Watermind (30 page)

“Show Lieutenant Jarmond we have nothing to hide,” Yue said.

Peter grinned. He could see Yue wanted to stir up difficulties for Roman. Though he didn't understand all the history between the QB and the CEO, he recognized the fury of a woman scorned. But no way would he share his data with this government geek. He shrugged and kicked some cables aside. “Sure thing, lieutenant. Step into my
lab.” He tapped keys to retrieve a satellite scan. The Corps of Engineers could get that anyway.

The infrared scan showed the goblet-shaped canal bay in blues, yellows, and reds indicating cool, warm, and hot temperature patterns. Just inside the goblet's narrow throat, a frigid blot glowed dark blue-violet.

“Awesome.” Rick blinked at the screen, then at the buoys in the water. “What makes it so cold?”

Peter smirked. “It's an aliphatic hydrocarbon containing halogens of chlorine and fluorine.”

Rick tugged his eyelid to adjust his contact lens. “Freon, huh? Y'all spilled CFCs?”

Peter stiffened. He hadn't expected the dorky Fed to understand his chemical lingo. Chlorofluorocarbons were chewing through the planetary ozone shield, exposing Earth to lethal radiation. The government charged hefty penalties for CFC emissions. Peter noticed Yue smiling.

“Quimicron doesn't deal with CFCs,” he explained to Jarmond. “This Freon came from upriver. It's not ours.”

Rick studied the satellite scan, winking his left eye at his unruly contact lens. “This picture's ten minutes old.” He pointed to the time-and-date stamp in the upper right corner. “Let's see the latest one.”

“Why not.” Peter accessed the military FTP site and downloaded a new image.

Rick moved closer to the screen and squinted. “Where'd it go?”

Peter leaned over his shoulder. Then he pushed Rick aside. Rapidly, he accessed the FTP site and downloaded another scan. Yue had never seen Peter in such a hurry. She rushed over and elbowed Rick farther away. Peter doublechecked the time-and-date stamp on the new scan. He verified the download procedure. He scratched his white hair. The cold spot had vanished.

Yue pounded keys at another station. She was already picturing Roman's face. He would blame her, but how could she control the colloid's vacillating temperature? Like a thrown switch, the slick must have warmed up to
match the surrounding river heat, so the satellite's infrared cameras couldn't see it.

Yue tried triangulating its radio emissions, but that didn't work. A hundred different radio frequencies crisscrossed the bay. While Rick Jarmond hovered with his mouth hanging open, she clawed the keyboard to locate the EM field. But her sensors painted a confused overlay of energy patterns. Boat engines. Wharf cranes. Channel buoys. Power cables crossing under the river. The entire downtown waterfront glowed hot with electromagnetic radiation. She slung her fingers as if they burned. She'd lost the colloid.

CJ didn't hear Yue's brittle curses. Hiding under the wharf a hundred yards away, CJ gripped her small instrument and focused on the faint EM field she'd been tracking all along. If she didn't know its variations so well, she would never have spotted it moving sideways through the jumbled energetic noise in the water. Even so, she had to strain to keep the changeling contour in sight. While she watched, the convoluted flower smoothed into a disk, and its wispy image grew fainter still, as if it were sinking to the bottom. CJ kept watching.

 

Thursday, March 17

4:17
PM

 

“You should've used marker dye!”

“That's your specialty.”

“Why didn't you suggest it?” Yue had been sniping at Peter since they lost the colloid.

“Maybe you should track the pure H
₂
0,” he said to rile her.

At the mention of pure water, Yue growled epithets in
Chinese. Another of Reilly's claims had proved correct—clean water trailed the slick like a comet's tail, apparently a by-product of its internal chemical processes.

Peter studied the colloid's last known location. The slick had lain stationary for hours, so he had good reason to assume it was still there. He wrestled the EMP generator into position, then duct-taped the cable connections. His skin smarted from sunburn, and his muscles smarted from manual labor, which was definitely NOT in his job description. The pulse generator's batteries were drained, so he wired them to draw power from the yacht's engine. That meant the pulse would have less kick, and he would have to fire more than once to cover the colloid's swelling volume.

