Ring of Fire Axial: A Disaster Thriller, page 21
Duke finished it for her. “It was only a foreshock. The wall’s crumbling.”
The words landed heavily. Nobody argued. Not this time.
Casey raised his head from his console. His hands were pale on the keyboard. “Dr. Mercer? You need to hear this.”
“What is it?”
“I patched into a hydrophone array near Axial. Feed’s still live. I … I think you should listen.”
He tapped a key.
At first it was a low vibration through the speakers, a murmur felt more than heard. Then it swelled into a roar—deep, continuous, monstrous. It filled the ops center, a sound more animal than mechanical. The sound of something forcing its way through rock.
Mara pressed her hand to her chest. “That’s magma.”
“Rising fast,” Tina added, staring at her instruments. “The chamber’s overpressurized. That’s the sound of the lid straining.”
The roar went on and on like a freight train tunneling up from the center of the Earth.
Casey’s voice was tight. “I’ve run this feed a hundred times. It’s never sounded like this.”
The monitors confirmed what their ears already knew. Models bled red across the Pacific, numbers cascading upward—deformation, pressure, gas emissions. Each graph screamed acceleration.
Then NOAA’s feed broke across the wall of screens, overriding everything.
TSUNAMI WARNING – PACIFIC NORTHWEST
TSUNAMI WARNING – NORTHERN CALIFORNIA COAST
The words strobed in emergency red.
Casey’s voice cracked. “The wave’s on its way.”
Tim slammed a hand against the console. “God help Crescent City.”
Duke stood motionless for a beat, his reflection caught in the glass wall. The storm’s lightning painted the sky outside, illuminating his lined face for an instant. He thought of the safety of his entire family and of the ocean whispering not in secrets anymore, but in screams.
He turned back to his team. They were waiting, searching his face for something to steady them. He gave it, not by promise of safety, but by telling the truth.
His voice was raw, low enough that they leaned in to hear it above the roar of hydrophones and alarms.
“If Cascadia crumbles and Axial blows, Rainier and others will follow. Pray we’re wrong.”
Forty
April 23
Afternoon
The Saddle
Island of Hawai’i
IN THAT DEFINING MOMENT, Kane made the choice that would forever alter their destiny. A decision that was not made with a heavy heart but rather as proof of his deep and abiding affection for Sloan.
“Sloanie,” he said, his voice quiet, unnervingly calm, “listen to me. You have to get higher.” He gestured to the small, square surface of the pillar rising from the altar, barely wide enough for one person to stand securely, let alone two. The low-lying grounds of the heiau were already becoming submerged.
Sloan followed his gaze, a cold feeling of panic seeping through the heat. The truth hit her with the force of a physical blow. The ahu’s pillar was their last hope, but it was too small. Only one of them could be truly safe. Her mind raced, rejecting the terrible implication.
She whispered, shaking her head fiercely, “No, Kane. We find another way. We can … we can boost you higher. We can climb.” She clutched his arm, her fingers digging into his biceps. Trying to pull him closer. Trying to imbue him with her own desperate will. “You have to try! We’ll find a way, together!”
His knees buckled, and he fell into a crouch, holding the altar for support. Collapsed against the base, his body started shuddering. He found his voice.
“Climb up, Sloanie. Get higher … lava’s rising.”
She knelt beside him, heart twisting at his pallor, the fever burning in his eyes. Vulnerability crashed over her as the man who’d shattered her trust was now crumbling before her eyes. But in this inferno, old wounds thawed.
He brought his good hand up, cupping her soot-streaked cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn’t realized was falling. Through it all, he managed a smile.
“There’s no other way, Sloanie. Not for me.” His voice was firm yet infused with a heartbreaking tenderness. “My ankle won’t support my weight. Even if there was another step to take, I couldn’t. My body’s failing. Weaker by the minute. Sepsis. You heard Leilani. This is it.”
“Not without you.” Her voice turned upbeat to give him incentive to hang on. “We’re in this together. Remember grad school? Those nights in the lab, decoding seismic data, you stealing kisses between equations.”
