Deep Fathom

11 Exiled

Climbing the stairs of Miyuki’s building, Karen was thrilled to get back to work. After yesterday’s attempted theft, she and Miyuki had spent the entire day holed up with university security. Even though she had used her gun in self-defense, the authorities confiscated her weapon. With Japanese gun laws as strict as they were, it had taken Karen hours to talk her way out of the police station. Afterward, Ryukyu’s president, concerned about the attack, had called to reassure the two women and promise them increased security.

Taking extra measures herself, Karen had stashed the crystal artifact in her safe deposit box at her bank in anticipation of another attempted theft.

Even now, as she climbed the building’s stairs, she was accompanied by a uniformed security guard. At least the university’s president had proven true to his word, she thought. At the top of the stairs she led the way to Miyuki’s lab. After she knocked and identified herself, she heard the tumblers in the lock and then the door inched open.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” the guard asked in Japanese.

Miyuki nodded. She pulled the door open, allowing Karen to enter.

“We’ll be fine from here,” Karen said in stilted Japanese. “We’ll keep the doors locked and will call down when we’re ready to leave.”

He nodded and turned curtly.

Karen closed the door and Miyuki locked it again. Sighing, Karen reached over and took her friend’s hand. “We’re safe,” she said. “They won’t be back. Not with the extra security around here.”

“But—”

She gave Miyuki’s hand a squeeze. Remembering how calm the leader of the thieves had been, and recalling how he had knocked down his companion’s rifle, she said, “I don’t think they truly meant us any personal harm. They just wanted the artifact.”

“And are determined to get it no matter who stands in their way,” Miyuki added dourly.

“Don’t worry. With it locked in my safe deposit box, they’ll have to defeat the Bank of Tokyo’s security system to get it.”

“I’m still not taking any chances.” Miyuki waved Karen to the clean suits hanging on their wall. “C’mon. Gabriel has discovered something interesting.”

“Really? About the language?”

“Yes, he finished compiling the other examples of the Easter Island script.”

Karen hurried into her clean suit, zipping it up and standing. “Do you think he has enough information to translate it?”

“It’s too soon to say. He’s working on it though.”

Tucking her hair into a paper bonnet as she moved toward the door, she asked, “But do you think he can do it?”

Miyuki shrugged and keyed open the door to the main lab. A whoosh of air sounded as the seal broke. “That’s not what you should be asking.”

Miyuki, always Japanese stoic, was seldom playful when she talked business, so the trace of mischief in her voice intrigued Karen. “What is it?”

“You need to see this.”

Clearly, Miyuki had discovered something important. “What? What is it?”

Miyuki led the way to the bank of computers. “Gabriel, could you please bring up Figure 2B on Monitor One.”

“Certainly. Good morning, Dr. Grace.”

“Good morning, Gabriel.” By now Karen was growing accustomed to their disembodied colleague.

The two women sat down. On the monitor before them, Karen saw data scrolling, flowing so rapidly it was almost a blur, but she noted that many of the fluttering images were of the unknown hieroglyphics. Within a few seconds five glyphs were centered on the screen.

She was unimpressed. “Okay. What am I looking at? Can you translate this section, Gabriel?”

“No, Dr. Grace. With the current level of data, a decryption of this language remains impossible.”

Karen frowned, disappointed. “Have you found any other examples of the rongorongo script?”

“I have found them all, Dr. Grace.”

Karen’s brows shot up. “All twenty-five? So soon?”

“Yes. I contacted 413 websites to obtain all known examples of this language. Unfortunately, three of the artifacts contained identical scripts, and one artifact contained only a single glyph. The amount of data was insufficient to complete a decryption.”

Karen eyed the monitor. “So what is this? Which artifact are these glyphs from?”

“None of them.”

“What?”

Miyuki interceded. “Please explain, Gabriel. Elaborate on your search parameters.” Miyuki turned to Karen and added hurriedly, “He thought of this all on his own.” Her face shone with excitement and pride.

Gabriel spoke. “After searching under the term ‘Rongorongo,’I performed a worldwide search under each individual symbol, 120 searches, to be precise. On an archaeology website at Harvard University, I discovered a matching post. It matched three of my search parameters.” On the screen, three of the five symbols suddenly glowed red.

“What about the other two?” Karen asked, struggling to understand.

“They do not match any known Rongorongo glyph.”

“What are you saying?”

Miyuki answered, “They’re new symbols. Glyphs no one’s seen before.”

“Th-That would mean we’ve discovered an undocumented artifact.” She sat up straighter. “A new find!”

“The note on the Harvard website was posted two days ago.”

