Temple of Fire (3 page)

Bridge

Aboard the
Alamiranta

 

Catherine
Caine
stood next to Captain
Nikos
Papagantis
.

“The typhoon has changed direction since yesterday,” said
Papagantis
.  “The Proteus 9 probe and other data from the weather lab suggest that it has begun to move northwest.”

“In other words,” said
Caine
, “straight for us.”

“I’m afraid so.  Until an hour ago, our forecast models showed it impacting Baja.”

“Let’s get under way,” said
Caine
. 
“Due west.”

“I’m afraid we can’t outrun it,” said the Captain.  “Beatrice can move faster than the ship.”

“That’s absurd,” said
Caine
.

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.  I just got word that the engine room’s main reactor is offline indefinitely.  It has accumulated the maximum amount of radiation that specs call for, and we need to purge the
rads
at our next layover.  We can move under auxiliary diesel power, but the storm is going to overtake us within three hours.  We don’t want to be caught in one of the storm’s main feeder bands for any length of time.”

“Any ideas, Captain?”

“Actually, yes.
  We move very slowly to the northwest, letting Beatrice overtake us.  We then cruise at best possible speed, trying to stay in the eye of the typhoon, where seas are calm.”

The attractive, slender CEO of Titan Global folded her arms and looked at the Pacific from the ship’s ultra-modern bridge.  “The word is given,” said
Caine
.  “Let’s do it.”

 

Titan Six

Above the
Pacific Ocean

Titan Six was aboard a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk stealth helicopter.  It had flown south during the early hours of the morning to avoid Beatrice, but was now veering east towards
Mexico
.  It would shortly loop northeast to Titan’s airbase.

“Sorry about the detour, ladies and gentlemen,” said the pilot.  “Flying through hurricanes is not recommended, as you can well imagine.  We’ll be landing at
Airstrip
BC
in about sixty minutes.”

BC was Titan code for Bravo Cantina.

“I’ve got Mrs.
Caine
on the COM,” said the pilot.  “She’d like to brief you on your assignment now.”

“Put it on speaker,” said Hawkeye.  “We don’t have our helmets on.”

“Roger that,” said the pilot.

Hawkeye sat with his team for the mission: Tank, Shooter, and Gator.  David Denton, nicknamed Quiz, had taken the place of
Pyro
because of the young man’s in-depth knowledge of geology.  He’d also performed admirably on the team’s mission to
Mont St. Michel
to rescue his grandfather, the wealthy and eccentric scientist Charles
Whittingon
.  Dr. Christian Madison was on the team to help provide scientific support.

“Our client for this mission is U.S. Petroleum,”
Caine
began.  “They’ve been drilling for oil in northeast
Nevada
in what is known as the
Great Basin
Desert
.  They’re looking for
abiogenic
petroleum.”

Christian Madison let out a low whistle.  “That’s radical. I didn’t know that anybody but the Russians were interested in the theory of
abiogenic
crude oil.”

“Fill them in, Doctor,” said
Caine
.

“Most scientists believe that oil is made from organic compounds — plankton and algae, for instance — subjected to intense heat and pressure.  Some scientists, however, such as Nikolai
Kudryavtsev
, have
believeded
for quite some time that petroleum is too rich in hydrocarbons to be formed anywhere else except deep in the earth.  They advocate the theory that carbon-rich fluids migrate up from the earth’s mantle.  This model predicts that far more oil is available than geologists have heretofore believed to be the case.  Present estimates say that we have enough petroleum for no more than another hundred years.  If the
abiogenic
theory is true, the oil supply might be unlimited given the active nature of carbon compounds in the earth’s mantle.”

