Deep Fire Rising m-6 Page 24

  “Leaving two,” Tisa said.

  “Leaving air,” Mercer corrected. “Three thousand gallons worth of air, or buoyancy equal to twenty-four thousand pounds. Factoring in that the remaining gas is also lighter than water, I estimate that this tank is more than buoyant enough to make the entire truck float like a piece of Styrofoam.”

  Tisa’s eyes lit up. “When the hold fills with water, the truck will float up and smash open the door. We’ll rise to the surface.”

  Mercer nodded. “Provided the cab doesn’t flood first.”

  Tisa held up her bundle. “That’s what this is for.”

  “You got it.”

  They worked side by side, tearing sleeping bags into strips to stuff into the air vents, and using a roll of duct tape they found in the glove compartment to tape over the gaps around the windows and along the passenger door, sealing off where the brake, clutch, and gas pedals came through the floorboards, and anyplace else they thought water could enter the cab. Through it all, they ignored the sounds of the ship sinking deeper into the water and the growing surge of water creeping up the deck. The remaining automobiles on the port side slid down into the pile of smashed vehicles at the bow.

  By the time they finished most of the car alarms had gone silent because their electronics had been shorted by the advancing seawater.

  “I think we’re set,” Mercer pronounced. “I need to clear the deck behind us so I can control our slide down. We can’t allow the truck to get tangled in that pileup down there. I’ll be right back. I’ll be coming back fast so stay on the passenger side but keep your foot on the brake.”

  Stepping out of the cab and looking down the three-hundred-foot length of the ferry was like standing atop a ski jump. And at the bottom lay a pile of mangled automobiles pressed against the bow in a cauldron of water that swirled ever higher. The creeping surface spurted in foaming geysers as air pockets trapped within the tangle of cars erupted. The view was disorienting. So far none of the trucks, with their numerous tires and better traction, had started their inexorable slide.

  Mercer had to grip the tanker’s bodywork with one hand and lean far back on his heels to keep his footing as he made his way down the inclined deck. Once at the truck’s front bumper, he dropped to his backside and crawled like a crab until reaching the rear of the eighteen-wheeler. On his feet once again, he clung to the trailer’s side and slowly eased his way along its length. He finally reached the tractor and clambered along it until he could open the driver’s door. He reached up for the handle, and as soon as he released the catch the door flew open with a violent jerk. Keeping his body partially outside the truck, he reached across the seat and jimmied the gearshift into neutral.

  The truck shuddered as the strain of keeping it in place fell solely on the parking brake. The tires gave a single chirp as the eighteen-wheeler slid a fraction of an inch. Mercer wiggled farther out of the cab, took a shallow breath, and popped the brake release.

  The truck dropped away like an avalanche of metal, smashing into the school bus in front of it, sending it into a moving van until the whole string of oversized vehicles raced for the bow. Mercer had just barely dropped clear as the semi hit the bus and he watched as the wall of trucks vanished into the gloom. He lay on the sloping deck like a fly stuck on sticky paper, his arms and legs spread flat.

  With precise movements he turned onto his stomach, peered once more over his shoulder to see that the deck had become a steep featureless wall and began to climb up to the tanker, still holding tight, although it wouldn’t be for long. If its tires slipped now, the truck would roll right over him.

  He climbed upward, his fingertips exploiting every irregularity in the deck to give him purchase. Once he reached the truck, he could feel the bodywork juddering as it wanted to succumb to gravity. Mercer climbed into the cab, placing his foot on the brake before Tisa took hers away. Without waiting, he cranked the transmission into neutral and took away just a fraction of the pressure he kept on the brake pedal. The truck moved an inch or two before he jammed in the pedal again.

  Keeping the rig straight and his motions smooth, he eased the truck down the deck. It seemed to take forever and they were almost at the top of the pile of wrecked vehicles when the ferry lurched suddenly and a gout of water erupted from the pool at the bow. The truck slammed into the rear of the semitrailer and immediately water began to surge around the front wheels.

