Deep Fire Rising Page 25

  “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 fe
lt 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.

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  The dream diverged from reality at the same place for the last three nights. Holding tightly to each other against the truck, Tisa and Mercer waited in the dark for Donny and Luc Nguyen to give up their search. In the dream, Tisa didn’t call out to her brother and swim away. In the dream, she stayed by Mercer’s side. In the dream Mercer was happy.

  Reality came with the discreet chime of a Tiffany alarm clock. Mercer woke with an emptiness the past few days of activity had been unable to fill. The light filtering through the skylight above his bed was sodden and gray. The third straight day of rain matched his mood perfectly.

  He turned to disable the alarm and came face-to-face with a long muzzle and red droopy eyes. Drag had been awaiting his chance. Now that Mercer was awake, the basset hound began to lick at his face, his tail thumping against the blankets like a sluggish metronome. Since Mercer’s return from Greece, the mangy dog had forgone his master, asleep on the barroom couch, and settled on the king-sized bed. Each morning he’d waited for the alarm before adding his own wet affection to prod Mercer out of bed.

  “Those aren’t the kisses I wanted,” Mercer said as he scratched the hound’s floppy ears, “but I appreciate the gesture.” Drag wormed his way partially under the covers and presented his substantial belly for a little attention.

  The dream always left Mercer bathed in sweat, so while Drag burrowed deeper into the warm spot on the bed and snored blissfully, Mercer took a quick shower and dressed, putting on jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Down at the bar getting coffee from the automatic machine he looked fondly at Harry White asleep on the couch, his prosthetic leg on the floor next to him, his mouth slack. Harry had slept over ever since Mercer had returned. Although they hadn’t talked much beyond the bare facts of the past few weeks, Harry recognized that Mercer was hurting and refused to leave him alone. He’d wait until hell froze over for Mercer to be ready to discuss what he was feeling.

  Drag sauntered down the spiral stairs, passed the bar and continued to the foyer, his nails clicking against the tile until he reached the front door. He woofed softly, demanding to go out.

  By the time Mercer returned from the walk around the block, Harry was sitting on his customary stool with a cigarette between his lips. He’d poured himself a cup of Mercer’s tarry coffee rather than make his own pot and had a pen ready to do the Washington Post crossword puzzle. Mercer slid the paper to his friend and stepped behind the bar to turn on the room’s industrial air filter.

  “You know,” Harry rasped, then cleared his throat. His voice didn’t improve. “Drag got used to sleeping in your bed when you were gone. If you let me have it back, he wouldn’t bother you in the morning.”

  “It’s not the bed, Harry—it’s the fact you get up to take a leak a dozen times a night.”

  “What can I say? I’ve always had a small bladder.”

  “Small bladder, enlarged prostate, tomato, tomahto.”

  “Potato, potahto, let’s call the whole thing off.” Harry sipped at his coffee and made a face. “You got any Bloody Mary mix back there?”

  “Yeah. It’s that crap Tiny pawned off on me. You won’t like it.”

  Harry dismissed Mercer’s warning with a wave. “You think I’m drinking it for the mix? Just use good vodka.”

  Mercer snorted, thinking that Harry White should be added to death and taxes as life’s inevitabilities. He fixed the drink and placed it next to Harry’s ashtray.

  “So are you spending your day on the computer again?” Harry asked, wrapping his long fingers around the glass.

  Mercer had spent the first twelve hours after his arrival at Dulles Airport three days ago being debriefed by Ira Lasko and a joint team of CIA and FBI agents. He told them everything he knew about Tisa, her organization, the attack on the ferry, and her cryptic final words, which he still didn’t understand. He’d been through such meetings before and was able to keep his temper in check as they went over the same information again and again, trying to coax more out of him. At the end of the debrief, the agents had packed up their recorders, cameras, and notebooks and left the conference room near Ira’s office without comment.

  Mercer and Ira were alone. “Now what?” Mercer had asked.

  “Now nothing,” Ira said. “They’ll write up their report and fill in any gaps they can. I’ll go over it and forward it to my boss, who might or might not pass it to the president.”

