The Storm

CHAPTER 13

IN A DARKENED CONTROL ROOM NEAR THE PEAK OF AQUA-Terra’s highest completed structure, Martin Otero looked from one screen to the next. Three large monitors sat in front of him. Two had gone blank, a third showed something moving and then pixilated out. In a few seconds it was blank like the others.

“What happened?”

Otero ignored the question. Blake Matson, Marchetti’s attorney leaned in closer. “What happened? Did the old man get it or not?”

Otero gestured to the blank screens. “You tell me. Obviously I can see only what you see. So how would I know?”

While Matson stared, Otero ran through the reboot program, hoping to get a signal from the construction robots. At the same time an alarm began flashing on the island’s schematic display.

“Water in the forward lab,” Otero said. Suddenly, he understood what happened. “The compartment’s flooded. Marchetti’s picture window must have fractured.”

“What does that mean for us?”

Otero swiveled in his chair, feeling better, more confident. “It means we’re in luck. They’re as good as dead. And now it looks like an industrial accident.”

“As good as dead won’t cut it,” Matson explained. “Only dead for certain works. We need bodies.”

“They’re twenty feet beneath the surface,” Otero insisted. “The pressure of the water rushing in will probably crush them, and if it doesn’t, they’ll drown trying to fight against it.”

“Listen,” Matson said, “you and I have made millions getting Marchetti’s design to Jinn and his people. But if we don’t make sure these meddlers are finished, we won’t live long enough to spend it. So get some more robots over there and find their drowned carcasses and haul them up like dead fish.”

Otero went back to his keyboard. He punched up a list of active robots and scrolled down to the section labeled Hydro. He tapped the down arrow until he found two submersibles currently deployed near Marchetti’s lab.

“What are those?”

“Hull cleaners,” Otero said. “They roam around the hull, clearing the algae and barnacles.”

“Are they lethal?”

“Only if you’re a barnacle,” Otero replied. “But they can give us a look.”

Otero switched the hull cleaner to manual control and directed it to section 171A: Marchetti’s lab. The machine wasn’t built for speed, but it only needed to travel a short distance.

“There’s the observation deck,” Otero said as it passed a long rectangular window. “Marchetti’s lab should be just ahead.”

A moment later the exterior of the lab was front and center.

The damage was obvious. What had once been a majestic portal often beaming with light now looked like a dark cave. The circular window was shattered. A few pieces of the thick acrylic clung to the frame like broken teeth in some giant mouth. No light came forth.

“Take it inside,” Matson ordered.

Otero had already planned to, but movement on the right side of the screen caught his eye. He turned one of the cleaners that way. Its camera was locked on a group of swimmers, headed topside.

“Grab them!”

Otero extended the cleaner’s grasping claws and accelerated toward the last pair of bare feet. It was the woman.

The hull cleaner clamped onto the woman’s feet. A struggle began. The camera shook, bubbles rose when the girl had exhaled. Otero pushed the joystick on his panel downward, ordering the hull cleaner to dive.

The machine nosed over but went nowhere. Suddenly, a face capped with silvery hair came into the frame. The machine went sideways. The sound of an actuator arm snapping off came through the headset.

The screen cleared. The woman wriggled free and the man’s face appeared once again. He was holding on to the hull cleaner, staring into the camera. Otero felt the weight of that gaze through the water and into the control room. The man pointed a finger directly at the camera, directly at Otero, and then he made a slashing motion across his throat, before smashing the camera and rendering the hull cleaner useless.

The message was clear. The men from NUMA were coming for them, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Otero tapped a few keys and hit enter on the keyboard—setting up one last trick to cover his back—and then he stood and grabbed a small briefcase filled with cash. His final payment.

“What are you doing?” Matson asked.

“I’m getting out of here,” Otero said. “You can stay if you like.”

Otero pulled a revolver from his desk drawer and hustled out the door into the hall. Seconds later he heard Matson racing to catch up.

At the starboard section of Aqua-Terra, Kurt found a ladder running up the side of the hull. He and Joe hustled up first and took cover behind a small oak tree on a pile of woodchips. He stared across the wheat field as Leilani hauled herself up the ladder and slumped beside them, looking exhausted.

