F. Paul Wilson - Nightworld

"Maui?" Jack said.

Frank shook his head. "Oahu. Pearl Harbor's down there in that notch. Hang on. We're coming around toward Maui now." A moment later the plane leveled off and three islands swung into view. "There. That's Molokai on the left, Lanai on the right, and Maui's dead ahead."

Jack had been studying the maps Glaeken had given him. They were approaching from the northwest. Molokai looked okay, and the resort hotels along Maui's Ka'anapali Bay were intact but deserted. Inland, the tops of the western mountains were tucked away within a wreath of rain clouds.

But as Frank banked southward, Jack saw that there was nothing left of the old whaling town of Lahaina—everything burned, blackened, flattened. To their right the whole southern flank of Lanai was scorched and smoking. And then Jack's stomach lurched, not so much from the movement of the plane as from what he saw ahead of them. He felt as if he'd been thrown into any one of a dozen prehistoric island movies of the Lost Continent/Land That Time Forgot type.

Maui looked swaybacked from here, as green as Oahu but with mountains at each end and a broad flat valley between. But the big mountain that took up most of the eastern end, Haleakala, was belching fire and pouring gray-black smoke into the air. The old volcano's sides, however—at least from Jack's vantage—were still lush and green.

And somewhere on the slope of that chimney flue to hell dwelt Kolabati and her necklaces.

Jack studied the scene, wondering what the hell he'd got himself into. Maui looked so fragile, like it could blow any minute. Just like Hawaii on its far side.

"Frank," he said, "can we swing around the island? I'd like to get the lay of the land before we touch down."

"I don't know, Jack. It's getting late. And we'd have to fly low to see anything. Air currents could be tricky on the far side. I mean, with the wide temperature variants between the ocean and the lava and the vog, we could hit some weird thermals. I don't like to do that when I'm straight."

"Okay," Jack said casually. "If you don't think you can hack it, I'll find somebody at the airport to take me up after we land."

Frank grinned. "You're a rotten, despicable, evil dude, Jack, and I hate you very, very much. May your karma turn black and fall into the void. Hang on."

Frank swung the jet out and banked around the western flank of the reactivated Haleakala to the south end of the island. The scenery changed abruptly from lush green to scorched black, as if a giant flame thrower had been played over the terrain. The eastern slope, however, was a scene from Dante's Inferno. Molten lava streamed down the broken-out side of the cone, cooling black crusts rode inexorably downward on the crests of crimson flame-waves, throwing up immense clouds of salty steam as they wiped out in the sea.

Frank skirted the turbulent clouds for a few miles. On the right was the immense bubbling, boiling cauldron of ocean where the Big Island of Hawaii had once stood, the source of the lid of vog that covered much of the Eastern Pacific.

Frank turned to Jack. "You sure you want to go all the way around?"

Jack nodded. "All the way."

"Okay. Strap in and don't say I didn't warn you."

He banked a sharp left and gunned the jet into the roiling steam. Water sluiced off the windshields like rain as the craft was buffeted about by updrafts and downdrafts and mini-vortices of air, but Frank guided her through with a clenched jaw and steely-eyed determination. When they broke free into the light again, Frank relaxed his grip on the controls and half-turned to Jack.

"Awright! Far freaking out! Let's try that again. Maybe we can—Jesus H. Christ!"

Jack had already seen it. His stomach was fluttering in awe. The news reports had mentioned it and he'd seen photos, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

A whirlpool. A maelstrom. A swirling, pinwheeling, ten-mile-wide mass of water, spread out below him like the planet's navel. Its perimeter moved slowly where it edged into Kahului Bay, but quickly picked up speed as the water progressed inexorably toward the whirling center where it funneled down into a black hole somewhere far below in the ocean floor.

Both Jack and Frank stared dumbly through their windows on the first two passes, then Jack began noticing details.

"Frank!" Jack said, staring down on the third pass. "It looks like—"

He grabbed the binocs from the clamp in the ceiling panel and focused in on the colorful specs he'd spotted below, riding the rim of the maelstrom, then darting in toward its swirling heart and out again.

"What's doing?" Frank said.

"Windsurfers! There's a bunch of nuts down there windsurfing along the edge of the whirlpool!"

"That's Ho'okipa Bay, Jack. Windsurfing capital of the world. Those dudes live for that shit. I know where they're comin' from. So do you, I reckon."

"Yeah, I can dig it," Jack said, nodding slowly. Jeez, I'm starting to sound like Frank. "But one little slip and you're gone."

"Yeah, but what a way to go!" Frank said dreamily. "If I've gotta go, I want it to be in right here, strapped into my jet. Stoked to the eyeballs and Mach one straight down into the earth so's after we hit me and the plane are so tangled and twisted up they can't tell Frank Ashe from Frank Ashe's plane and so they bury us together. Or better yet, straight down into one of those holes until I run into something or run out of fuel. Whatta trip that'd be! Might even try that one straight. Whatcha think?"

"Drop me off first," Jack said. "It's getting late. I think it's time to land."

Frank grinned. "Aw. And just when we was starting to have some fun."

He radioed down to Kahului airport for clearance; they told him the winds were out of the west and that they'd cleaned off the runway. All was clear and he'd better land fast because once it was dark, the hangers would be locked and wouldn't be opened for anyone.

" 'Cleaned off the runway?'" Frank said to Jack as he started his approach. "What's that mean?"

They found out after they landed and opened the hatches. From off to the east came a dull roar, the low, gurgling rumble of uncountable tons of water being sucked down through the ocean depths. Looming behind them, Haleakala smoked and thundered. The steady breeze was warm and wet, and it stunk.

"Sheesh!" Jack said as he stepped down onto the tarmac. The ripe, putrid odor clogged his nose and throat. He shifted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and glanced around at the deserted runways and empty buildings, searching for the source. "What is that?"

"Dead fish," said Ba, debarking behind him. "I know that smell from village where I grew."

"You get used to the pilau after a while," said the tractor driver who'd come out to tow their jet into a nearby hangar.

"Don't tell me Hawaii always smells like this."

"Hell no. Didn't they tell you? It's been raining fish for the past two nights."

"Fish?"

"Yeah. You name it: tuna, squid, crabs, blues, mahi mahi, everything. Even a few dolphin. Raining out of the sky. And first thing every morning I've got to go out with the plow and clear them off the runways. Don't know why. Nobody's flying much these days anyway since all the tourists upped and went home."

"But raining fish?"

"It's the puka moana. It backs up at night."

With that he jumped on his tractor and started towing the jet toward the hanger, leaving Jack wondering how a whirlpool could back up. It wasn't as if it was a toilet. Or was it?

Frank led them toward the terminal building.

"Let's see what we can do about getting you guys a car."

The main terminal building looked like an Atlantean relic raised from the sea. Its windows and skylights were smashed, rotting fish and seaweed draped its roof and walls. Inside it was worse.