“This is a current exhibition funded by the Australia-Indonesia Museum Project. It’s an exploration of the long historical connection between Indonesia and Australia’s Aboriginal tribes. Which seems fortuitous, but in fact it has been an ongoing pursuit at this particular museum.”

  “Which museum?” Seichan asked.

  “It’s right here in the city’s Old Town. The Jakarta History Museum.”

  Seichan frowned. “I get why that topic might help with your research, but why do you think it has any connection to Stamford’s missing pages? Did the guy found this museum, too?”

  “No. The museum’s building dates back to a century before Stamford’s time on the island.” He looked across the group. “But when he lived here, it served as Jakarta’s city hall.”

  He stared across the group.

  Seichan understood. “As lieutenant-governor, Stamford kept an office there.”

  “He did. And if he wanted to hide some important paperwork, he might’ve felt confident enough to secure them there.” Gray shrugged. “Seems like a good place to start a search for those missing pages.”

  Seichan waved toward the balcony, reluctantly accepting his conclusions. “Then best get on with it before the whole city burns down.”

  Another booming detonation shook the building, reminding him it wasn’t just Jakarta that was at risk—but this entire region, maybe the rest of the world.

  Still, as they left, Gray knew they had to be cautious. There was more of a threat out there than just fire and ash.

  We’re not the only ones trapped on this island.

  23

  January 24, 3:07 A.M. WIB

  Jakarta, Island of Java, Indonesia

  Heng cracked his knuckles as he waited for the scanning electron microscope to finish its assay. His foot tapped, too. He stared about the small research lab in the basement of the Eijkman Institute for Molecular Biology in central Jakarta.

  The facility was part of a larger medical research complex, which was likely why it still had power. The building itself dated back to the nineteenth century. Even then, it had been a medical facility, one built to study bacteria. Today it was a state-of-the-art institution, with its own biosafety lab and gas decontamination chamber.

  Pray we don’t have to use them.

  The facility had been closed for the night, but Xue had arranged for the emergency use of the lab due to a cooperative outreach between China’s scientific community and the Indonesian Ministry of Research. A lone guard had opened the gate and hurried them inside. He had looked panicked and ready to bolt.

  And he was not the only one.

  Behind him, just outside the lab door, Xue was arguing heatedly with Captain Wen, head of the Falcon Command Unit. Wen wanted to evacuate his men, along with Xue and Heng, back to mainland China. Apparently, the captain had a boat anchored far enough out in the bay that it had survived the initial tsunami and subsequent tidal surge. Xue refused to leave, plainly frustrated that he had lost those museum papers.

  More of Wen’s men guarded the hallway and were posted between them and the gated archway that led out of the facility. Regular updates alerted them to the status outside. Not that Heng needed any. Volcanic detonations regularly shook the building. Even buried in the basement, he heard sirens and screams from the panicked city. The stench of sulfur had grown heavier as he worked down here.

  While waiting for his work to finish, he had used the facility’s wireless internet, which shockingly was still working—further testament to the importance of the medical complex and the two neighboring hospitals. He had looked up the history of the volcanos on this island. Java alone had more than forty active volcanos. The closest—Mount Salak—had last erupted back in 1938, but it had been regularly outgassing, leading to the deaths of six teenagers in 2007 as toxic gas filled its caldera.

  The latest report from Jakarta’s emergency services was that another dozen peaks on the island had begun spewing fumes from fissures and cracks. It was further evidence that this could be the start of a greater geological catastrophe.

  Xue stalked into the lab. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes flashing. “How much longer do you need, Dr. Luo?”

  Heng checked the countdown running on the monitor next to the SEM unit. “Less than a minute.”

  “Perfect. Time is of the essence. We must be off quickly.”

  Heng understood the danger. He turned back to Xue, again struck by the man’s finely sculpted features. It took Heng an extra breath to continue. “And we’ll be heading off the island after that?”

  Those dark eyes settled on him, a slight smile shadowing his lips.