“Can I see the posting?”

“It’s right here.” Miyuki slipped out a sheet. “I printed it out.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“I know. Gabriel was able to extend the search parameters on his own. It’s true independent thinking. Unbelievable progress.”

“Miyuki, I meant the new symbols.” Karen rattled the paper. “This is the unbelievable part.”

“In your field maybe.”

Karen realized she had slighted her friend’s accomplishment. “I’m sorry, Miyuki. Both you and Gabriel deserve my heartfelt appreciation.”

Miyuki, mollified, pointed. “Just read it. There’s more.”

Karen touched her friend’s wrist. “I do appreciate it. Really.”

“Oh, I know. I just like making you admit it.”

Rolling her eyes, Karen turned her attention to the e-mail post.

Karen lowered the paper. Besides the glyphs, she couldn’t help but notice the reference to a second crystal. It was too much of a coincidence.

“Do we know where this came from?”

Miyuki nodded. “Gabriel ran a trace. It’s from a salvage ship, the Deep Fathom. Right now it’s located in the middle of the Pacific. Gabriel was able to track its current position by tapping into the GPS system.”

“Where is it?”

“Near Wake Island. But that’s not the weird part. Gabriel discovered a news article about the ship. The Deep Fathom is currently aiding in the deep-sea salvage of Air Force One.”

“How strange…” Karen frowned, trying to figure out how the two items could possibly be connected. “We need to contact this George Klein.”

“Gabriel is already working on it.”

Jack sat tensely in the leather chair in the long conference room. Though the room was crowded, no one spoke. They all awaited the appearance of Admiral Houston. He was conferring with the Joint Chiefs after last night’s explosion. All night long, investigators and military personnel had combed through the damage. Under sodium spotlights, a hundred men dug, shifted, and collected pieces of evidence.

The remains of the chief investigator, Edwin Weintraub, had been found and brought to the ship’s infirmary. His body was badly charred and blast-burned. The initial identification was made by his wedding ring. It had been a long and somber night. With security as tight as an angry fist, Jack had been refused admission to the Gibraltar until this morning.

But even with the lead ship locked down, rumors had spread to the support vessels, including the Deep Fathom. A bomb. Hidden in the Chinese jade bust. Shards had speared everywhere, piercing the tent’s tarpaulin, even embedding into the bones of Weintraub’s skull and limbs. Additionally, the explosion had ignited a nearby tank of cleaning oil, creating the brilliant fireball that had blasted forth from the shaft of a cargo elevator.

Jack shivered. He had handled the jade bust himself. If the stories were true, what if it exploded while he’d been on the ocean bottom? He pushed away that stray thought.

Around him, in the room, the silence remained tense. Everyone looked bone-tired and thunderstruck. Not even whispers were shared.

At last the door to the conference room swung open. Admiral Houston stalked into the room, flanked by his aides and trailed by David Spangler. The admiral remained standing, while the other three men took seats. Jack made eye contact with Houston, but the admiral did not acknowledge him. His face was ashen, his eyes as hard as agates.

“Gentlemen,” Houston began, “first let me thank you all for your industrious efforts this past week. The tragedy last night will not minimize your significant contribution.” The admiral bowed his head. “But I must now sadly announce that the remains found last night were positively identified as those of Dr. Edwin Weintraub.”

A murmur spread through the crowd of NTSB personnel.

“I know all who met Dr. Weintraub held him in the highest esteem. He will be missed.” The admiral’s tone grew harder. “But his death was not in vain. Amidst the debris, his murderers left evidence of their cowardice. Experts — both here and in San Diego — have confirmed the origin of the electronic timer and detonator. Both were of Chinese manufacture.”

A few of the NTSB men raised angry voices. The Navy and Marine personnel remained stoic, except for a lieutenant sitting near Jack who moaned a quick, “Oh, God.”

The admiral lifted a hand. “It is now believed that Dr. Weintraub accidentally triggered the hidden bomb during the course of his investigation. It is conjectured that similar devices were probably planted throughout the original ten-foot-high sculpture. Such an explosion in the cargo hold is believed to have downed Air Force One.”

A hush settled over the crowd.

“Back home, these findings will break with this evening’s news. It cannot be kept from the American people. But once word spreads, worldwide tensions will escalate quickly, especially so soon after the Pacific tragedy. As such, I have just received word that the USS Gibraltar has been ordered to the Philippine Sea. En route, we will be offloading both the NTSB personnel and the wreckage of Air Force One on the island of Guam.”

New murmurs ran through the crowd.