Not far away, the empty NovaDam bags floated like a crescent of stiff boxy jellyfish. Roman hadn't obtained clearance yet to fill them. Ships filed slowly past the bags, blasting their horns and radioing their grievances. Once the bags were pumped full of water, they would cut off the shipping lane, trapping dozens of angry captains and pilots in the canal—and clearing the way for Peter to fire his gun. When the time came, he'd have to shoot fast. “Damn,” he muttered. The
Refuerzo
would have zero chance to net a live sample.

“Aren't you ready yet?” Yue jabbed hairpins into her braid. “You are the slowest, most inept—”

“Screw yourself. Better yet, get Sacony to screw you. Maybe that'll shut you up.” Peter didn't see the CEO observing them from the doorway.

Roman drew back quickly so his presence wouldn't slow their work. Overhead, helicopter rotors frapped the humid air. Channel 2 had returned for more footage. Roman pinched the bridge of his nose. He should release a statement to give the media a plausible explanation. He needed to return calls from his attorney, his CFO, the Baton Rouge Police, the mayor.

Steely clouds accumulated in the south, and moisture
hung over the bay like a negative charge. The barometer kept plunging, and for a few seconds, people had to shout over the gusting wind to be heard. When the final barrier bag dropped into position, its sudden splash reverberated like thunder.

Coast Guard Captain Ebbs had ordered Roman to cease and desist deploying the barriers. “You have a permit for a cleanup. You do NOT have authorization to obstruct this canal.”

But Roman was tired of begging favors. All the finagling and cajoling had drained him. He needed a real Argentinean espresso. He needed Li Qin Yue's amphetamines. He needed . . . to
do something
.

Abruptly, he marched to the bridge and radioed the crew to start filling the bags. The traffic helicopter buzzed low over the
Chausseur
's stern with a sound like a drumroll, and storm clouds filtered the sunset to pewter. Roman paced back to the stern to watch Yue and Vaarveen aim their gun.

 

Thursday, March 17

6:03
PM

 

The lead story for the local Six O'clock News showed aerial footage of shipping traffic snarled in the Port Allen Canal. The reporter described the chemical spill as nontoxic refrigerant. “Harmless to humans,” he quoted from the Quimicron press release. As lightning blinked in the southern clouds, buffeting compression waves lent the helicopter's video a choppy, combative edge.

Roman hated media attention. If his business associates caught wind of this, it could damage his standing. But for once, the media worked in his favor. Mounting public concern finally convinced the Corps to let him
block the channel and clean up the spill. The Port Allen Lock would close for one hour, from 8:00
PM
to 9:00
PM.
That was Quimicron's window. Roman heard the NovaDam pumps stammer awake. They had two hours to fill eight bags. Then at last they would close their trap on the colloid.

He paced the port deck and nearly tripped over a dark heap of clothing. “What the hell?”

“Sorry, sir.” Max got to his feet, palming his cell phone. He hadn't been able to reach CJ.

“Why aren't you working? Where's Godchaux?”

“Rory, he took the speedboat over there.” Max pointed toward the NovaDam barge, half-wishing he'd gone along. He didn't like being stuck on the yacht. CJ's silence worried him. He tucked his phone in his jeans and hummed a broken snatch of melody out of sheer tension.

“Move along. Help the science team,” Roman barked.

“Yes, sir.” Max trotted away, scanning the dusky water as he went. He couldn't spot the Viper anywhere. As soon as he'd passed beyond Roman's sight, he ducked into a recess and speed-dialed CJ's number again. All he got was her voicemail.

CJ didn't hear her phone chime. She didn't hear the thundering pumps. CJ lay folded up in the floor of her Viper cockpit, dead asleep. The field finder had slipped from her fingers and lodged under her neck like an edgy pillow. It was still registering signals from the water, and its battery emanated its own small EM field, irradiating her esophagus and larynx. The boat rocked, and a trickle of bilge water bathed her cheek. She sniffed and rolled over and didn't wake.

 

Thursday, March 17

7:55
PM

 

“Breaker. This is Romeo Juliet. We have the lock shut.” Rick Jarmond loved radio talk. He loved using his initials in the NATO phonetic alphabet. RJ—Romeo Juliet, very cool.

