Deep Fathom

David listened to the radio silence. No one answered.

“Did any of you actually fire your damn rifles?”

Again silence.

It dawned on David that his murdered teammate had not only been missing his rifle, but his radio headpiece, too. Shit. Jack had staged his own death, eavesdropping over the radio and masquerading as one of his men. “Fuck!” He touched his microphone and screamed, “Find that bastard!”

“What is it?” Jeffreys asked, cutting off the throttle.

“It’s Kirkland! He’s escaped!”

As David collapsed to his seat, he heard a small splash echo from nearby. He froze, silencing Jeffreys with a hand signal.

Someone else was there.

10:22 P.M.

On the other side of the ruins, Jack slowly surfaced. Stripped to his boxers, he silently shoved his rifle under a heavy fern at the shoreline and strained for sounds of pursuit. It was difficult to hear well. His head still rang with the jet ski’s explosion. He’d been too close—but had little choice. He had to make sure the fuel tank was hit squarely by his single shot.

But the strength of the explosion had caught him by surprise, throwing him backward, singeing his eyebrows, knocking off his radio headpiece. Dazed, he’d been forced to dive quickly and swim under the jet skis of the swarming ops team. He swam until his lungs burned, then surfaced. As he’d hoped, the others had pulled off their night vision eye-wear, the flames too bright for their equipment.

The misdirection had allowed him time to escape deeper into the ruins. As stealthily as possible, he had hurried, having no idea how long his ruse would last. He searched for some way out of the ruins. His plan was to reach the coastal mangrove swamps of Temwen Island. But he knew he had wasted valuable time, and only succeeded in getting himself lost in the dark.

A quarter mile away, hearing the jet skis rev and whine, he concluded that his pursuers had realized his ruse. He listened for a few moments. They were spreading out. Search pattern. The hunt had started again.

So far he had kept in the water as much as possible, staying hidden, trying to keep his body heat from revealing the fact that he still lived. But now he knew such subtlety was useless. He needed to find a way out of here—and quickly. The mangrove swamps were his only hope. The jet skis would be useless among the mud and dense roots.

But first to get there…

Heaving his tired body up onto the islet, Jack sprawled on his belly before crawling to his feet. A steep slope led up from there. A difficult but not impossible climb. He needed to reach higher ground to get his bearings, even if it meant exposing himself for a few seconds.

He retrieved his rifle and shouldered the pack.

Stifling a groan, he pushed up the slope, discovering it was steeper than he’d estimated. He scrabbled through clinging brush and terraces of basalt. His fingers slipped and his knees, already raw, were savagely scraped. His limbs, leaden and weak, shook with exhaustion, but at last he dragged himself onto the summit.

Staying on hands and knees, he surveyed his position. In the darkness, he had not thought freedom was so close, but under the starlight, he watched small waves pound against the artificial breakwater just thirty yards away.

Open sea lay beyond.

Out in the deeper waters, Jack spotted a small cutter, painted white with a blue light atop a tall pole. A coastal police vehicle. Its running lights were ablaze. A small figure stood on the bow deck. A tiny glint indicated the man was spying with binoculars, most likely equipped with night vision capability. Jack knew this was no friendly ship. Probably Spangler’s means of transportation.

Now that he was at the summit for the first time, Jack noticed the body of water on top. It was roughly square and looked like a small lake, and for some reason he felt drawn to it. In fact, the dark body of water was ringed by a narrow beach of sand and finely crushed coral, and Jack’s hands and knees sank into soft sand.

A grenade hit the far side of the islet, exploding and casting dirt and shredded ferns high into the air. Jack flattened himself, his ears ringing from the concussion. As the blast subsided, he heard the telltale sound of jet skis converging on his spot, then spotted the tiny figure on the police ship. The figure was frantically pointing toward him.

Another grenade sailed through the air, bounced across the stony summit of the island, and rolled over the edge, exploding in the canal. Water geysered up in a wide funnel. Someone was targeting the islet with a grenade launcher.

On his belly, Jack shimmied toward the summit’s edge. He needed to reach the canals. He’d been lucky twice, and knew the odds were running thin. Peering over, he spotted two jet skis racing his way, another arcing to circle around the back. He was about to be surrounded. Then rifle fire spattered against the stones, missing his head by no more than a foot. He pulled back, but not before he spotted his adversary.

The sniper was perched atop a low building about three islets away.

As Jack rolled away, another grenade whistled through the air, exploding in the sand and water of the summit lake. Shrapnel tore through the air.

Damn it!

Jack unhooked his weapon and remained prone on the stone, offering no target to the sniper. He positioned the rifle and crawled forward, keeping an eye focused through the scope. As the squat building on the far side appeared in his sights, he froze, hoping his submersion in the seawater had not damaged the rifle. He waited, exhaling slowly, steadying his gun. Spotting a flicker of movement, he fired a volley of shots, then rolled away. On his back, clutching the rifle to his chest, he didn’t know if he had nailed his target, but either way, it would make the sniper more cautious. And now, at least, he knew that his gun would fire.

Across the channel, something heavy hit the water with a loud splash. A voice called out from one of the jet skis, “Handel’s down! Get that shithead!”

Jack rolled back to his stomach and crawled to the far side of the islet. He would have to take his chances and leap. The canals here were only six feet deep, but the enemy was closing in too fast. He had no choice.

Reaching the edge, he prepared to jump, then spotted a jet ski directly under him. In all the commotion, he hadn’t heard it come up.

He dove away as rifle fire peppered the edge. His right ear flared with pain, but he ignored it and rolled deeper, reaching the sandy slope of the summit lake. Listening, he heard the other jet skis closing in. Blood ran down his neck. He positioned his rifle, knowing he was doomed, and edged farther back, keeping his barrel forward. His feet and ankles now dangled into the water of the lake. He had nowhere else to go. His only consolation was that Karen and the others had escaped.