Deep Rising

By N.R. Rhodes

In his nine-year stint with the CIA, Jared Caldwell thought he'd seen it all. But when his latest mission instructs him to apprehend a beautiful scientist who's allegedly linked to a devastating new form of warfare, he isn't prepared for the prospect of battling man-made tsunamis—or the misplaced feelings he harbors for his number one suspect.

The irony of being accused of crimes that her research was intended to prevent isn't lost on Svetlana Orskya. She also didn't expect her wish for a strong, sexy man to sweep in and change her life to come true. But time is running out and Jared and Lana must work together to protect the mainland. An as the heat between them rises, they will risk losing more than just their hearts...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Aug 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781622668854

Book preview

Prologue

September 5 - 3:14 pm

The Isle of Capri, Italy

No sand. No shore. No gently breaking waves. The beach consisted of a rocky outcropping flanked by sheer cliffs and sparkling aquamarine waters. Only a cluster of sunbathers precariously perched, jockeying for an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean. Isabella Pisani wouldn’t have it any other way.

She sipped at the remnants of a limoncello martini before carefully placing the glass beside her lounge chair.

She stared at the tranquil waters, feeling far removed from the restaurant, her mother-in-law’s constant vigilance in the kitchen, and the incessant demands of tourists. Oh, yes, Isabella thought, I deserve this mini-vacation.

She nudged her cousin, but Ava mumbled something before her eyes slid shut again. Too much wine and dancing in the club last night. Celebrating Ava’s birthday had been fun, and for a few hours, she’d been free of the responsibilities of work and motherhood. But she missed her daughter, and why would she want to party in a somewhat desperate singles crowd when she had her husband, Giovanni, at home?

A group of children skipped past her chair and leaped off the cliff. Their tanned little bodies made Isabella think of her own little girl, and she smiled. Amidst their splashing and laughter, she noticed that the water had significantly receded. She leaned forward for a better view.

People shouted. One man screamed repeatedly, Correte!

Another gestured wildly. Run! he yelled.

Ava! Get up!

Isabella grabbed Ava’s arm and shoved her off the lounge chair.

Damn it, Bella! Ava stumbled. What the hell?

Isabella pointed to the sea.

Ava’s eyes widened in shock. Oh. Dio!

Together they sprinted for the sheer rock wall.

People reacted now, running, shoving, fighting to make their way to the lone set of stairs leading up the cliffs.

Isabella thought of her daughter, her precious beautiful daughter, and Giovanni. She thought of how she’d told him she didn’t want to take this mini-vacation.

Then a seventy-foot wall of water slammed into her.

Obliterating the beach. Obliterating everything.

Chapter One

September 6

-

7:52 am

Sierra Madre Ridge

Outside of Guatemala City

So this is what hell looks like, Svetlana Orskya whispered.

The crater spanned four hundred feet across and was so deep that light ceased to penetrate its depths. Lana dangled from a rope suspended over the abyss. Water roared beneath her, compliments of an underground river and a broken sewer main. Remnants of the housing complex crowded the lip of the crater, which halved the once-populated area, its surface littered with bedding, cookware, and abandoned household goods.

This was the third sinkhole to open in the last month. They perforated the town like holes in a sieve.

The temperature increased as Lana descended. She adjusted the rope and lowered herself another ten meters. Tendrils of mist twirled about her legs and along her arms like steam from a sauna. She considered the number of microbes rising from the pit and prayed she didn’t inhale something modern antibiotics couldn’t cure.

Another gust of hot air arced from the abyss, reminding her—as if she could forget while dangling inside a giant cavern within the earth’s crust—that the planet remained alive and active, and as tempestuous as a scorned woman.

Being divorced, she could relate.

Lana adjusted the rope and locked her harness. The hot air from below mixed with the cooler, drier air above, creating miniature convection currents. A particularly strong gust sent her reeling. With bone-jarring force, her shoulder rammed the wall of the crater.

That’s gonna leave a mark.