The admiral waited for his audience to quiet down before continuing. “The Navy’s salvage and research ship, the Maggie Chouest, along with the Navy’s Deep Submergence Unit, will continue recovering the last pieces of Air Force One from the ocean floor. Once collected, they’ll also be shipped to Guam. This revised mission will be overseen by the current head of security, Commander Spangler.”

The admiral remained standing, silent, stone-faced, then spoke slowly. “President Nafe has promised that these terrorists will not go unpunished. Washington has already demanded that the Chinese turn over all persons involved to international authorities.” Houston clenched a fist. “And let me add my personal promise. Justice will be served — whether the Chinese government cooperates or not. America will answer terrorism upon her people with swift and terrible fury.”

Jack had never seen Admiral Houston so incensed. The cords of his neck stuck out, his lips were bled of color.

“That is all. If there are any further questions of detail, I refer you to my protocol officer. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Jack raised a hand, unsure if his own crew would continue to play a role here. “Sir, if I might ask about the salvage op—”

The admiral cut him off angrily. “Mr. Kirkland, any such questions should be directed to Commander Spangler.” Without another word, Houston swung through the door and was gone.

Jack’s gaze twitched to David. A small, spiteful smirk flickered on Spangler’s face before he stood. “In answer to your question, Mr. Kirkland, we thank you for your service. As this matter is now one of national security, your additional presence is no longer needed.”

“But—”

“This is now a military operation. No civilians will be allowed. A two-mile cordon will be set up around the crash site. You will be expected out of the zone by 1800 hours.”

Jack glowered at David, knowing this banishment was of a personal nature.

“If you are not out of the region or if you attempt to reenter, you and your crew will be arrested and your ship impounded.”

This response drew murmurs from the audience.

“I have already arranged for two men to escort you from the Gibraltar.” David lifted a hand. Two of his men stood up.

Jack’s face warmed. He ground his teeth in frustration. He did not know what to say. He knew he couldn’t go to the admiral, since Houston was clearly overburdened and did not need to be bothered by a petty squabble. Jack scowled at David Spangler. He had risked his life here, and was now being unceremoniously dumped out on his ear. “I have no need for an escort,” he said coldly.

David signaled his men with a flip of a hand. “Make sure Mr. Kirkland leaves immediately.”

Jack did not resist as he was led away. What was the use? If the government didn’t want his help, so be it.

Within minutes, he found himself seated aboard a Navy launch. The pilot, a Navy seaman, revved the engine and aimed for the Deep Fathom, bouncing through the mild chop. With the storm front blown past, the day remained breezy but clear.

Behind Jack, Spangler’s two men were seated. He had not spoken a single word to the pair of gray-uniformed men, nor did he intend to.

Jack leaned back into his seat. From the security team’s lack of racial diversity, it seemed Spangler had not changed. David’s sister had once confided to him that her father had been a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan and often dragged David to meetings when he was a boy, beating him if he refused. Jack eyed the twin blond escorts. It seemed these childhood teachings had taken root in fertile ground.

With a bump, the seamen slid the boat near the launch platform at the stern of the Fathom. “All clear,” the pilot called out.

Jack stood and crossed over the boat’s starboard edge. Before he could clamber onto his own ship, one of David’s men grabbed his elbow. “Mr. Kirkland, Commander Spangler asked us to give you this once you boarded.”

The blond man held out a small square box, the size of a jeweler’s ring box. It was sealed with a small ribbon. Jack frowned at it.

“A parting gift,” the man said. “With Commander Spangler’s thanks.”

Jack accepted the gift, and the man nodded and stepped back. Jack hopped to his own boat’s platform and grabbed the ship’s ladder with one hand. As he turned, the Navy boat swung away with a throaty whine of its motor. Its wake splashed over the ribbed platform, soaking Jack’s boots.

Robert appeared on the main deck overhead, leaning over the stern rail. “How did it go?” he called down. “Learn anything more?”

“Yeah, gather everyone together.”

Robert gave him a thumbs-up and vanished.

Jack looked down at the small black gift box. He was sure it was not a thank-you gift for his service. More likely, it was one of David’s little jabs, a final insult to send him on his way. Jack had a sudden urge to fling it into the sea, but curiosity got the better of him. He fingered the ribbon, then shook his head. His day had been bad enough already — why add to it? He’d open the damned thing later. Pocketing the box in his jacket, he turned to the ladder.

Climbing up, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the Gibraltar. He forced down a twinge of regret. It was as if he’d been discharged all over again, cut free from a past that had been his whole life.

