There was one hour left, now. Morton crouched among the mangroves and rocks near the center of Resolution Bay. The others were clustered around him. The water lapped softly against the sand, a few feet away.

“This is what I know,” he said, speaking low. “The submarine tender is hidden under a camouflage tarp at the east end of the bay. You can’t see it from here. They have been sending the submarine down every day for a week. The sub has limited battery power, so it can stay at depth for only an hour at a time. But it seems pretty clear they are placing a kind of cone-shaped explosive that depends on accurately timed detonation—”

“They had them in Antarctica,” Sarah said.

“All right, then you know. Here, they’re intended to trigger an underwater avalanche. Judging how long the sub stays down, I figure they are placing them at about the ninety-meter level, which happens to be the most efficient level for tsunami-causing avalanches.”

“What about the tents up here?” Evans said.

“It seems they’re taking no chances. Either they don’t have enough cone explosives or they don’t trust them to do the job, because they have placed something called hypersonic cavitation generators in the tents. They’re big pieces of equipment about the size of a small truck. Diesel powered, make a lot of noise when they fire them up to test them, which they’ve been doing for days. They moved the tents several times, just a foot or two each time, so I assume there’s some critical issue about placement. Maybe they’re focusing the beams, or whatever it is those things generate. I’m not entirely clear about what they do. But apparently they’re important for creating the landslide.”

Sarah said, “And what do we do?”

“There’s no way we can stop them,” Morton said. “We are only four—five, if Kenner makes it, which he doesn’t seem to be doing. There are thirteen of them. Seven on the ship and six on shore. All armed with automatic weapons.”

“But we have Sanjong,” Evans said. “Don’t forget him.”

“That Nepali guy? I’m sure the rebels got him. There were gunshots about an hour ago along the ridge where they first found you. I was a few yards below, just before they picked you up. I tried to signal you by coughing, but…” He shrugged, turned back to the beach. “Anyway. Assuming the three cavitation generators are meant to work together to create some effect on the underwater slope, I figure our best chance is to take one of the generators out—or maybe two of them. That would disrupt their plan or at least weaken the effect.”

Jennifer said, “Can we cut the power supply?”

Morton shook his head. “They’re self-powered. Diesel attached to the main units.”

“Battery ignition?”

“No. Solar panels. They’re autonomous.”

“Then we have to take out the guys running the units.”

“Yes. And they’ve been alerted to our presence. As you can see, there’s one standing outside each tent, guarding it, and they’ve got a sentry somewhere up on that ridge.” He pointed to the western slope. “We can’t see where he is, but I assume he is watching the whole bay.”

“So? Big deal. Let him watch,” Jennifer said. “I say we just take out all these guys in the tents, and trash the machines. We’ve got enough weapons here to do the job, and—” She paused. She had removed the magazine from her rifle; it was empty. “Better check your loads.”

There was a moment of fumbling. They were all shaking their heads. Evans had four rounds. Sarah had two. Morton’s rifle had none. “Those guys had practically no ammo…”

“And we don’t either.” Jennifer took a long breath. “This is going to be a little tougher without weapons.” She edged forward and looked out on the beach, squinting in the bright light. “There’s ten yards between the jungle and those tents. Open beach, no cover. If we charge the tents we’ll never make it.”

“What about a distraction?”

“I don’t know what it could be. There’s one guy outside each tent and one guy inside. They both armed?”

Morton nodded. “Automatic weapons.”

“Not good,” she said. “Not good at all.”

Kenner splashed down the river, looking hard left and right. He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he saw the faint imprint of a wet hand on a boulder. The damp print had almost dried. He looked more closely. He saw the grass at the edge of the stream had been trampled.

This was where they had left the stream.

He set out, heading toward the bay. Morton obviously knew his way around. This was another streambed, but much smaller. Kenner noticed with some unease that it sloped downward fairly steeply. That was a bad sign. But it was a passable route through the jungle. Somewhere up ahead, he heard the barking of a dog. It sounded like the dog was hoarse, or sick, or something.

Kenner hurried ahead, ducking beneath the branches.

He had to get to the others, before it was too late.

Morton heard the barking and frowned.

“What’s the matter?” Jennifer said. “The rebels chasing us with dogs?”

“No. That’s not a dog.”

“It didn’t really sound like a dog.”

“It’s not. They’ve learned a trick in this part of the world. They bark like a dog, and then when the dogs come out, they eat them.”

“Who does?”

“Crocs. That’s a crocodile you hear. Somewhere behind us.”

Out on the beach, they heard the sudden rumbling of automobile engines. Peering forward through the mangroves, they saw three jeeps coming from the east side of the bay, rumbling across the sand toward them.

“What’s this?” Evans said.

“They’ve been practicing this,” Morton said. “All week. Watch. One stops at each tent. See? Tent one…tent two…tent three. They all stop. They all keep the motors running. All pointed west.”