Although she would have preferred to hightail it to the surface, she couldn’t go anywhere until she obtained the requisite carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, and temperature readings. Then, perhaps, her team would be able to determine if the crater was an anomaly formed by the shifting lava pools deep beneath the earth’s surface and the result of limestone in the lower rock levels eroding—as scientists in the region claimed—or if it was a forewarning of something far more dangerous.

Don’t get testy on me, girl, Lana murmured. I’m just taking your temperature. You don’t need to show off.

The dark pit breathed hot, horrid air.

Lana extracted a correlation spectrometer, extended the COSPEC into the hadal depths, and waited to obtain a sulfur dioxide reading.

Her rope made an odd creaking sound, and Lana’s attention shot upward. Forty feet above, the line tangled on the side of the crater. When the sinkhole had opened, it had swallowed everything above it—buildings, homes, and three blocks of roadway, part of which hung like a rumpled concrete blanket, replete with tangled rebar. A jagged protrusion of twisted metal and asphalt snagged her rope. The seesaw motion succeeded in working over the line like giant scissors.

Lana grabbed the radio on her belt and called the surface. Adam? Her throat constricted until she could barely speak. Adam, it’s Lana. Do you copy? Over.

A pair of heads appeared at the lip of the crater.

What’s up, Lana?

S-send another safety, she breathed into the radio, her voice so hoarse she could barely form the words.

You’re gonna have to yell, doll. I can’t hear over the sound of the water. What’s that you say?

I need another rope! she screamed.

A light shone down, followed by a great deal of muffled commotion. A moment later, two heavy cords dropped into the crater. But they dangled beyond her reach.

She glanced below. There would be no surviving the fall. If she did survive the impact, the rushing water would sweep her along, forcing her deeper beneath the ground until she was pummeled to death or drowned. Fear shot up her spine, paralyzing her. She didn’t want to die. Dear God, not like this.

Adam, h-help. Her voice was barely audible over the roaring current.

You’re gonna have to swing over to them, he shouted. If I get any closer to the wall, the rebar is gonna chew up these lines just like it did yours.

Swing? Is he crazy?

Her gaze flew to the frayed strands of the yellow rope. With each passing second, tiny threads slowly unraveled, further straining the fibers. Her life was literally on the line, each moment peeling back like the damn rope. A shuddered breath, more of a whimper, slipped past her lips. She fought to breathe, to remain calm. She focused on the second line Adam had cast into the pit. Here was her chance. If she wanted to live, she needed to act. Now.

Drop the probe, Adam instructed. Push off the wall and reach for the line. You can do it, doll. I know you can!

But if I move, I’ll fray the rope more.

If I stay still, it’ll tear anyway.

She was caught between a rock, a hard place, and a thirty-foot drop to her inevitable death. Terror made her muscles cramp and her movements awkward. Blood pounded in her ears.

Do it, Lana! Now!

She tucked her legs to her chest, and then extended them. Arching back, she repeated the motion. It took a few seconds to gain momentum, but she gradually started to swing.

The rope cried like a child.

Hang on! Adam shouted.

Lana glimpsed the length of yellow nylon. She stretched forward and heaved backward. On the next swing, she reached for the cord.

She missed.

It’s fraying!

The rope pitched her toward the wall, and she used her legs to strike against the jagged ledge. Her feet met metal. She pushed with all her strength and twisted in the harness, extending completely. When the rope came into focus, she willed her fingers to grasp it.

The line snapped as her hands brushed the cable, and she fell in a blur of flailing limbs.

The men atop the crater shouted. The darkness below purred.

Her fingers clasped the line. She clenched her hands into fists, squeezing hard. The cord tore through her hands as she slid farther, plummeting until the light at the surface faded to a hazy glow. She jerked to a halt. Her shoulders screamed from the strain.

Lana took one shuddering breath, then another. Nothing existed save the fetid air pounding in and out of her lungs and the lifeline clasped between her sweaty palms.

We’re hooking you to the winch! Adam yelled.

