The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

Using his teeth, Kurt pulled the glove off and tossed it away. The bitterly cold air bit into his skin instantly. Ignoring it, he plunged his bare hand into the snow, grabbed a small amount and squeezed it until it melted.

Tossing the rest, he extended his body, laid his fingers on the glass screen of the computer and held them there. At fifteen below zero, it took only seconds for the water on his skin to freeze to the surface.

With the compact device now bonded to his hand, he reared back, yanking it free from the data port and grabbing it tightly.

The ice cracked again and Kurt hauled himself up and dove to safety as the last anchor gave way and the entire station tumbled into the gap. He lay still in the snow until the thundering echoes of the station’s demise faded.

Vala came up to him and handed him the discarded glove. “You must be completely crazy,” she said. “Why would you risk your life like that?”

“I didn’t want you to end up at the bottom of the crevasse,” he said.

“Not me,” she said, “the computer. The data can’t possibly be worth it.”

“Depends what it tells me,” he said.

Kurt turned to the computer. Working his fingers free without losing too much skin, he was able to tap on the screen and bring up the first page of data. A hundred gigabytes of information were now stored on the device, but the main screen told him all he needed to know.

“What does it say?”

“That the glacier is melting no faster than it has been for years.”

“So nothing has changed,” she said, hands on her hips. “Just like at the other glaciers. There is no internal hollowing out and no rapid melt off. Isn’t that good news?”

“You’d think,” he said. “But it means something else has gone wrong. Drastically wrong. And at the moment, no one has any idea why.”

3

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE NEW BRIEFING AREA in the West Hall of the Congressional Building was officially known as the Samuel B. Goodwin Media Room. Unofficially, those who worked there called it The Theatre. The elevated-seating arrangement had something to do with that, as did the endless political grandstanding that went on there.

On this rainy September day, the room was packed for a closed-door briefing. No cameras were present, as both the press and the public had been barred from attending.

Joe Zavala sat in the third row of the room, wondering how much arguing might occur today. There was serious science to be discussed and a diverse group of attendees here to do it.

Looking around the room, he saw four members of the National Academy of Sciences, five attendees wearing NASA badges, three more from the White House Advisory Staff. There were a total of eight from a smattering of other agencies, including NOAA, the agency charged with monitoring the world’s weather, atmospheric conditions and overall environment.

Many of these groups did overlapping work, often cooperating but also competing against one another for budget dollars. That held true for Joe’s organization as well: NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency.

They were tasked with monitoring the world’s oceans and America’s lakes and rivers and waterways. They did historical work as well, finding sunken ships and other items of a bygone era. In addition—and far more often than Joe would have believed when he first joined—they got involved in international incidents. As such, NUMA had a reputation as a cowboy agency. That was good or bad, depending on how one felt about cowboys. Spending most of his childhood in New Mexico and Texas, Joe took the moniker as a badge of honor.

Joe wasn’t the only member of NUMA in the building. He was here with three others from the agency. Three others and a conspicuously empty chair.

To Joe’s right sat Paul Trout

, a geologist specializing in deep-sea studies and the tallest member of the team at nearly six foot eight. Paul was a gentle giant who rarely had a bad word for anyone. At the moment, he had dark circles under his eyes and Joe suspected he’d been up late, studying any data he might be asked to present.

Gamay Trout, Paul’s wife, sat next to him. She was hard to miss, with her wine-colored hair and a smile that revealed a slight gap between her front teeth. Gamay was a marine biologist, and though she wasn’t expected to speak, she’d spent as many hours burning the midnight oil as Paul. Gamay liked to be ready for anything.

Rudi Gunn, NUMA’s Assistant Director and the highest-ranking member of the organization available for the hearing, sat in the next seat. He looked none too pleased. Perhaps because of the empty chair.

“Where’s Kurt?” Gamay asked, leaning across her husband and addressing Joe. “It’s not like him to be two hours late for a briefing on Capitol Hill. For that matter, where has he been for the last three months? I haven’t seen him in the office at all.”

Joe knew where Kurt had been but not where he was at the moment. “All I can tell you is . . . he’s not missing much.”

With the endless droning coming from the speakers onstage, Joe was secretly envious of Kurt’s absence whatever the reason.

A stern glance from Rudi put an end to the conversation and Joe focused on the member of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric board who finally seemed to be reaching his conclusion.