“Now what?” Joe asked.

“We need to find the best way to that control center,” Kurt said, thinking it’d be nice to have some input from the man who designed the island.

He glanced over his shoulder. Down the ladder, Marchetti was climbing at a snail’s pace. One rung, then a rest, then another rung, another rest. He coughed, spat water.

“Come on, Marchetti,” Kurt said in a harsh whisper, “we don’t have all day.”

“I fear I can go no farther,” the billionaire said. “This is where it ends, right here on this ladder. You should go on without me.”

“I’d love to,” Kurt mumbled, “but I need you to turn off the machines.”

“Right,” Marchetti said as if he’d forgotten. “I’m coming.”

Marchetti began to climb once again. In the meantime, Kurt spotted a pair of figures exiting the second floor of the starboard pyramid and scrambling down a stairwell. He thought he recognized one of them as Marchetti’s arrogant aide. The other was unfamiliar.

“What’s Otero look like?” he asked.

Marchetti poked his head over the top of the ladder. “Average-sized man,” he said, “dark complexion, close-buzzed hair on a very small, very round head.”

The figures were too far away for Kurt to be certain, but that description fit the man he spotted. A moment later the two figures began a fast jog down one of Aqua-Terra’s roads. The occasional glance back was enough to tell Kurt they were on the run.

“Anyway off this boat,” Kurt said, “er—I mean island?”

“By helicopter,” Marchetti said. “Or via the marina, by boat or seaplane.”

The marina. If Kurt guessed correctly, that was their goal.

“I think Otero and your lawyer friend are headed that way,” he said. “Leilani, help Marchetti find a computer terminal and try not to kill him in the process. As annoying as he is, I think we’ve cleared him of anything more than crimes of fashion.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I promise.”

Kurt turned to Joe. “Ready?”

Joe nodded, and an instant later they took off running, sprinting into the wheat field and cutting their way through the neck-high stalks of grain. They reached the other side and began to cut across the park. Halfway there, Kurt heard the sound of an engine starting up.

“That sound like a boat to you?”

“More like an air-cooled Lycoming,” Joe said. “They’re going for the seaplane.”

“Then we’d better hurry.”

AS KURT AND JOE raced to the other side of the artificial island, Leilani and Marchetti scampered forward, eventually ducking into a maintenance building. The sight of fifty machines plugged in and charging gave her chills, but none of them moved.

Marchetti found the programming terminal and quickly logged on.

“I’m sorry I tried to scare you,” Leilani said, hoping it had some effect on Marchetti’s judgment.

“Me too,” Marchetti said, typing furiously. “But I can’t blame you for being angry.”

She nodded.

“I’m in,” Marchetti said. For a second he seemed elated, and then he paused with his mouth open as if surprised by what he saw. His eyes narrowed, focusing on one particular part of the screen. “Otero,” he mumbled, “what have you done?”

Suddenly, the machines around them began powering up. Motors whirring, LEDs going from orange to green.

“What’s happening?” Leilani asked.

“He changed the code,” Marchetti said. “When I logged on, it triggered a response. He’s set the robots on intruder mode.”

“Intruder mode? What exactly is intruder mode?”

“They go after everyone on the island not wearing an ID badge with an RFID chip in it. It’s my defense against pirates.”

Leilani realized instantly she didn’t have a badge, but as the machines began to disconnect from their plugs she wondered about him.

“Where’s your badge?”

“In the pocket of my robe,” he said, “the one Kurt made me get rid of.”

Kurt and Joe made it through the park and into the second strip of wheat on the far side. The sound of a different kind of motor rumbled to life, and far to their right, at the end of the field, a small combine sprung to life. It straightened and began moving toward them, its blades whipping through the wheat.

“A little early for harvesttime,” Joe said.

“Unless they’re trying to harvest us.”

Kurt picked up the pace and rushed out the other side onto the narrow path that led toward the marina. Running at full speed, with Joe right beside him, he noticed other machines coming out of the woodwork and tracking toward him.

“Apparently Marchetti hasn’t finished reprogramming things yet,” Kurt said.

“Let’s hope he remembers his password.”

