Ancients

11

Inside the solemn enclosure of the USS Arizona memorial, Jack was listening closely, but that didn't stop his inner furnace from burning hotly as he stood beside the eighteen U.S. Navy divers. The meeting of the National Parks Service, the Mobile Diving and Salvage Unit--or, as Carl Everett had introduced them, the "Mudzoos"--and the eight-man U.S. Navy SEAL Team Four, which had flown out with Collins and Everett from Coronado, California, had been in progress since the sun set low in the Pacific.

They were listening to the special assistant to the secretary of the interior talk about the remains of the crew onboard the USS Arizona. The secretary finished and then a park ranger took over the briefing. So far, everyone in the group was going, with the exception of Jack, the assistant secretary, and two other park rangers. This exclusion was not sitting too well with the colonel.

"By the time you enter the water, it'll be full dark. Keep in mind, we have mapped where we believe most of the old ordnance is, but there are always surprises inside the old girl. It's as if she still thinks she's fighting the war," the park ranger giving the briefing looked at the faces around him, "and she has every right to think that way. She's earned it."

The divers and SEALs nodded in understanding. Jack could see the respect that everyone in the room had for the Arizona. It was as if she were a sick woman and everyone was there to take care of her. They also knew what was at stake, and the respect they had shown thus far belied the fact that they knew, no matter what, that plate had to come to the surface. When the president orders something done, you do it.

"Why was the captain's safe never opened before? It's my understanding that the National Parks Service has made several forays into the cabin," Everett asked as he zipped up his wet suit.

"Because of respect and privacy, it's that plain and simple. The captain was the only one with his personal safe's combination, thus the items inside are his own. We had no right to enter it. Captain Everett, you and these men have to get a clear understanding of what we have here. This warship is still on the rolls of the United States Navy, she is alive and you will respect her as a fighting combatant," ordered Richard Chavez, head ranger of the memorial. "Believe me, if it's in our country's best interest, the old girl will give up her secrets willingly. Ghastly, but that's the way it is."

Again the men nodded in understanding. They all knew that military battle sights had a way of causing deep, soul-searching experiences, and none of them came close to scoffing at the idea of the Arizona being haunted.

"Okay," one of the salvage divers said. "SEALs are outside, conducting security sweeps. When we dive, they will relieve the UDT already providing security. The eight-man Underwater Demolition Team will then board the memorial platform and await demolition orders if needed. Let us hope that is not where we're headed."

"The Mudzoos will then try to cut the safe open and remove the item in question," Everett said, taking over the secure portion of the briefing. He looked at the schematic of the Arizona laid out before them. "Now, we will execute the dive through this gangway here," he said, pointing to a starboard stairwell. "That will lead us down to the second deck closest to the bridge. I'll carry the DET cord and two quarter-pound charges of C-4; if it's not enough we can always send up for more--let's just hope we don't have to use it down there. Now, Ranger Chavez, the length of the companionway isn't that far?"

"Right," answered Chavez. "Thirty-five feet to the captain's stateroom."

Everett was satisfied and he looked at his dive team. "Ready?" he asked, looking at his watch.

Heads nodded around the large table. Everett then turned to Jack. "Hopefully, we'll be right back, boss."

Collins nodded, accepting Carl's decision that, with his limited dive experience, he could cause more harm than good. Jack knew that he was right.

Everett turned to Ranger Chavez. "Permission to board the Arizona?" he asked officially.

"Permission granted, Captain."

The SEALs and Mudzoos came to attention and then moved to the memorial's railing. For the first time in more than sixty years, American sailors would board the Arizona.

Dahlia watched from across the harbor. The powerful night-vision binoculars she used allowed her to see clearly the eight navy SEALs, two National Park rangers, and eleven navy salvage divers slide over the side of the memorial. The SEALs were clearly identifiable by their plain black wet suits and the arms they carried. She adjusted her view and saw four men watching the divers from above, on the observation deck of the memorial.

She lowered her binoculars and brought up a small electronic-file device. She hit Saved and several pictures started flicking across the small screen. She finally came to the image she wanted and looked closely at it, then looked at the lone figure standing in the open on the memorial.

"Damn," she said, recognizing Colonel Jack Collins immediately.

It was now obvious to her that he was responsible for the navy having beaten her team here. He must be in custody of the two Ancients, she thought. Regardless, she decided that the strike element she had assembled should be sufficient and was satisfied that they could retrieve the plate map, so she raised her radio.

