Deep Fathom

10 Thunder

David Spangler crossed the rolling flight deck of the Gibraltar. A southern storm had whipped up overnight, pelting the vessel with rain and gale force winds. This morning the worst of the storm had blown itself out, but the sky remained stacked with dark clouds. Drizzle swept across the deck in wicked spats. Safety nets that fringed the ship snapped and flapped in the gusts.

David hunched against the cold and headed toward the ramp tunnel that led down to the hangar deck below. Striding briskly, he approached the two men sheltered just inside the tunnel’s entrance. Two guards. They were his men, members of his seven-man assault team. Like him, they wore gray uniforms, black boots, black belts. Even their blond crew cuts matched his. David had handpicked his team five years ago. He nodded as he approached. They snapped to attention, no salutes.

Though their uniforms were free of any rank or designation, the entire NTSB team knew David’s men. A personal letter from CIA Director Ruzickov had made it clear to the investigators and the ship’s command staff that Spangler’s team was in charge of security for the wreckage until the ship left international waters.

“Where’s Weintraub?” he asked his second-in-command, Lieutenant Ken Rolfe.

“At the electronics station. Working on the flight data recorder.”

“Any news?”

“They’re still having no luck, sir. It’s tits up.”

David allowed himself a grim smile. Edwin Weintraub was the lead investigator for the NTSB — and a prime thorn in his side. The man was thorough, keen-eyed and sharp-witted. David knew that his presence wouldn’t make subterfuge any easier.

“Any suspicion?” he said in a lower voice, stepping closer.

“No, sir.”

David nodded, satisfied. Gregor Handel, Omega team’s electronics expert, had done his job well. As head of security, David had no trouble granting his man access to the recorder, out of sight of anyone in the NTSB. Handel had promised he could sabotage the recorder without any telltale sign of tampering. So far the lieutenant had proven as good as his word. After the revelation on the cockpit voice recording, David had not wanted the information on the flight’s data box to pinpoint a simple malfunction of one of Air Force One’s primary systems. It would be hard to blame the Chinese for an ordinary mechanical glitch. So he had ordered the second black box damaged.

“Do you know why Weintraub called me this morning?” David asked.

“No, sir. Only that something stirred up the hornet’s nest in there an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” David clenched his teeth. If something new had been discovered, the standing orders were for him to be informed immediately. He stormed past his men. Since the first day, Weintraub had been testing the line between his team and David’s. It looked like a lesson might be necessary.

David walked down the long tunnel leading into the massive hangar bay below the flight deck. His footsteps echoed on the nonskid surface. The hangar space ahead was a cavernous chamber, two decks high and stretching almost a third of the ship’s length. Before sailing here, half of the air wing normally stowed in the hangar had been sent to Guam, leaving space for the recovered wreckage.

As David left the tunnel, he stood and surveyed the wide expanse. The chamber reeked of seawater and oil. Across the wide floor, pieces and sections of the plane were laid out in distinct quadrants. Each area was overseen by its own field expert. Overhead, in the rafters, small offices had been taken over by his men, acting as additional lookouts to spy upon the jet’s remains and the personnel below.

Pausing, David observed a large section of a cracked engine nacelle being hauled up another ramp from the lower well deck.

Satisfied that all was in order, he continued through the cavernous hangar. A large circus could have performed in here. And considering the scores of investigators scurrying around the pieces of wreckage, it might as well be a circus. Clowns, all of them, David thought.

He jumped aside as an electric forklift swung a chunk of twisted wing past him, almost taking his head off. Over the past three days, the team of investigators had been shifting sections around twenty-four hours a day, as if working a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. Once the forklift had safely passed, David proceeded deeper into the NTSB base of operations. Larger pieces of wreckage towered to either side: the smashed nose of the plane, the tail fin, chunks of fuselage. Steel-ribbed gravestones to the crew and passengers.

David spotted the electronics lab, a section of the deck cordoned off by banks of computers, twisted power cables, and worktables covered with circuit boards and whorls of wiring from Air Force One. As he approached he spotted the red and orange box of the flight’s data recorder. It had been splayed open and its guts torn down. Little colored flags peppered its contents; however, none of the four investigators were giving the box a second look.

Instead, the three men stood around their portly leader, Ed Weintraub, who was seated at a computer and tapping furiously.

David stepped over. “What’s going on?”

Weintraub waved a hand behind him. “I think I’ve figured out how the recorder’s data became corrupted.”

David’s heart jumped. He glanced at the open box. Had Gregor’s tampering been discovered? “What do you mean?”

Weintraub heaved himself to his feet. “Come. I’ll show you.” He tugged up his pants and absentmindedly tucked in his shirt.

David could not hide his disgust. The man’s skin was oily, his black hair sticking out in odd directions, his thick glasses making his eyes swim. David couldn’t imagine a more distasteful bearing. Weintraub was every repugnant image brought to mind by the expression “slimy civilian.”

The investigator led the way from the electronic station. “We’ve come upon an intriguing finding. Something that might explain the recorder’s damage.” He crossed over to a quadrant where sections of the fuselage lay. The pieces were laid out in rough approximation of the actual plane.