A bigger smile cracked his lips, pain etching deeper lines. “Yeah. You in that ratty hoodie, hair a mess, but god, you lit up the room. I loved you then, Sloanie. Never stopped.” His voice broke, hand gently stroking her cheek, thumb brushing ash from her skin. The touch ignited something buried. A loving warmth amid the blaze. A spark of what they’d lost.
Tears stung her eyes, mixing with sweat to streak her face.
He pulled her close, his lips finding hers in a desperate, raw kiss. It tasted of ash and salt and a lifetime of unspoken words. It was a goodbye. A final, agonizing embrace amidst the roar of the apocalypse.
He pulled back, his hand still on her cheek, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective love. “You have to live,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “For your family. For the truth. For us, Sloan. You have to fight to survive.”
He pointed upwards and gave her a gentle nudge. “Turn around, and I’ll hoist you the best I can. We’re out of time, Sloanie.”
“No.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands were trembling as she reached for Kane’s face. He kissed her one last time, deep and searing, tasting of smoke and regret.
“Yes, please, for me. For us.”
Reluctantly, she turned and took a tall step with her right leg to stand on the top of the ahu. Kane knelt down using his good leg and placed his hand under her foot. With all the strength that remained in his failing body, he propelled her upward. Sloan stretched her arms toward the narrow top of the pillar.
The lava surged, a wave crashing against the knoll’s base, gurgling and splashing molten rock that sizzled on the stones. Fire leaped upward, embers catching Kane’s shirt, forcing him to slap them out with a grimace. Defeat settled in his eyes, the pillar looming above them, its narrow top a solitary refuge, room for one as the flow crept closer.
He stumbled from dizziness, leaning backward, perilously close to the approaching lava.
Sloan held onto the top with both hands, her bleeding fingers dripping down her forearms until blood dribbled across her forehead.
Kane regained his balance and stood beneath her, crouching down to allow both of her feet to rest on his shoulders. “Ready?”
“Kane, you have to find a way,” she said, now bawling.
“Sloanie!” he said urgently as the lava danced near his feet. “Get ready to pull yourself up!”
She reluctantly nodded.
Crying out, Kane pushed his body upward using both legs. It was just enough force to shove Sloan up another twelve inches or so. Just enough for her to inch her chest on top of the pillar, where she could maneuver into a seated position. Clinging to the rough stone, from her vantage point, she looked down, her heart tearing in two.
Kane stood below her, his face illuminated by the malevolent glow of the encroaching lava, a profound, serene acceptance settling over him. He offered her a small, sad smile. A final, beautiful gesture.
“I love you, Sloan,” he said, his voice carrying above the roar of the inferno, pure and true. “I loved you from the moment I met you.”
And then, with a resolute step that belied his pain, he simply slipped off the ahu.
“KANE!” Sloan’s scream ripped from her throat, raw and guttural, a sound of unimaginable anguish and grief.
Her hand shot out, desperate, but there was nothing to grasp but empty air and rising heat. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the ash and sweat, blurring her vision as she watched the churning, incandescent orange envelop him. The lava gurgled, a monstrous, hungry sound, and then he was gone. Consumed by the very earth he had sought to control.
She shook uncontrollably as she became overcome with emotions, almost causing her to lose her balance. She gripped the pillar with her bloodied fingers, her body racked by sobs. Her tears evaporated in the heat. Her heart shattered, hopes dashed in flames.
Alone, she clung there, the ruins trembling, fire splashing perilously close. The heat from the lava was a physical agony. Yet numb compared to the void in her heart.
Kane was gone.
The love she’d just rediscovered, the hope for a future, all consumed in a fiery instant. “Goodbye, Kane,” she sobbed, the words choked by tears, a heartbreaking whisper into the roaring river of death below. She buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with grief.
Now she was utterly alone, perched precariously on that tiny island of ancient basalt, surrounded by a lake of fire. The heat was oppressive and the air thick with the stench of death.