"Recovery One, you are go for incursion."

She lowered the radio, raised her binoculars, and watched a fifty-man team slide away from the much smaller memorial for the USS Utah, a former battleship turned target ship used in the training of the newer, faster, Pennsylvania Class Battlewagons of the 1930s. The Utah, also sunk on December 7, 1941, was lying on her side on the bottom of Pearl not far from the Arizona. She provided the perfect location for the attacking force to enter the murky waters unseen.

The fifty-man assault-and-recovery element were excellent divers. All were former naval men from various countries. Their pay for this mission would be quite enough to retire and live a life of luxury. They would earn it.

As she trailed her team, she was happy to see no trace of them as they swam south from the Utah. They were using special rebreather units that allowed no telltale air bubbles to escape the completely closed-loop systems. Dahlia then moved her glasses to watch a special three-man team on Ford Island, not far from the Arizona. The image was in a sickly green ambient light, but she was clearly able to see one man as he reached for his radio. She smiled as she heard three distinct clicks transmitted. The three men had successfully severed the electrical cable that supplied power to the underwater sound and laser-fence security system guarding the Arizona from treasure hunters and souvenir seekers.

"Now, bring me my retirement," she said as she adjusted her view to the memorial; she was satisfied as she watched the four men remaining on the observation deck.

Except for the pain-in-the-ass Colonel Collins, whom she knew to be one of the most formidable men she had ever seen, the men did not look like much of a threat. She and her small five-man team should have no trouble removing them from the surface equation.

Jack Collins looked at the names of the dead on the memorial and thought about how they had died. A surprise it had been, sudden and unexpected. Jack had always hoped never to lose anything as valuable as his men's lives in battle, but he was also wise enough to know that was one wish never granted to a leader. All one could do was be vigilant and try never to be surprised as the brave men on the Arizona had been. He turned away from the names and looked out on the harbor lights and Honolulu glimmering in the distance.

He raised his radio and depressed the Send button three times. Then he heard a return three clicks and was satisfied that his own surprise was ready.

Everett was the fifth in line as they passed over the Arizona's forward number-one turret. Although he had expected to see it, the scene was still something out of a ghostly dream as the handheld lights they used played over the rifled barrels. Marine growth had done nothing to diminish the menacing opening where at one time, long ago, one-and-a-half-ton shells had exploded out of the massive guns.

As they approached the starboard gangway next to the old bridge tower that navy salvagers had cut away almost sixty-five years before, the water seemed to become even blacker, giving every man on the excursion the chills.

The eight SEALs relieved the UDT element and Everett watched as they slowly made their way to the surface. The SEALs, armed with UPPs (underwater-pressurized projectiles) took up station patrolling the waters outside the great warship. The weapons they carried were multibarreled spear guns that could rapid-fire fifteen ten-inch-long darts at anything threatening the team.

Even in her deteriorating condition, the Arizona was still something to behold. Her dark skin was alive with marine life, and as he slid a hand along her starboard railing, Carl knew that she was truly still alive in more ways than one. With well over three-quarters of her crew still inside, how could she be anything else.

In the blackness of the harbor waters, a gaping maw slowly came into view in the dim lights ahead, and the gangway quickly followed that. The steel steps that led belowdecks were still intact and, if it had not been for the rust, looked as if men had used them just that morning.

The lead ranger went in first after attaching a nylon cord to the railing. The others followed slowly at five-foot intervals. Everett felt the minute pressure build as they descended into the darkness that led to the second deck of one of the most famous ships in history.

As they traveled down the passage, Ranger Chavez dropped a small dive marker about fifteen feet in and then turned to face the men following him. The Mudzoos knew what was happening, but Carl was curious as the yellow-green dye marker rose into the water of the passageway as if it were a ghost. Someone tapped Everett from behind. A navy salvage man had seen the questioning look on his face, so he had written something on his plastic board with grease pencil.

"Arizona crewman in the silt," it said.

Everett personally could have gone all night without knowing that, but he knew that they had to be warned, so as not to disturb the area. He knew why diving on the Arizona was limited to personnel of the U.S. Navy and the National Parks Service only.

As he passed over the yellow-green marker, out of respect, he looked straight ahead and not down at the thick bed of silt where one of the Arizona's boys lay. Carl was then startled when he looked ahead of him and saw at least twenty more of the markers rising like small ghostly signals. He realized then that they were inside a most hallowed place.

