Category Five (11 page)

The next image was from the DMPS satellite. With its microwave imager she was able to filter out the overriding cirrus clouds and examine the underlying convective cloud structure. The thunderstorms around the eye were sharp and defined. She knew she was looking at the massive engine of the storm. The formation of such a distinct pattern of cumulonimbus clouds told her that Helena was very much alive and well.

Next, Lauren scanned a dozen other pages of data, from steering winds to the high and low altitude prognostic charts. She shook her head when she saw the sea surface temperature readings. A hurricane needed heat to stay alive, and from what she was reading, Helena would soon be able to suck up the tepid
water from the ongoing heat wave. A category five hurricane that made its way into the bath-water temperature ocean off the east coast would only have one option—to grow bigger and even more deadly.

Lauren rubbed her temples. She clicked back to her own computer model she'd used to develop her initial scenario for Helena. She shook her head as she studied the comparison. Helena was more intense, earlier, than even Lauren had predicted.

She leaned back in her chair and put both hands around her coffee mug. She thought back to her theoretical physics class at MIT. In meteorological circles, there was an operating theory that a super hurricane, or hypercane as they were called, could form in the Atlantic Ocean. Winds of up to 300 mph could rage around the eye. Storm debris and vapor would be thrown as high as twenty miles above the earth. If such a hypercane made landfall, a storm surge with waves as high as 100 feet would obliterate any coastline. Lauren felt a shiver run down her neck. She logged off and went toward the bathroom. She needed to get to her lab and communicate with
Jonah
.

Lauren was halfway down the hall when she heard Abigail softly cooing in her crib. She went in and found her daughter wide awake, smiling up at her.

“Hello, honey.” Lauren reached down and picked her up. She kissed the warm skin of Abigail's cheek. Her daughter let out a peal of laughter, then pulled Lauren's hair.

“Oh, she's awake.” Lauren's mother breezed into the room. “Here, let me take her. She probably needs to be changed.”

“I can do it.” Lauren turned to her mother and held Abigail close.

“Mother. I need you to do something.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“I think it would be best for you to take Abigail and get out of
Baltimore. Maybe go visit Aunt Paula in Chicago. I don't care where you go, but you have to leave town.”

“Lauren. Are you serious? Is it the hurricane?”

“Yes,” Lauren said quietly, gently kissing Abigail on the neck. “Don't worry about what it costs, I'll cover all the expenses. But I want you and Abigail away from the East Coast.”

“If you really think we should…”

Lauren nodded. “Oh, and one more thing. Don't tell anyone. If you can get a flight this evening I'll take you to the airport. I have to be at work early on Monday, so tonight might work better. Maybe you could check with the airlines later? I'll call you when I can, and we can coordinate.”

“Mama!” Abigail threw up her hands and squirmed with obvious excitement at being near her mother.

“Well good morning, my little angel.” Lauren smiled at her daughter. She decided she could be a few minutes later than she'd planned. “Would you like for Mommy to change you and get you breakfast?”

D
onovan had been lying in bed, wide awake, when the phone rang. He'd spent an awful night, plagued by one bad dream after another. As he'd tossed and turned, he'd been trapped; waves of reporters thundered toward him. He'd been unable to escape the mob as they clamored to reach him. He'd awakened, bathed in sweat, a death grip on the mattress. He reached over to the bedside table and snatched the instrument with one hand.

“Hello.”

“Good morning, Donovan. It's William.”

Donovan sat up in bed, instantly concerned. It was unlike his friend to call so early in the morning, especially on a Sunday. To the rest of the world, William VanGelder was the chairman of the
Board of Eco-Watch. But to Donovan, William was his oldest and most trusted advisor. A mentor, who over the years since his parents died, had guided and directed him with the unwavering devotion of a father. William was the one person on the face of the earth who was aware of all of the intricacies of Donovan's other life.

“What's up?” Donovan answered, a worried tone in his voice. “I was going to call you later.”