  “That’ll depend on your findings here.” Xue glanced at the doorway. “And the temperament of Captain Wen. He lost seven men during the firefight.”

  “But you intend to stay in Jakarta?”

  “Despite the danger, there is one avenue of pursuit that I wish to undertake. If your research bears fruit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before Xue could answer, the computer chimed, announcing the completion of the SEM assay. Heng twisted around in his seat as a file popped up on the window.

  Finally . . .

  During the past hour, Heng had sectioned off a sliver of the black coral found in the museum’s box and mounted it with double-sided carbon tape to the SEM’s aluminum stud, then air-sprayed away particulate debris. It had taken extra time, but he had wanted as clean an image as possible.

  Heng opened the folder, which contained a pair of photos at different magnifications. He tapped the first one. The image showed two crusty holes—called calyxes—which was where the polyps normally nested within the coral.

  Xue placed a hand on Heng’s shoulder as he leaned closer. His palm was hot, as was his breath on Heng’s cheek. “Does this look like the same type of calcification you found in the afflicted submariners?”

  “Maybe.” Heng stammered a bit, flustered with the man so close. “Let me be sure.”

  Heng opened the second image. It revealed a magnified close-up of the crystals bordering one of the calyxes.

  Xue’s fingers tightened on Heng’s shoulder. “They’re orthorhombic crystals. Same as those found in the submariners’ tissues.”

  “And the lunar dust collected by Chang’e-5’s lander,” Heng added.

  “Well done.” Xue patted his shoulder.

  Heng’s face heated up. He shifted out of the man’s reach before turning around. “But what does this prove?”

  Excitement brightened Xue’s eyes as he continued to stare at the screen. “It proves that the events of the past do have bearing on the present.”

  “If so, what now? You said there was an avenue of pursuit that you still wanted to investigate on the island.”

  Xue straightened to his full height. “There is a site that I’d like to check out. Where Sir Stamford Raffles kept an office while he resided here as lieutenant-governor.”

  “The old governor’s office? It’s still here?”

  “It is. The original city hall of Batavia still stands. It was turned into the Jakarta History Museum.” Xue waved Heng up. “Now that you’ve confirmed that history is indeed repeating itself, we have no more time to waste.”

  Heng hurried to gather his research material. “Why? What’s the rush?”

  Xue looked back over his shoulder. “I was told a few minutes ago that the Americans are headed there, too—to the same museum.”

  “Told by whom?” Heng asked.

  Xue ignored him. He was halfway across the lab, striding toward the exit, ready to rouse Captain Wen. Heng suspected the chance to confront the Americans again would be enough to convince the captain to remain on the island.

  More than survival, Wen surely had a greater desire, especially after losing seven of his men.

  Revenge.

  Fifth

  24

  January 24, 6:32 A.M. NCT

  Under the Coral Sea

  Kowalski lost count of the number of times he had stalked around the circumference of Tethys Tier. It had to be more than a thousand.

  At least, it felt that way.

  It had been three hours since the station had uncoupled into pieces. Frustrated, he ground the stub of his cold cigar between his molars. The others had made him snub it out, complaining about the limited air in the twenty-yard-wide tier—which was a growing concern.

  They couldn’t stay down here forever. While each level could become its own saucer-shaped submersible, the oxygen reserves were limited. Normally the carbon-fiber tanks were replaced from topside shipments. But Tethys Tier had been late for its replenishment due to the recent quakes. According to Byrd, they had maybe another six hours of reserves left before they’d all asphyxiate.

  Still, they dared not head straight back up.

  From the sonar screen in the auxiliary control station, they had all watched the four other tiers rise to the surface. Their group had followed upward at a wary distance, then settled into a neutral-buoyancy hover about a quarter mile down. Once in place, the thrusters were turned off, making them look dead in the water.

  No one dared to even speak.