Speed and agility were still in their favor, and after racing a hundred feet down the path and hopping a wall they cut away from the machines. A few seconds later Kurt and Joe were bounding down the stairs to the marina. Ahead of them the seaplane was taxiing out past the breakwater.

They had to hurry.

Kurt ran to the fastest-looking boat he could find: a twenty-two-foot Donzi. He jumped in and went to the control panel as Joe untied the lines. Pressing a start button, Kurt smiled as the V-8 inboard roared to life.

“Bogies coming up the dock,” Joe said.

“Nothing to worry about,” Kurt said, glanced at the collection of machines scrambling toward them. He gunned the throttle and spun the wheel.

The boat shot forward, curving and accelerating across the marina. As soon as they were on track, Kurt straightened out and pointed the bow toward the gap in the breakwater. The seaplane was already taxiing through it.

Kurt hoped to catch them, maybe tip them over, but that plan had a low margin for success.

He pointed to a radio on the dash. “Get Nigel on the horn,” he said. “Tell him to scramble. I don’t want to lose these guys.”

Joe switched the radio unit on, dialed up the right frequency, and began to transmit. “Nigel!” he shouted. “This is Joe. Come in.”

Nigel’s British voice came back with everything but a cheerio. “Hello, Joe, what’s the word?”

“Get that bird airborne,” Joe shouted. “We’re chasing a seaplane in a boat, and that’s not going to work for long.”

“Awfully sorry,” Nigel replied. “Wish I could help, but I took the engine apart.”

“What?” Kurt shouted, overhearing.

“Why?” Joe asked.

“Kurt told me to make it look good. The cowling off, a few parts on the ground, and a befuddled look on my face seemed the best way to me.”

“I didn’t need him to make it look that good,” Kurt mumbled.

“So much for that plan,” Joe said.

All they could do now was a little bump and run with the plane, hoping to damage it or flip it without getting themselves killed in the process.

The Donzi zipped through the gap in the breakwater. The seaplane was two hundred yards ahead, turning downwind to line up for its take-off run.

Kurt held the throttle all the way forward and slashed in front of the seaplane. The pilot turned away instinctively but the aircraft remained upright.

Kurt wheeled around to port and came back. The plane was accelerating now. Kurt charged toward it, riding in its wake.

“Come on,” Kurt said, coaxing every last bit of speed out of the boat.

Skipping across the waves, he pulled out to the left, passed the plane, and then cut in front of it again.

Joe ducked and shouted a warning. The plane leapt off the water, its metal prop roaring past and the pontoon rudders clipping part of the boat as it leapfrogged them and came back down.

Kurt looked up. “Glad to see no one lost their head.”

“Let’s not try that again,” Joe said. “I have no desire to find out what a margarita feels like inside the blender.”

Kurt had actually expected the plane to turn, not leap over them. But the effort had done them some good. The plane had landed awkwardly, and the pilot had slowed it down to stabilize it. When the plane began accelerating away again, it was headed in a bad direction.

“They’re headed downwind,” Joe said. “It’ll be a lot harder for them to take off with a tailwind than heading into this breeze.”

“Harder but not impossible,” Kurt replied. He guided the speedboat with an expert touch, sweeping back in behind the plane, dropping into the trough of the wake and ramming one of the pontoons. The plane lurched and twisted as the pilot fought for control, but it was quickly back on track.

“Look out!” Joe shouted.

A spread of bullets punched a line of holes in the prow of their boat as one of the fugitives unloaded the contents of a submachine gun in their general direction. Kurt and Joe were forced to turn away, and the plane slowed and turned, pointing itself into the wind once again.

In the maintenance room, Leilani stared at the army of machines, watching in horror as they stood up and began moving forward. Three of the things attacking down below had been enough to scare her, but fifty of them was an absolute nightmare. Anger flashed through her mind, along with the distinct impression that she’d gotten more than she had bargained for.

“Do something!” she shouted to Marchetti.

“I’m trying,” Marchetti said. “Tricky little man, that Otero. If I’d have known he was this smart, I’d have paid him more.”

Leilani looked around for help. All she saw were the machines and a bank of lockers.

“What’s in the lockers?”

“Work uniforms.”

“With IDs?”

