Free Eden's Spell by Heather Graham Page A

sudden fury, and changed from a tropical storm to a hurricane at twelve noon. Highest sustained winds are one hundred miles an hour.”
    Mike frowned as he continued to play with the radio. “Where’d you hear that?”
    â€œOn the television, of course!”
    The television. Here he was, sitting with a little battery-powered radio, grasping for anything, and the damn television was still working. Mike felt like a complete ass. He’d just assumed that the power would be shot!
    He slid off the stool. “Jason, where’s the television?”
    â€œBack here,” Jason said helpfully. “In the family room.”
    Jason led him to the rear of the room and switched on the television. Mike was able to discern that the storm was sitting stationary—moving very, very little—just east southeast of the Florida mainland. The eye was just barely east southeast of them right at the moment.
    Then the power did blow.
    â€œWell, back to the radio, I guess,” Mike murmured with a sheepish grin. He ruffled Jason’s hair. “At least we know what we’ve got, though.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” Jason agreed. “It’s a real problem, though. The islands are going to be hurt badly.”
    â€œUmm?” Mike murmured, finding a weather report at last, but one in Spanish. His knowledge of the language was sketchy, and the commentator was speaking too quickly for Mike to understand him.
    â€œPeople didn’t have time to evacuate. And some of the islands flooded completely. Some of the houses are nothing but shacks. The National Guard has been out, but they can barely move.”
    â€œDid you hear that on the television too?” Mike asked absently, shaking the radio slightly to see if he couldn’t hear through a barrage of static.
    â€œOh, no. I was talking to Pete Kenney, over in Islamorada. He’s my best friend.”
    Once again Mike set the radio down, feeling like a fool. “Jason, did you talk to Pete on the phone?”
    â€œWell, of course,” Jason said matter-of-factly. Then he grinned. “It’s way too wet for smoke signals, sir.”
    â€œCute, kid, cute,” Mike murmured, but his own sheepish grin softened the words.
    â€œI take it you’d like to use the phone.”
    â€œYeah, I sure would.”
    â€œRight at the end of the counter.”
    It was a French Provincial phone, white and gold, and it sat well with the old-fashioned atmosphere of the otherwise contemporary kitchen.
    And it worked. To Mike’s amazement he immediately reached an operator, and in less than a minute was connected with the base in Key West. Even more startling, he was able to reach a friend with access to the project, Lieutenant Commander Stan Thorpe.
    â€œDamnation! but it’s good to hear your voice, Mike! Stinking storm blew up so suddenly. First time I’ve ever heard of one whirling up so fast right here! We were desperate when we couldn’t reach you—thought you’d been blown over or something! Where are you? There’s nothing that can fly or take to the seas in this. Where did you find a working phone? The brass are worried to death about the civilian involvement. The woman and the boy. They all right?”
    â€œYeah, everyone is okay. I’m at their house on Rock Cay.”
    â€œYou battened down? These things are real, real treacherous on those islands.”
    â€œEverything’s good. Someone with some sense built this place with this kind of weather in mind. We’re fairly well set.”
    Stan paused. “What about the project?”
    â€œOh, I could still do some testing. Diluted, maybe, but important, still. But I’m sure she’ll raise a stink.”
    â€œThe woman?”
    â€œShe’s going to sue me, the U.S., the Navy—and anyone else she can get her hands on.”
    Stan started chuckling. “Don’t worry! The admiral will talk to her and have her singing