“What’s west?”

“There’s a dirt track, goes up the hill about a hundred yards and then dead-ends.”

“Something used to be up there?”

“No. They cut the road themselves. First thing they did when they got here.” Morton looked toward the eastern curve of the bay. “Usually by this time, the ship has pulled out, and moved into deep water. But it’s not doing it yet.”

“Uh-oh,” Evans said.

“What is it?”

“I think we’ve forgotten something.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ve been worried about this tsunami wave heading toward the California coast. But a landslide would suck water downward, right? And then it would rise back up again. But that’s kind of like dropping this pebble into this ditch.” He dropped a pebble into a muddy puddle at their feet. “And the wave the pebble generates…is circular.”

“It goes in all directions…”

“Oh no,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. All directions, including back to this coast. The tsunami will hit here, too. And fast. How far offshore is the Solomon Trench?”

Morton shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe two miles. I really don’t know, Peter.”

“If these waves travel five hundred miles an hour,” Evans said, “then that means it gets to this coast in…”

“Twenty-four seconds,” Sarah said.

“Right. That’s how much time we have to get out of here, once the undersea landslide begins. Twenty-four seconds.”

With a sudden chugging rumble, they heard the first diesel generator come to life. Then the second, then the third. All three were running.

Morton glanced at his watch. “This is it,” he said. “They’ve started.”

And now they heard an electronic whine, faint at first but rapidly building to a deep electronic hum. It filled the air.

“Those’re the cavitators,” Morton said. “Kicking in.”

Jennifer slung her rifle over her shoulder. “Let’s get ready.”

Sanjong slid silently from the branches of the overhanging tree, onto the deck of the AV Scorpion. The forty-foot ship must have a very shallow draft, because it was pulled up close to the peninsula on the eastern side, so that the huge jungle trees overhung it. The ship couldn’t really be seen from the beach; Sanjong had only realized that it was there when he heard the crackle of radios coming from the jungle.

He crouched in the stern, hiding behind the winch that raised the submarine, listening. He heard voices from all sides, it seemed like. He guessed that there were six or seven men onboard. But what he wanted was to find the timing detonators. He guessed that they were in the pilot-house, but he couldn’t be sure. And between his hiding place and the pilothouse was a long expanse of open deck.

He looked at the mini-sub hanging above him. It was bright blue, about seven feet long, with a bubble canopy, now raised. The sub was raised and lowered into the water by the winch.

And the winch…

He looked for the control panel. He knew it had to be nearby because the operator would have to be able to see the submarine as it was lowered. Finally he saw it: a closed metal box on the other side of the ship. He crept over, opened the box, and looked at the buttons. There were six, marked with arrows in all directions. Like a big keypad.

He pressed the down arrow.

With a rumble, the winch began to lower the submarine into the water.

An alarm began to sound.

He heard running feet.

He ducked back into a doorway and waited.

From the beach, they faintly heard the sound of an alarm over the rumble of the generators and the cavitation hum. Evans looked around. “Where’s it coming from?”

“It must be from the ship, over there.”

Out on the beach, the men heard it, too. They were standing in pairs by the entrance to the tents, pointing. Wondering what to do.

And then, from the jungle behind them, a sudden burst of machine-gun fire opened up. The men on the beach were alarmed now, swinging their guns, looking this way and that.

“Screw it,” Jennifer said, taking Evans’s rifle. “This is it. It won’t get any better.”

And firing, she ran out onto the beach.

The crocodile had charged Kenner with frightening speed. He had little more than a glimpse of huge white jaws open wide and thrashing water before he fired with his machine gun. The jaw smashed down, just missing his leg; the animal writhed, twisted, and attacked again, jaws closing on a low-hanging branch.

The bullets hadn’t done anything. Kenner turned and ran, sprinting down the streambed.

The croc roared behind him.

Jennifer was running across the sand, heading for the nearest tent. She went about ten yards before two bullets struck her left leg and knocked her down. She fell onto hot sand, still firing as she fell. She saw the guard at the entrance to the tent drop. She knew he was dead.

Evans came up behind her and started to crouch down. She shouted, “Keep going! Go!” Evans ran forward, toward the tent.

On the ship, the men halted the descent of the submarine, stopping the winch. Now they could hear the gunshots coming from the beach. They had all rushed to the starboard side of the ship, and now they were looking over the railing, trying to see what was going on.

Sanjong went down the deck on the port side. No one was there. He came to the cabin. There was a big board there, dense with electronics. A man in shorts and a T-shirt was crouched over it, making adjustments. At the top of the board were three rows of lights, marked with numerals.

The timing board.

For the undersea detonations.