David followed. “You still haven’t explained what you’re talking about. And I don’t appreciate being the last to know. I informed you—”

Weintraub looked at David and interrupted. “I report when I have something to report, Mr. Spangler. I needed to rule out a more plausible explanation first.”

“Explanation for what?”

“For this.” Weintraub crossed to the fuselage and slapped a wrench against the surface. He removed his hand, but the tool remained in place, hanging there.

David’s eyes grew wide.

Weintraub tapped the plane’s side. “It’s magnetized.” He waved a short arm to indicate the entire warehouse space. “All of it. Every bit of metal shows a magnetic signature to some degree or other. It might be the reason for the data recorder’s corruption. Strong magnetic exposure.”

“Could the effect be due to the electromagnet used to haul the pieces topside? Kirkland swore it wouldn’t damage anything.” David’s voice caught on Jack Kirkland’s name. During the past three days, both men had kept their distance. In the evening’s postdive debriefing, David made sure he and Jack were at opposite ends of the room.

“No. Mr. Kirkland was quite correct. The electromagnet did not cause this. As a matter of fact, I can’t explain it.”

“What about some weapon?” David entertained the thought that maybe the Chinese were actually to blame.

“Too soon to say. But I doubt it. I’d imagine the effect is due to something after the crash. I’ve measured the lines of polarity on adjacent sections that were fractured apart. They don’t line up when I reassemble the pieces.”

“What are you saying?”

Weintraub sighed, clearly exasperated.

David’s hand twitched into a fist; he had to forcibly restrain himself from smashing the condescending expression from the investigator’s face.

“It means, Commander Spangler, that the magnetization of the airplane’s parts occurred after it had broken apart. I doubt it played a role in the crash, but it must have interfered with the flight data recorder.” He pushed his glasses up again. “What I don’t understand is why the cockpit voice recorder was unaffected. If the flight data recorder was corrupted, the other should have been damaged, too.”

David directed the conversation away from this query. He frowned at the wrench. “If the magnetization occurred after the crash, why are you investigating it at all? Our shared orders are to bring a speedy conclusion to this investigation. To bring answers to Washington, to the world.”

“I know my duty, Commander Spangler. As I said before, my initial findings are conjecture. I cannot rule out the possibility that some EM pulse or some other external force brought down Air Force One until I examine this phenomenon in detail.” Weintraub removed a smudged handkerchief from a breast pocket. “Besides, I’ve seen the reports on CNN. It seems Washington has its own ideas. Rumblings about an attack or sabotage by the Chinese.”

David feigned disinterest. He knew Nicolas Ruzickov had been using any and all bits of information to seed suspicion on the Chinese. Already in the United States public sentiment was riddled with finger-pointing. The rattling of swords would not be far behind. David cleared his throat. “I don’t care what the news media is reporting. All that matters is the ultimate truth.”

Weintraub wiped his nose. His eyes narrowed as he stared at David. “Is that so? Were you ever able to find out who leaked the voice recorder’s transcript? It seemed many of these so-called news reports are using the transcript as fodder to support claims of an attack upon Air Force One.”

David felt his cheeks growing hotter, but his voice hardened. “I don’t give a shit about rumors or gossip. Our duty is to get the truth back to D.C. What the politicians do with it is their business.”

Weintraub pocketed his handkerchief and plucked the wrench from the wreckage. “Then you’ll have no objections if I investigate this odd phenomenon.” He slapped the tool on his palm. “To discern the truth.”

“Do your job and I’ll do mine.”

Weintraub eyed him silently for a breath, then turned away. “Then I’d best get back to work.”

David watched the investigator leave, then turned back to the large chunk of wreckage. He placed his hand on its smooth surface. For a moment he wondered what really had happened to the great aircraft. With a shake, he dismissed this line of inquiry. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how the facts were spun by Washington. Truth was of no importance.

Turning away, he left his concern behind. He had been trained well in the old school. Obey, never question. He crossed back through the hangar and up the ramp. Outside, the winds were kicking up. Rain pelted the flight deck, sounding like weapons’ fire. David nodded to his men and hurried across to the ship’s superstructure. He knew he had better let Ruzickov know of this new finding.

Passing through the hatch, he shivered against the cold and pulled the door closed behind him. Once out of the wind, he shook the rain from his clothes and straightened to find a large form approaching.

“Commander Spangler,” Admiral Houston said in greeting, stopping before him. Dressed in a nylon flight jacket, Mark Houston filled the passage. David found himself rankling at the man’s air of superiority.

“Aye, sir.”

“Have you heard the newest?” Houston asked. “The magnetization of the airplane’s parts?”

David’s thin lips sharpened to a frown. Had everyone been informed before him? He forced down his anger. “I’ve heard, sir,” he said stiffly. “I went to check it myself.”

“Has Edwin been able to formulate any explanation?”

“No, sir. He’s still investigating it.”

Houston nodded. “He’s anxious for more parts, but another storm is blowing our way. No diving today. It looks like Jack and his crew will get the day off.”

David’s eyes narrowed. “Sir, speaking of Kirkland, there’s something I wanted to bring to your attention.”

“Yes?”

