“Yes, actually it would, it would make a huge difference.” Iz rubs his forehead. “The old bull in a china shop routine doesn’t work anymore, Dominique, at least not when it comes to SOSUS. About three years ago, I used the system to detect vibrations originating from beneath the Gulf floor that sounded exactly like a sea quake.” Iz shakes his head at the memory. “You tell her, Edie.”

Edie smiles. “Your father thought we were minutes away from getting hit by a major tsunami. He panicked and ordered the Coast Guard to evacuate all the beaches.”

“Turns out I had the system set too high. What I thought were sea quakes was actually the phone company dredging cable sixty miles offshore. I felt like a goddam moron. I called in a lot of favors to get our station hooked up to SOSUS. I can’t afford another screwup like the last one.”

“So you’re not going to investigate?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. What I’ll do is start a bible and continue to record and monitor the area closely, but I’m not going to contact any federal agency until I’m absolutely certain that this discovery of yours warrants it.”

Miami, Florida

10:17 P.M.

Mick Gabriel is sitting on the edge of his bed, rocking silently. His black eyes are vacant, his lips slightly parted. A thin string of saliva drools from his unshaven chin.

Tony Barnes enters Mick’s room. The male orderly has just returned from a three-week suspension. “Trick or treat, vegetable. Time for your nightly shot.” He lifts Mick’s limp right arm from his lap and inspects the series of purple contusions appearing along the anterior forearm.

“Ah, fuck it.” The orderly jabs the needle into the arm, injecting the Thorazine into an already butchered vein.

Mick’s eyes roll upward as his body falls forward, collapsing in a heap at the orderly’s feet.

The orderly prods Mick’s head with the toe of his sneaker. He glances over his shoulder to verify they are alone, then licks Mick’s ear.

Barnes hears Marvis making his rounds. “Pleasant dreams, girlfriend.” He hurries out.

The door double-clicks shut. The lights in the pod dim.

Mick’s eyes open.

He staggers to the sink and washes his face and ear with cold water. Cursing under his breath, he presses a thumb to the bleeding, bruised vein. Then, feeling the haze closing in around him, he slumps painfully to his knees and takes up a push-up position.

For the next two hours, Mick forces his body through an agonizing ritual of calisthenics. Push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, running in place—anything to keep his metabolism racing, anything to burn off the tranquilizer before it can overwhelm his central nervous system.