“We have a problem. I'll have coffee and Danish waiting for you when you get here.”

“Give me an hour.” Donovan threw his legs out of the bed as he hung up the phone. He and William never spoke of anything specific on the phone. It was a lesson William had taught him years ago. Donovan scratched his chest and tried to imagine what had happened that would prompt such an early meeting. A flurry of issues flew through his mind, none of them good. With a frown on his face, Donovan headed for the bathroom.

The needle spray from the shower washed away any lingering remnants of his troubled night's sleep. Donovan stretched his sore muscles under the hot water, knowing the stiffness was from pulling Lauren from the car.

Donovan dried off, decided not to shave, then threw on some khaki slacks and a knit golf shirt. He went down the stairs of his Centreville townhouse and grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator. He picked up the pictures he'd developed the night before and headed for the garage.

Quickly, he armed the security system and slid into the Range Rover. He carefully backed out onto the quiet cul-de-sac. He came and went at so many odd hours he barely knew any of his neighbors. The small collection of town homes was close to the airport and served his day-to-day needs perfectly. It was a comfortable area, yet not ostentatious enough to draw any attention to himself. It fit his lifestyle and salary from Eco-Watch perfectly.

In the humid air, the morning sun was a blood-red disk. Donovan slid on his dark glasses, nudged the air conditioner up a notch, and headed for Fairfax.

As he drove, Donovan kept trying to figure out how Erin Walker had found him. Could she be with the government? If she were with the FBI she wasn't very good—or it could be her ineptness was simply an act. The questions whirled in his head. Part of the puzzle seemed to go back eleven months ago, to the only time he'd received any unwanted attention. It had all taken place last winter—after his and Michael's very public experience in Russia. It seemed to be an issue that wouldn't die. He'd hoped it was all behind him, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed it had resurfaced yet again. Donovan thought back to that cold November day.

H
e and Michael had been cruising at 41,000 feet. In the back of
Galileo
were a group of scientists from NASA. Their mission was to study and chart the roaring high altitude winds that swept out of Siberia and formed the North American winter weather patterns. The flight was routine and monotonous. Donovan had sat quietly, sipping a cup of coffee. Below them, the clouds boiled from a Siberian storm as it raced eastward toward the Aleutian Islands, ultimately to impact the weather in Western Canada, then across the United States.

“I'm picking up a faint distress call on the UHF radio.” Michael sat up straight in his seat and gave Donovan a look of alarm. “Switch over; see what you make of this.”

The distorted words came through Donovan's headset. Most of it was garbled, or foreign. But he heard a Mayday at the beginning of each broadcast. He scanned the angry clouds beneath them. His stomach tightened and he felt his muscles automatically
tense at the thought of someone in the water. From experience, he knew what the storm was doing to the Arctic Ocean, some eight miles below them.

“Call them. See if they can read us.” Donovan waited as Michael did as instructed.

“Nothing.” Michael shook his head.

“Did you get any kind of position?” Donovan asked quickly.

“What I hear is mostly static.” Michael adjusted the volume. “I can make out the Mayday. I think maybe they're also saying the name of a ship. The voice is heavily accented, Russian I'd bet, but the Mayday is definitely English.”

Donovan keyed the intercom to the cabin area and spoke quickly to James Holland, the lead scientist in the back of the plane. He and James had known each other for years, had flown dozens of mission together.

“James. We're picking up a distress call on the UHF radio. Tune in 243.0. Any way you can get it on tape?”

“Stand by.”

Donovan and Michael exchanged concerned looks while they listened to frantic calls from an unknown voice.

“We've got it,” James reported. “Tapes rolling. We all agree it's Russian.”

“Michael. Talk to air traffic control, see if there's any other aircraft in the area. Find out if any surface ships are responding.”

Donovan kept thinking that there had to be a way to make sure the people in peril were being heard. “James, can you figure out a way to relay this distress call to someone who can translate it?”