  It was strange to consider that the water level wasn’t rising. The apparent upward advance came because the ferry was sinking. In minutes, roiling water lapped at the side windows and continued to climb even higher. Mercer recalled the feeling of diving in Bob, although this was a far cry from the high-tech submersible. Tisa reached for his hand.

  The oily water passed over the hood, rising above the roof. The cab was completely submerged.

  “The moment of truth.” For some reason he couldn’t explain, Mercer was whispering.

  Tisa replied in kind. “For what?”

  “To see if this old girl has some fight left in her.”

  The cylindrical tank felt the first hint of buoyancy and the truck shuddered as it shifted against the wreckage. The shriek of metal seemed amplified by the water, a tearing sound worse than any Mercer had ever heard. But no matter how buoyant, the truck couldn’t break free of the other vehicles.

  “Come on, come on,” Mercer urged under his breath, noting the cloth stuffed into an air vent was glistening with moisture. “Float, you pig, float.”

  Without warning the truck did a sudden pirouette and fell onto its side. The tanker pulled its bumper free, allowing the vehicle to scrape against the canted deck as it remained level with the steadily rising tide of water.

  An explosion outside the hold shook the entire ferry. The volume of water flooding the ship doubled. Held at sea level by the air trapped in its tank, the truck remained in one place as the ship sank into the abyss at an ever-increasing speed. She was near vertical now and Mercer could imagine her blunt stern raised high, her propellers gleaming in the moonlight.

  Mercer wondered grimly how many hapless victims remained near enough to the doomed ship to be sucked under when she vanished beneath the waves.

  Tisa cried out and lunged at a toggle switch on the dash that had broken away, allowing water to dribble in around the cracked plastic. She held her hand over the weeping gash. The blankets at Mercer’s feet were sodden. As the truck floated up from the bow, there was just enough light penetrating the dark waters for Mercer to count the support girders lining the wall. He estimated the stern door was at least seventy feet above them. Water found more openings into the cab.

  “Are we going to-”

  “It’ll be close,” he answered, not needing her to finish the question.

  The ship continued to fill with water. The auto deck wasn’t the only space flooding. Her bilges and upper decks too were drowning, a few passengers too slow or too disoriented to escape after the initial explosion dying silently in the black water. The ferry was actually lower in the water than Mercer thought, and sinking faster than he believed possible. The truck was fifty feet from hitting the stern door when her stern rail vanished under the waves, leaving the sea littered with hastily launched lifeboats and hundreds of wailing passengers.

  The water in the inverted cab was up to Mercer’s knees. Tisa braced her feet against the dash to keep them dry. The truck sloshed across the hold because the ferry corkscrewed as she sank. Mercer couldn’t tell how far they were from hitting the door.

  “Tighten your lap belt,” he said unnecessarily. He and Tisa were buckled as tight at they could be. “Get into the crash position they teach you on airplanes. It’ll protect you from whiplash.”

  They ducked down, holding their chests to their knees. The position was uncomfortable for Mercer, but he lacked a tenth of Tisa’s flexibility.

  Outside the ferry, water pressure exploited the smallest entrances into the ship, forcing air from any voids with increasing fury. The las
t and greatest empty chamber on the ship was the car deck. Air trapped at the still-sealed stern had formed a taut bubble that needed just a tiny more impetus to blow open the eight-ton ramp. The gasoline tank was made of heavy-gauge noncorrosive steel and hit the door at nearly seventeen miles per hour. The truck’s upward rush ended in a savage impact that whipped Mercer and Tisa brutally, though none of the windows cracked.

  “What happened? Are we free?”

  Mercer didn’t say anything for a moment, his optimism fading with each passing second. The ramp hadn’t been blown open. “No, damn it. We’re not light enough to force open the door. We’re trapped.”

  Water continued to pour into the cab. It was up to Mercer’s waist and climbing. He could feel pressure building in his ears. They were probably forty feet below the surface by now and falling by the second. He knew there were two choices: wait for the water to slowly fill the cab or simply break a window and end it quick.

  There was no light for him to see Tisa, but he could feel her hand in his. She gave him a squeeze. She also understood their options.

