the still-sealed stern had formed a taut bubble that needed just a tiny more impetus to blow open the eight-ton ramp. The gasoline tank was made of heavy-gauge noncorrosive steel and hit the door at nearly seventeen miles per hour. The truck’s upward rush ended in a savage impact that whipped Mercer and Tisa brutally, though none of the windows cracked.

“What happened? Are we free?”

Mercer didn’t say anything for a moment, his optimism fading with each passing second. The ramp hadn’t been blown open. “No, damn it. We’re not light enough to force open the door. We’re trapped.”

Water continued to pour into the cab. It was up to Mercer’s waist and climbing. He could feel pressure building in his ears. They were probably forty feet below the surface by now and falling by the second. He knew there were two choices: wait for the water to slowly fill the cab or simply break a window and end it quick.

There was no light for him to see Tisa, but he could feel her hand in his. She gave him a squeeze. She also understood their options.

“Just do it,” she whispered with eerie calm, as if she’d known it would come to this all along.

“I’m sorry, Tisa.”

“It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”

“No, I mean I can’t do it.” His voice was fierce, unbending. “I’m not giving in, not until I can’t hold my breath for one second longer.”

Like a piece of flotsam, the tank truck rolled along the door, edging away from the stout hinges at the base.

Water continued to pour into the cab, covering Mercer and Tisa, forcing them to unsnap their belts and struggle to find the diminishing air pocket. Tisa came up sputtering, her hair plastered against her head. Her arms went around Mercer.

“I don’t want to die, Mercer. Oh my God, I really don’t want to die.” She sounded surprised to realize she had a survival instinct.

The truck rolled once again, tumbling the pair as though they were caught in a washing machine. They had to fight to find air.

The tanker came to rest at the very top of the door, pushed there by the streams of bubbles still rising from deeper in the hold. The added force of buoyancy was just enough to crack the door open a fraction of an inch. Air gushed through the opening, forced through by the tremendous pressure. The heavy door was pushed farther back on its hinges. The truck rolled again in the surge of air and suddenly it was scraping across the threshold. It hung suspended, half in and half out of the plummeting ferry, gripped tight by the heavy door.

Mercer held his face pressed tight to the top of the cab, taking shallow sips of air, allowing Tisa the lion’s share of the few remaining breaths. They’d been in the water ten minutes, not nearly enough for the cold to affect them, but still both trembled as if suffering hypothermia.

“Mercer. I—” A wave forced water down Tisa’s throat. She spat and gagged to clear her lungs. “I want you to know—”

Like a cork from a shaken bottle of champagne, the pressure of air in the big tank wouldn’t be held any longer. Shoving aside the door the ten-ton truck popped free and rocketed toward the surface amid a fountain of bubbles.

The motion was so violent that Mercer’s last breath left his mouth half filled with foul water. His lungs burned and he felt the muscles of his diaphragm convulsing to draw air. Tisa couldn’t be faring any better, he thought, as the truck spiraled upward.

From a depth of sixty feet, the trip to the surface took just seconds. The tanker exploded from under the waves like a breaching whale, slamming back to the sea with a splash that nearly capsized a nearby lifeboat. Several survivors struggling in the water were almost crushed when the heavy vehicle spun to find its equilibrium.

Mercer was thrown into the windshield when the tanker broached, shattering the glass and what felt like his skull. He kicked free from the cab, reached back for Tisa and dragged her through the opening. Holding her limp body in one arm, he stroked for the surface, his lungs screaming.

He surfaced next to the bobbing truck and sucked in great drafts of air. Crisscrossing searchlights mounted on a dozen lifeboats cut the dark night. The only sounds were boat motors and pleas for help. The sea was littered with the dead and dying.

The front half of the tanker was underwater, allowing Mercer to wedge himself into the rear wheel well. Tisa wasn’t breathing. He held her to his chest and was able to pinch off her nostrils and begin to breathe air into her lungs.

Tears mingled with the salt water stinging his eyes. “Come on, come on,” he called softly, his mouth inches from hers, his senses alert for the slightest sign of life. He continued CPR, trying to massage her chest to keep her heart going. His precarious position on the tanker made his efforts extremely awkward. He gently blew more air into her body, feeling her lungs expand with each cycle. Tisa remained inert.

And then she coughed up a mouthful of bile and water. Mercer didn’t care that he took most of it in his face. Tisa coughed again, a deep retching that seemed to rip the delicate tissues in her chest. Mercer turned her in his arms so it was easier for her to clear her lungs, all the while rubbing her back and murmuring reassurances.

