Zero Hour

Forcing his mind to override what his i

He kept going until his mind began to accept it. His equilibrium began returning to normal. He exhaled more bubbles and kicked harder, swimming for the surface as fast as he could.

In his haste, Panos forgot about the ten-minute warning. By the time he neared the surface, he was in the grips of pain. His knees, elbows, and back all felt as if they were cramping up.

Despite the pain, Panos broke the surface and stared at the evening sky for the first time in months. It was periwinkle blue. He guessed it was almost dusk.

He looked around. High sandy walls rose up on every side. He’d never seen them before. He didn’t even know where he was. Arrivals and departures always took place under sedation. They would fall asleep here and wake up on the island, or vice versa.

Despite the pain in his joints, Panos managed to pull the compass from his pocket. He began to swim, heading 075 degrees. The wretched throbbing in his joints got worse and was soon accompanied by blinding flashes of light that seemed to shoot through his brain.

Still, he fought on, eventually crawling out of the water and onto the sandy beach. He made it several yards before coming to a terraced wall of rock. It rose no more than ten feet, but it might as well have been a mountain.

How could he scale it? He couldn’t. Not in this condition. He tried to stand and then collapsed in agony.

The sound of feet rushing toward him signaled his end. But when a pair of hands lifted him up, they did so caringly.

He saw a face hidden by a banda

“You surfaced too quickly,” the man behind the banda

“I… had to…” Panos managed. “They… found me.”

“Found you?!”

“In the airlock…” Panos said.

“That means they’ll be coming.”

The unknown helper grabbed Panos and dragged him over the ridge with no concessions to the pain. He carried him to a waiting SUV, tossed him in the back and slammed the tailgate down.

Panos curled up in the fetal position as his savior climbed into the front and turned the key.

The engine roared, and they were soon bouncing over the rough terrain, each jolt spurring new waves of pain. To Panos, it felt as if his body were being crushed and exploding from within all at the same time.

“I’m dying,” he cried out.

“No,” the driver insisted. “But it’s going to get worse before it gets better. Use your regulator. It will help.”

Panos managed to get the regulator back in his mouth. He bit down on it and breathed as deeply as he could. Even with that, a new series of spasms gripped him as the SUV careened across uneven ground.

Panos bent his head closer to his chest. It seemed to ease the agony a bit. He noticed his fingers and arms curling inward.

“Do you have the papers?” the driver asked. “And the computer?”

Panos nodded. “Yes… Can you tell me where we’re going?”

The driver hesitated, perhaps afraid to say too much in case they were captured. Finally, he spoke. “To someone who can help,” he said. “To someone who can put a stop to this madness once and for all.”

THREE

Kurt Austin sat in a comfortable seat eight rows from the main stage in the Opera Theatre, the smaller of the two sail-and-seashell-inspired buildings of the famous Sydney Opera House. The larger Concert Hall lay next door, vacant at the moment.

For years, Kurt had pla

He was there for the Muldoon Conference on Underwater Mining, put on by Archibald and Liselette Muldoon, a wealthy Australian couple who’d made their fortune together through four decades of risky mining ventures.

Kurt had been officially invited because of his expertise in underwater salvage and his position as Director of Special Projects for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. But it seemed the Muldoons also wanted him there because of the modicum of fame he’d earned within the salvage industry — if there even was such a thing.

Over the past decade, he’d been involved in a series of high-profile events. Some of those exploits were classified, with nothing more than rumors to suggest anything had ever occurred. Other events were public and well known, including a recent battle to clear a swarm of self-replicating micromachines from the Indian Ocean before they changed the weather patterns over India and Asia, potentially starving billions.

In addition to whatever notoriety he’d earned, Kurt was easily recognizable. He had a rugged look about him, tan-faced, with prematurely silver-gray hair and sharp eyes that were an intense shade of blue. All of which meant his absence from any particular event was easily noticed, something the constant attention of one or both Muldoons had so far prevented.

They’d certainly been gracious, but after three days of seminars and presentations, Kurt was plotting his escape.

As the lights dimmed and the speaker began a photo presentation, Kurt sensed the chance he’d been waiting for. He pulled out his phone and thumbed the switch that made it buzz audibly as if it were ringing.

A few glances came his way.

He shrugged a sheepish apology and put the phone to his ear.

“This is Austin,” he whispered to no one. “Right,” he added in his most serious tone. “Right. Okay. That does sound bad. Of course. I’ll look into it right away.”

He pretended to hang up and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Muldoon asked from one seat over.

“Call from the head office,” he said. “Have to check something out.”

“You have to go now?”

Kurt nodded. “A situation that’s been building for several days has reached the breaking point. If I don’t go now, it could be disastrous.”

She reached out and grabbed his hand. She looked crestfallen. “But you’re missing the best part of the presentation.”

Kurt made a grim face. “It’s the price I have to pay.”

Bidding the Muldoons good-bye, Kurt stood and strolled down the aisle to the waiting doors. He pushed through them and jogged up the steps into the foyer. Fearing he might get trapped in a conversation if he ran into other attendees, he took a left, sneaking down a curving hallway toward an unmarked side door.

He pushed it open and stepped out into the humid air of the Australian evening. To his surprise, he wasn’t alone.

A young woman sat on the step in front of him, fiddling with the heel of a strappy shoe. She wore a white cocktail dress with a matching white flower in her strawberry blond hair. Kurt thought it might be an orchid.

She looked up, startled by his sudden appearance.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

For a second, she looked apoplectic, like he’d caught her stealing the Crown Jewels or something. Then she glanced around and went back to work on her shoe, wiggling the offending heel back and forth until the delicate little spike snapped off in her hand.

“That’s probably not going to help,” Kurt guessed.

“My favorite shoes,” she said in a melodic Australian accent. “Always seem to be the ones you break.”

Dejected but exhibiting admirable common sense, she slipped off the other shoe and broke off its heel, then compared the two.

“At least they match,” he said, offering a hand. “Kurt Austin.”

“Hayley Anderson,” she replied. “Proud owner of the most expensive flats in all of Oz.”