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"How is that possible?"
"Simply put, sound-wave energy can be reflected."
"Yes, that goes without saying," said Sandecker.
"Since you know the four separate sound rays will propagate toward the island of Oahu and you have determined the approximate time of convergence, I assume your scientists can also accurately predict the exact position of the convergence."
"We have a good fix, yes."
"There's your answer."
"That's it?" Any stirrings of hope that Sandecker had entertained vanished. "I must have missed something."
Ames shrugged. "Occam's razor, Admiral. Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily."
"The simplest answer is preferred over the complex."
"There you have it. My advice, for what it's worth, is for NUMA to build a reflector similar to a satellite dish, lower it into the sea at the point of convergence and beam the acoustic waves away from Honolulu."
Sandecker kept his face from showing any emotion, but his heart pounded against his ribs. The key to the enigma was ridiculously uncomplicated. True, the execution of a redirection project would not be easy, but it was feasible.
"If NUMA can build and deploy a reflector dish in time," he asked Ames, "where should the acoustic waves be redirected?"
A wily smile crossed Ames' face. "The obvious choice would be to some uninhabited part of the ocean, say south to Antarctica. But since the convergence energy slowly diminishes the farther it travels, why not send it back to the source?"
"The Dorsett mine on Gladiator Island," Sandecker said, tempering the awe in his voice.
Ames nodded. "As good a choice as any. The intensity of the energy would not have the strength to kill humans after making a round trip. But it should put the fear of God in them and give them one hell of a headache."
This was the end of the line. Pitt thought bitterly. This was as far as any human was expected to go.
This was the conclusion of the valiant effort, the future desires and loves and joys of each one of them.
Their end would
come in the water as food for the fish, the pitiful remains of their bodies sinking a thousand fathoms to the desolate bottom of the sea. Maeve never to see her sons again, Pitt mourned by his mother and father and his many friends at NUMA. Giordino's memorial service, Pitt mused with a last vestige of humor, would be well attended, with an impressive number of grieving women, any one of whom could have been a beauty queen.
The little boat that had carried them so far through so much chaos was literally coming apart at the seams. The crack along the bottom of the hull lengthened fractionally with every wave that carried the boat over its crest. The buoyancy tubes would keep them afloat, but when the hull parted for good and the pieces went their separate ways, they would all be thrown in the merciless water, clinging helplessly to the wreckage and vulnerable to the ever-present sharks.
For the moment the sea was fairly calm. From crest to trough, the waves rolled just under a meter. But if the weather suddenly became unsettled and the sea kicked up, death would do more than merely stare them in the eyes. The old man with the scythe would embrace them quickly without further hesitation.
Pitt hunched over the rudder in the stern, listening to the now familiar scrape and splash of the bailer.
His intense green eyes, sore and swollen, scanned the horizon as the orb of the morning sun flushed from a golden-orange glow to flaming yellow. He searched, hoping against hope that a hint of land might rise above the clean straight horizon of the sea surrounding them. He searched in vain. No ship, aircraft or island revealed itself. Except for a few small clouds trailing to the southeast a good twenty kilometers away, Pitt's world was as empty as the plains of Mars, the boat little more than a pinprick on a vast seascape.
After catching enough fish to start a seafood restaurant, hunger was not an anxiety. Their water supply, if conserved, was good for at least another six or seven days. It was the fatigue and lack of sleep caused by the constant bailing to keep the boat afloat that was taking a toll. Every hour was misery. Without a bowl or a bottle of any kind, they were forced to splash the incoming water overboard with their cupped hands until Pitt devised a container from the waterproof packet that held the accessories he had smuggled past the Dorsetts. When tied to a pair of wrenches to form a concave receptacle, it could expel a liter of seawater with one scoop.
At first they labored in four-hour shifts, because Maeve demanded she carry her share of the exertion.
She worked gamely, fighting the stiffness that soon attacked the joints of her arms and wrists, followed by agonizing muscle aches. The grit and guts were there, but she did not have the natural strength of either man. The shifts soon were divided and allocated by stamina. Maeve bailed for three hours before being spelled by Pitt, who struggled for five. Giordino then took over and refused any relief until he had put in a full eight hours.
As the seam split farther and farther apart, the water no longer seeped, but rather spurted like a long fountain. The sea pried its way in faster than it could be cast out. With their backs against the wall and no trace of relief in sight, they slowly began to lose their steadfastness.
"Damn Arthur Dorsett," Pitt shouted in his mind. "Damn Boudicca, damn Deirdre!" The murderous waste, the uselessness of it all made no sense. He and Maeve were no major threat to Dorsett's fanatical dreams of empire. Alone, they never could have stopped him, or even slowed him down. It was a pure act of sadism to set them adrift.
Maeve stirred in her sleep, murmuring to herself, then lifted her head and stared, semiconscious, at Pitt. "Is it my turn to bail?"
"Not for another five hours," he lied with a smile. "Go back to sleep."
