"Crocs. That's a crocodile you hear. Somewhere behind us."
Out on the beach, they heard the sudden rumbling of automobile engines. Peering forward through the mangroves, they saw three jeeps coming from the east side of the bay, rumbling across the sand toward them.
"What's this?" Evans said.
"They've been practicing this," Morton said. "All week. Watch. One stops at each tent. See? Tent one...tent two...tent three. They all stop. They all keep the motors running. All pointed west."
"What's west?"
"There's a dirt track, goes up the hill about a hundred yards and then dead-ends."
"Something used to be up there?"
"No. They cut the road themselves. First thing they did when they got here." Morton looked toward the eastern curve of the bay. "Usually by this time, the ship has pulled out, and moved into deep water. But it's not doing it yet."
"Uh-oh," Evans said.
"What is it?"
"I think we've forgotten something."
"What's that?"
"We've been worried about this tsunami wave heading toward the California coast. But a landslide would suck water downward, right? And then it would rise back up again. But that's kind of like dropping this pebble into this ditch." He dropped a pebble into a muddy puddle at their feet. "And the wave the pebble generates...is circular."
"It goes in all directions..."
"Oh no," Sarah said.
"Oh yes. All directions, including back to this coast. The tsunami will hit here, too. And fast. How far offshore is the Solomon Trench?"
Morton shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe two miles. I really don't know, Peter."
"If these waves travel five hundred miles an hour," Evans said, "then that means it gets to this coast in..."
"Twenty-four seconds," Sarah said.
"Right. That's how much time we have to get out of here, once the undersea landslide begins. Twenty-four seconds."
With a sudden chugging rumble, they heard the first diesel generator come to life. Then the second, then the third. All three were running.
Morton glanced at his watch. "This is it," he said. "They've started."
And now they heard an electronic whine, faint at first but rapidly building to a deep electronic hum. It filled the air.
"Those're the cavitators," Morton said. "Kicking in."
Jennifer slung her rifle over her shoulder. "Let's get ready."
Sanjong slid silently from the branches of the overhanging tree, onto the deck of theAV Scorpion. The forty-foot ship must have a very shallow draft, because it was pulled up close to the peninsula on the eastern side, so that the huge jungle trees overhung it. The ship couldn't really be seen from the beach; Sanjong had only realized that it was there when he heard the crackle of radios coming from the jungle.
He crouched in the stern, hiding behind the winch that raised the submarine, listening. He heard voices from all sides, it seemed like. He guessed that there were six or seven men onboard. But what he wanted was to find the timing detonators. He guessed that they were in the pilothouse, but he couldn't be sure. And between his hiding place and the pilothouse was a long expanse of open deck.
He looked at the mini-sub hanging above him. It was bright blue, about seven feet long, with a bubble canopy, now raised. The sub was raised and lowered into the water by the winch.
And the winch...
He looked for the control panel. He knew it had to be nearby because the operator would have to be able to see the submarine as it was lowered. Finally he saw it: a closed metal box on the other side of the ship. He crept over, opened the box, and looked at the buttons. There were six, marked with arrows in all directions. Like a big keypad.
He pressed the down arrow.
With a rumble, the winch began to lower the submarine into the water.
An alarm began to sound.
He heard running feet.
He ducked back into a doorway and waited.
From the beach, they faintly heard the sound of an alarm over the rumble of the generators and the cavitation hum. Evans looked around. "Where's it coming from?"
"It must be from the ship, over there."
Out on the beach, the men heard it, too. They were standing in pairs by the entrance to the tents, pointing. Wondering what to do.
And then, from the jungle behind them, a sudden burst of machine-gun fire opened up. The men on the beach were alarmed now, swinging their guns, looking this way and that.
"Screw it," Jennifer said, taking Evans's rifle. "This is it. It won't get any better."
And firing, she ran out onto the beach.
The crocodile had charged Kenner with frightening speed. He had little more than a glimpse of huge white jaws open wide and thrashing water before he fired with his machine gun. The jaw smashed down, just missing his leg; the animal writhed, twisted, and attacked again, jaws closing on a low-hanging branch.
The bullets hadn't done anything. Kenner turned and ran, sprinting down the streambed.