“That’s correct,” said
Caine
.  “And U.S. Petroleum was drilling a well in
Nevada
to see if they could tap into this
abiogenic
source.  They’ve lost contact with the drilling site, where their CEO just happened to be visiting yesterday.  Our infrared satellite images indicate that there has been a powerful explosion at the well, although we can’t get any truly clear images.  Infrared does show, however, that there is a crater at least two miles wide where the drill was burrowing into the ground.  Your mission is to do a little recon and then see if you can stabilize the geological activity.  The drill seems to have tapped into some volatile gases.  I’ll need an Ongoing Threat Assessment.”

“Got it,” said Hawkeye.  “We’ve handled oil and gas situations before, although usually to secure deep ocean wells from terrorists. 
Any indication that the well was sabotaged?”

“Unknown at this point,”
Caine
answered.  “U.S. Petroleum is baffled, but it wants us to give a quick response before Wall Street oil speculators can destabilize the market.  It also wants to keep the feds at bay for as long as possible lest our client’s new drilling technology be suspended.”

“Understood,” Hawkeye said.

“And by the way, you’ll see an EFV aboard the
Globemaster
.  It will be dropped near the crater after your HALO.  The Expeditionary Fighting Vehicle, which you will use to approach the crater, has some unique stealth characteristics.”

“Titan Six is a go,” Hawkeye said.  “Quiz and Dr. Madison are ready for their first HALO jump.”

Quiz gave Hawkeye a thumbs-up.  In reality, he and Dr. Madison, despite recent training, were terrified.  HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening.

 

The
Nevada
Desert

One Mile from the Former Camp of
U.S.
Petroleum

 

Will Langhorne got his backpack and gear from his Cherokee and threw some camouflage netting over the Jeep.  Wearing a gas mask, he began to hike to the rim of the crater.  The air on the southern rim was beginning to clear somewhat, but it was foul with gas, and dust storms hampered visibility.  Also, smoke was still escaping from the crater.

Slogging through terrain badly scarred by the blast proved difficult.
  The sand was scorched, and Langhorne had to haul his body over ridges that hadn’t existed twenty-four hours earlier.  He also had to step across fault lines that had split the desert floor in a hundred places, carving deep crevices where gas seeped up like poisonous, malevolent genies.  Like his namesake from the nineteenth century, he was roughing it.

The occasional aftershock did nothing to bolster his confidence.

Still, he was determined to reach the site before anyone else.  Whatever had happened at the well was nothing that was taught in Geology 101 at any university.

He approached the crater rim with extreme caution.  He lay on his stomach, peering into the wide chasm below.  What he saw made him gasp.  One of his hunches while mapping the area with GPR had been dead-on.  He rolled onto his back, hyperventilating.  In a reflex born of self-preservation, he ripped off his gas mask and took deep breaths.  Gas from below filled his lungs.

Langhorne felt dizzy.  Clutching his gas mask tightly, he tried to stand, but the ledge beneath his feet crumbled, and he plummeted into the yellow haze below.

He rolled downwards on a steep incline, his backpack and gear cushioning the hard jolts his body took as it slammed against unforgiving, jagged rock.

He came to rest one hundred meters below, his ribs bruised and aching.  His bloody face was covered with abrasions.

And then he passed out.

 

Bridge

Aboard the
Alamiranta

 

Twelve-foot swells from Beatrice lifted the bow of the
Alamiranta
high into the air.  The great vessel pitched and yawed as the typhoon overtook it.  Driving rain slapped the forward windows as Captain
Papagantis
sat in the command chair in the center of the Bridge.

“Twenty-degrees starboard,”
Papgantis
ordered.  “We can’t have this bitch of a storm knocking us sideways.  Helmsman, keep us in line with the forward motion of the storm.”

“Aye
aye
, sir.”

“I have a red indicator light for the port side,” said Lieutenant Bradley Bender, the second-in-command. 
“Aft section of the ship.”

“What is it?” asked
Papagantis
.

“It’s a contact alarm,” said Bender.  “We’ve been struck by something.”

“In a typhoon?”

“It appears so,” said Bender.

