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“Trouble,” Kowalski said. “That’s all we need to know for now.”
“What do we do?” Haru asked.
Byrd lowered his tablet, but Kowalski pulled it back up.
On the screen, a group of commandos clustered around a pair ofplastic crates. They began handing out rectangular parcels, each affixed with a knob of electronics.
Kowalski swore, recognizing the threat from his own demolitions background.
Semtex and detonators.
The commandos set about planting charges around the tier. A few headed toward the stairwell. While it would take only one or two bombs to implode the entire complex, the assailants weren’t taking any chances.
Kowalski got them moving downward again. “Is there another way off the station? Maybe through one of the emergency airlocks at each level.”
Byrd shook his head. “A submersible would need to dock there first.”
Kowalski scowled.
That’s not happening any time soon.
Byrd hurried down. “Our only hope is to get to the lowest level in the station.”
Kowalski followed, though he failed to see how burying their head two levels deeper in the sand was going to help. But the bottommost tier was the smallest and likely the most defensible.
They reached the next level—Kalliste Tier—only to be confronted by a young woman hugging a laptop with a pack slung over her shoulder.
She looked more pissed than scared.
2:38A.M.
Jazz confronted the group of men. “What the hell’s happening?”
“Come with us,” Byrd ordered and herded her down the steps toward Tethys Tier.
Confused, she allowed herself to be swept along. She was too tired, too addled to argue. She wiped sweat from her brow and shivered, not out of fear, but due to a slight fever. The middle finger of her right hand throbbed and felt stiff. She opened and closed her hand, worrying about circulation, fearing a clot. The digit had taken on a worrisomely gray hue.
But that was clearly the least of her problems.
A gunshot above confirmed this.
As they all hurried faster, she searched the group around her. She recognized Jarrah and Haru Kaneko. The last of the group towered over her. Though she hadn’t been introduced to Joseph Kowalski, his size, demeanor, and hard features had been a point of much conversation. He claimed to be a member of DARPA. His partner—a biomedical expert—had accompanied Phoebe to the Tonga Trench.
Jazz eyed the huge pistol clutched in the man’s hand. Earlier, she had thought she had heard gunshots. At the time, she was sealed inside the benthic lab and had dismissed the noise as pops from the stressed walls of the station after the quakes. Anything else made no sense. Who would dare shoot inside a space surrounded by pulverizing pressure?
She looked up at Kowalski’s stern face, smoke wafting from a cigar.
This guy would.
As they reached the bottom of the station, a sharp cry echoed down the stairwell. It was followed by a spate of angry shouting in Chinese.
Byrd headed across the tier. “Hurry.”
Beyond the ring of windows, the ocean continued to shine under the exterior lamps. The reef glowed in radiant hues. But now there was an ominous cast to the seas. More harsh shouts echoed, getting closer.
“We need to seal off this level,” Byrd said.
“How?” Haru asked.