  Then a series of huge explosions erupted overhead. The sound carried to them. Shortly thereafter, the sonar showed debris raining down. Fearing that they might be hit, Byrd had glided them out of the way, before returning them to a dead hover. Worry plagued them as they hung in the water—and not for their own safety. It was impossible to tell if the station’s personnel had been offloaded to Titan Station Up before the tiers had been destroyed.

  That had been an hour ago.

  It was now a tense waiting game.

  The hope was that the assailants would depart these waters, allowing them to safely rise to the surface. Byrd’s plan was to wait for as long as possible, to only ascend once their oxygen tanks were depleted. They had no other choice. The onboard batteries could at best get them a half mile away before dying, leaving them stranded and in full view of the station.

  Knowing this and feeling like a caged lion, Kowalski made another pass around the floor. The petite researcher—Jasleen Patel—sat alongside the curve of glass. Her laptop was open on her knees, but she ignored the screen, leaning her head against the wall. Her complexion was pale, her brow damp. She shivered from a spiking fever. The geologist, Haru, knelt beside her, holding her hand—no, examining her hand.

  Kowalski stopped next to them. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think her fever and chills are from a flu bug.” Haru waved him down. “Look.”

  Kowalski dropped to a knee as the geologist held out her arm. Her palm was gray and three of her fingers were even darker.

  Jazz lifted her head to stare down, too. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “It . . . it’s a toxic reaction. Some type of envenomation. From a sting I suffered. Feels like my hand is on fire. I can barely move my fingers.”

  Kowalski shrugged out of his wool duster. “Put this on.”

  He helped her draw his coat over her shoulders and pulled it around her. She set down her laptop and burrowed deeper into its warmth. “Thanks.”

  “What stung you?” Haru asked.

  She sighed with exasperation. “A coral polyp. Stupid of me. I wager Dr. Kim Jong Suk is feeling as crappy as I am. If he’s still alive.”

  Haru looked at Kowalski. “She needs medical attention.”

  “There’s only one place she can get it.” Kowalski stared up. “And it’s a quarter mile away.”

  With a grunt, Kowalski stood and crossed over to the doorway that led down to the auxiliary controls. Jarrah stood at the threshold, guarding over Byrd inside.

  “Gotta talk to your boss,” Kowalski said.

  Jarrah shifted aside.

  Byrd heard him and turned from where he was studying various information on the board: oxygen levels, exterior pressure, depth gauge, battery charges. Past his shoulders, a curve of windows showed only black seas.

  “What is it?” Byrd asked.

  “That woman is sick and getting worse. She needs help. And she’s not going to find it down here.”

  “And what do you propose we do?”

  Kowalski pointed a finger up. “We take our chances now rather than later.”

  “We don’t know what’s happening topside. We could end up getting her killed—and us—much quicker.”

  “I don’t think waiting a couple more hours is gonna make any—”

  A series of booming detonations reached them, strong enough to shake the hovering tier. Kowalski ducked and looked across the curve of windows, expecting them to crack.

  Byrd turned to the sonar screen.

  Kowalski crowded in behind him. “What the hell was that?”

  Byrd pointed to four shadows near the top of the sonar monitor. They marked the pylons that kept Titan Station Up floating on the surface. Only now those crisp outlines were blurry blobs.

  “The bastards are trying to take the station down,” Byrd said.

  As they watched, huge shapes tumbled through the water, marking sections of the massive complex falling toward them.

  Byrd ignited the thrusters and got them moving. The engines fought the dead weight of their sub.

  Kowalski watched a large piece—easily thirty or forty meters across—cleaving straight toward them. “Not going to clear it in time.”

  Byrd pushed his yoke forward. “I don’t dare burn out our thrusters.”

  “Better that than being sliced in half.”

  The tier gained more speed.

  Kowalski winced, expecting to be struck at any moment. Movement elsewhere on the sonar screen drew his eye. It rose from the right side. It sped toward them, angling downward. He had spent enough years in the Navy to recognize that signature.

  He shouted it to Byrd. “Torpedo!”

