Deep Fathom
Page 57

Jack prayed they remained cautious. He increased his pace, scraping his elbows and knees. Soon he, too, saw the end of the passage. A square of bright sunlight. “Careful,” he whispered ahead.
Jack watched the professor slide from the tunnel—and vanish. The others followed. He crawled after them, reached the tunnel’s exit and peered out. Below, the others were crouched in a meter-wide channel of stagnant water, waist-deep. He realized then where they were, recalled the thin artificial creek bisecting the plaza. Head hanging out, he surveyed the situation. The stone bridge lay twenty yards away. He listened for voices and heard none.
Jack wormed out of the chute and lowered himself into the creek. After the exertion, the water felt wonderfully cool, but the saltwater stung his cuts and abrasions.
Karen nodded to the tunnel. “Drainage system,” she said softly.
He nodded. Nothing like crawling through a sewage pipe. He eyed Mwahu, silently asking the islander where to go next.
Before Mwahu could direct them, however, a loud voice cracked across the open plaza behind them. “Kirkland! If you want the others to live, show yourself!”
Jack froze. He knew that strident voice. Spangler. His fists clenched.
Karen touched his shoulder and shook her head. She pointed to Mwahu, who was half swimming down the artificial creek away from them.
Miyuki followed. Karen went next. Jack unclenched his fists. He knew it was not the time to confront David. Not yet. Not when others were in harm’s way. Lowering himself into the water, he silently glided after the others.
He heard the tromp of boots on stone…coming their way. He hissed at the others, pointing a thumb up.
Mwahu ducked under the bridge and twisted around. He motioned the others to join him. Jack and the two women were soon at his side. The bridge was so low that only their heads were above water.
The tread of boots, now running, aimed right for their hiding place. Two men.
Jack bit his lip. With the sun so low, the channel was thick with shadows. Under the bridge it was even darker. Still, if they thought to flash a light…
The pair hit the bridge and stopped. Their shadows could be seen on the far wall of the canal.
“Any sign?” Spangler asked harshly.
“No, sir. We’re still combing the building. They won’t get away. With the island under surveillance, they won’t be able to leave here without being spotted.”
“Good.”
“Sir, I’m getting a report from Rolfe over the radio.” A pause, then the man’s voice grew more excited. “He found a tunnel!”
“Goddamn it! Why didn’t someone spot this earlier? C’mon. Have Rolfe ready with the grenades.”
“Yes, sir.” The echo of boot steps retreated from the bridge and headed back toward the large structure.
Jack did not wait. He thumbed for Mwahu to continue.
One after the other the group swam toward the distant fortifications. No one breathed. All of them clung to the deepest shadows of the channel. As they neared the wall, Jack spotted where the creek ended. He saw no way forward.
Mwahu waited for them to gather. Once Jack was near enough, the islander made a diving motion with his hand. Then, to demonstrate, he sank under the water and vanished.
Karen whispered to Jack, “The creek must connect to the canals, or the channel would have dried out.” But she eyed the wall of stacked basalt logs with concern.
“You can do it,” he said.
Karen nodded, unhooking her backpack so it was loose in her hands. “I’ll go next.” Taking a deep breath, she ducked under the stagnant water. With a kick, she vanished into the underwater tunnel.
Miyuki looked too frightened to move. Jack slid beside her. “We’ll go together.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m not the strongest swimmer.” But she held out her hand, her eyes determined. He took it.
“On three,” he said.
“On three,” she repeated.
Jack counted it off, and they both dove under. He found the passage easily. It was quite large. Kicking off the nearby creek wall, he led Miyuki through the tunnel. It was no longer than two yards. Light filtered ahead.
Jack popped out and found himself in one of the surrounding canals. Miyuki surfaced beside him, wiping back her wet hair. The group was hidden in an overhang of ferns.
Jack heard a vague whining. The noise grew as he listened. “Shit.”
“What?” Karen asked.
“How long can everyone hold their breath?”
Karen shrugged. “As long as we need to.”
The whining was now a high-pitched screaming. It came from just around the corner.
“What is—” Karen started to ask.
“Take each other’s hands,” Jack said. “Duck underwater until I signal you.”
They obeyed, and their heads vanished. Holding his breath, Jack sank until only his eyes were above the water. Peering between the fern fronds, he watched a sleek black jet ski turn the corner with a roar. It angled down the canal toward them, sweeping back and forth, lightly bumping the walls to either side. Jack pressed himself against the stones.
