On his belly, Jack shimmied toward the summit’s edge. He needed to reach the canals. He’d been lucky twice, and knew the odds were running thin. Peering over, he spotted two jet skis racing his way, another arcing to circle around the back. He was about to be surrounded. Then rifle fire spattered against the stones, missing his head by no more than a foot. He pulled back, but not before he spotted his adversary.
The sniper was perched atop a low building about three islets away.
As Jack rolled away, another grenade whistled through the air, exploding in the sand and water of the summit lake. Shrapnel tore through the air.
Damn it!
Jack unhooked his weapon and remained prone on the stone, offering no target to the sniper. He positioned the rifle and crawled forward, keeping an eye focused through the scope. As the squat building on the far side appeared in his sights, he froze, hoping his submersion in the seawater had not damaged the rifle. He waited, exhaling slowly, steadying his gun. Spotting a flicker of movement, he fired a volley of shots, then rolled away. On his back, clutching the rifle to his chest, he didn’t know if he had nailed his target, but either way, it would make the sniper more cautious. And now, at least, he knew that his gun would fire.
Across the channel, something heavy hit the water with a loud splash. A voice called out from one of the jet skis, “Handel’s down! Get that shithead!”
Jack rolled back to his stomach and crawled to the far side of the islet. He would have to take his chances and leap. The canals here were only six feet deep, but the enemy was closing in too fast. He had no choice.
Reaching the edge, he prepared to jump, then spotted a jet ski directly under him. In all the commotion, he hadn’t heard it come up.
He dove away as rifle fire peppered the edge. His right ear flared with pain, but he ignored it and rolled deeper, reaching the sandy slope of the summit lake. Listening, he heard the other jet skis closing in. Blood ran down his neck. He positioned his rifle, knowing he was doomed, and edged farther back, keeping his barrel forward. His feet and ankles now dangled into the water of the lake. He had nowhere else to go. His only consolation was that Karen and the others had escaped.
As he waited for the full assault, tiny fish nibbled at his toes, drawn by the blood of his abraded feet. He kicked them away.
Then he remembered the story Karen had told him about the construction of Darong Island. A sea tunnel connected the lake to the sea beyond the reef, she’d said, allowing fish to enter. He looked back; the breakwater lay only thirty yards away. A tough swim, but not impossible.
He heard the scuffle of stone.
Of the two risks, he knew which was the less dicey.
He dropped his rifle and, tugging the backpack over both shoulders, slid into the lake. Its bottom fell away steeply. He tread water for a few breaths, taking deep lungfuls of air. Usually, he could hold his breath for up to five minutes, but this was going to be a long dark swim.
With a final deep breath, he dove down into the depths. The fresh wound in his ear burned in the saltwater, but at least the pain kept him focused.
His hands reached the silty bottom. Curling around, he searched the edges of the artificial lake, struggling to find the sea tunnel opening. He swam first along the section facing the breakwater, believing this the most likely place. It quickly proved true: his arm disappeared down the throat of a stone tunnel.
Fixing its location in his mind, he rose to the surface and refreshed his lungs with rapid, deep inhalations. As he readied himself, he listened. It sounded like the jet skis were leaving. But the sounds echoed strangely around the lake. He couldn’t be sure, especially with so many. Then closer, he heard whispers, arguing, and the rattle of loose rocks, the word “bomb.” That was enough for him.
He dove with a clean scissor kick and reached the entrance to the tunnel. Not pausing, he ducked into the coral-encrusted hole and pulled and propelled himself down the chute, using hands and toes. There was nothing to see. Scooting blindly, his legs and arms were scraped and cut by the sharp coral. But he no longer felt the pain. He pushed past it, concentrating on one thing—moving forward.
As he wiggled and kicked, his lungs began to ache.
He ignored this pain, too.
Reaching forward, his hand touched stone. A moment of panic clutched him. He frantically reached out with both palms. A wall of stone blocked his way forward. He struggled, gasping out a bit of air, before he forced himself to calm down. Panic was a diver’s worst enemy.
He searched the walls on either side and realized the way opened to the right. It was simply a blind turn in the tunnel. He reached it and pulled himself around the corner.
Though relieved, he was also concerned. How long and torturous was this tunnel? Darong Island lay only thirty yards from the edge of the reef, but if the passage twisted and turned, how long did he really have to swim?
By now he was running out of air. The hours of exertion were taking their toll. His limbs demanded more oxygen. Small specks of light began to dance across his vision. Ghost lights of oxygen deprivation.
Jack increased his pace, refusing to let panic rule him. He moved quickly but methodically. The passage made two more turns.