  “Just do it,” she whispered with eerie calm, as if she’d known it would come to this all along.

  “I’m sorry, Tisa.”

  “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”

  “No, I mean I can’t do it.” His voice was fierce, unbending. “I’m not giving in, not until I can’t hold my breath for one second longer.”

  Like a piece of flotsam, the tank truck rolled along the door, edging away from the stout hinges at the base.

  Water continued to pour into the cab, covering Mercer and Tisa, forcing them to unsnap their belts and struggle to find the diminishing air pocket. Tisa came up sputtering, her hair plastered against her head. Her arms went around Mercer.

  “I don’t want to die, Mercer. Oh my God, I really don’t want to die.” She sounded surprised to realize she had a survival instinct.

  The truck rolled once again, tumbling the pair as though they were caught in a washing machine. They had to fight to find air.

  The tanker came to rest at the very top of the door, pushed there by the streams of bubbles still rising from deeper in the hold. The added force of buoyancy was just enough to crack the door open a fraction of an inch. Air gushed through the opening, forced through by the tremendous pressure. The heavy door was pushed farther back on its hinges. The truck rolled again in the surge of air and suddenly it was scraping across the threshold. It hung suspended, half in and half out of the plummeting ferry, gripped tight by the heavy door.

  Mercer held his face pressed tight to the top of the cab, taking shallow sips of air, allowing Tisa the lion’s share of the few remaining breaths. They’d been in the water ten minutes, not nearly enough for the cold to affect them, but still both trembled as if suffering hypothermia.

  “Mercer. I-” A wave forced water down Tisa’s throat. She spat and gagged to clear her lungs. “I want you to know-”

  Like a cork from a shaken bottle of champagne, the pressure of air in the big tank wouldn’t be held any longer. Shoving aside the door the ten-ton truck popped free and rocketed toward the surface amid a fountain of bubbles.

  The motion was so violent that Mercer’s last breath left his mouth half filled with foul water. His lungs burned and he felt the muscles of his diaphragm convulsing to draw air. Tisa couldn’t be faring any better, he thought, as the truck spiraled upward.

  From a depth of sixty feet, the trip to the surface took just seconds. The tanker exploded from under the waves like a breaching whale, slamming back to the sea with a splash that nearly capsized a nearby lifeboat. Several survivors struggling in the water were almost crushed when the heavy vehicle spun to find its equilibrium.

  Mercer was thrown into the windshield when the tanker broached, shattering the glass and what felt like his skull. He kicked free from the cab, reached back for Tisa and dragged her through the opening. Holding her limp body in one arm, he stroked for the surface, his lungs screaming.

  He surfaced next to the bobbing truck and sucked in great drafts of air. Crisscrossing searchlights mounted on a dozen lifeboats cut the dark night. The only sounds were boat motors and pleas for help. The sea was littered with the dead and dying.

  The front half of the tanker was underwater, allowing Mercer to wedge himself into the rear wheel well. Tisa wasn’t breathing. He held her to his chest and was able to pinch off her nostrils and begin to breathe air into her lungs.

  Tears mingled with the salt water stinging his eyes. “Come on, come on,” he called softly, his mouth inches from hers, his senses alert for the slightest sign of life. He continued CPR, trying to massage her chest to keep her heart going. His precarious position on the tanker made his efforts extremely awkward. He gently blew more air into her body, feeling her lungs expand with each cycle. Tisa remained inert.

  And then she coughed up a mouthful of bile and water. Mercer didn’t care that he took most of it in his face. Tisa coughed again, a deep retching that seemed to rip the delicate tissues in her chest. Mercer turned her in his arms so it was easier for her to clear her lungs, all the while rubbing her back and murmuring reassurances.

  It took her several minutes to regain her breath enough to speak, and even then Mercer urged her to stay quiet. In that time a dozen stranded passengers had floundered their way to the tottering truck, clinging to precarious handholds wherever they could find them. One man tried to climb the tank, but Mercer reached out a hand to prevent him from upsetting the vehicle’s delicate balance.