“The Navy’s submersible and divers from the Deep Submergence Unit are due to arrive tomorrow. With our own men here, I see no need to keep Kirkland, a freelancer, on-site. For security purposes—”

Houston sighed, giving David a hard look. “I know of the bad blood between you two. But until the Navy’s sub is tested at these depths, Jack and the Deep Fathom are remaining on-site. Jack is a skilled deep-sea salvager, and his expertise will not be wasted because of your past conflicts.”

“Aye, sir,” David said between clenched teeth, seething at the admiral’s support of Kirkland.

Houston waved David out of his way. “As a matter of fact, I’m heading over to the Deep Fathom right now.”

David watched the admiral leave, numb to the cold wind blowing through the open door. It clanged shut, but David remained standing, staring at the closed door. His limbs shook with rage.

Before he could move, booted footsteps sounded behind him.

David forced a calmer composure as he turned. To his relief, he saw it was another of his men. Omega team’s electronics expert, Gregor Handel.

The man stopped. “Sir.”

“What is it, Lieutenant?” David snapped at the young man.

“Sir, Director Ruzickov is on the scrambled telecom line. He wishes to speak to you ASAP.”

With a nod, David strode past Handel. It must be the call he had been waiting for these past three days.

Gregor followed, in step behind him. David strode quickly through to his own room. Leaving Handel outside, he closed the door. On his desk rested a small briefcase, opened. Inside was an encoded satellite phone. A red light blinked on its console. David grabbed up the receiver. “Spangler here.”

There was a short pause. The voice was filled with static. “It’s Ruzickov. You have the green light to proceed to stage two.”

David felt his heart beat faster. “I understand, sir.”

“You know what you must do?”

“Yes, sir. No witnesses.”

“There must be no mistakes. The security of our shores depends on your action these next twenty-four hours.”

David had no need for this pep talk. He knew the importance of his mission. Here was a chance to finally grind the last major Communist power under the heel of American forces. “I will not fail.”

“Very good, Commander Spangler. The world will be waiting for your next call.” The line went dead.

David lowered the receiver back to its cradle. At last! He felt as if a heavy stone had been lifted from his shoulders. The waiting, the kowtowing, was over. He swung around to the door and opened it. Handel waited. “Get the team together,” he ordered.

Handel nodded and turned sharply on a heel.

David closed the door and crossed to his bunk. Bending over, he hauled out two large cases from under his bed. One was packed with C-4 explosives, detonators, and electronic timers. The other held his newest prize. It had just arrived this morning by special courier. He rested his hand atop the case.

Distantly, thunder echoed from outside. The promised storm bore down upon them. David smiled. By nightfall his true mission would begin.

George Klein sat buried in the ship’s library, lost in his research, oblivious to the rocking and rolling of the ocean. For the past twenty-four hours the historian had holed up here, going over old charts and stories, searching for some clue to the origin of the strange script written on the crystal pillar. Though he had achieved no success, his research had revealed something disturbing. The discovery had kept him from his bed all night.

On the teak desk, George had splayed out a large map of the Pacific. Tiny red-flagged pins speared the map, dates scrawled on each flag. They marked ships, planes, and submarines lost in the region, going back a full century: In 1957, an Air Force KB-50 disappears near Wake Island; in 1974, Soviet “Golf II” class submarine vanishes southwest of Japan; in 1983, the British Glomar Java Sea is lost off Hainan Island. So many. Hundreds and hundreds of ships. George had an old report from the Japanese Maritime Safety Agency, listing boats lost with no trace ever found.

George stood, moving back. He studied the pins. Having sailed in these waters for years, investigating shipwrecks, he had heard of the term the “Dragon’s Triangle.” It extended from Japan in the north to Yap Island in the south and trailed to the eastern end of Micronesia, a triangle of catastrophe and missing ships, not unlike the region known as the Bermuda Triangle in the Atlantic Ocean. But he had never given these tales much thought until now. He’d attributed the vanishings to ordinary causes: pirate activity, wicked weather, deep-sea quakes.

But now he was not so sure. He picked up an old report from a WWII Japanese commander of a Zero fighter wing, Shiro Kawamoto. The aged commander told a curious tale, the story of the disappearance of a Kawanishi Flying Boat during World War II off the coast of Iwo Jima. Kawamoto quoted the final words of the doomed pilot over the radio: “Something is happening in the sky…the sky is opening up!”

He returned the report to its pile. Jack had related the details of Air Force One’s transcript to him last night after it was clear the news had already been leaked to the press. The cockpit recording had struck a chord in him, sending him to his library. It had taken him an hour to dig up Kawamoto’s recounting. The similarity was too striking. It took him the rest of the night to construct the model before him.

George returned to his map. Red pencil and ruler in hand, he charted the Dragon’s Triangle upon the map. He worked deftly, striking the lines cleanly. Once done, he stood back again. All the tiny pins fell within the boundary of his lines, all within the infamous triangle.

The old historian sat down. He did not know the significance of his discovery, but he couldn’t stop a feeling of dread from settling in his chest. Over the long night, he had read countless other stories of ships gone missing in these seas. Stories extending far into the past, to records of ancient Imperial Japan, countless centuries.

