Aftershock by Sam Fisher

Hoffman, a true genius. It’s been almost 10 years in planning.’
    â€˜How on earth do you get to it?’ Terry asked.
    â€˜Well,’ Xavier replied, ‘you’re about to find out.’ As he spoke, the car slowed and they could all see through the windows that the rain had cleared to reveal the ocean 70 metres below the road. Hugging the beach was a line of elegant steel and glass buildings. A huge sign over the main doors said: ‘SUVA SUBAQUATIC PORT’. In the water just beyond the buildings lay the long, narrow shape of a submarine. Some 30 metres in length, it was low in the water and glinted in the weak sunlight. ‘Gentlemen, the Cousteau ,’ Xavier said proudly, as the car swung onto the steep road leading down to the water. ‘Your subaquatic taxi.’

11
Fiji
    â€˜I wish I’d told him I suffer from claustrophobia,’ Harry announced.
    â€˜What!’ Terry Mitcham exclaimed as they strapped themselves into the seats.
    â€˜Lighten up, Terry. I’m kidding!’ Harry said, rolling his eyes.
    It was surprisingly quiet inside the Cousteau . They could just hear a slight lowering in the note of the engine as the submarine dipped beneath the surface. They had been left in the main passenger compartment which could hold 20, in five rows of four, while Michael Xavier joined the captain on the bridge at the front of the vessel. There were no portholes, but the two journalists could view outside the craft on seatback screens. As the submarine descended, the murkiness clouding the external cameras began to clear and the gorgeous vista of the Fijian coastal seabed and crystal clear waters of the Pacific Ocean came into view. ‘Certainly beats the London Aquarium,’ Terry Mitcham said.
    Five minutes later, the submarine reached cruising depth and levelled out. A hostess in a red uniform came round with drinks and canapés. The voice of the captain announced that they would be arriving at the Neptune in 10 minutes.
    As the submarine docked, the passengers felt a gentle nudge and heard a hiss as the locks were sealed. Michael Xavier appeared from the bridge. ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope you had a pleasant trip,’ he said. ‘We’ve docked. If you would come this way.’
    The airlock of the Cousteau opened onto a narrow corridor surrounded by concertinaed reinforced rubber. It was brightly lit and carpeted. Emerging into the hotel proper, the two guests met a man who looked strikingly similar to Michael Xavier. He had his hand outstretched.
    â€˜My brother, Johnny,’ Michael Xavier explained. ‘Johnny is Head of Operations here. The man at the sharp end.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ Johnny said and indicated they should follow him.
    The group passed along a short passageway and saw ahead of them a bank of elevators. They ascended, the elevator drew to a halt and they stepped out into a wide corridor. Johnny Xavier led the way to the main reception, explaining how the place was constructed and going through some of the mind-boggling statistics associated with the project.
    The two newcomers stopped, stunned, and looked around the huge space, mouths agape. It was truly awe-inspiring, a reception that would perfectly suit a major five-star hotel in any city. An expanse of white marble stretched from where they stood to the perimeter of the circular room. Several passageways led off the space, and directly ahead stood a wide opening that connected with the next dome, Dome Beta. Beside this was a curved reception desk made from exotic dark wood. The ceiling was four storeys above their heads, adding to the sense of vast open space. A square arrangement of four gigantic crystal-and-brushed-steel chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and in the centre of the room stood a massive sculpture of the god Neptune, rendered in steel. His muscular metal arms stretched upwards, catching the light from the suspended illuminations. But perhaps the