Ahead, Everett knew, the rest of the Arizona crew lay where they had fallen at battle stations and awaited the arrival of their brothers of the modern U.S. Navy.

A thousand yards from the stern of the Arizona, the Coalition assault team split into two groups. They would strike the old ship from two sides. One team of twenty-five would follow the Americans inside and strike there, and the other element would hit the SEAL security team in the waters surrounding the dead battleship. Then they would wait and take anyone who might escape the bowels of the vessel. The few men left on the memorial were not their concern. They would hit and hit hard and be away before the Pearl Harbor U.S. Marine contingent could react.

Everett watched as the captain's cabin finally came into view. It had seemed like a mile when it had been only thirty-five feet of dark passageway. The door to the cabin was wide open, and as they watched, a small blue-finned fish swam out as if curious at his nighttime company.

As the only diver who new approximately what it was they were searching for, Carl would be one of only six allowed into the cabin of Franklin Van Valkenburg, who had been the commander of the USS Arizona.

As the initial team entered the cabin, Everett was shocked to see that the closet with the remains of uniforms still hanging. The sea had not eaten them as it had so many of the other things onboard. Carl hoped that the sea life had left them in respect to the ship's captain.

Everett continued looking around as the others went to the main bulkhead that separated the cabin from the next space. As he looked over the stateroom, he saw the phone off its hook, and then before he knew it two more yellow dye markers rose from the deck; two more bodies here. Who were they? It was a known fact that the captain had made it to his command bridge, had been seen there moments before the destruction of his ship. Therefore, who these men could have been was a mystery.

The rest of the captain's cabin was losing its fight with the waters of the harbor. The rich paneling that had covered the steel-encased room was all but gone.

Everett recalled that Martha and Carmichael had said that Van Valkenburg had been one of them. However, unlike Martha and Carmichael, he had done his duty to the human race, as well as to Keeler's brother.

A bright light suddenly filled the dark cabin. Carl had to turn away as the cutting torch flared brightly as the Mudzoos went to work on the small safe.

As he looked away, he saw the round porthole, one of the only ones he had observed not covered by a protective steel hatching. A form suddenly crossed the murky glass. It was only momentary, but he was sure that it was someone in the water outside the hull. He turned back to the cutting, unnerved by the dark figure he had seen outside the porthole. Then he reassured himself that it must have been one of the SEALs in the water. However, he could not help but have a momentary SEAL-trained reaction that something was not right about the blurry figure he had seen, and that something kept playing on the fringes of his mind.

The battle outside the Arizona started before SEAL Team Four knew it was upon them. The black-suited and -helmeted assault element of the Coalition fired their first volley from thirty yards away through the darkness of the harbor. Before the SEALs could respond, three of their team were down. There had been no warning from above by the rangers monitoring the laser fence that guarded the site.

The team leader, a chief petty officer named "Breeches" Jones, was a wily veteran of many Persian Gulf excursions. The one thing that no SEAL team had ever done in their storied history was fight an actual undersea battle. He quickly saw the dark figures ahead of him branch out as his remaining four men returned fire at the advancing group. He raised his M1A1-56 dart rifle and rapidly fired six of the tungsten steel projectiles at the closest of the attackers. Two of the darts struck home and the dark-suited figures became still and started to sink.

The chief then saw at least twenty more bad guys swim out of the murk toward the outnumbered SEALs. The attackers were armed with the same weapons the SEALs had, and Jones saw that his only choice was to make for the superstructure of the Arizona and swim over to the protection of the far side. He saw two of his men break over the top. Then they quickly returned and were waving him back. The route was cut off by more attackers.

Suddenly, the routine security operation had turned into a life-or-death struggle and Jones's team was losing.

Inside the captain's cabin, Everett was still thinking about the figure he had seen through the porthole. Then what he had seen finally dawned on him. No, not what he had seen, but what he had failed to see. He would regret not acting fast enough for years afterward. There had not been any air bubbles trailing behind the blurred figure he had briefly viewed. Everyone on the dive was using standard diving equipment because when you were diving on a dangerous wreck, air bubbles could be used to let a team member know that you were in trouble. Just as he started to move and warn his companions, the safe door popped free of its hinges.

As Everett moved forward quickly to let the salvage divers know they were not alone, two of the deadly darts struck one of the navy divers from the companionway. Carl made it to the four other men and started pushing them in the opposite direction; he was gesturing and waving them away when three more darts sliced their way through the water and struck three of the salvage divers.