But these stories were not what disturbed him the most. They were not what kept him working all night. Instead, among the cluster of red flags, in the exact center of the marked triangle, was a single blue flag.

It marked the grave of Air Force One.

At the bank of computers, Karen worked alongside Miyuki. On a tiny monitor, she watched a computer flash through various connections, winding through an Internet maze. Finally, the University of Toronto logo appeared on the active window. “You did it!” Karen said.

“Gabriel did it,” Miyuki answered.

“I don’t care who did it, as long as we’re hooked up.”

For the past day, they had been trying to get a linkup to the outside world. Blackouts, phone service interruptions, and overloaded circuits had plagued their efforts to reach networks across the Pacific, even with Gabriel’s skills. But at last Gabriel had succeeded. With this Internet connection, their research into the discoveries at the Chatan ruins could continue.

“Now maybe we can get somewhere,” Karen said, grabbing the computer’s mouse. After learning of the crystal artifact’s strange properties, she had urged Miyuki to keep quiet until she could research the language in more depth. Miyuki had not argued. Both women were too stunned — and frightened — by their discovery. They had locked the artifact up in the safe in Miyuki’s office.

Karen connected to the anthropology department of the University of Toronto. She performed a quick search under the name rongorongo and found six websites. She worked rapidly, afraid of losing even her tenuous connection. She clicked on a web address titled “Santiago Staff.” From her research, she knew this was one of the twenty-five known authentic artifacts from Rapa Nui’s ancient past.

On the screen, a photograph of a length of wood appeared. Carved into its surface were rows of tiny glyphs. Below the picture was a detailed rendering of the staff’s writing. Karen highlighted it. Several of the symbols looked similar to those they had found in the star chamber. “We need to compare these to the lines we photographed.”

“Done,” Gabriel’s disembodied voice answered.

On a neighboring monitor the screen split into two halves. On the left side a copy of the Santiago Staff’s glyphs scrolled. On the right the script from the star chamber rolled past. At first nothing seemed to match — they were similar but not exact — then, abruptly, the scrolling stopped. Two glyphs, now highlighted in red, shared opposite sides of the screen.

Miyuki gasped. “They look almost the same!”

Karen frowned. She was not yet convinced. “It might be a coincidence. How many different ways could there be to represent a starfish?” She spoke louder: “Gabriel, can you find any other matches?”

“I already have.”

The pair of starred glyphs shrunk in size. Now each half of the computer monitor was filled with thirty glyphs, each side the mirror of the other. Human figures, odd creatures, geometric shapes — but they all matched!

“I think this is more than coincidence,” Miyuki said softly.

“No kidding,” Karen said.

“Adding this database to the previous,” Gabriel said. “I estimate the language constitutes some 120 main glyphs, combining to form twelve hundred to two thousand compound glyphs. With more data, I may be able to begin building a translation.”

Karen’s eyes grew even wider. “I can’t believe this. If Gabriel’s right, the star chamber may be the Rosetta stone for this ancient language, the final key to a century-long puzzle.” She returned to her monitor and computer. “Gabriel, I’m going to direct the other rongorongo examples to you.” She returned to the main screen and began feeding in other Easter Island artifacts: the Mamari tablet, the Large and Small Washington tablet, the Oar, the Aruka Kurenga, the Santiago tablet and Small St. Petersburg tablet.

When she was done, Karen straightened, turning to Miyuki. “Toronto only has these nine artifacts. Can Gabriel search other universities’ databases on his own? If we could add the glyphs from the other sixteen artifacts—”

“Then we’d have a better chance at deciphering the language.” Miyuki also spoke louder: “Gabriel, can you perform a worldwide search?”

“Certainly, Professor Nakano. I will begin immediately.”

Karen clutched Miyuki’s wrist. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?” Excited, she answered her own question: “For centuries scholars have been attempting to translate the rongorongo writing. How old is the writing? Where did it come from? Who brought it to the islanders? The entire lost history of this section of the world could finally be revealed.”

“Don’t get your hopes too high, Karen.”

“I’m not,” she lied. “But either way, to discover a new source of rongorongo script on the opposite side of the Pacific — that alone will garner countless journal articles. It’ll force historians to change their assumptions of this area. And what else is at Chatan? We’ve barely scratched the surface. We should—”

An alarm klaxon rang out from a wall-mounted siren.

Karen jumped at the noise. Miyuki stood up.

“What is it?” Karen asked.

“My office alarm! Someone is breaking into my office.”

Karen bolted to her feet. “The crystal star!”

Miyuki grabbed her elbow. “The guards downstairs will check it out.”

Karen shook out of her friend’s grip and moved toward the door. Her mind spun. She would not lose this clue to a mystery older than mankind. She zippered down her white cotton clean suit and grabbed her pistol from its shoulder harness. Luckily, the Chatan police had not discovered her weapon after the incident at the ruins. Ever since that adventure, she did not go anywhere without it.

Miyuki followed her as far as the lab’s antechamber. “Leave it to the guards,” she repeated emphatically.

“The elevators aren’t working. By the time they get here, the thieves could be gone. And I won’t lose that artifact! It’s too valuable.” Trusting in her skill as a marksman, Karen cracked open the door and peeked down the hall toward Miyuki’s office. The door lay open, its glass window shattered. Karen strained to hear anything, but the alarm was deafening.

