Paul nodded. “I was in Oklahoma several years back when a cold front blew through after three days of humidity. They had a hundred tornadoes touch down over a three-day period. I’m guessing out here we’ll see one big storm: a tropical depression or a cyclone. We might see a hurricane form all around us.”
Gamay had given up trying to dab Paul’s lip. “But this is the dead zone,” she said. “The storms don’t usually form here. They form to the north and east, and they track toward India. That’s where the monsoons come from.”
Paul considering the implications. “We’re almost on the equator. A storm forming here will track west and get swept up toward Somalia, Ethiopia and Egypt,” he guessed.
“That’s already happening,” Marchetti said. “I read something about record rains in the Sudanese highlands and southern Egypt. The article said Lake Nasser had risen to a level not seen in thirty years.”
Paul remembered hearing something similar. “And that’s probably just the beginning.”
Marchetti was pacing, rubbing his chin with one hand and looking very shaky. “What happens once the air is destabilized into a storm?”
Paul looked off toward the windows, facing southwest. He was recalling lectures on storm generation and the factors that built them. “Hurricanes in the Gulf intensify over hot spots. Jinn’s storms will travel over nothing but that. They’ll steal the heat, moisture and the energy that usually goes into the monsoon. They’ll carry it off like thieves.”
“Leaving India and Southeast Asia unusually dry at this time of year,” Gamay said. “This madman has done what people have sought to do for all eternity: he’s taken control of the weather, turning it away from its normal pattern.”
Marchetti sat down awkwardly. He all but collapsed on the edge of the seat. “And he’s used my design to do it,” he said.
He looked over at them. The billionaire with overflowing confidence was gone, as was the proud designer with the bold ideas and even the rational engineer. All the different personas seemed to vanish before their eyes, leaving only a broken man behind.
“All those people,” he whispered. “A billion people waiting for a monsoon that’s never going to come. I’ll be the worst mass murderer in history.”
Gamay looked as if she were about to jump in and say something to buck Marchetti up. This was the moment when she usually did, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.
Paul gave it a try. “Your legacy isn’t written yet. Alfred Nobel invented dynamite and ran a company that built weapons and armaments, but nobody remembers him for that. And you still have a chance to change the direction of things.”
“But we’re alone,” Marchetti said. “Your friends are gone. No one even knows what’s happening out here.”
Paul looked at Gamay because he shared her grief for their friends and because he loved her and wanted her to feel something more than despair. He squeezed her hands and looked into her eyes. “I know all that,” he said to Marchetti. “But we’ll find a way. First we have to get out of here.”
Gamay smiled a bit. It was a hopeful look, not quite enough to replace all the doubt and pain, but it was a start.
“Any inkling as to how?” Marchetti asked.
Paul looked around. “I do have one idea,” he said. “I’m just not sure you’re going to like it much.”
“At this point,” Marchetti said, “we don’t have much of a choice.”
CHAPTER 43
THE SURPRISE WIND
THAT HAD PULLED KURT, LEILANI AND Ishmael along gusted for the better part of two hours. At times it threatened to lift the boat out of the water. Halfway through the ride, the strange reflective effect vanished as quickly as it had come, both from the water around them and from their bodies.
“Do you think they’re gone?” Leilani had asked.
“Doubt it,” Kurt said. “Whatever made them shine seems to have passed, but I’m guessing they’re still on us and in the sea.”
The wind began to taper over the next hour. Wherever it came from, it blew itself out an hour before dusk. The starboard side of the boat sagged further and the three of them had no choice but to hug the port bolsters to keep the boat from tipping. As it was, every little wave that came up washed over the slanted deck.
Kurt reeled the chutes in, wrung them out and stored them. He was almost done when a shout from Ishmael startled him.
“Land!” Ishmael shouted. “Land ahead!”
Kurt looked up. Low on the horizon was a greenish blur. In the failing light it could have been a cloud catching some weird reflection.
Kurt pulled the binoculars out, wiped the lenses and held them to his eyes.
“Please let it be land,” Leilani said, clasping her hands together. “Please.”