The remaining team members needed no more coaxing to turn and swim to the passage opposite the main companionway. Everett, thinking about what he was there for, quickly reached into the open safe and felt around until he pulled out an old plastic-covered map and chart case. He hurriedly dropped them into the silt and then felt around the safe again. He felt something spongy at first and then underneath it was hard and rectangular. He pulled it free just as a steel dart pinged off the door frame of the safe. He did not stop to see who had almost killed him; instead, he kicked out with his fins and made to follow the rest.

The attackers charged the captain's cabin in pursuit. One diver saw the map case lying half buried in the silt. He reached down, claimed the case, and then kicked his fins to follow his team.

Jack had seen the UDT team away for a well-deserved rest and was walking along the memorial deck when he suddenly saw emergency flares start to glow below the waterline. Bright yellow dye markers then started reaching the surface. He did not hesitate as he reached for his radio and depressed the Talk key; this time the signal was two short and one long. At that moment, he heard sharp cracks start peppering the concrete memorial. Small-caliber silenced rounds started chewing up the radio, map table, and other equipment. Two bullets struck the assistant interior secretary and he fell dead three feet from Jack as he hit the wooden deck.

"Are you armed?" he called out to two prone park rangers.

"No!" one said as he covered his head.

"Great!" Collins said under his breath as he pulled a 9-millimeter automatic from his coat. Only five minutes before, the UDT had left the memorial for to take a break.

Before they knew what was happening, a rubber Zodiac assault boat with its loud outboard motor bumped the memorial and three men poked their heads through the slats, giving them a good view of the interior. One of these smashed the tinted glass and started to climb in. Collins took quick aim and fired one round. His aim was true and the attacker's head jerked back, then the man fell backward through the slatted opening.

"You two, get to the far end and into the water and get the hell out!"

The two park rangers rose. One fell immediately as five bullets stitched his backside. He fell into the other man and they both went down. Jack started to crawl in the prone position toward the fallen men as twenty more rounds plunked into the wooden flooring beside his head. He rolled quickly and on instinct let loose three rounds in the direction of the gunfire, and an attacker in black Nomex clothing fell from the side of the memorial.

Just as Collins turned back to the rangers, he saw three of the attackers rise from the opposite side and step onto the platform. He aimed and fired, striking the first man in the groin, doubling him over. Then one of the other two emptied a magazine of bullets into the ranger who was lying helpless at their feet.

"Damn," Jack said as he started to roll on the hard deck, turning over and over, giving very little for anyone to aim at until his body slammed against the harbor-side wall of the white-painted memorial. He turned and fired five times into the thirty-foot-high window and watched as the tinted glass exploded inward. Then, with three shots over his shoulder, Jack rolled into the oil-laced water of the harbor.

The memorial had been lost to the enemy just as the upper deck of the Arizona had been quickly overwhelmed.

The five remaining SEALs dived into the first opening they could, the empty barbette of number-three gun mount. The gaping hole was where one of the fourteen-inch mounts had been located. It had been removed shortly after the attack on December 7, then relocated to the coastal defense battery on Oahu. As the five SEALs dived quickly into the interior, twenty of the deadly darts pierced the dark waters behind them, striking the rusting steel of the number-three barbette.

Everett and the navy salvage team swam quickly down the emergency passageway of number-two deck. At every opening they passed there had been at least a two-man team waiting for them with deadly and accurate fire from the outside. It was clear to the trailing Everett that there were far more bad guys than good. They had lost three of the navy salvage men and Ranger Chavez in the first of these unexpected assaults without any return fire. Everett concluded that the SEALs outside were either dead or fighting for their lives just as he and his men were.

Carl used his dive knife to bang on the steel bulkhead until the men ahead of him stopped and turned. They had been heading for the stern companionway that led to the open water of the harbor, where he knew that attackers were waiting to ambush them. To punctuate this thought, four men in the same-style wet suits as Everett's team were wearing came bursting into the hatchway from above. The men started to scatter until they realized that this was what was left of the SEALs' security element.

Everett waved everyone over to the open hatch, which had been frozen in that position since 1941. The chief and the remaining SEALs turned and started pumping darts into the massive barbette opening of number-three gun mount to cover the salvage team as they entered the hatch.

