Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo by The Sea Hunters II

the pilothouse.
    “It’s either an earthquake,” he said quickly, “or the end of the world.”
    “I think the former,” Jack said. “I felt one in Spanish California a few years ago.”
    “How long did it last?” Roosevelt asked.
    “That one was small,” Jack said. “Only lasted ten minutes or so.”
    “I’m going to check on my wife,” Roosevelt said, as he turned to leave.
    “Could you ask Miss Markum to come in here?” Baker asked.
    “I will,” Roosevelt said, as he sprinted away.
    Just then, the earth twitched, and the river began to flow backwards from south to north.
    Markum poked her head inside the pilothouse door, her face white with fear.
    “If we make it out of this alive—will you marry me?” Baker asked.
    “Yes,” Markum said without hesitation, clutching Baker around the waist.
    Deep below the river, the liquid was squeezed from between the plates, and the grinding together of coarse rock stopped. The first shock had ended, but there was much more to come.
    Jack spun the wheel completely to its stop as the Mississippi River changed direction again and returned to a north-to-south flow. Gazing through the window of the pilothouse, he saw that the boat was traversing a farmer’s field. Fifty feet off the right side of the boat’s hull was the upper story of a large red barn. Several milk cows and a lone horse were huddled on the upper loft, avoiding the rushing water. No trace of a farm-house could be seen.
    When Roosevelt came into the pilothouse, Jack was intent on staring off the right side of the bow far in the distance. There was an opening in the ground ahead that was swallowing up most of the river flow. As the land on the far side of the opening came into view, he could see puddles of water and acres of mud where the riverbed used to lie.
    New Orleans was less than a hundred yards from the chasm and was being sucked closer. With only seconds to spare, Baker managed to get the beams reset for reverse running. Inch by inch, the steamboat began to back away from the tempest in the water. Twenty minutes later, New Orleans was nearly a mile upstream. Scanning the unearthly landscape, Jack found a tributary that had eroded a straight path through what had once been the river bend. Slipping the boat into the current, he steered past the void and then into the main channel once again.
     
    CROUCHED IN THE thick brush of Wolf Island, the Indian braves were as frozen as petrified wood. They had paddled their canoes out to the island before the first shock of the earthquake. When the worst of the tremors struck, their resolve was only strengthened. The Penelore was wreaking havoc across their land, and it needed to be killed. Straining to hear, the chief caught a faint unknown sound coming from upstream. With a series of hand signals, he motioned for his braves to climb into their canoes for the attack.
     
    LYDIA RUSHED TO the pilothouse and stuck her head in the door. “The baby has started to cry, and Tiger is whining up a storm.”
    Roosevelt turned to Jack. “That’s the signal another shock is coming. Keep to the main channel to give yourself as much leeway as possible.”
    Jack pointed through the pilothouse front window. “An island coming up.”
    Roosevelt scanned through The Navigator, the chart book of the river written by Zadoc Cramer. “A lot of this has changed since the earthquake,” he said, “but if I had to guess, I’d say it was Wolf Island.”
    “Which side is the best channel?” asked Jack.
    “The left channel has the deepest water.”
    “The left channel it is.”
    “How long before the next shock?” Roosevelt asked Lydia.
    “Judging by Tiger’s howls, not long.”
    A GHASTLY SOUND reached the ears of the Sioux braves hidden on Wolf Island. The grinding of metal, the hissing of steam, the thumping of the walking beam. The great beast grew larger as it neared. The beast was blue like the sky—but this was nothing that came from the heavens. An ugly,