 

 

Ops
Center

Aboard the
Alamiranta

 

The
Operations
Center
was the heart of all Titan paramilitary operations.  It was a round, multi-tiered room with a grayish-blue marble floor.  A dozen computer stations manned by Titan personnel surrounded a circular platform that displayed holographic representations of all mission sites. 
Flatscreen
monitors displayed tactical data in the dimly lit
Ops
Center
as technicians tapped their keyboards.

The communications liaison with Titan teams was nicknamed Touchdown, who could monitor the whereabouts and vital signs of all team members.  He could also trigger their
BioMEMS
nanobots
from his central station.  DJ, a former German special ops soldier and occasional team member on Titan missions, sat between Touchdown and Dr. Joshua Ambergris, a senior Titan Global scientist.

A voice with a slight Greek accent emanated from one of the many speakers above the stations.

“The ship has been struck by a torpedo,” said the Captain.

Catherine
Caine
frowned.  “We’re not under attack, Captain.  Explain.”

“All I can tell you is that we’re taking on water below-decks.  The good news is that the torpedo didn’t explode.  The bad news is that it still appears to be live.”

“So you’re telling me that we’re riding out a typhoon while taking on water from a torpedo lodged in our hull,” said
Caine
. 
“A torpedo that could explode at any minute.”

“Yes, ma’am.
 
Pyro’s
lending a hand, and I have an explosives team examining the torpedo as we speak.  As for the leak, our pumps are handling the situation so far.”

Caine
sighed and paced around the
Ops
Center
.  “Keep me updated, Captain.  We have a team in the field.”

“Yes, Mrs.
Caine
.”

“Rotten timing,” said Touchdown.

“As bad as it gets,” said
Caine
.  “As bad as it gets.”

 

Titan Six

Cargo
Bay
of Titan C-17
Globemaster
III

 

“Okay, people,” said Grace Nguyen.  “Step into your designated Plexiglas compartments.  My technicians and I will get you feeling nice and relaxed.”

“I really don’t want to get drowsy before a mission,” protested Tank.  “I need to get myself psyched.”

Grace put her hands on her hips and smiled.  “Have I ever let you down before?  Let’s have a little faith.”

Hawkeye leaned back against a cushioned bed while a male technician in a white jumpsuit attached a tube to his forearm.

“Close your eyes, Titan Six,” said Nguyen.  “Just relax.” 

A pneumatic whirring sound filled Hawkeye’s ear as the bed tilted back to a forty-five degree angle.  A footrest at the bottom kept him from sliding off.

“As the saying goes,” said Hawkeye, “you’re the doctor.  But I think you’re going to roll snake eyes on this little experiment.”

Hawkeye closed his eyes.  He had to admit that he felt extremely calm, but the experience didn’t have the feel of a Titan Six mission.

He decided he wasn’t going to go along with the ridiculous TRM experiment.  Enough with playing guinea pig.  He was a soldier.  He opened his eyes and looked directly at the Doctor.

“Good morning,” said Nguyen.  “You’ve been in a state of deep relaxation for almost forty-five minutes.  How do you feel?”

Nguyen pushed a button on the side of Hawkeye’s module, causing the Plexiglas to slide up and the bed to tilt forward.

“What are you talking about?” asked the team leader.  “I just closed my eyes.”

Grace shook her head and tapped her wristwatch.

“I feel terrific,” said Gator.

“Uh . . . well . . . I have to admit that I feel extremely alert,” said Hawkeye.

“It’s like eight hours of sleep without the morning cobwebs,” commented Shooter.

“I feel pumped,” said Tank. 
“Like I could go ten rounds for the Heavyweight Championship.
  Kudos, Grace.”

“Get into your combat suits and grab your gear,” said Nguyen.  “You’re jumping in ten minutes.”

Hawkeye bowed from the waist. 
“My apologies, Grace.
  Titan Global has done it again.”

“Damn straight,” Nguyen said, winking at the Titan commander.