THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller by J.G. Sandom Read Free Book Online Page B

believe she was the same person they got to know online, through her papers or academic correspondence. She looked more like a movie star. Most men were too intimidated to even ask her out, assuming, falsely, that she was destined to be busy; to the point, ironically, where she spent nearly every weekend on her own, linked to the world exclusively through her computer, forever working.
    Her professors always discounted her because of her good looks. The women generally felt threatened. And the men either assumed she was a dumb blonde, or they fell in love with her. Even when it was Platonic, many ended up playing Henry Higgins to her Eliza. That’s why she’d left USC, after a brief affair with one of her professors – the infamous E.J. Dubinsky, author of This Primal Earth , for a few brief months a best-seller on The New York Times non-fiction list.
    She had broken it off only a week or so before a scheduled expedition – 150 kilometers east of Atlantic City – designed to study some mysterious craters suspected of being formed by gas eruptions. Despite the recent terminus of the affair, they had descended together anyway, in a three-man Deep Submergence Vehicle called the Alvin , and at one point, out of nowhere, Dubinsky had tried to kiss her. Then, something went wrong. They had lost power and the DSV had drifted out of control. It was only after forty-five excruciating seconds that they had finally found a fix. But not before Swenson had panicked, not before she had screamed hysterically and accused Dubinsky of disabling the craft intentionally. That had really been the end of the affair. Soon after that, she had transferred to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute to work with Dr. James L. White, one of the world’s pre-eminent authorities on tsunamis. She rarely thought about E.J. anymore. And, since that episode aboard the Alvin , she had never stepped foot inside a DSV again.
    “Excuse me?” someone said. Swenson looked up. A tanned, dark-haired student in the back waved his hand above his head.
    “Yes?”
    “Do you think it would be possible to precipitate a tsunami, by planting explosives, say, along a fault line?”
    The student had a thick accent. He sounded Indian or Pakistani. It was amazing how cosmopolitan the Institute had become. “I don’t believe so,” she replied. “Some geologists have tried to stimulate seismic activity. You know – for oil and gas exploration. That sort of thing. But none has succeeded. At least, not to my knowledge. But you might want to ask Dr. White about that one. I know he has some pretty controversial theories on vulcan stimulation.” Then she turned and looked about the crowd. They were starting to pack up. No one else had raised a hand. “Alright then,” she concluded. “I notice we’ve reached the end of our allotted time. I’ll see you all next week. Thanks for coming out so late tonight.”
    The students burst into applause. It had been a lecture disguised as a video game. It spoke to them in their own language, with lightning cuts, and contemporary colors and design. It pulsed and moved. And it tore at both their heads and hearts.
    Swenson descended from the stage, shimmied through the usual crowd of well wishers, sycophants and Lotharios who always seemed to gather at these affairs, and made her way across the Quad to Dr. White’s administrative office in the Bigelow Laboratory. She had been working there on her paper about the Indian Ocean tsunami because it was quieter than in her own shared quarters, and because – though small – the office had a spectacular view of the bay. Suddenly, someone shuffled by the door. The handle turned and Swenson was startled to see Dr. White materialize like a ghost within the brightened doorway. White had been out of the office for months, on leave, tending to his wife who was bed-ridden with cancer.
    “I’m sorry,” Swenson said. “Dr. White, I didn’t know you were coming in.” She began to gather up