Hand in hand, they race down the beach.

‘No, this way!’ Lauren pulls him toward the water.

He spots the Amphibian, then looks back, as one of the security guards activates his taser.

No! Ignoring his brother’s warning, he slips into the nexus—

—time slowing to an excruciating crawl.

Behind him, pushing through clear gelatin-like fourth-dimensional waves, is the taser’s sizzling violet circle of energy. Expanding rapidly across the beachhead, the paralyzing loop of lightning reaches for them—

—as Jacob grabs Lauren around her waist and leaps into the Amphibian’s cockpit.

I can taste you, cousin. Why do you run? What is it you fear?

Gunning the engine, he converts the jeep into a boat, then activates the craft’s autopilot, pressing the setting for Miami—

—as the wave of energy slams into them from behind, zapping them into unconsciousness.

34

25 NOVEMBER 2033: USS PENNSYLVANIA, ATLANTIC OCEAN, 297 NAUTICAL MILES EAST OF MIAMI

Friday Morning

Captain Robert Wilkins, Operational Commander of the Weather Net-Atlantic Force, stares at the real-time satellite image of Super-Cane Kenneth being projected on the control room’s large monitor. The Category-6 storm has become an absolute freak of nature, its clearly defined eye sixty nautical miles northeast of Eleuthera Island, its swirling vortex already engulfing the Bahamas, punishing the hastily abandoned islands with winds in excess of 195 miles an hour.

Wilkins is as frustrated as he is worried. The delivery of the MPK gas mix to the Port of Miami was not only late, it was light, with barely enough of the pressurized cryogenic nitrogen to fill half the fleet’s converted vertical silos. Category-6 super-canes mandate a minimum of eight fully loaded vessels. Wilkins has barely six, and Kenneth is no ordinary superstorm.

Executive Officer David Sutera approaches, handing him a printout. ‘Skipper, we just received this latest GMT.’

SUPER-CANE KENNETH

‘Christ, it’s picked up speed.’

‘A mandatory evacuation order was just issued. Key West north to West Palm Beach.’

‘Conn, sonar, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Very well. Officer of the Deck, bring us about, make your course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Aye, sir, coming about. Making my course two-seven-zero, steady at four knots.’

‘Bring us to periscope depth.’

‘Aye, sir, coming up to periscope depth. Steady at sixty feet.’

Sutera presses his face to the periscope and takes a quick 360-degree scan of the surface. ‘Confirm, skipper, we’re in the eye.’

‘Sonar, Captain, is the fleet in position?’

‘Conn, sonar, still waiting on the Wyoming and Kentucky. ETA four minutes. All other ships have come about and are standing by.’

Wilkins reverses his cap and looks through the periscope.

Sunshine reflects off an ominous olive green sea, its rolling waves peaking at thirty feet.

An oasis of calm within a vortex of hell …