His lungs began to spasm. He knew that eventually reflexes would quickly kick in and make him gasp. But blind, with no idea how far he had yet to traverse, he had no choice but to squeeze past his animal instincts.
Jack’s head began to pound. Lights swirled in multicolor spectrums.
Knowing he was close to drowning, he slowly exhaled a bit of air from his lungs. This gave his body a false sense that he was about to breathe. His lungs relaxed. The trick bought him a bit more time.
He kicked onward, periodically blowing out a bit more air.
But eventually this last ruse failed him. His lungs were almost empty. His body screamed for oxygen.
Jack strained to see, searching for some clue to how far he had to travel. But darkness lay all around him. There was no sign of an end to the tunnel.
He knew he was lost.
His arms scrabbled but he had no strength. His fingers dug at the rock.
Then a flicker of light appeared far ahead. Was it real? Or was he hallucinating, close to death?
Either way, he forced his leaden limbs to move.
He heard a muffled explosion behind him, the noise reverberating through his bones. He glanced over his shoulder just as the shock wave struck him. He was shoved roughly by a surge of water, tumbled in the tide, bumping along the walls. Water surged up his nose. With the last of his air, he choked it back out. Blindly, he pawed around him. It took him a second to realize walls no longer surrounded him.
He was out of the tunnel!
Jack crawled toward the surface. Air, all he needed was one breath.
He stared up and saw starlight…and a moon!
Kicking, writhing, he fought upward. His fingers broke the surface just as his lungs gave out and spasmed, sucking saltwater through his nose and mouth. He choked and gasped. His body wracked as it sought to expel the water.
Then his hair was grabbed and his head pulled out of the water. Into air, into light. Jack looked up. The moon had come down to the sea. A circle so bright. He twisted around…or was flung around.
“Get that light out of his face!”
Voices surrounded him. Familiar voices. The voices of the dead.
He saw a dark visage bent over him. It was an old friend, come to take him away. He reached numbly up as darkness again swept over him. In his head, he whispered his friend’s name: Charlie…
11:05 P.M.
“Is he going to be okay?” Lisa asked.
Charlie hauled Jack’s limp body into the pontoon boat. “You’re the doctor, you tell me.” He rolled Jack over, pulled off the water-logged backpack, and pumped a wash of saltwater from his drowned chest. Jack coughed and vomited out more.
“He’s breathing, at least.” Lisa bent over Jack’s form. “But we need to get him back to the Deep Fathom. He’ll need oxygen.”
The motor revved as Robert, at the stern, gunned the engine and spun the launch toward the waiting ship. The Fathom lay not far across the bay. Two other police cutters patrolled back and forth along the edge of the ruins.
Earlier, Charlie had spent half the evening trying to convince the local authorities to aid him in his search for Jack and the others. No one had listened, insisting he wait until morning. Then a frantic call had come in from Professor Nakano, relating an attack upon their party at Nan Madol. Now motivated, the police had converged on the location, arriving with the Fathom to find the place already deserted.
Apparently, Spangler’s assault team had been tipped off, for just as they entered the bay, a large blast blew apart one of Nan Madol’s tiny islets. Already in the Fathom’s launch, Charlie had aimed for the site, knowing there must be a reason for the explosion.
As they neared the reef’s edge, Robert spotted a bubbling surge. He aimed for it just as a pale hand broke the surface. Then the fingers sank back down. It would have been easy to miss.
The sea gods must have been watching over their captain, he thought afterward.
In the boat, Jack groaned and struggled to right himself. His eyelids fluttered but he did not regain consciousness. Charlie leaned down to his ear and whispered, “Rest, mon. We got you. You’re safe.”
His words seemed to sink in. Jack’s limbs relaxed.
“His color’s looking better,” Lisa said, but she herself was as pale as a ghost, bloodless with fear and worry.
If they had arrived even a minute later…
Robert spoke up from the rear. He had a radio pressed to his ear. “The police say they’ll search the ruins until sunup.” He lowered the radio. “But it looks like the ops team got clean away.”
“Damn those bastards,” Charlie swore. “If I ever get my bloody hands on them…”
11:34 P.M.
David stormed down the narrow stairs of the small commandeered police cutter. His team’s escape had been too damn close. Over the radio, he received word of the police at the same time his assault team found Jack.
Pressed for time, David had ordered explosive charges set around the islet, then ordered all of them to evacuate to the boat. For a black ops mission, exposure or capture was worse than death. Working efficiently, they left no trail behind. Gathering their dead, they quickly vanished into the maze of atolls and islands. All told, it took less than five minutes to evacuate the site.