Carl was the last to enter the hatch following the SEALs. He stuffed the plate map into the back of his weight belt so that he could pull himself into the hatch. Just as his fins disappeared through the opening, ten darts ricocheted off the steel around the hatchway. One of the deadly projectiles hit his right fin and pierced it, knocking him sideways. Everett's luck was holding as he went deeper into the darkness of the Arizona.

As the survivors dived into the real heart of the ship, the attacking Coalition force hesitated only moments before following. Soon the entire force of forty-two men entered the bowels of the ship in pursuit.

The great gray lady was crewing live Americans once again, but she was old and tired and very near collapse as the remaining men swam for their lives into her darkened belly.

Jack dived under the concrete memorial and came up under her frame to catch a breath. He held his Beretta up out of the water, ejected the nearly spent clip, and silently slipped in one of his spares. He shook his head in anger after losing another three people to the Coalition.

He heard loud talking as more men entered the memorial from the harbor side. Where in the hell had they come from? The afternoon search of the harbor had been thorough; they had made sure that all the tourists had exited the area and there were no surprises awaiting the dive team.

As Jack moved from frame strut to frame strut, he heard equipment smashing and men walking overhead. He spit out some of the foul-tasting water, then froze when he heard a woman's voice.

"I am speaking to Colonel Collins. I know you are the military officer that was at the warehouse in New York and Mr. Keeler's offices in Boston."

Jack did not move. The gentle lapping of the water underneath the memorial masked his breathing, but he was still prepared to dive deep if bullets started punching their way through from the deck above.

"I know that your facility at Nellis has Ms. Laughlin and Mr. Rothman under quarantine. They tell the wildest and most fanciful stories, don't they? They really are quite insane, you know. It must be the inbreeding."

Jack's eyes followed the voice through the decking above his head. The woman was moving left to right and coming very close to the spot where he had rolled into the water.

"I must tell you, and whatever entity you work for, that you have caused me concern here. This was supposed to be a no-violence endeavor. Your interference will just be the cause of more deaths."

Jack thought he had a good spot where he could shoot through the deck and hit the woman, but then he decided to hold his fire. He wanted her alive because now he knew that she was at least culpable in the murders of his people.

"We will get to the two Ancients eventually, Colonel. It's just as the message I instructed be left for you in New York stated: You're not that secret anymore."

Jack closed his eyes in anger as he heard her arrogant chuckle.

The dive team, or what was left of them, was hold up in the ship's number-three galley. They had lost one more SEAL and another three salvage divers on their way in. Everett and the rest of the team were fast running out of darts, just as the enemy seemed to have an endless supply.

Carl took a quick head count and saw that they were down to two SEALs and five unarmed navy divers, plus himself and one park ranger. They had their backs up against a solid steel bulkhead behind good protection; a large cast-iron stove was stopping most of the tungsten darts. Now they would be picked off one at a time or they would run out of oxygen. Neither fate suited him all that much.

Growing angry at the no-win scenario, Carl reached for his plastic writing board and quickly wrote, "What is above the galley?" He quickly showed the board to the others.

The park ranger quickly wrote, "Number eight antiaircraft mount."

Carl pointed to a large hole in the steel ceiling of the galley. What he was indicating was the hole that the 776-pound aerial bomb dropped by a Japanese pilot over sixty years before had made in its plunge into the forward magazine for number-two gun mount. As they looked upward, they could see the open water through two decks.

Carl used his thumb and index finger to mimic a gun, asking for the two remaining SEALs to cover him.

The chief held his board up and quickly wrote, "No way, there are at least thirty to forty attackers in the galley and companionway!"

Everett looked at the jagged hole again. He thought he could squeeze through. He handed the bronze plate he had removed from the safe to the park ranger and then quickly started to remove his tanks. The others looked at him as if he were nuts. The SEALs turned and fired off a few darts and then reloaded their last tube of ammo. Before Everett removed his mouthpiece for the last time, he wrote on his board, "If I'm lucky, you'll hear three taps when I get there--get everyone inside the big ovens and cover up!"

With one last look at the incredulous faces of the salvage team, Everett started taking deep breaths. Then he removed his mouthpiece and tapped the chief on the shoulder. The two SEALs popped up and started pumping darts into the darkness of the mess area, not really knowing if they would hit anything. The idea was to keep their enemies' heads down until the former SEAL followed through with his crazy plan.