Half standing, the driver glided his jet ski along the passage. He studied the walled island, slowing as he puttered past Jack’s hiding spot. The man, in a black wet suit with his mask pushed up on his forehead, wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
Keep going, asshole. Jack knew the others could not hold their breath forever. In the reflection of the man’s sunglasses, Jack spotted his own face hidden by leaves. His skin, pale, seemed to shine in the shadows. He should have smeared his face with mud, he thought. But it was too late now.
The jet ski inched past him, its fiberglass edge almost grazing his cheek as it swept by him. The man remained unaware of his presence. As he drifted away, Jack recognized the automatic weapon strapped to the man’s back. A Heckler & Koch MP5A3 assault weapon. The SEALs’ weapon of choice.
He kept an eye on the gunman until he disappeared around the corner, then pulled the others up. They gasped for air.
Jack strained to listen. Another whine arose from across the ruins. A second jet ski! He surmised there were two guards, circling in tandem around the island. He had maybe three minutes to come up with a plan.
“We need to get out of here,” he said. “Now.”
Mwahu pointed toward an islet fifty yards down the waterway. “More tunnels. Go over to shore.” But he seemed unsure of himself.
“Are you certain?”
Mwahu stared Jack down, then shrugged.
Jack sighed. “You make a very good point.” The group had no other choice. They’d have to take their chances. “Move fast, folks. We’ve got more company coming.”
The sound of the second jet ski grew louder.
Mwahu led the way. Here, the water was deeper. They were forced to swim. Jack cringed at the amount of splashing. If the second guard should turn the corner now, they would be spotted easily.
Positioned at the rear, Jack kept glancing over his shoulder. The whining began to roar, echoing off the walls. “Faster,” he urged the others.
The splashing worsened, but their progress only improved slightly. Jack realized they would not make it. Ahead, he spotted a narrow side channel jutting from the main canal. “Turn in there!”
With a kick, Mwahu led them into the tight alley.
Jack swam after them into the cramped space. Bare walls surrounded them on either side—and the canal dead-ended only a couple yards away. They were boxed in. Jack swung around. “We’ll have to hold our breath again.”
Resigned nods answered him.
Jack judged their waning strength, knowing they were all growing cold and exhausted. The rising scream of the jet ski drew his attention around. “He’s coming.” He knew he could not risk even peeking out. He listened, trying to time it, grabbed Karen’s hand and raised his other arm.
The noise drilled his ears. He held his breath, waiting, tense. Then he lowered his arm, and the others sucked air and dove. Again Jack lowered his face to eye level with the water.
The jet ski roared up to the opening of the side channel, but the driver, a clone of the other, maintained a watch on the larger island across the canal. Standing, the man had a hand pressed to an ear, listening to his radio, reporting in. His words were muffled by the jet ski’s engine.
Jack willed him to continue past.
As if hearing his silent plea, the man swung around. Jack just barely managed to duck underwater in time. From under the surface he stared up. He could see the man’s watery image, saw him pause, floating the jet ski in place.
Jack felt Karen tug on his hand. She and the others were running out of air. He squeezed her hand, then released his grip and slipped away from her side. Karen tried to grab the back of his shirt, but he knocked her hand aside.
Overhead, the jet ski turned in their direction. Jack saw the man reach for his rifle. Exhaling slowly, Jack sank deeper. He slid out of the side channel, scuttling under the starboard edge of the ski. He hated to abandon the others, but he needed a moment’s distraction.
Crouching down on the bottom of the canal, he positioned his feet and squinted up. C’mon, he urged the others. Then he heard a frantic kicking as one of his group ran out of air and was forced to surface.
Jack did not wait. He shoved with all the strength in his legs and shot out of the water.
The driver, still facing the channel, had his weapon pointed in the wrong direction. He noticed Jack’s attack a moment too late.
Jack knocked him off the jet ski’s seat. The man grabbed the handlebars and twisted around, but by then Jack’s elbow had smashed him in the face, crushing his nose, driving the bone into his brain. Instant death.
Jack did not pause. His old instincts arose. He relieved the guard of his rifle and radio headpiece, then shoved the man into the canal.
As he swung back into the jet ski’s seat he found Karen staring up in shock from the canal.
“Kill or be killed,” he grumbled, then gunned the jet ski. “C’mon.”
Karen held out a hand, and Jack pulled her into the seat behind him. There was not enough room for the other two.