  25

  January 24, 7:38 A.M. NZDT

  Pacific Ocean, six hundred miles NE of Auckland

  Two hundred feet above the ocean, Monk struggled to hide from what lurked below. He stood on the bridge of the Titan X. It was housed in an observation platform—a glass-walled wedge—that sat atop the lofty bow of the yacht. The windows offered a panoramic 360-degree view of the ship and ocean.

  Behind him, the thirteen-story sphere of Science City sat like a black sun on the yacht’s aft end. It glowed from its interior lights, but a thick coating of ash shrouded its upper levels. Ahead of him, to the east, five fiery mountains glowed. They marked the chain of the volcanic Kermadec Islands. Fed by those smoking plumes, the skies had fallen lower, about to smother the Titan X. Lone bolts and long chains of lightning flashed up there in a code known only to the gods.

  Otherwise, the ocean lay dark and menacing all around them. The rolling waves were dull and heavy with powder. Farther east, the sun had surely risen, but there was no sign of it. The world was stuck at an eternal midnight.

  The captain of the Titan X—a squat Aussie in a beige jumpsuit—called over from bridge control. “We’re picking up something on radar. A big boat. Coming in bloody fast. Seventy knots.”

  Monk winced. “How far off?”

  “Fifteen kilometers and closing.”

  Monk did some fast math.

  It’ll reach us in six minutes.

  He swore and leaned a palm on the communication station. His other hand—the prosthetic one—clutched a radio. He had to refrain from crushing it in his grip. He stared at the CCTV monitor. It showed a view out the stern hold. Men scrambled around and on top of the Cormorant, looking like a NASCAR pit crew. The vehicle still hung in its A-frame over the water.

  Monk lifted his radio. “Bryan, we have company coming. We need to launch now. Do you copy?”

  Monk swallowed, waiting for the pilot’s response. When it did come, it was preceded by a string of expletives that would make a Marine blush and ended with a firm declarative.

  “I need at least another twenty minutes!”

  “You have two. There’s an unknown craft speeding toward us. It’s not likely to be friendly. You want to be well gone by the time that boat gets here.”

  Bryan’s next words were neither agreement nor dissent, just anger. “Fuck it then.”

  On the screen, the activity around the Cormorant sped up.

  Monk turned to the bridge control. “Captain Stemm?”

  “Twelve klicks out,” the Aussie reported. His face was as red as the shock of hair trapped under his cap. “I’m cutting engines.”

  “Do that. And be ready on my mark.”

  An hour ago, Monk had informed the bridge crew of the threat patrolling the waters under them. He had shown them the glimpse of the Chinese submarine. Captain Henry Stemm had served in the Australian Navy for two decades before retiring and signing on to this project. He had enough encounters with trespassing Chinese subs to recognize the fin assembly on the sonar. He deemed it likely to be a Yuan-class diesel-electric boat, a hunter-killer of the Chinese submarine fleet.

  Monk had also shared with the captain his concerns about what lay six miles under them and its relation to the spreading quakes and eruptions. Someone had to go down into the trench and take another look. But first, the Cormorant needed to slip past that steel shark. Adam and Phoebe had volunteered, both to take that risk and to face the danger in that bottomless trench.

  Monk had wanted to go, too, but he knew someone had to guard these waters. It would do no good if the others were successful, only to be apprehended or destroyed upon surfacing. Monk’s role in the hours ahead was to play defensive lineman. He stared at the rest of his team, which included the captain and the five bridge crew.

  Us against the Chinese Navy.

  Monk shrugged. Not the best odds, but as someone once said, you go to war with the army you have.

  Monk felt and heard the engines cut off.

  The next part was risky.

  Twenty minutes ago, Monk had sent the Titan X into a slow circle, stirring and rumbling the ash-choked waters. He hoped that the noise had lulled the submariners into complacency. Until now, he had wanted no outward indication that anyone aboard the yacht was aware of the boat below.