The Big Island burned around her, but her heart burned hotter. Sloan didn’t care as the sudden loss of the man she once loved blocked it all out.
Forty-One
April 23
Afternoon
The Saddle
Island of Hawai’i
THE PLANET AND THE MACHINE fought in a death match for supremacy, and Beau had a front-row seat.
At first, he felt it in the cyclic, the faint, constant buzz that crawled through his limbs. The erupting volcanoes pulled out all of their best weapons, including warping the horizon with superheated air to confuse the ALIAS/MATRIX system.
Mauna Loa unzipped in fast-flowing lava into the Saddle, transforming the topography such that satellite maps generated yesterday were obsolete today. Kilauea boiled and flashed like a witch’s cauldron to the south, while Mauna Kea spat orange-red splashes of lava from fresh flank vents to join the blood of her sister—Loa.
Between the angry bunch, the valley known as the Saddle soaked in the molten matter, filling in its gulleys and flattening any semblance of its jungles. Convection chimneys spewed ash and gas all around the chopper as it dashed and darted through the maelstrom. Dirty volcanic ash filled with erratic lightning attacked electronics. Methane flares rolling out of the ground joined gas plumes rising to the highest altitude imaginable.
Yet the Sikorsky with its advanced technology endured it all. Ash pelted against its glass. Electrified air caused static popping in the cabin. The faint hiss was a constant reminder the rotor’s leading edges were being sanded by air turned into grit. The cockpit smelled of hot rubber mixed with a metallic thread of sulfur that clung to Beau’s tongue.
He constantly fed the AI navigational system verbal commands, deftly maintaining the chopper in the cooler seams where wind off the water slid inland in thin sheets.
“Fly the gaps, not the glow,” he’d repeated more than once as if Lt. Taylor were still in the pilot’s seat. The hover-ready cue on the multifunction display, or MFD, glowed green. He ignored it and flew, focused on finding Sloan.
Another ghost ping lit the MFD like an answered prayer. Beau had ignored the others, as they’d led him on a wild-goose chase. Not this time.
A thin tone, a blue dot pulsed on the moving map just off a shallow ridge. The coordinates stuttered, jumped ten meters, came back. The anomaly was well within the range of the system’s margin of error considering the atmospheric conditions.
MERCER / ID: VDAP-33
Then the RAIM fault banner blinked. The SNR bars spiked like teeth, then flattened.
This was different, Beau thought. Were these critical aspects of the chopper’s operations returning to normal? Full functionality?
“Follow last known GPS coordinates for MERCER / ID: VDAP-33,” he ordered.
The chopper responded immediately. The Sikorsky rolled, smooth and precise, and shouldered toward the coordinates. A ridge appeared in full view in front of Beau, but the chopper eased over its edge. Then the chopper cut behind it, a place where a long, narrow gulch had gnawed at the island’s back for a thousand wet seasons.
Another tone. Another blue dot on the MFD.
MERCER / ID: VDAP-33
Beau’s heart leapt. Same general location. This time, there was no anomaly. The location was fixed. His palms turned sweaty, so he hastily wiped them on his khakis. He slid forward in the seat, relying upon the MATRIX technology to have full autonomous control of the chopper as it pursued the GPS ping.
The gulch, filled with a river of lava, emptied into a field of sugarcane that burned out of control. The lava, coupled with the burning cane, created rising wind that pulled smoke into black ribbons. As far as visibility allowed, Beau could see lava combing through the green as if teaching it where to go, the whole thing pushing toward the ocean.
Suddenly, the ping, Sloan’s ping, vanished.
Beau felt the drop. Not in the helicopter’s frame, but in the place behind his ribs where adrenaline kept trying to live. He reached for the topo map and steadied it with a thumb while he traced the gulch spine with his eyes. Sloan would have followed the cut for cover until the heat turned it into a chimney. Then she would have climbed. Sloan always went high when the ground got treacherous. High meant options. High meant air.