Her heart threatened to jackhammer from her chest, and the drumming in her ears grew louder. It eclipsed Adam’s voice, the sound of the hydraulic winch, even the roar of the water slapping at her feet. The sound intensified until her vision blurred.

The line rose in an erratic rhythm until she felt the final jerk that landed her on the surface. When her feet hit solid ground, she collapsed.

A collection of worried faces swam above her, some new, others reassuringly familiar. Her body trembled now, a natural reaction to the epinephrine coursing in her veins, and she didn’t fight it.

Warm brown eyes and a smiling face appeared before her. It’s good to see you. Adam crouched beside her and kissed her brow. You okay?

She didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded instead. It had been close, so close. She trembled at what might have been.

To the crowd he shouted, Give us some space, please. To the other members of the team he said, Draw straws, kids. Somebody needs to get those measurements.

Lana reached up and tapped Adam on the shoulder.

What? he intoned with his New York accent. Shouldn’t you be swooning or sleeping or something?

Lana found the strength to laugh. She reached into her hazmat suit and brandished the correlation spectrometer.

You didn’t!

Lana smiled. I did.

Chapter Two

September 6 - 5:16 pm

Marrakech, Morocco

The whitewashed stucco buildings stood like dominoes in a row, their clay enclaves and fifteen-foot walls preserving the traditions of the ancient city. The souks still housed merchants, all boldly displaying their wares, from hand-woven cloths and rugs to knockoff handbags and the newest DVDs. The hammams, or bathhouses, and food stands littered the Djemaa el-Fna much as they had for the last two millennia.

All in all, Morocco surpassed Jared Caldwell’s expectations.

Jared shifted his bag. The tiny movement shot a pain along his arm. The damn wound continued to ache, but a body never fully recovered from a gunshot wound. Anyone who suggested otherwise—lied. Boasting an assortment of such trophies from knives and bullets, and in one case, a particularly offensive terrorist’s teeth, Jared’s body ached in a number of places. Easing some of those aches took precedence, and he hoped the old healing traditions here could provide something science couldn’t.

His cell phone rang.

Jared glanced at the flashing number and cursed. So much for sick leave.

Answering the call, he ducked into an old pay-phone booth. It didn’t provide the most secure location but it beat the mayhem of the souk. He shut the door for privacy. An automated server on his cell prompted him to enter his numeric ID. It took a few minutes to convey the various clearance codes, but a computer eventually transferred his call to the deputy director of the CIA, Gordon Quaid.

What’s up? Jared drawled.

We have you pinpointed on our satellites.

Jared leaned his head from the phone booth and flipped the bird.

Gordon’s laughter rumbled over the phone. You’re offensive.

You didn’t call to discuss my lack of manners.

No, Gordon agreed. We have a problem.

What else is new?

Once upon a time, Jared would’ve shouted hoo-rah at the prospect of a mission. Lately, he’d rather eat glass.

You’re one of the only Bravo-4 operatives in position.

Jared’s least favorite aspect of being a CIA operative was this hired-gun role. Send me the profile on the target.

It appears one of our leading scientists is selling cataclysmic scenarios to the enemy, Gordon murmured. You’re staying at the Caval Casbah, correct?

While it was surely the cell phone that allowed them to pinpoint his location, Jared couldn’t help but say, I don’t have some tracking device inserted in my ass cheek, do I?

Gordon snorted. Go back to the hotel. When you arrive, a car will be waiting. It will take you to Menara Airport. Find hangar sixteen. The pilot is a level-three operative named Randall Wyerman.

You aren’t commenting on the tracking…

Gordon plowed forward with the details. Randall will provide the proper identification and clearance papers required for you to infiltrate Italian intelligence. He’ll also take you to Capri. You have two days to determine what transpired on Ischia. Then you’ll head to Guatemala.

If you have my ass on satellite, you should see I’m five thousand miles from Guatemala. Isn’t there someone else? Call Evan or Galen.

Galen is on assignment and Evan retired. I’ll drop him a line if you like, but you’re the man for the job.

Damn.

Gordon ignored him. Your target is Dr. Svetlana Orskya.

