Minutes to Burn

Chapter 34

Cameron pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. When she removed them, they left white imprints for a few seconds. Derek spoke into his transmitter, tilting his head to his shoulder. "That's the lay of the land," he concluded. "We have no way back to Baltra. We're gonna need an extraction."

The transmitter crackled, then Mako's disembodied voice came through. "How are you on food and water?"

Derek glanced at one of the cruise boxes, full of MREs and canteens. "About a week."

Justin ran a hand nervously through his dirty blond hair. "I don't like where this is going." Szabla laid a thin finger across her lips.

They sat on the logs around the ashy fire pit. Despite the fact that they'd been constantly applying sunblock, they all showed the early signs of sunburn. Derek stood in the middle, his back to the pit, and Cameron sat on the end of the log nearest the tents, keeping an eye on the larva. For the time being, it had stretched out against the base of the log, resting in the shade.

Diego had set up the PRC104 radio with the whip antenna and was trying to reach the Darwin Station. Though he couldn't speak through the handset, he was keying it so that it would break squelch in Morse, sending an SOS. The odds of someone's overhearing the radio in his office were low, especially since the Station was close to deserted, but he was playing long odds that one of the locals or Ramoncito would hap-pen by.

"Why can't I just radio Puerto Ayora for you?" Mako asked. "Have 'em send a boat?"

"Because," Diego said. "Even if there was another appropriately sized boat, which there isn't, the satellite radio there is broken. There's only a PRC104 with a whip antenna, like this one. It can't pick up signals from the continent, let alone North America."

Mako was silent for a few moments after Derek relayed the infor-mation. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded tinny, distant. "We're chin-deep in shit with skirmishes at the Peruvian border. Don't know when we can get you a helo." His sigh came out angry, even through the transmitter. "You know how we are with air assets right now, Mitchell."

"Yes, sir." Derek grimaced, his pale lips dried and cracked.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Very well, sir."

"First time you called in, you lost your ammo. Now it's the boat and your weapons. Think you can manage not to lose anything else until we speak again?"

Derek cleared his throat, angling his mouth toward the transmitter. "Yes, sir," he said, but Mako had already clicked out.

"Well, that went swimmingly," Rex said. He stood, slapping his hands to his sides. "I need to check in with Donald. Update him."

"How're you gonna do that?" Savage said. "Ain't got no radio."

"I thought…I thought I could use one of your transmitters," Rex said.

Tucker stiffened. "Oh, for Christ's sake," Szabla said, glaring at Tucker. "Grow the fuck up." She yanked the arm of her tank top down off her shoulder, revealing the bump of her transmitter. She turned to Rex. "Come here," she said.

Rex sat beside her, and Szabla activated the transmitter, then had the military operator connect them to the New Center's telephone line. Rex leaned forward to speak into the transmitter, his lips close to Szabla's bare shoulder.

"Rex," Donald said. "I'm glad to hear from you. Got some strange results back from that dino pellet."

"We've had our share of oddities on this end as well," Rex said. He filled him in on Juan's death, losing the boat, and the larva that Cameron and Derek had discovered.

There was a long, breathless pause. "I'd do anything to see that larva," Donald finally said. "I'll ready the lab in case you bring it back."

"What were you saying about the dino pellet?" Rex asked.

"I was correct. About its containing a virus. Dr. Everett was unable to identify it-they have it in a nucleic acid probe test now, but I doubt strongly it'll correlate to any gene bank specimens. They just E-mailed me the micrograph-the virus looks like curved ladders, like segments of DNA."

"What are its effects?"

"They've yet to figure out its pathogenicity, but Everett's extremely concerned. Have you been taking water samples?"

Rex glanced over at Diego, who momentarily stopped keying the handset and reached into his bag. He pulled out the two jars they'd filled with water samples-one from the waters off Punta Berlanga and one from the lagoon. "Yes," Rex said.

"Well, take more. A smattering through the island-hit any standing water reservoirs-and around the coasts so we can pick up samples from each of the major currents. I want to source this thing, see how it entered the water supply. As far as we know, it's only near Sangre de Dios-there's nothing in the recent records from nearby waters to indi-cate the virus's presence elsewhere."

Rex's hair fell in straight, lanky wisps over his forehead. "Of course," he murmured. "The drilling boat." He turned to the others, excited. "Remember that kid on Santa Cruz asked us if we were heading here again on the drilling boat?"

Diego shot to his feet. "The deep-sea core drilling boat!"

"The who?" Tucker asked.

"They took several cores off the coast here," Diego said, pointing south to the sea. "Just beyond Punta Berlanga."

"What's going on?" Donald's voice squawked. "What's all the commotion?"

"There was an ODP boat through here," Rex said. "Pulling up cores. It could've unleashed this virus from where it was buried in the ocean basin. Virogenesis is usually localized like that. The core holes left behind in the ocean floor could be like… like that cave in Kenya, the one they think is the hiding place for the Marburg filovirus."

"Kitum Cave," Diego said. "On the slope of Mount Elgon." He stood and unscrewed the whip antenna, pulling the cylindrical segments apart and S-folding them.