“I'm already working on that. We're establishing a data link with Elmendorf Air Force base in Anchorage. With any luck we should have some results momentarily.”

“Donovan.” Michael turned in his seat. “Air traffic control says this is the first they've heard of a distress call. We're pretty far north of the commercial tracks. The closest plane is an Air Force C-5 Galaxy. But they're almost 200 miles south of us.”

“I want to talk to the C-5 pilots.” Donovan's heart began to pound in his chest. The mere thought of people in the water always brought on a private horror.

“You're dialed in. Their call sign is Reach 321.”

Donovan nodded and keyed the microphone. “Reach 321, this is Eco-Watch 01. How do you read?”

“Loud and clear, Eco-Watch. What can we do for you?” The slight southern drawl filled the headset.

“We're a research flight about 200 miles north of your position. We're hearing a faint distress signal on UHF. Frequency 243.00. Can you tell me if you're receiving the same call?”

“We'll get right back to you on that.”

Donovan waited impatiently for the reply. He knew that each tick of the clock was precious; every minute in the water was like an hour in hell. He tried to keep his breathing slow and steady, despite his urgent thoughts screaming at him to hurry and do something—anything—to help those people.

“That's negative on the distress call,” Reach 321 finally reported. “We don't hear a thing.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Donovan turned to Michael. “My thinking is the Mayday is coming from farther north, or else the C-5 would have picked it up too.”

“I agree. Let's go.” Michael keyed the microphone to advise air traffic control of their heading change.

Donovan reached up and spun the autopilot control knob. The
Galileo
responded immediately and banked toward the new heading.

“Talk to me, James. Tell me what we have.” Donovan needed more information.

“Hang on a second; we're still putting this together.”

“You've got the airplane, Michael. I'm going back.”

Donovan threw off his harness and quickly swung out of the seat. He slid through the narrow cockpit door and hurried aft
toward James's position. He could see the scientist's shiny bald head above the console. Half-moon reading glasses were positioned midway down his nose. He was writing furiously.

“Have you got it?”

James looked up and nodded. “Elmendorf just sent us the translation. “It's a Russian Akula class nuclear submarine, the
Drakon
. They carry a crew of seventy-three. They've had a fire on board and they're taking on water. They have no idea of their position.”

Donovan leaned on the steel frame supporting the equipment. “Can we somehow find out their last known position? Maybe we can make an educated guess where they might be.”

“Elmendorf is trying to contact the Russian Navy, and they've also talked to the Coast Guard. There aren't any other ships in the area due to the storm. They have no idea where to even start looking,” James replied, frustration rising in his voice. “As far as anyone knows, we're the only ones who've heard the SOS.”

Donovan looked into the expectant eyes of James and the two other scientists, then at the onboard equipment that stretched the length of the cabin.

“James. You said they're on fire?”

“That's what the translator at Elmendorf said. What are you thinking?”

“I'm wondering if it might be possible to use some of this high-priced hardware and get an infrared image from a satellite. Could we find a burning submarine in the middle of all this cold water?”

James's eyes lit up and he instantly began to type commands to the computer.

Though calm and collected on the surface, inside, Donovan was anything but. He wasn't afraid for himself or his crew. They were warm and dry, miles above the waves. He knew there was no safer place than in the ruggedly built Gulfstream. But the thought of sailors aboard a burning, sinking vessel, pulled at him from a very private part of himself.

“I think I might have something!” James cried out triumphantly. “Right here. This is from NOAA-12. It's just a small dot really. I've enhanced it as much as I can. At first I thought it could be just a glitch, a ghost image—we get those from time to time during enhancement. But then I checked the same area from NOAA-14. Presto! The image is in the same place. I think this tiny speck is the sub, and the streak you can see is smoke.”

It had taken Donovan only a second to process the infrared image himself. It was far to the north.

“Get me the latitude and longitude. Tell Elmendorf what we've found, and inform them we're going to assist. Find out how long until rescue elements can get there.”