A woman. He’d never been called to make a hit on a woman. And damn it, he didn’t want to start now. If Quaid was calling, the woman obviously posed a serious threat, but… Knocking off females isn’t my style. I’m out. Find someone else.

You aren’t out until I say you are. And Orskya isn’t up for assassination. Not yet, anyway. We need her for questioning and suspect that she may be working with the terrorists. Intel reveals she’s in Guatemala. Randall will brief you on the details regarding a tsunami in Italy.

Hold up, Jared drawled. You’re using the steamroller technique you’re famous for, and I don’t feel like being the asphalt. Why me?

Save the good ol’ boy routine. You’re the best operative we have for situations involving bombs and counterintelligence. And for some odd reason, you’re acting like you have a choice in the matter.

Jared had no control regarding a mission, but that didn’t mean he happily accepted it. I want out. My sister died and my mother needs help taking care of her kids.

I don’t blame you. But it isn’t going to happen right now. Look, I heard about your sister. I’m sorry. You do this, and I’ll hand-stamp your walking papers.

Jared could barely think about his sister Julia’s recent death in the car accident that took her life but spared her alcoholic husband’s. Thanks to his last mission and a pesky little stray bullet, Jared had been in the hospital at the time, missing the funeral and a chance to get his hands on his sister’s husband, Brett, prior to the bastard’s incarceration.

I do this and I’m out for good? No other strings? He thought about the pain and suffering his mother had endured, losing Julia. He pitied his nieces and nephew, who lost not only their mother but their father as well due to the tragic accident. The sooner he finished with the Company, the sooner he could return home and help out.

No more strings, Gordon reiterated.

That was as good a promise as he would likely get. Run the MO by me again.

Our miscreant uses incendiary devices to generate tsunamis.

Of course he does, Jared mumbled.

This could be a threat the likes of which we’ve never seen. We’re talking about every man, woman, and child in every coastal city from Nova Scotia to Argentina, Alaska to Antarctica.

Jared banged his head against the door. He’d heard the save the world spiel before. He wasn’t Superman or Iron Man or any of the comic book heroes he’d idolized as a kid. Yet they asked—no, insisted—that he carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Again.

Someone detonated a bomb on the coast of Ischia, Jared. The blast and consequent landslide caused a tsunami. It decimated the Isle of Capri and killed twelve hundred people. If this madman detonates a bomb in the correct location he can potentially eradicate the entire Eastern or Western seaboard of the United States. We’re talking obliteration in the tens of millions.

Shit.

Exactly. Are you in?

As if he had a choice. Yes, sir.

The phone disconnected with a gentle click.

Slamming from the phone booth, Jared strode toward his hotel. He’d evaluate the evidence on Italy. Then he’d get his answers from the woman in Guatemala because ferreting out information was his forte.

Svetlana Orskya would tell him what he wanted to know, he vowed. Or she would take her secrets to the grave.

September 7 - 11:54 pm

Langley, Virginia

Gordon Quaid stared at the seismic data. A potential terrorist bent on instigating tsunamis. Seriously? In his many years with the CIA, he’d thought he’d seen it all.

Gordon, I’m keeping the wolves at bay, but they won’t hold much longer. Katherine Russe waved her ringing cell phone and then consulted the number. She frowned. It’s the White House. You want me to run interference for a while?

I’ve got no reason to hide.

She took the call. Muffled yelling resonated halfway across the office. They want to speak to you.

Somebody’s been talking out of turn, Gordon mumbled. He accepted the phone. Yes, sir, he said, when he found a pause in the litany of accusations pouring through the line. We are completely aware of the situation. I have an agent en route to detail our findings for the commander in chief. He punched a button on the phone and flung it back to her.

Keeping his face devoid of expression, Gordon regarded his associates, Katherine Russe and Christopher Parkins. Katherine, an honest, intelligent woman, had climbed the ranks through hard work, unwavering dedication, and a sprinkling of nepotism. Gordon appreciated having her on his team. Christopher, however, remained a backstabbing asshole.