A fresh ping snapped on that appeared to be beyond the gulch. In the field consumed by fire. The chopper adjusted slightly to avoid a crashing section of basalt at the end of the ridgeline. As they entered the burning field, wind slammed the belly with an updraft fist. The helicopter bobbed half a body-length, causing Beau’s hands to reach for anything stationary to hold on.
The torque needle edged up. The temperature of the exhaust gases moved to yellow. He felt the chopper lift slightly to adjust to the heat rising from the ground.
Another ping. And another.
Static crackled through the intercom, an angry bee of noise, before muting itself. He fumbled with the toggles to knock the volume down. Noise he couldn’t use was worse than silence. He needed the buttons in his head clear.
Another ping. MERCER / ID: VDAP-33 blinked blue, then blinked out, then blinked in five meters to the left. RAIM FAULT stuttered in yellow.
Liar! Beau thought, but his chest went tight with hope so acute it hurt.
Focus on the prize. She’s here. Right here.
The Sikorsky agreed as it nearly came to a full, arrested stop over the inferno. The gulch’s mouth had opened fully beneath him, ash piling into mini whirring devils at its edges from hot wind clashing with the onshore ocean breezes. The cane beyond burned in all directions. Then his eyes grew wide. In the center of the field, there was a small rise. A hill that he’d circled on the topo map that he and Taylor hadn’t inspected yet.
Another ping and the Sikorsky adjusted, slowly easing toward the location. In the middle of the field, on a low rise that would barely count as a hill if the rest of the world weren’t trying to be lower, stood the broken geometry of ancient stones.
A heiau.
Even from this height he could see where lava had found it and begun to remake the weathered basalt back into flow. Walls slumped. Edges rounded. Molten fingers lapped at the lower courses to satisfy its ravenous appetite. And there, in the center of the ruins, stood the narrow ahu—the altar’s pillar. A small, defiant column against a planet that ate columns for breakfast.
Another ping. He was close. The chopper eased toward the pillar. Beau wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve to clear both his mind and his vision.
The pillar was meant to hold a sacrifice to the gods, similar to the offerings made by the Batak people in Northern Sumatra.
The Sikorsky eased ever so slowly toward the pillar, fighting the turbulence created by the fires and the volcanic winds rushing down the Saddle. It made continuous micro adjustments, inching forward, then crabbing back, until it hovered over the pillar with a surgeon’s steady hand.
Heat haze bent light, causing everything to be seen through a sheet of wavy glass. For a second, the ahu, surrounded by lava, looked empty. Then a rush of ocean air peeled away the veil that distorted his view and delivered him a shape perched atop the pillar, just as he’d imagined earlier.
Sloan.
Forty-Two
April 23
Afternoon
Mercer Family Home
Washougal, Washington
THE BEAM PRESSED HARDER on Graham’s leg each time the house shifted, whether from the weight on the roof or the rumble beneath the ground. Each gasp of breath was like working a low-paying job in which you constantly ask why bother?
“Leverage and go,” Rizzo said, his voice the kinda calm used by men who’ve saved lives before. “Mantel edge works as a pretty good fulcrum.”
Chen wedged the broken mantel under the beam. With a grunt, they leaned, muscles bulging, to pry the blockage upward. The timber lifted a couple of inches. The floor under Graham flexed. Boards bowed. Nails lifted in their holes, then screeched back down.
“Hold it,” Chen grunted. “Hold!”
A tremor rolled through, not the local kind. The radios on their belts rattled with static as if the atmosphere were coughing. Dust avalanched off the joists in streams. Somewhere in the house, a bookcase fell with the library-deep THUMP of all knowledge hitting one place at once.
“This is big, guys,” Rizzo said. “We gotta go.”
Chen’s eyes were on the crack overhead, widened into a ragged wound. “I feel the roof.”
Graham clenched his teeth and shoved with his palms against the beam, not because it would do anything, but because doing nothing felt like another failure. Pain detonated throughout his body. His eyes blurred, turning the room grainy. He latched onto the only clean thought left—his mom’s cedar box. He dragged it against his ribs with his free hand. It gave him extra strength to persevere.