Taking a deep breath, she ducked out the door and crept along the wall toward the open office. Despite her warnings, Miyuki followed. Karen glanced at her friend, but Miyuki waved her on.

Readying her pistol, Karen slid along the wall. She could see a light skittering around inside the office. A flashlight. The intruder had not been scared off by the alarm. Her heart thundered in her ears. She swallowed hard and continued on.

At the doorway, she paused. She could hear two men arguing inside, but didn’t recognize the language. There was a loud crack of splintering wood. She squeezed the grip of her pistol, tensed for a breath, then leaped into the entryway.

“Freeze!” she yelled.

Inside, two men glanced up at her with shocked expressions. They had dark complexions, clearly South Pacific Islanders. One held a crowbar, which he’d just used to break into Miyuki’s desk. The other held a pistol. He made a move in her direction.

Karen fired — a warning shot. Plaster puffed from the wall behind the armed man’s head. He froze.

“Drop the weapons or you’re dead!” she screamed. She did not know if the men knew English, but the single warning shot crossed all language barriers.

The thief paused, then tossed his pistol to the side, a sour look on his dark face. The other dropped his crowbar.

Her adrenaline surging, her senses were acute. From the corner of her eyes she saw the ramshackle condition of Miyuki’s office. In the short time, they had torn through the filing cabinets. The drawers of the desk had been pulled and dumped. With relief, she noted that the wall safe hidden behind Miyuki’s doctoral diploma had not been discovered.

“Raise your hands,” she said, motioning with her pistol.

They obeyed. Karen kept her gun raised. The building security should be arriving in the next few moments. She just had to keep these thieves at bay.

As the men stood with their hands up, Karen noticed their bare arms. The serpent tattoo was visible even in the dim light. Recognizing the symbol, her breath caught in her chest. They were the looters from the pyramids!

Momentarily confused and shocked, she was a few seconds too slow in realizing the hidden threat. They had been attacked at the pyramids by three men. Only two were here. Where was the third?

To her right, Miyuki gasped. She was posted in the shadow of the door. Karen glanced her way. Miyuki was staring down the hall, past Karen’s shoulder. Karen swung around.

The third thief stepped into the hall from the stairwell, a rifle at his shoulder. Clearly their lookout.

The man fired, the blast deafening.

But Karen and Miyuki were no longer there. Both women had leaped through the door into the office. The wooden door frame burst into shards behind them.

Inside, one of the men lunged for the fallen pistol. Karen fired. The man’s hand blew back in a spray of blood. Moaning, he rolled away from the discarded weapon, his bloody fist clutched to his chest.

Karen darted farther into the room, giving her space to cover both men and the doorway.

The last man kept his hands raised, unmoving. It was not fear that kept him steady. Karen saw it in his eyes. His calmness was almost unnerving. He backed a step, then sidled along the wall, clearly offering no threat. He kicked his wounded companion and barked something in his foreign tongue. The bloodied man crawled across the floor, in the direction of the door.

Karen’s pistol followed them. She did not shoot. Not in cold blood. If they were leaving, then let them. Hopefully, university security would capture them on the way out. But the reason for her restraint was not solely because the others were unarmed. The first man’s eyes did not leave hers. In his gaze, she continued to see a calmness that belied their situation.

Then the rifleman appeared in the doorway. Before he could swing on them, the first man knocked his companion’s gun barrel aside. He eyed Karen and Miyuki, and spoke rapidly in Japanese, his accent thick. Then the trio left, the un-injured two helping their wounded companion.

Karen did not lower her pistol, even after their footsteps faded away. “What did he say?” Karen asked Miyuki.

“H-He said that we do not know what we have discovered. It was never supposed to be unearthed.” Miyuki glanced at the hidden wall safe, then back at Karen. “It is a curse upon us all.”

David Spangler led his team across the wet deck, sticking to shadows. The storms had grown worse by nightfall. Thunder boomed like distant mortar fire, while spats of lightning turned night to day for flickering seconds. Nearby, waves smashed against the flanks of the carrier, washing as high as the deck itself.

After the evening meal, the NTSB investigators had retreated to their own bunks, many seasick, abandoning the wreckage until the storm abated. Additionally, David had declared the hangar deck to be unsafe for personnel with the ship heaving to and fro, especially with all the loose pieces of wreckage. He had ordered the hangar deserted until the storm died down. Green-faced and holding their stomachs, none of the NTSB personnel had argued. Afterward, David assigned his men to guard the abandoned hangar’s entry points.

With the night complete and the storm in full rage, David had chosen this moment to proceed with their plan. Sheltering for a moment in the lee of the giant superstructure, he spotted the two men guarding the entrance to the hangar ramp tunnel. One of the pair lifted a flashlight high, signaling it was all clear, then doused the light.

Diving into the sweeps of rain, David hurried forward, shielding a thick case against his chest. Behind him the other three men, laden with their own satchels, kept pace, moving with confident skill across the pitching deck.

David slid into the tunnel entrance and crouched beside the pair of guards. “All clear?”