It took her several minutes to regain her breath enough to speak, and even then Mercer urged her to stay quiet. In that time a dozen stranded passengers had floundered their way to the tottering truck, clinging to precarious handholds wherever they could find them. One man tried to climb the tank, but Mercer reached out a hand to prevent him from upsetting the vehicle’s delicate balance.

He wasn’t paying attention to the boat that approached the tanker. From his position it was just a murky outline behind a dazzling searchlight. As it neared, a few people struck off from the tanker to climb aboard the rescue craft.

Mercer watched absently as the strongest swimmer reached what he thought was a lifeboat and made a grab for the gunwale. A shadowy figure in the craft lofted something high over his head and brought it down with a sickening crunch that carried all the way to the tanker truck.

What the…?

Another man looped an arm over the boat’s low transom. He too was struck over the head. He screamed shrilly but his shout was cut off with another savage blow. A searchlight beam swept the lifeboat and Mercer saw that it wasn’t one of the boats from the ferry. This was a sleek white powerboat, about thirty feet long. Its European styling reminded Mercer of the large motor yacht he’d seen tracking the ferry. That’s how Donny had made his escape, a launch from the big yacht. And now he had returned. Why?

The answer was obvious — to make sure that he and Tisa were dead.

“Tisa, we have to get away,” he whispered urgently. “Your brother’s back.”

She peered into the darkness. The area around the speedboat was becoming chaotic; the crew aboard were whacking at those struggling in the water as though they were marauding pirates bent on plunder. Though the light was bad, and Tisa near-drowned, she recognized the lithe form of her brother standing in the speedboat’s bow. Behind him, Donny Randall smacked at people like an Arctic hunter cracking the skulls of baby seals.

She turned back to Mercer, barely able to see his features in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said, and touched his cheek. “This is the only way. He won’t hurt me.”

“What are you—?”

“Luc,” Tisa shouted. “I’m here. Please. I love you.” She pushed away from the tanker and began swimming before Mercer could stop her. “I’m here, Luc. It’s Tisa.” She paused in the water, looking back at him. Her face was a pale oval hovering just above the black water. “Oh my God! Leper Alma, Mercer. Watch for Leper Alma.”

The speedboat knifed across to where she struggled, deliberately running over two survivors clinging to a single life jacket. The craft circled around, and when it reached Tisa, Donny Randall lifted her from the water as easily as a kitten. From where he clutched the tanker truck, Mercer watched horrified as she fell into the waiting arms of her brother.

In the few moments the speedboat had idled, it had attracted dozens of swimmers brave enough, or desperate enough, to chance getting aboard. Donny and another crewman armed themselves with oars once again, but despite their best efforts they were becoming overwhelmed by the press of struggling humanity. Tisa spoke a few words to her brother. Luc ordered the boat’s driver to get them back to the yacht before they were swamped.

Mercer watched it all, unable to believe what he was seeing. Tisa had willingly sacrificed herself to save him. She’d gone to convince her brother that she alone had survived and he was dead in the hold of the ferry. He had no idea what Luc would do to her. She hadn’t told him much about her brother — he felt deliberately — but the impression he had was that their problems went far, far beyond the ideological split within their Order.

He didn’t know what to think, what to do. He was at a complete loss. Even maintaining his grip on the tanker truck didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d barely found her and now she was gone.

Someone knocked into him, bringing him back to his situation. It was a boy of about eight, wide-eyed and frightened, his skinny shoulders nearly slipping through his life jacket. Mercer grabbed the boy and held him close. The child hugged him fiercely, crying in Greek, calling out for his mother in such a clear voice that Mercer felt his heart’s ache deepen further.

In moments two dozen other swimmers were clustered around the tanker and it fell on Mercer to distribute them around the truck to keep the rig from upending. Soon overloaded lifeboats had rafted alongside and the truck became the center of the survivors’ universe. Men gave up their spaces in the boats for women and children while ship’s officers gave their spots to tourists.

Two hours later a ferry from Santorini reached the floating atoll of boats to take on those left alive and commence the grim task of collecting the corpses. Many people would later recall how terrorists in a speedboat had clubbed survivors in the water and kidnapped a young woman, though no one could give an accurate description of the men or their vessel or how they’d escaped. Nor could anyone describe the American who’d miraculously popped up from the depths in the tanker truck to organize the rescue effort and save countless lives.