Here’s the deal, Gordon muttered. Swiss tabloids claim this is the kickoff to the Super Bowl of Armageddon—and now our president is convinced he has box seats. We need to set the record straight. Christopher, you’ll deliver the statement personally.

With any luck, they’d shoot the messenger.

It will be as follows, he continued. A possible earthquake occurred in the Tyrrhenian Sea along a fault line on the southernmost part of Ischia. This anomaly caused a landslide. The displacement of seawater generated by the landslide was responsible for the localized tsunami that slammed into the northern coast of Capri.

He’d spent three hours conferring with geological experts. This was the most plausible explanation they could cook up.

What about the ‘boom’ heard by natives on Ischia prior to the earthquake? Christopher countered. The bomb utilized in the attack generated deafening reverberations.

Delayed sound blast catalyzed by isostatic rebound, Gordon replied.

Good, Katherine said. Oh, Gordon, that’s very good. I’ll contact CNN.

Yes. For all intents and purposes, a natural disaster occurred, nothing more. Let’s get our ducks in a row. He glowered at Christopher. What are you waiting for? Foreign news crews are having a field day with this!

When the door to the office closed, Katherine snickered. I could’ve handled it, you know. I grew up with the VP.

He still had the letter of recommendation that Vice President Chandler had sent. He’d hired Katherine without glancing at it. I thought you worked for him.

I did. His family and mine own a real estate corporation. I managed the development division before I went to NIU.

Few people work when they don’t need to, he said neutrally.

We all make choices. An idle life isn’t one of mine. Now, about the VP—

I’m keeping your political liaisons in reserve, Gordon cut in. We might need them yet. Call Interpol and British intelligence.

I already did, Katherine assured him. British SAS is sending in a team.

What about the preliminary reports?

Katherine thumbed through the data recorded by NOAA and CIA satellites. The wave traveled at a speed of sixty-four meters per second. From the onset of the earthquake and subsequent landslide as recorded, it took two minutes for the wave train to hit land. Even with a warning, there wouldn’t have been time to evacuate.

How many casualties?

Total? So far, twelve hundred and nine. American, eighty-six.

Gordon shifted in his chair. The last major, media-grabbing tsunami had occurred in Sumatra, and it had amassed more than two hundred thousand casualties. This limited death toll would be in and out of the news within a week.

What did we learn about the blast? he asked.

Next to nothing. Luckily, the Italians know better than to cast any stones until they know where to throw them. Besides, tourism is the lifeblood of the region. Until they apprehend someone or have a decent lead, they aren’t about to broadcast how ill-prepared and inadequate their defenses are.

If only every country were so reticent. What about Immigration?

No Islamic, Russian, Korean, or South African notables have entered the area within the last two weeks, Katherine said. Harbor registers throughout the Mediterranean are notoriously lax. Ischia is off the coast of Naples and it’s a hot spot for yachts. It’s possible one of our most-wanted terrorists decided to go nautical.

Or it could be an unknown, Gordon thought. Thousands of whom popped up on their radar for a single, random act of violence before retreating into obscurity. Wild cards presented the most difficult miscreants to track. Gordon folded his fingers into a steeple. He closed his eyes to concentrate.

There are two naval carriers on hand…

Gordon shook his head. The last administration used fear tactics to instigate wars, he argued. I’ll be damned if I’ll let this turn into another call to arms.

It was only a suggestion, sir. Intel reveals a striking similarity between the attack and a scenario presented by… Katherine paused and flipped through her papers. Dr. Svetlana Orskya.

Yes. I drew the same conclusion. I called in Jared Caldwell. He’ll apprehend and interrogate Svetlana.

Katherine smiled. That woman doesn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Three

September 8 - 9:16 am

The Isle of Ischia

The Petite Cherie idled into the harbor, approaching the jetty at a forty-five. The boat glided into position against the dock with satin ease, a compliment to Randall’s skill at the helm and to the current weather conditions in the Tyrrhenian Sea. The first leg of the journey, flying from Marrakech to Naples, had been uneventful