“Yes. As you know the large-scale ocean circulation is driven by global density gradients, created by surface heat and freshwater fluxes. Wind-driven surface currents, such as the Gulf Stream, travel poleward from the equatorial Atlantic Ocean, cooling en route and eventually sinking at high latitudes, forming North Atlantic Deep Water. This dense water then flows into the ocean basins. While the bulk of it upwells in the Southern Ocean, the oldest waters — with a transit time of around 1000 years — upwell in the North Pacific. Extensive mixing therefore takes place between the ocean basins, reducing differences between them and making the Earth's oceans a global system. On their journey, the water masses transport both energy in the form of heat and matter — solids, dissolved substances and gases — around the globe. As such, the state of the circulation has a large impact on the climate of the Earth.”
Tom stepped across to another yacht. This one had a small Robinson 22 tied down on its forward deck, surrounded with teak. “You said we’ve already begun to see the effects of its slowing?”
“Yeah.” Sam stopped again. “I had Elise run a search of any irregular weather or seismic activities in the past twelve months.”
“They showed a spike, three months ago?” Tom asked.
“One heck of a spike three months ago. Individually, any of the events could have been put down to the oddities and irregularities of the environment and the capriciousness of the weather, but together, they are too much to ignore.”
“It’s happening now?”
“Not completely. The asteroid is still out there, but it’s approaching, and already Earth is feeling the effects of its gravitational pull.”
“How long until its effects come into full force?”
“We have no idea. But it won’t be gradual when it does. No, it will be exactly what the horror movies make out the end of days to be.”
Tom leveled his eyes at a single spectator, still wet from a dip in the water, walking toward him. The man wore board shorts, and Tom’s eyes ran toward the man’s lower legs. They were wet, but there was no blood.
Sam glanced at him and said, “Not him, either.”
Tom sighed. “What I don’t understand about any of this is why all the cloak and dagger stuff?”
Sam met his eye, “You mean, why don’t we all simply come together globally and try to save the world?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know, but I’m hoping this will help me find out.” Sam stopped suddenly and studied the water, where several bubbles making ripples on the surface indicated a diver was somewhere below. “One thing’s for certain — the Secretary of Defense has kept some mammoth secrets from us, and I want to find out why. What’s she involved in? The only thing I can think of is that someone doesn’t want the truth to be told.”
“Who has anything to gain from the annihilation of the human race, not to mention the rest of the mammals and most of the sea life, too?”
“Not just mammals. There are a hundred and eight classes of animals on Earth, give or take roughly five whose class biologists can’t seem to agree on. Based on our oceanographic predictions, if the magnetic poles shift direction suddenly, you can count on at least a hundred of those being destroyed, or reduced to minimal numbers. Brachiopods, cockroaches and water bears will probably get by, because they always do, but who knows? Only extremophiles that live off the hydrothermal vents far under the ocean's surface are going to continue to live happily after this asteroid returns — unless we can stop it.”
“So, why’s the Secretary of Defense trying to keep its solution, written in the Death Stone, secret?” Tom persisted.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Sam held his breath for a moment. “And it appears someone’s just as keen to stop me.”
Tom met his eye. “You weren’t coming here to clear your mind, were you?”
Sam grinned. “No. I needed a public event to draw my enemy out here.”
Chapter Nineteen
At the main diving barge Sam spoke with one of the organizers, who informed him the entire event was being filmed from the top of Calypso, one of the larger pleasure cruisers with a small viewing deck above the main bridge.
Calypso was a one of a kind yacht for the ultra-rich. It had sleek lines and a carbon fiber hull, with a pristine interior of teak, giving it a unique blend of old and new, that was entirely dysfunctional. It was almost perfectly flat, with a small raised bridge, on top of which was an open viewing platform and a digital camera.
Sam knocked on the side of the glass door that led to the main entertainment area inside. “Anyone here?”
A man came out and asked, “Can I help you?”
He was in his early forties, with thick sea-swept hair and thick dark facial hair that fit somewhere between a beard and what is considered unshaven. He wore casual shorts and a loose fitting, long-sleeved white shirt. To Sam, he looked like the epitome of a rich, handsome, successful businessman who’d traded the hardship of modern entrepreneurialism for a life of luxury.
Sam smiled. “Hi, my name’s Sam Reilly. This is Tom Bower. I was told you might have got a recording of the dive platform when it was being set up?”
The man’s eyes brightened. “Hey, Sam Reilly, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd Ridley. That was a crazy stunt you pulled off back there. I figured for sure you’d drowned.”
“Thanks. I didn’t plan to stay down quite that long.”
“Come inside. I’ve got the camera still rolling upstairs.” He opened a bar fridge and pulled out a couple of beers. “You guys want a drink?”
“Sure.”
Ridley opened both drinks and handed them to him and Tom.
Sam took a mouthful. It was cold and delicious. “Thanks.”
Ridley opened one for himself and took a little more than a mouthful. “Follow me upstairs. It’s still recording automatically, but you can view what’s already been shot, simultaneously.” Turning to Sam, he asked, “So what are you looking for?”
“A friend of mine. He’s meant to be one of the rescue divers here today, but I’m not sure he showed up. We were supposed to all come together this morning, but he wasn’t there, and I don’t see his boat around here.”
“But you think he’s here?” Ridley asked.
“Yeah. It’s not like him to miss the event.”
Ridley’s eyebrows narrowed. “Did you ask the organizers?”
“Yeah, but would you believe it, they don’t have a list of the volunteer rescue divers.”
“Go figure.”
Ridley led them up a spiral staircase and onto the teak-covered top deck. The Calypso appeared almost flat from above, with the lines of teak decking on the top deck perfectly aligned with those on the lower decks. To the aft, a two-seater Robinson 22 helicopter rested. On the top deck, a large tripod with a ten-foot periscope held a digital video camera. Next to it, a laptop on a small wooden table displayed the real-time image of the event from high above as it was being recorded. The camera’s wide lens showed a two-hundred and seventy-degree arc, capturing most of the flotilla, diving barge, and about a third of the Great Blue Hole’s surface.
Sam studied the live video feed, searching the faces of everyone he could see, as well as the few divers on the water’s surface. His eyes narrowed as he examined a few faces, but nothing stood out to him.
“No luck?” Ridley asked.
“No.”
“All right.” Leaving the continuous feed running, Ridley opened a new window that displayed the previous hour of recordings. He clicked play. “Here, have a look at this.”