  He wasn’t paying attention to the boat that approached the tanker. From his position it was just a murky outline behind a dazzling searchlight. As it neared, a few people struck off from the tanker to climb aboard the rescue craft.

  Mercer watched absently as the strongest swimmer reached what he thought was a lifeboat and made a grab for the gunwale. A shadowy figure in the craft lofted something high over his head and brought it down with a sickening crunch that carried all the way to the tanker truck.

  What the…?

  Another man looped an arm over the boat’s low transom. He too was struck over the head. He screamed shrilly but his shout was cut off with another savage blow. A searchlight beam swept the lifeboat and Mercer saw that it wasn’t one of the boats from the ferry. This was a sleek white powerboat, about thirty feet long. Its European styling reminded Mercer of the large motor yacht he’d seen tracking the ferry. That’s how Donny had made his escape, a launch from the big yacht. And now he had returned. Why?

  The answer was obvious — to make sure that he and Tisa were dead.

  “Tisa, we have to get away,” he whispered urgently. “Your brother’s back.”

  She peered into the darkness. The area around the speedboat was becoming chaotic; the crew aboard were whacking at those struggling in the water as though they were marauding pirates bent on plunder. Though the light was bad, and Tisa near-drowned, she recognized the lithe form of her brother standing in the speedboat’s bow. Behind him, Donny Randall smacked at people like an Arctic hunter cracking the skulls of baby seals.

  She turned back to Mercer, barely able to see his features in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said, and touched his cheek. “This is the only way. He won’t hurt me.”

  “What are you-?”

  “Luc,” Tisa shouted. “I’m here. Please. I love you.” She pushed away from the tanker and began swimming before Mercer could stop her. “I’m here, Luc. It’s Tisa.” She paused in the water, looking back at him. Her face was a pale oval hovering just above the black water. “Oh my God! Leper Alma, Mercer. Watch for Leper Alma.”

  The speedboat knifed across to where she struggled, deliberately running over two survivors clinging to a single life jacket. The craft circled around, and when it reached Tisa, Donny Randall lifted her from the water as easily as a kitten. From where he clutched the tanker truck, Mercer watched horrified as she fell into the waiting arms of her brother.

  In the few mome
nts the speedboat had idled, it had attracted dozens of swimmers brave enough, or desperate enough, to chance getting aboard. Donny and another crewman armed themselves with oars once again, but despite their best efforts they were becoming overwhelmed by the press of struggling humanity. Tisa spoke a few words to her brother. Luc ordered the boat’s driver to get them back to the yacht before they were swamped.

  Mercer watched it all, unable to believe what he was seeing. Tisa had willingly sacrificed herself to save him. She’d gone to convince her brother that she alone had survived and he was dead in the hold of the ferry. He had no idea what Luc would do to her. She hadn’t told him much about her brother — he felt deliberately — but the impression he had was that their problems went far, far beyond the ideological split within their Order.

  He didn’t know what to think, what to do. He was at a complete loss. Even maintaining his grip on the tanker truck didn’t seem worth the effort. He’d barely found her and now she was gone.

  Someone knocked into him, bringing him back to his situation. It was a boy of about eight, wide-eyed and frightened, his skinny shoulders nearly slipping through his life jacket. Mercer grabbed the boy and held him close. The child hugged him fiercely, crying in Greek, calling out for his mother in such a clear voice that Mercer felt his heart’s ache deepen further.

  In moments two dozen other swimmers were clustered around the tanker and it fell on Mercer to distribute them around the truck to keep the rig from upending. Soon overloaded lifeboats had rafted alongside and the truck became the center of the survivors’ universe. Men gave up their spaces in the boats for women and children while ship’s officers gave their spots to tourists.

  Two hours later a ferry from Santorini reached the floating atoll of boats to take on those left alive and commence the grim task of collecting the corpses. Many people would later recall how terrorists in a speedboat had clubbed survivors in the water and kidnapped a young woman, though no one could give an accurate description of the men or their vessel or how they’d escaped. Nor could anyone describe the American who’d miraculously popped up from the depths in the tanker truck to organize the rescue effort and save countless lives.