Everett held on to a flashlight as he pushed up hard with his legs. His body left the deck and he almost made it into the large hole in one fell swoop, but his shoulder hit one of the jagged edges and his momentum stopped cold. He felt a dart plunge into his neoprene wet suit and lodge in the soft folds of his side; luckily, it was only skin it caught. He adjusted his angle and kicked with his fins, and the dart in his left side hit the opening on the way through. The sudden flare of pain almost caused him to expel the precious air he had stored up in his lungs. Nevertheless, he kicked once more and he was through.

Carl shone his light around. He was in a small crawl space between decks and he hurriedly looked around for the ladder he hoped led out to the antiaircraft mount. He suddenly saw it about six feet away. It went upward and in the opposite direction; and went down toward what he was hoping to find. He just hoped he remembered the schematic correctly.

As he descended into the hold, his captured breath was expanding in his chest. Carl eased up and forced himself to slow, lowering his blood pressure intentionally and allowing small amounts of air to escape his lungs. As he used a handrail to guide him, he saw ahead through the light a small hatchway that was bent almost double, but still open. That had to be the small locker that served the number-eight gun mount. He just hoped that salvagers had left what was stored there intact as too dangerous to be moved. As he held the sides of the hatchway, he pulled himself into the armored locker.

The eeriness he felt inside was palpable. He shone the light on the deck and saw the bubblelike rise of steel where the explosion below had buckled the deck above. The forces involved had been so tremendous that the armor decking had separated into layers.

Carl looked around. Time was running out as his lungs were starting to ache as he continued to expel air a small amount at a time. Still he did not see anything that he needed. The armory looked to be empty. Then he saw them. They were in the silt of sixty-five years' accumulation, buried like the men around them, and were like skeletal fingers poking from a grave.

Before he could reach even for one, he started to grow dizzy. He shook his head and looked around him. Calmly and orderly he checked every upper corner of the locker. Finally, he saw something that could help him. There, hanging from the ceiling, was a vent cover. It was off and it angled downward. He just prayed his luck held. He kicked to the vent and tore the remaining small rivets free, then stuck his mask up and inside. He worked his way up and then the large ventilation shaft angled back and out of the locker. Where it angled, he found what he desperately needed: air. Air that had been trapped long ago and could not escape due to the particular curvature of the vent.

He took a deep breath, expecting a horrible stench, but instead it was as if he had opened a door to a springtime day. The smell was a pleasant one, like that of a bakery not far from the house where he'd grown up. The air that filled the vent had come from the ship's bakery. On the morning the Arizona died, the cooks and bakers just at that moment had been serving breakfast. He was grateful as he filled his lungs with the aroma of long-dead biscuits and cinnamon rolls.

When he had his fill, he replaced his mask and backed out of the shaft. He then aimed for the deck and retrieved five of the items he had come for.

The SEALs were out of darts. They turned back to face the others and could see their faces through the glass of their masks. It was over. The park ranger, knowing that the map could not be allowed to fall into an aggressor's hands, raised the bronze plate and started to bring it down onto the corner of a steel table, hoping to damage it enough to be useless.

As he was starting to bring down the plate map, three loud taps sounded in the overhead. The ranger remembered what Everett had written and went straight back to the large ovens. He opened the first wide door and squeezed inside; the others soon followed. Several darts bounced harmlessly off the cast iron as the second of the large oven doors closed.

The attackers soon felt comfortable enough to show themselves as dive lights came on, and several even smiled behind their rebreather masks at the inane attempt of the navy men to hide at the last possible moment.

Above them, in the hole made by that fateful Japanese bomb, Carl Everett was about to deliver another kind of projectile. He had found three five-inch antiaircraft rounds in the silt. He had taken these and tied them off with the det cord that he was assigned to bring along with the quarter-pound charge of C-4 to open the safe if need be. Then he attached the small charge to the large rounds and made fast the blasting cap. He hoped he wouldn't kill everyone along with his targets. Everett started to run out of air just as he started his makeshift plan.

The Coalition assault team were starting to swim forward with the arrogance of the victor when they saw something slide down from the steel overhead. The thirty men of the inside team stopped and looked on and then finally one of them turned his light onto the strange object. Eyes widened in horror as they realized what they were looking at: three large bulletlike rounds tied together by yellow detonation cord attached to an explosive charge. Their eyes followed the cord up into the gaping hole, and then they froze as they saw Everett in the void beyond.

Everett saw the attackers look up and knew that they had seen him. He quickly waved his hand in a good-bye gesture, then turned his hand over and flipped the stunned attackers the bird. Then he twisted the small electrical switch for the detonator. He pulled away from the hole as the charge raced through the det cord to ignite the blasting cap stuck into the small charge.