“Roger that.” Meir closed his phone, sighed, and nodded to Roman.

In the damp gusty wind, Roman watched the yellow buoys bob in a wide uneven circle, marking the colloid's most recent location. Yue rechecked the calculations for the fifth time. Vaarveen charged the EM gun. Max waited at the anchor hoist. On the
Refuerzo
, Creque and Spicer lowered their hose. At Yue's signal, everyone would launch into action.

Seven carbon bags stood plump and full of water. Their round tops protruded across the channel like bright yellow melons. Only the eighth bag lay flaccid, and at glacial speed, a huge Japanese freighter was easing past it. As soon as this last freighter moved through, the channel would be empty and they could begin.

Meir puffed fragrant clouds of Cuban cigar smoke and watched his CEO stalk back and forth. This episode was taking a toll on their elegant CEO. NovaDam's pumps howled, filling the eighth bag. Roman ground his knuckles in his eye sockets. The freighter crept through and cleared the channel. Minutes passed.

“Call those
cabrónes
,” Roman snapped. “That bag should be full.”

Meir keyed the number just as helicopter spotlights flooded their deck.
“Mierda!”
Roman rushed to the rail and tried to wave off the helicopter.

While Peter made snide comments, Meir worried about his plant and his people. With production still offline, his
people would be anxious. Nobody was there to explain things or to sign their payroll checks.

A phone chimed, and when Roman pressed it to his ear, Meir watched his CEO's expression change from concern to cold brutality.

“Fire the gun!” Roman shouted. “Their
maldito
bag leaks. It won't hold water. Fire!”

Meir pitched his glowing cigar over the rail. “Shouldn't we . . .”

But Yue had already shoved Peter aside and pressed the power control. The pulse generator blasted a hiss of energy that made everyone flinch. Max clapped his hands over his ears as the brilliant explosion strobed through the water. Then the
Chausseur
's lights went out.

Overhead, the helicopter continued to rake them with its spotlight. The EM pulse hadn't affected its electronics. Roman spun on his heels and counted the lights along the factory wharves. He checked the
Pilgrim
and the NovaDam barge. On the
Refuerzo,
Creque started up his vacuum pumps. Only the yacht had lost power. All the other lights glowed the same as before. Vaarveen had aimed the gun well. Roman rested his hands on the rail and counted his breaths.

Across the bay, CJ sat up in her boat and sneezed. Her short wet nap had congested her nasal cavities, but even half asleep, she recognized the hiss of the EM pulse. She couldn't see the
Chausseur
. Her nose was running. She couldn't read her watch. She wanted to slap herself for falling asleep. Where was her damned flashlight? In near darkness, she gathered the field finder to her chest as if she could read its signals by heart.

Two minutes later, the
Chausseur
flickered back to life. Peter Vaarveen patted the generator with an air of pride, and Max whispered gratitude to his
gros bon ange
. The pulse had drawn a serious energy load from the yacht's battery, but its force had struck straight down into the water so it hadn't damaged the
Chausseur
's electronics.

“Lift that anchor,” Roman bellowed to Max. “Meir,
move us to the next firing point. We have to make three more shots. Vaarveen, show him where.”

“I know where.” Meir hurried toward the bridge. Peter had already given him the firing coordinates.

“I think we already killed it.” Peter raised his arm, and everyone turned to see where he was pointing—not where they'd aimed but farther away, on the other side of their yacht. The helicopter spotlight revealed a thick column of vapor spiraling upward. Where the vapor neared the copter's rotor blades, it mushroomed in whirling wheels of fog. Like silk moiré, the overlapping pinwheels rippled around the blades, cinnamon brown and purple.

“We killed it,” Yue repeated.

The pillar of gas revolved like a swarm of seething hornets. Max made the sign of the cross to ward off evil, while Yue watched the phantom patterns. “What kind of gas is that?” she said. “Move us closer. I want a sample.”

From the bridge, Meir watched the gas spew through his open porthole. Its sweet fruity taste caught in his throat like fire. Yue tasted it, too. As whiffs gusted over the starboard, she coughed and clutched her throat. Overhead, the helicopter dipped erratically. Then Peter caught the scent of bitter almonds. “It's poison!”