“Yes, sir,” his second-in-command reported. “The last of them left half an hour ago.”

David nodded, satisfied. He turned to the others. “You know your duties. Keep up your guard. Handel and Rolfe with me.”

The two men collected the equipment satchels. David kept his own case. He led them into the tunnel entrance.

It grew darker as they proceeded down. At the bottom there were no lights. Pausing, David slipped on his night vision goggles and switched on his UV lantern. The stacks of wreckage appeared out of the gloom, limned in dark purple and white. He waved the others to follow.

Striding briskly, he moved down the central corridor of the makeshift warehouse. No one spoke. David flashed his ultraviolet light along the numbered side aisles. At last he found number 22. Pausing, he cast his light around. There was no sign of anyone else here, but the boom of thunder and the rattle of rain muffled even their own footsteps. It set David’s teeth on edge. When he worked, he depended on the full use of all his senses.

He searched for a full minute more, then lowered the UV light. He stood beside one of the jet’s hulking General Electric engines. Except for impact damage, it was intact. He now knew where he was, and led the way to the side. His goal appeared out of the darkness: a crate marked with the designation 1-A on its side. It contained the first bit of wreckage raised to the surface.

He nodded to his men.

The pair donned surgical gloves, intending to leave no fingerprints. They worked efficiently, with minimal wasted movement. Rolfe pulled a small crowbar from his bag and loosened the crate’s nails. Gregor Handel slid to his knees and primed the bomb’s electronics with four cubes of C-4, enough to blow away several yards of wreckage around it.

David knelt and set down his own thick case, snapping the bindings loose.

“I’m ready, sir,” Gregor said beside him.

David nodded and opened his case. It held the mission’s true prize. Resting on the felt interior was a jade sculpture — the bust of a Chinese warrior.

Even through the night vision goggles, he recognized the fine work. He smiled with pride. This aspect of the plan was pure brilliance on his part. He had ordered the bust fabricated after the first day’s dive on the wreck. It was an exact duplicate of the bust Jack Kirkland had rescued from the seabed. The handsome object was a fragment of the Chinese Premier’s original gift, a jade replica of an ancient warrior seated on his horse. When David had first seen the fragment, he quickly modified his original strategy. It occurred to him now that he should thank Kirkland for this opportune turn of events.

He unscrewed the bust’s ear, revealing a hidden compartment in the jade. He passed the bit of sculpture to his electronics expert. Working deftly, Gregor slid the bomb in place and checked all the wires and transmitters.

Nearby, Rolfe extracted the original bust from the crate’s bubble packing and settled it within their own case.

David glanced at his watch. Only a minute had passed.

“I need some real light,” Gregor hissed, bent over the false bust. He pulled back his night vision goggles. “This Chink electronics is crap. I need to double-check the connections.”

David nodded to Rolfe. The man knelt and shone a small flashlight toward the chunk of jade. David pushed aside his own night vision goggles.

Gregor tilted his head, fingers working over the explosive unit. The timers and detonators had been stolen last week from a Chinese black market dealer; perfect to lay a false trail.

Gregor sighed in relief and held the bust toward David. “All set.”

David accepted it and screwed the jade ear in place. “Let’s get going,” he said, standing up.

As he stepped toward the crate, a call echoed across the dark tent. “Who’s out there!”

David and the others froze. Rolfe flicked off his flashlight. The men returned to night vision. Deeper in the tent, a new light bloomed. It lay over by the electronics bay.

“Show yourself, or I’ll call Security!”

David thought quickly. He now recognized the voice. It was Edwin Weintraub, the NTSB lead investigator. He bit back a curse. The hangar was supposed to be empty. David leaned over to Rolfe. “Shut him down. Minimal harm.”

Rolfe nodded and backed swiftly away, disappearing into the darkness.

Quickly, David adjusted his plans. It was what made him such a successful field commander. In the real world, few plans proceeded as planned. For a mission to succeed, a plan had to be liquid, capable of changing at a moment’s notice. Like now…

David stood, shouting, “Quiet down, Weintraub! It’s just me!”

“Commander Spangler?” The edge of panic in the man’s voice died down.

“I’m just checking to make sure everything is secure before retiring. What are you doing here?”

“I was taking a nap on my cot in the back. My computer is compiling data. I’m waiting for it to finish.”

“You shouldn’t be out in this storm.”

“Everything’s insulated and surge-protected. There’s no danger.”

That’s what you think. David knew that Rolfe should almost be in position. He raised his voice, keeping Weintraub’s attention on him. “Fine! If you’ve got everything in hand, I’m heading out. The guards will be outside all night if you have any problems.”

“Thanks! But I’ll be all — Hey, who are—”

David heard a loud crash. He frowned. Rolfe was better than that. Sloppy work.

“All clear!” Rolfe called out.

“I’m sending Handel over to help you. Bring that slimy sack of shit over here.”

Gregor straightened, a look of inquiry on his face, but the man knew better than to question an order. David waved him forward. Gregor quickly vanished.

As he waited, David lowered the bust to the deck and collected their tools. This unfortunate blunder could be turned to their advantage. His original plan was to set off the explosive device during the workday tomorrow. A few men would probably die, but it was a small price to pay. But now he recalibrated his plans.