The C-4 went off, striking the cordite inside the shell casings, and that set off the warhead of the five-inch antiaircraft shells. They exploded downward into the stunned Coalition divers and struck the deck below them, creating a manmade fusillade of shrapnel that struck everyone in the attacking team. Half of them were killed immediately, while others were just maimed, while still others only had their eardrums punctured. The force of the underwater blast was so great that glass face masks imploded into their flesh of their wearers. Silt was cascading around the mess area and galley, looking as if a deep London fog had rolled in.

Above, the detonation lifted Everett from the crawl space and smashed him into the deck above. The last of his air was forced out of his lungs. He gathered what senses he had left and shot through the hole and into the clouded mess area. He did not clear enough vision to see around him, but he knew that there were dead men floating all around him as he made for the galley. Once there, he found his discarded tanks and placed the mouthpiece into his mouth and inhaled deeply.

When that immediate need was satisfied, he went to the large ovens and gave a silent prayer as he opened the first door. A finned foot immediately smashed his face mask. He yelled, spitting out his mouthpiece, just as the chief saw who it was. Everett was waving desperately for them to get out before more company could show up.

Below the monument, Jack was still holding one of the support struts when his body lifted in the water. Large bubbles started to rise around him as air and cordite escaped through the open and empty bridge area of the Arizona. He heard running feet and shouts above as men looked into the water.

It seemed like ten minutes later when Jack heard men shouting out to people unseen to raise their hands. Then he heard curses, and he knew that the dive team had surfaced right into the waiting hands of their attackers. He closed his eyes and cursed, knowing that he had no choice now. He could not wait on the failsafe he had set up earlier. He slowly made for the outer wall of the memorial and brought himself out into the open night.

Once out in the clear, he held on to the memorial with one hand and pulled himself around to the window he had broken earlier. He raised his head and looked over the edge into the interior. It was indeed worst-case. He saw Carl, his hands on his head, with the rest of what was left of the dive team. Bloodied and weary, they were being pushed and beaten with assault rifles.

Jack shook his head. He was tired of hiding. He brought the pistol up, but then hesitated as he saw the woman. Dressed in black pants and a black leather jacket, she stood in front of one of the rangers, removing something from him. She held it up to the light and then brought it down reverently.

"Thank you for recovering our lost artifact. You have been most helpful."

That was enough. As far as he could tell, the woman was without a weapon, so he aimed at the two men on her left, who were busy looking after the devastated dive team. He started to squeeze the trigger. That was when all hell broke loose around the Arizona Memorial. Unseen and at Jack's orders, a platoon of U.S. Marines had been dispatched from Pearl and left to stand guard just to the dock side of the USS Missouri. The great battleship had shielded the strike force as they approached after Jack had used his radio to alert them when the attack had begun. It had seemed like they took their own sweet time, but Collins knew that they could not have just come barging in like the cavalry of old.

Several Zodiac attack craft circled the memorial as Everett ordered the remains of the dive team down. Automatic fire was striking the white memorial from marines firing from their own moving platforms. Collins used this diversion to open up from close range from his position behind the enemy. He dropped six before they knew that they had an antagonist in the rear.

Soon the Zodiacs started screaming for the gangway that led to the memorial. They exited the boats and started forward, firing as they came on. Seeing that her situation was hopeless, the woman started to turn and run. Jack fired his 9-mm and the round struck just where he had aimed it, in the woman's calf. She fell and the plate map went sliding away as it struck the deck. She immediately got up and limped until she found an open slat. She dived in toward the land side of Ford Island.

Jack gained the platform and ran for the plate. He took it and then looked for Carl. He was relieved when he saw his friend standing. They locked eyes. Jack threw Everett the plate Frisbee-style, then Jack dived through the opening after the woman

Everett ran to the window, holding the plate and his injured side, and saw Jack's form as he swam after the woman who had just gained the swampy shore area of Ford Island.

Collins easily followed the woman through the darkness. She was leaving an easy trail to follow in her panic to escape. He heard her clearly through the bushes and cattails ahead. Then he heard a splash as she fell into the wet weeds.

Dahlia was looking around in panic when she saw the figure standing in the moonlight.

"Don't just stand there, you--" she started, and then she saw that the figure was wearing civilian clothes, and then she knew. "I have very valuable information to trade for my life, Colonel."