Rex turned back to Szabla, looking somewhat ridiculous speaking into her shoulder. "The cores will be refrigerated and archived on one of the boats-get them thawed out, see if any thermophilic microbes have survived the refrigeration, and get them over to Dr. Everett to see if they're infected with the same thing. If they are, odds are they're what infected the dinoflagellates to begin with."

Donald agreed and clicked out.

The soldiers stared at Rex and Diego blankly. Szabla ran her fingers up along the front of her neck, testing the tender skin above her larynx. Derek averted his eyes from her, and she turned back to Rex.

"You want to tell us just what the fuck you're talking about?" she asked.

Captain Buck Tadman shifted his damp cigar to the left side of his mouth, leaning over the prow of the 143-meter advanced drilling ship and watching the waves crash against the hull. The cook stood next to him, wearing a stained white apron.

"You want my marital advice?" Buck said. He smacked the back of one hand into the other. "Buy a belt with a thicker buckle." The cook threw his cigarette into the foaming waters and headed back to the kitchen.

A thin man in spectacles walked past Buck and waved, and Buck sneered at him, spitting the plug of his cigar on the damp deck. The man scurried away toward the laboratory. Buck was tired of scientists. And his ship, the SEDCO/BP 469 was overrun with them-paleontologists, sedimentologists, petrologists, magnetics specialists, geophysicists, geo-chemists, geodipshitologists. All the degrees tacked on behind their names made the ship roster look like alphabet soup. He supposed it made sense-the boat was a floating research station, after all.

They'd left port in San Francisco over two months ago, setting out on Ocean Drilling Program Leg Seventeen, a six-month cruise that would take them down the west coast of South America, around the Cape, and back up to Florida. They'd stop at key sites along the way, pulling up plugs of earth from the ocean basins and seeing what information they encoded about the origin and evolution of oceanic crust, marine sedi-mentary sequences, and the tectonic evolution of continental margins.

Funded and managed by the Joint Oceanographic Institutions for Deep Earth Sampling and the U.S. National Science Foundation, the Ocean Drilling Program ran four advanced drilling ships around the globe, each converted from a petroleum drilling rig and engineered to collect core samples of rock and sediment. Buck's boat, the SEDCO/BP 469, was the finest of these.

Buck gazed proudly up at the derrick rising over sixty meters above the waterline. Two men attached the four-coned tungsten-carbide roller bit to the drill pipe, along with its stabilizing weights. Once the bit got rolling, it would slice through the ocean floor like a razor coring an apple. The taller man signaled another member of the drill floor crew, and the assembly was lowered to the moon pool, a hole seven meters wide in the bottom of the ship. The assembly entered the water through a funneled guide horn.

The machinery wound up, a clicking and humming of mechanical and hydraulic devices that extended the drill string down to the ocean floor. The spot they hovered over was 5,500 meters deep; it would take the drill bit roughly twelve hours to hit bottom.

Once it did, they'd rotate the drill string, pump surface seawater and drillers' mud down the drill pipe to remove the cuttings and keep the bit cool. The plugs of earth, safely ensconced in an inner core barrel, would be pulled right up out of the ocean floor and through the drill string to the ship, where scientists would run it to the lab and pore over it for days. They'd check the six-inch-wide, ten-foot-long plugs for fossils, gas pock-ets, bubbles, patterns in the mafic and olivine minerals, and tiny, heat-resistant organisms called hyperthermophilic microbes. Sometimes, they'd even run a Gamma Ray Attenuation and Porosity Evaluator to measure density.

Buck barked out a few commands just to feel important, enjoying how the workers grew uneasy under his eyes. He chomped the end off another cigar and twirled it beneath his thick gray mustache before lighting it. A deck hand jogged up. "Someone from the New Center on the radio," he said. "A Dr. Donald Denton."

"And?" Buck asked.

"He wants to talk to you. Says it's urgent."

Buck walked in slowly to the radio in the control deck, enjoying his cigar. When he spoke into the receiver, his voice was gruff. "Yeah? Help ya?"

"Mr. Tadman, Donald Denton here, New Center of Ecotectonics in Sacramento. I understand you did some core drilling off the coast of Sangre de Dios?"

"Always good to be understood," Buck said.

"I need to get my hands on samples from those cores. We have reason to believe that the drilling unleashed a new virus from the oceanic crust. In fact, the virus might be present in the thermophilic microbes living in the archived cores. It's quite urgent; I've spent the better part of the past few hours figuring out how to get ahold of you."

"Then you've been wasting your morning," Buck said. "We skipped the goddamned Galapagos this time down. Too much shakin' and bakin'. Drilled Sangre last leg. The cores are archived up in your neck of the woods."

"Where?" Donald's voice conveyed his exasperation.

"Scripps Institute. Right in La Jolla, California." Buck pronounced the "J" hard in "La Jolla" and gave the end of "California" a western spin-Californ-i-ae.

"Excellent. Thanks very much."

"No shit off my back. Oh, and Doc?" Buck shot a puffy jet of cigar smoke across the radio. "It's Captain Tadman."