Beyond the rumble of the storm, he heard the scrape of boot on deck. He turned in time to see his two men edge into aisle 22, Weintraub’s slack form slung between them. His wrists and ankles were lashed with plastic straps, his mouth sealed with duct tape. The large man moaned and struggled feebly, clearly dazed by the attack.

“Bring him here and dump him.”

The pair lowered their captive to the deck. “I’m sorry, sir,” Rolfe apologized. “I slipped on some grease. He saw me before I could silence him.”

“Poor work all around,” David said harshly. “Weintraub shouldn’t even be here.”

“His cot was hidden behind a wall of wreckage. His computer’s monitor was switched off. In the dark—”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses.” David turned his attention to the restrained investigator. By now Weintraub had regained full consciousness. David spotted the large lump behind his left ear. A dribble of blood marked where Rolfe had clubbed him. Weintraub stared at David, his eyes bright with hatred and anger.

“What do we do with him?” Gregor asked. “Toss him overboard. Blame the storm?”

David continued to study his prey. He watched the man’s anger change to fear. “No. Drowning him will do us no good.”

A flicker of hope in the man’s eyes…and suspicion.

David reached over and pinched Weintraub’s nostrils closed. “Hold him down.” Rolfe pinned the man’s legs; Gregor held his shoulders.

With his mouth sealed in duct tape, there was no air. Weintraub struggled, suffocating. David held tight, speaking to the others. “We’ll put his body to use. The weak spot in our plan was attempting to explain why tomorrow’s explosion would spontaneously happen. Why then? What set it off? It could raise suspicions.”

He nodded toward the struggling man. His color was now purplish, his eyes bulging in recognition of approaching death. David ignored his panic. “But here’s our scapegoat. The poor guy was tampering with the crate and accidentally set it off.”

“So we’ll blow it tonight?” Gregor asked.

“Just after midnight. Afterward, we’ll make sure the investigators discover the Chinese electronics. That’s all the proof Washington will need. They’ll come to believe the remainder of the jade sculpture had been similarly booby-trapped, that the Chinese stuffed the horse’s jade ass full of C-4.”

“I think he’s dead, sir,” Rolfe interrupted, still sitting on Weintraub’s knees.

David looked down and realized Rolfe was right. Weintraub stared unblinking at the ceiling, eyes empty. David released the dead man’s nose and wiped his gloved hand on his pant leg with disgust. “Free his bindings.”

His men obeyed while David ripped the duct tape from Weintraub’s purplish lips. Then he took the jade bust, balanced it atop the man’s chest, and placed the man’s hands near it. As David began to pull away, he had another idea. Fishing in a pocket, he pulled free a bit of electronic circuitry, of Chinese design, and placed it in the dead man’s fingers. He closed Weintraub’s hand over it. A bit of extra insurance.

Straightening, he surveyed his handiwork for a few seconds, then nodded curtly. “Let’s go. I’m famished.”

Gregor collected the cases. “What are we going to do with the extra C-4 and detonators?” he asked.

David smiled. “Don’t worry. I have another mission for you. After tonight, tomorrow’s gonna be a hectic day. Lots of chaos to conceal one more operation.”

“Sir?”

“I know someone who’ll appreciate that extra C-4.” David pictured Jack Kirkland, wearing his shit-eating grin as he stood with an arm around his sister’s shoulder. “A parting gift for an old friend.”

In the ship’s galley, Jack sat with Admiral Houston at a small table. Outside the narrow window, forked lightning streaked across the roiling skies. Due to the foul weather, the admiral had chosen to remain aboard the Fathom, but Jack suspected that his decision to stay was not all due to the storm.

As the ship heaved and rolled, the admiral chewed on the stubby end of his thick stogie, oblivious, and sighed out a long stretch of smoke. The old sailor was rapidly depleting Jack’s Cuban cigar stock. “You really should have told us sooner about this discovery,” Houston said.

Jack bowed his head. Earlier, he had played the secret recordings of the crystal spire and the strange hieroglyphics. After the close call with the giant squid, he knew he could no longer keep silent about his discoveries. “I know, but at first I didn’t think it was important to the investigation.”

“And you sought some way to snub your nose at the Navy.”

Jack grimaced. He never could put anything past the old man.

The admiral continued, “Your discovery may explain the magnetization of the wreckage’s parts. If the crystal was giving off some form of radiation, it may have affected the wreck. Weintraub will want to know about this.”

Jack nodded. He had been surprised to hear about the magnetization of the plane’s metal sections.

“Is there anything else you’ve been hiding?” Houston asked.

“No, not really.”

Houston’s look bore in on Jack. “Not really?”

“Just a few thoughts…nothing concrete.”

“Like what?”

“It’s not important.”

Houston drilled Jack with his steely eyes. Even after twelve years, it still made Jack cringe inside. “Let me decide what’s important and what isn’t.”

Jack felt backed into a corner. “I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence that most of the wreckage just happened to land by the pillar?”

“Strange? No doubt. But who knows how many of these spikes may lie down there on the ocean floor? Only a small fraction of the deep seabed has been investigated.”

