The Storm

He turned his attention forward. “Well, feast your eyes on this,” he said. “Aqua-Terra two o’clock low.”

From five miles out the island was easy to see, like a giant oversize oil platform. As they flew closer, it became obvious that there was some real genius to Marchetti’s design.

Five hundred feet wide and nearly two thousand feet long, Aqua-Terra was truly a sight to behold. To begin with, the island itself wasn’t round—like so many floating cities envisioned by futuristic architects—it was teardrop-shaped, narrowing to a point in one direction while sporting a wide, curving border on the back end.

“Amazing,” Leilani whispered.

“Bloody huge,” the pilot said.

“I just hope they have a food court down there,” Joe replied.

Kurt laughed and glanced toward Leilani. “Are you okay?”

She looked pensive and determined, like she was about to go into combat. She nodded yes but seemed as if she’d rather be somewhere else. He decided to distract her by talking about the island.

“See that ring around the outside of the island?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“That’s a breakwater made up of steel-and-concrete barriers. They sit on powerful hydraulic pistons, and, from what I’ve read, when a big wave hits, they’re driven back, taking the brunt of the force like shock absorbers. When the wave disperses, they spring back into position.”

“What’s all that stuff over on the far side?” she asked, pointing.

Kurt gazed in the direction she indicated. An artificial beach sat next to a half-circular cutout in the hull. In this section the breakwaters overlapped but didn’t line up. Several small boats and a twin-engine seaplane were docked against a jetty.

“Looks like an inlet,” he said.

“Every island has to have a harbor,” Joe added. “Maybe they have a few restaurants on the waterfront.”

“No one could ever accuse you of lacking focus,” Kurt said.

The helicopter turned and began to descend. Kurt heard Nigel talking with an air controller over the radio. He looked back toward the island.

Large sections were obviously still under construction, exposed steel and scaffolding confirmed that. Other sections seemed closer to completion, and the rear of the island looked all but finished, including a pair of ten-story structures shaped like pyramids with a helipad suspended dramatically between them like a bridge.

“Could someone like this really have been involved in what happened to my brother?”

“The leads point this way,” Kurt said.

“But this Marchetti has everything,” she said, “why would he do something so horrible?”

“We’re going to do our best to find out.”

She nodded, and Kurt looked back out the window. As the helicopter began to turn, he focused on a row of soaring white structures that sprouted along each side of the teardrop-shaped island. They were widest at ground level, narrowing with a gentle rake toward the top.

They reminded him of oversize tails plucked from mothballed 747s. He quickly realized why. They were airfoils, mechanical sails, designed to catch the wind. He watched as they changed their angle slightly, turning in unison.

In the center of the island he saw a rectangular swath of green, complete with trees, grass and hills. It reminded him of New York’s Central Park. On either side were long, wide strips of land on which wheat seemed to be growing.

At the forward end, banks of solar panels reflected the sun while a group of large windmills turned with gentle grace.

Nigel turned to Kurt. “They’re denying us permission to land.”

Kurt had expected that. He reached over and flipped a switch. A canister he’d rigged up to the tail boom began to emit black smoke. He doubted it would fool anybody for long, but it couldn’t hurt.

“Looks like we’re having an emergency,” he said. “Tell them we have no choice but to set down safely or crash.”

As the pilot relayed the message, Kurt gri

“Are you always so incorrigible?” she asked.

Joe replied, “From what I’ve heard Kurt here was the type to skip school and sign his own notes and have all the teachers fawning over him when he came back from his ‘illness.’”

Leilani smiled. “I call that resourceful.”

With a line of smoke trailing from it, the JetRanger angled for the helipad that bridged the gap between the roof of the pyramid-like buildings. The descent was smooth, almost too smooth.

“Make it look good,” Kurt said.

The pilot nodded, he waggled the stick, shaking the copter to simulate some type of trouble, then stabilized as they got closer and safely touched down on top of the big yellow H.

Kurt pulled off his headset, popped open the door, and stepped out. Stretching his legs, he gazed at the sights around him. It was like being on a rooftop restaurant and getting the best view in the house.

The sails he’d seen were at least a hundred feet tall, all marked with a bright blue stripe and the name aqua-terra. A scent lingered in the air, but it was so out of place, it took a moment for Kurt to recognize it: fresh-cut grass.

Another sight heading his way appeared similarly out of place. Wearing orange slacks, a gray shirt and a flowing purple robe decorated with green-and-blue paisley was a man who looked a lot like Elwood Marchetti, and a little like a peacock.

A thick brown beard on his face and circular red sunglasses completed his dizzying ensemble.

A thin man with strawlike blond hair trailed behind him. He wore a business suit and appeared to be upset.

“Mr. Marchetti, you shouldn’t be greeting these people,” the man said. “They have no right to land here.”

Kurt looked past Marchetti to the suit. “We had engine trouble.”

“A convenient time to get it.”

Kurt smiled. “I’ll say. Fortunately for us, your island was right here.”

“It’s a lie,” the man said. “They’re obviously here as spies or to attempt an audit.”

Marchetti shook his head and turned to the aide. He put his hands on the man’s arms and gripped him like an old-time revival preacher, healing someone from the crowd.

“It grieves me,” Marchetti began. “Truly grieves me. To think I’ve made you so paranoid and yet not given you the wisdom you need to see clearly.”

“Blake Matson,” he said, directing the aide’s attention back to Kurt. “This isn’t the man. This fellow doesn’t even resemble the man. The man comes in boats and ships, he brings guns and lawyers and accountants. He doesn’t wear boots and bring beautiful young women with him.”

Marchetti was taking in Leilani as he spoke.

“Excuse me,” Kurt said. “But what on earth are you babbling about?”

“Tax man, my friend,” Marchetti said. “The IRS, the various European equivalents and members of one particularly irksome South American country that seem to think I owe them something.”

“Internal Revenue Service,” Kurt said. “Why would you be worried about them?”

“Because they don’t seem to get the idea that I have now become external to their world and thus am not part of their revenue stream or in any way, shape or form interested in any of their so-called service.”

Marchetti put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and ushered him forward.

“This is my domain. A billion dollars’ worth of effort so far. Terra firma of my own. Only it’s not firma,” he said, stumbling over his words, “it’s aqua. Terra-aqua. Or Aqua-Terra, actually. But you understand what I’m saying.”

“Barely,” Kurt deadpa

“Tax man calls it a ship. They say I have to pay tariffs and registration fees and insurance. Comply with OSHA rules and inspections. They tell me that’s the bow. I tell them this is an island, and that right there is land’s end.”

Kurt stared at Marchetti. “You can call it the planet Mars, for all I care. I’m not with the IRS or anyone else who wants to tax you or question your sovereignty—or your sanity, for that matter. But I am a man with a problem and good reason to believe you’re the cause.”