“Yes,” Marchetti said excitedly. “Exactly. Yes, go!”

Leilani raced across the floor, slid under the swinging arm of one of the robots and slammed into the lockers like a baseball player stealing home. She popped up, threw one locker door open and yanked out a work uniform. A white ID badge came with it, and she held it tight.

The approaching machines stopped and turned away from her, and then all of them zeroed in on Marchetti, who was pounding the keyboard to no avail.

“I can’t break the code!” he shouted. The machines were on him now, one of them knocked him to the ground. Another brought a powered screwdriver down toward him, the Phillips head bit spinning furiously.

Leilani ran forward, pushed through the machines, and dove on top of Marchetti. Hugging him tight, she hoped the robots would see their combined heat source as one person and read the ID tag at the same time.

The drill bit spun and whined. She gripped Marchetti and closed her eyes.

Suddenly, the noise ceased. The screwdriver wound down and retracted. The other robot released Marchetti, and the small army of machines began to move away, looking for some other victim.

She watched them go, still holding Marchetti down.

As the machines filed out of the maintenance building, she looked down at him, her eyes hard and cold. She needed him to understand something.

“You owe me,” she said.

He nodded, and she eased off him. Neither of them took their eyes off the door.

A HALF MILE from the floating island, Kurt and Joe were taking direct fire from the seaplane. It was angling around, heading back downwind and accelerating. When it surged forward, Kurt dropped in behind it once again.

“Now or never, Joe.”

“I have an idea,” Joe said. He climbed forward onto the bow, grabbing the anchor.

“A friend of mine in Colorado taught me how to rope,” he shouted. He began whirling the twenty-pound anchor on its cord like a one-sided bolo.

Kurt guessed at his intentions and firewalled the throttle one last time. They began closing the gap. The gunfire returned, but Kurt swung the boat to the pilot’s side and ran it up under the seaplane.

Joe spun and released the anchor like an Olympic hammer thrower just as the plane came off the water. It flew forward and wrapped around the pontoon struts and pulled taut.

The plane’s nose came up, yanking the front end of the speedboat out of the water. The weight and drag were too much. The left wing dropped, hit the water, and the seaplane tumbled in a cartwheel, shedding pieces in all directions.

The speedboat was yanked sideways, the anchor cleat ripped free, but Kurt managed to keep the boat from flipping. He turned to port, backed off the throttle and wheeled around to see the carnage behind them.

The seaplane had come to rest with one pontoon missing, its wings bent and folded and part of the tail ripped off. It was being swamped by the water pouring in and looked to be going down.

“Yes!” Joe shouted, firing a fist pump into the air.

“We have to get you in the rodeo,” Kurt said, bringing the boat back around toward the shattered airplane.

He pulled up beside it. The plane was sinking fast, the two occupants trying desperately to get free. Matson got out first and was soon clinging to the speedboat. Otero made it over next.

They began to climb in, but each time they did Kurt bumped the throttles.

“Please,” Otero shouted, “I can’t swim well.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t live on a floating island then,” Kurt said, goosing the throttle until they dropped off the side and then chopping it again. They dog-paddled back to the boat, grabbing at the handrail.

Kurt scraped them off again.

“It was all his idea,” Otero said, trying to tread water.

“What was?” Kurt asked.

“To steal the microbots,” Otero said.

“Shut up,” Matson said.

“Who’d you give them to?” Joe asked.

The half-drowned duo latched onto the boat, and Otero clammed up once again.

“Mr. Austin,” Joe said, “I believe we have a policy against boarders and hangers-on.”

Kurt nodded and smiled. “That we do, Mr. Zavala. That we do.”

He pushed the throttle a little more this time. The two stragglers tried to hold on, but they were soon pulled free. This time Kurt continued to idle away from them.

“Wait!” Otero shouted, splashing around furiously. “I’ll tell you.”

Kurt put a hand to his ear. “Before we get too far away,” he shouted.

“His name is Jinn,” Otero sputtered. “Jinn al-Khalif.”

Kurt cut the throttle, and the boat settled.

“And where do I find this Jinn?” he shouted.

Otero looked at Matson, who was shaking his head.

“He lives in Yemen,” Otero blurted out. “That’s all I know.”