Sarah and Morton were sprinting along the edge of the beach, staying close to the jungle, as they headed for the second tent. The man outside the tent saw them almost at once and was firing bursts of machine-gun fire at them, but he must have been very nervous, Sarah thought, because he wasn’t hitting them. Branches and leaves snapped all around them from the bullets. And with every step, they were getting close enough for Sarah to fire back. She was carrying Morton’s pistol. At twenty yards, she stopped and leaned against the nearest tree trunk. She held her arm stiffly and aimed. The first shot missed. The second one hit the man outside the tent in the right shoulder, and he dropped his gun in the sand. Morton saw it, and left the forest, running across the sand toward the tent. The man was struggling to get up. Sarah shot again.

And then Morton disappeared inside the tent. And she heard two quick gunshots and a scream of pain.

She ran.

Evans was inside the tent. He faced a wall of chugging machinery, a huge complex of twisting pipes and vents, ending in a flat, round plate eight feet wide, set about two feet above the surface of the sand. The generator was about seven feet high; all the metal was hot to the touch. The noise was deafening. He didn’t see anybody there. Holding his rifle ready—painfully aware that the magazine was empty—he swung around the first corner, then the second.

And then he saw him.

It was Bolden. The guy from the Antarctic. He was working at a control panel, adjusting big knobs while he looked at a shaded LCD screen and a row of dials. He was so preoccupied, he didn’t even notice Evans at first.

Evans felt a burst of pure rage. If his gun had been loaded he would have shot him. Bolden’s gun was leaning against the wall of the tent. He needed both hands to adjust the controls.

Evans shouted. Bolden turned. Evans gestured for him to put up his hands.

Bolden charged.

Morton had just stepped into the tent when the first bullet struck his ear and the second hit his shoulder. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. The movement saved his life because the next bullet whined past his forehead, ripping through the tent cloth. He was lying on the ground next to the chugging machinery when the gunman came around, holding his rifle ready. He was a twentyish man, bearded, grim, all business. He aimed at Morton.

And then he fell against the machine, blood hissing as it splattered on hot metal. Sarah was standing inside the tent, firing her pistol once, twice, three times, lowering her arm each time as the man fell. She turned to Morton.

“I forgot you were a good shot,” he said.

“You okay?” she said. He nodded. “Then how do I turn this thing off?”

Evans grunted as Bolden smashed into his body. The two men stumbled back against the tent fabric, then forward again. Evans brought the butt of his gun down on Bolden’s back, but it had no effect. He kept trying to hit him in the head, but only connected with his back. Bolden, for his part, seemed to be trying to drive Evans out of the tent.

The two men fell to the ground. The machinery was thumping above them. And now Evans realized what Bolden was trying to do.

He was trying to push Evans under the plate. Even by being near the edge, Evans could feel the air vibrating intensely. The air was much hotter here.

Bolden hit Evans in the head, and his sunglasses went flying across the ground, beneath the flat plate. Instantly, they shattered. Then the frames crumpled.

Then they pulverized.

Vanished into nothing.

Evans watched with horror. And little by little, Bolden was pushing him closer to the edge, closer, closer…

Evans struggled, with the sudden strength of desperation. Abruptly, he kicked up.

Bolden’s face mashed against hot metal. He howled. His cheek was smoking and black. Evans kicked again, and got out from beneath him. Got to his feet. Standing over Bolden, he kicked him hard in the ribs, as hard as he could. He tried to kill him.

That’s for Antarctica.

Bolden grabbed Evans’s leg on the next kick, and Evans went down. But he kicked once more as he fell, hitting Bolden in the head, and with the impact, Bolden rolled once.

And rolled under the plate.

His body was half under, half out. It began to shake, to vibrate. Bolden opened his mouth to scream but there was no sound. Evans kicked him a final time, and the body went entirely under.

By the time Evans had dropped to his hands and knees, to look under the plate, nothing was there. Just a haze of acrid smoke.

He got to his feet, and went outside.

Glancing over her shoulder, Jennifer ripped her blouse with her teeth and tore a strip of cloth for a tourniquet. She didn’t think an artery had been hit, but there was a lot of blood on one leg and a lot of blood in the sand, and she was feeling a little dizzy.

She had to keep watching because there was one more tent, and if the guys from that tent showed up…

She spun, raising her gun as a figure emerged from the forest.

It was John Kenner. She lowered the gun.

He ran toward her.

Sanjong fired into the glass in front of the control deck, but nothing happened. The glass didn’t even shatter. Bulletproof glass, he thought in surprise. The technician inside looked up in shock. By then Sanjong was moving toward the door.

The technician reached for the control switches. Sanjong fired twice, once hitting the technician, once aiming for the control panel.

But it was too late. Across the top of the panel, red lights flashed, one after another. The undersea detonations were taking place.

Automatically, a loud alarm began to sound, like a submarine claxon. The men on the other side of the ship were shouting, terror in their voices, and with good reason, Sanjong thought.

The tsunami had been generated.

It was only a matter of seconds now before it would hit them.