“Maybe.” Jack was not convinced.

Silence descended over the pair, except for the distant rumble of thunder. Finally, Houston stretched, stubbing out his cigar. “Well, if that’s all…It’s getting late. I should get myself to bed before I totally clean out your Cuban supply. Thanks for lending me your cabin.”

Jack took a deep breath. All afternoon he had been mulling over an idea he’d been afraid to verbalize. “Mark…”

The admiral glanced his way, eyebrows raised. It was the first time Jack had addressed him so informally. “What is it?”

“I know this is crazy, but what if…what if the crystal spire had something to do with bringing down Air Force One?”

“Jack, c’mon, now you’re really pushing the envelope.”

“Don’t you think I know that? But I was the only one down there.” Jack recalled when his sub’s titanium arm had touched the crystal’s surface. The sense of free falling, the glitches.

“What are you saying?”

Jack spoke earnestly, struggling to put what he felt into words: “I once shipped out on a nuclear sub. I bunked not far from the reactor. Though the power plant was shielded, I could still somehow sense the immense power behind the bulkhead. It was like my bones were picking up something that no machine could detect. It was like that down below. An immense power, humming along, idling.”

Houston stared silently, then spoke, slowly. “I trust your judgment, Jack. I don’t doubt you felt something. If the thing could magnetize the wreckage, then it is damn strong. But to bring down a jet flying at forty or fifty thousand feet…” The admiral’s voice died away.

“I know…I know what it sounds like. But I just wanted you to know what I discovered, what I felt down there. All I ask is that you keep your mind open.”

Houston nodded. “I appreciate your candor, Jack. But I always keep my options open.” The old man shook his head tiredly. “All I wish is that Washington would do the same. You know you’re not the only one with thoughts about the crash. The new administration seems to have already made up their minds.”

“What are they saying now?” Jack asked.

“Sabotage. Done by the Chinese.”

Jack’s brow crinkled. Over the past few days he had been too busy to follow the news. “But that’s ridiculous. President Bishop was one of the staunchest advocates for negotiating a long-term relationship with China. Why would they assassinate him?”

The admiral scowled. “It’s all politics. Posturing. But in response, the Chinese have already pulled their diplomats out of the U.S. and kicked ours out of their country. Just this morning I learned that the Chinese navy has been out on maneuvers. Just more posturing on their part, but it’s still a dangerous game Washington is playing.”

Jack suddenly felt foolish voicing his own wild conjecture. The admiral had enough on his plate. “Then I guess we need the real answer ASAP.”

“No doubt. At least we’ll have the Navy’s own sub to aid us tomorrow. With two submersibles diving, we should be able to accelerate the pace.”

Jack nodded. The sub was the newest prototype, a part of the Navy’s Deep Submergence Unit, rated to the depth of fifteen thousand feet and a speed of up to forty knots. “I’ve read about the Perseus. A real Ferrari of the fleet.”

“A Ferrari with teeth. It was just outfitted with an array of minitorpedoes.”

Jack’s eyes widened.

“It’s the latest modification to the Perseus. Still classified info.”

“Should you be telling me about it?”

Houston waved off his concern. “You would’ve found out tomorrow anyway. These little submarine busters should help discourage any hostile sea life from trying to eat you again.”

Jack grinned. “For once, I’m not going to object to the Navy guarding my back.”

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted their discussion. Both men turned. George Klein pushed up into the galley from the lower deck. “I thought I heard voices up here,” the historian said. “I was hoping you were still awake, Jack.”

Jack was surprised by the professor’s shabby appearance: dark circles shadowed his eyes, a scraggly gray beard covered his chin. It looked as if he had not slept in a couple days. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen George all day. “What is it, Professor?”

The historian lifted a rolled map in his hand. “Something I wanted to run past you. I’ve been researching other disappearances in this region. I think you should see this.”

Jack knew George did not voice idle thoughts. The historian remained close-lipped until he was satisfied with his research. And from the condition of the man, Jack suspected he had been digging into something significant.

“What have you discovered?”

“Perhaps the underlying reason for the crash of Air Force One.”

The admiral straightened and looked significantly at Jack. “It seems everyone is coming up with their own theories today.”

George ignored the admiral’s words and moved to the galley table. As the historian unrolled his map, Jack caught a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean and a large red-penciled triangle. Before he could get a better look, a loud boom shook through the ship.

Everyone froze.

As the sound echoed away, Jack heard Elvis barking deeper in the ship’s belly.

Wincing, the professor adjusted his glasses. “That was close. That thunderclap must have been—”

Both the admiral and Jack were on their feet. “That wasn’t thunder,” Jack said, stepping to the door leading to the stern deck.

Outside, rain lashed the deck. The winds tried to rip the door handle from his grip. The ship rolled deeply under his feet.

Both men followed him from the galley.

Turning, Jack searched the seas. About a quarter mile away he spotted the silhouette of the USS Gibraltar. The ship now blazed with lights. From its deck, a small fireball rolled into the dark sky.

“What happened?” George asked, wiping at his glasses.

No one answered — but as Jack followed the fireball, he sensed that their true troubles were just beginning.