The dark shape did not move. He just raised his weapon and ejected the spent clip. Then, with deliberate slowness, he inserted his last one. He charged the slide forward and chambered a round.

"You need to know that Tomlinson didn't die in Chicago. It was his plan all along to leave the States; he has no need to be here any longer," she said as she was suddenly praying that someone, anyone, would show up and stop what she knew was about to happen.

"You're not so secret anymore."

"What ... I ... please, you need me." The pleading in her voice was clear. The last of the marines' gunfire ceased and several loud whistles and sirens from the harbor patrol blared as Pearl woke up to the assault on their revered Arizona.

"I need my people back. Can you give them to me?"

Dahlia saw the raised gun and finally knew what it was like to face imminent death. This man was going to murder her.

Jack raised his weapon and fired.

The three Coalition divers had come close to catching Jack unaware. At the last second, the light from the rising moon caught the glass in one of the face masks of the divers. Jack had just enough time to fire directly over the head of the woman, who had thought for sure the American colonel was going to murder her.

The first of the Coalition divers went down with a hole placed cleanly into his forehead, but the other two ducked into the murk of Ford Island. Jack dived for cover just as twenty silenced rounds whacked the damp soil around him. As he looked up, he saw the woman disappear into the cattails and reeds. He took quick aim and fired five times at the spot where she had vanished, but the area had suddenly become motionless.

As Collins stood, helicopters started shining large searchlights around the area of the memorial. He reached for his radio to inform them to search Ford Island for the woman and at least two Coalition men. As he raised the small radio to his mouth, he realized that it was not going to work. He had been in the water so long that seawater had shorted out its workings. Collins reared back and threw it into the reeds.

At that moment, Everett broke through the reeds and saw Jack.

"Jesus, Jack, I thought you bought it. The woman?" he asked as he walked forward.

"Order a sweep of the area. Maybe they can find her, but I suspect she has nine lives."

"Yeah, maybe, but with you taking shots at her, I bet she's only got one or two left."

Dahlia was getting her leg tended to by one of the few survivors of another botched raid. Because of this colonel, she was on a losing streak. She winced as the diver placed pressure on her wound as he wrapped it.

Three of them had managed to evade the massive search for the attackers by marines and shore patrol. They had crawled through mud and mosquitoes to a waiting boat and slowly made their way to the dry-dock facility across the harbor. From there it had been a terrifying game of cat and mouse as they barely managed to hide from patrols looking for survivors. Dahlia knew that she was now one of the most wanted women in the world, and she owed it all to Jack Collins.

Once in the city, the men who had saved her took her to a safe house that she had prepared just in case something like this happened. She stretched out on the couch with her injured leg up on the arm, in the dingy room with a small automatic in her lap. Having a weapon was distasteful, but if Collins came through that door, she promised herself, she would put a bullet into his brainpan.

When a knock sounded at the door, Dahlia took the gun and aimed. Using the barrel of the weapon, she gestured for one of the men to answer. She doubted very much that Collins or the U.S. Navy would be so polite as to knock. One of the divers opened the door, and she relaxed as three men came through. They all were worn and tired. However, one man was smiling.

"And what is it that makes you stand there grinning like a fool?" she asked.

"You may find this of value. A nice second prize," the man said as he tossed the map case to her. Then he accepted a glass of water from one of his companions. "We almost didn't make it. The Honolulu policeman who stopped us won't be hula dancing anymore."

Dahlia opened the aged plastic case. The smell was atrocious as she looked from the Coalition diver back to the items inside. She slowly pulled out several charts and maps. There were also handwritten notes. She looked at the map and her eyes widened.

"It looks like you just may have tripled the bonuses of every man in this room." She smiled at the words written on the map of Africa.

"Then it is important?" the man asked, lowering his glass of water.

The men looked at the colored relief and saw the written coordinates placed there by the hand of Franklin Van Valkenberg, captain of the USS Arizona. In the weeks that he had possession of the plate map, he had figured out its secret and soon had calculated the resting place of the Key, exactly where Dahlia knew she and her men would be in the coming days.

She picked up the cell phone and pushed a single, special number. The man answered on the first ring.

"William, we have the location of the Atlantean Key."

Dahlia hung up, then picked up the gun and smiled as she thought about Colonel Jack Collins. She knew that with the plate map he would come looking for the Atlantean Key. As she tapped the barrel against her muddy cheek, she thought about that bullet she would place into the colonel's head.

"This is one killing I do myself, free of charge."