  “Ira, Tisa Nguyen laid her life on the line to convince me that her group can predict earthquakes. I’m sure she didn’t do it just to impress me. I think something big is coming, something she wanted, no, needed me to know. She’s giving us a warning, or at least part of one.”

  “This Leper Alma she mentioned?”

  “Yes. She told me the where, but didn’t have time to give me the when. Now I admit I have no idea what Leper Alma means, if it’s a place or the name of a nuclear power plant or what. But I think that whatever it is it’s about to be destroyed by an earthquake or a volcano.”

  “We’ll look into it, of course.”

  “Look into it?” Mercer snorted. “I’m the one who brought you this information and you’re cutting me out of the loop.”

  “I’m not cutting you out,” Ira shot back, “but Christ, look at yourself. You’re a mess. You’ve pushed yourself for the past month without a break. Let the analysts do their job while you get some rest. In a day or two I’ll call and let you know what they’ve come up with.”

  “Meanwhile Tisa is God knows where and no one’s going to lift a finger to help her.” Mercer was disgusted.

  “For the time being that’s out of my hands. You’ve given us a lot and it’s going to take a while to substantiate your claims.”

  “Claims? How many people died when Donny Randall blew up that ferry? Forty? Fifty?”

  “Forty-seven.”

  “Wouldn’t you call that substantiation that these bastards need to be stopped?”

  “And they will be, but I’m not going off half-cocked.”

  “The way you’re acting I doubt you even have half a one,” Mercer said angrily, twisting Ira’s cliché. “Are we through here?”

  Ira held Mercer’s gaze but said nothing. As soon as Mercer closed the door behind him, Lasko shook his head and reached for the phone book in a bottom desk drawer. He found the number he wanted.

  “Tiny’s.”

  Ira recognized Paul Gordon’s high-pitched voice. “Paul, this is Ira Lasko. I’m a friend of Mercer’s. I’ve been at your bar a few times with him.”

  “Yeah, I remember. What can I do you for?”

  “Have you seen Harry White?”

  “Morning, noon, and night.”

  “Any idea where he is right now?”

  “In the can. Hold on, he’s coming out now. Want to talk to him?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Admiral,” Harry boomed. “What’s going on? Where’s Mercer?”

  “He’s back. Just left my office.” Ira paused, thinking how he wanted to phrase his next statement. “I’m worried about him. Something happened to him in Gr
eece. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

  “What happened?”

  Ira told Harry about how the ferry was sunk.

  “That ain’t it,” Harry said. “Mercer’s been in worse jams than that. What else?”

  “Well, there was this woman.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting someplace. What happened to her?”

  “Mercer went to meet her. She had some information. After they escaped the ferry she was kidnapped by the group she belonged to.”

  “Terrorist group?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Harry said. “You’ve known Mercer a couple of years, but not the way I do. What you gotta understand is he’s basically an overgrown Boy Scout and he takes responsibility for everything and everyone around him. It’s what drives him. Right now he’s blaming himself for that woman getting nabbed and he’s not going to stop until he gets her back.”

  “I know all that. This seems more somehow. He’s taking this personal.”

  “He takes everything personally.”

  “No, Harry, you’re not listening. Personal, as in to heart.”

  Harry needed a moment to get what Ira was driving at. The idea was shocking. “You don’t think he’s . . . I mean he can’t be in . . .”

  “I don’t know,” Lasko answered. “All the signs are there.”

  “Holy shit! Who would have thought it? Our boy in love. I admit this is new territory for me. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never fallen for anyone. He came close once with an oil heiress, good-looking girl with more money than sense, but even that was just a temporary thing.”

  Harry paused. He was torn. Part of him wanted Mercer to find that kind of happiness while an equal part feared for what that would do to their friendship. Nothing, he decided quickly. Mercer wouldn’t fall for a woman who didn’t appreciate the company of a crippled rummy and his stinky dog. And when he accepted that, he knew he’d do everything in his power to help Mercer get her back.

  “I wanted you to know,” Ira said. “Can you keep an eye on him? Try to get him to talk. He’s bottled up pretty tight and I don’t want to see him blow.”