Surprisingly melancholy, Jack pulled himself onto the deck. Elvis came loping over to greet him. Jack knelt and gave the dog a vigorous pet, and its tail thumped in contentment. Some things never changed.

“You’d never shove me overboard, would you, boy?” he said, giving voice to his disappointment with the Navy.

Alone for the moment, Lawrence Nafe shifted in his chair, assessing the latest developments. His plan to implicate the Chinese had been proceeding like clockwork. Nicolas Ruzickov had proven a loyal friend and a skilled manipulator of the media. Earlier, Nafe had glanced over the letter his Secretary of State drafted to the Chinese Premier. It was fierce. Nafe recognized Ruzickov’s fingerprints all over the letter: no compromise…immediate reprisals…stiff sanctions…

It was just short of a declaration of war. Nafe had been only too happy to sign it. As far as he was concerned, it was about time the Chinese government felt the full weight of American diplomacy…a diplomacy backed by the might of the world’s greatest fighting force. The brief letter signaled an abrupt end to the pandering policies of Bishop’s administration. A shot across the bow, so to speak.

Nafe leaned back in his chair, surveying the spread of the Oval Office. This was now his administration, he mused, enjoying his new status. But his short moment to himself was interrupted by a knock at his door. “Come in,” he snapped.

The door was opened by his personal aide, a thin twenty-something boy whose name Nafe could not remember. “What is it?”

The youth half bowed, nervous. “Sir, the CIA director and the head of the OES are here to see you.”

Nafe sat up straighter. Neither man had an appointment. “Show them in.”

The boy backed out, allowing the two men inside.

Nicolas Ruzickov entered first and waved Jeb Fielding, the head of the Office of Emergency Services, toward the upholstered leather chairs to one side of the room. The older man, of bookish appearance, with rolled shoulders and an emaciated demeanor, bore an armful of papers tucked under his arm.

“Mr. President,” Ruzickov said, “I thought you should see this.” The CIA director gestured toward the sofas and chairs around an antique coffee table, where Fielding already sat. “If you’ll join us.”

With a groan, the heavyset Nafe stood and walked around his desk. “It’s late, Nicolas. Can’t this wait? I have my nationwide address first thing in the morning and I don’t want to look too tired. The American people will need a strong face in the morning as the news of Air Force One sinks in.”

Ruzickov bowed his head slightly, remaining officious. “I understand, Mr. President, and I implore your forgiveness. But this matter may have a bearing on tomorrow’s address.”

Nafe settled onto the sofa in the informal seating arrangement. Ruzickov and Fielding were in the chairs, the OES chief with his pile of papers…maps, Nafe realized.

“What is all this?” Nafe asked, leaning forward, as Fielding unfolded a map on the coffee table.

Ruzickov answered, “Late news.”

“Hmm?”

“As you know, the OES has been investigating the series of quakes from eight days ago. Given the devastation on the West Coast, detailed information was slow to dribble out.”

Nafe nodded impatiently. He had publicly addressed the whole “national disaster” bit last week. It was no longer his concern. He knew that in another few days he was due to tour the region, to shake hands at various homeless shelters and attend memorial services. He was even scheduled to cast a wreath off the coast of Alaska to mourn the thousands of deaths associated with the sinking of the Aleutian Islands. He was ready for the trip. He had his suits picked out and had posed before a mirror with his Armani jacket over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was a solid down-to-earth look, a President ready to help out his people.

Ruzickov drew Nafe’s attention to the map now open on the table. “With data flowing again from scientific stations on the West Coast, Jeb’s office has been compiling the information and seismic readings, trying to explain the natural catastrophe.”

Nafe looked up. “Do we know what triggered it?”

“No, not exactly, but maybe Jeb had better explain from here.” Ruzickov nodded for Fielding to speak.

The older man was clearly nervous. He wiped a handkerchief over his forehead and cleared his throat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. President.”

“Yes, yes…what have you learned?”

Fielding smoothed the map on the table. It depicted the Pacific Ocean, a topographic map of the sea floor, continental shelf, and coastlines. Drawn over it were a series of concentric circles. The outer circle, the largest, brushed across the western coast of the United States and arced around to the islands of Japan. The inner circles grew progressively smaller. Little red crosses dotted the coastlines and islands caught within these narrowing rings, marking disaster sites. Fielding ran his fingers along the concentric circles. “Our office has been able to map out the vectors of tectonic force during the series of quakes.”

Nafe wrinkled his brow. He hated to admit ignorance, but Ruzickov picked up on his confusion and said to Fielding, “Start at the beginning.”

Fielding bobbed his head. “Of course…I’m sorry…” He licked his lips. “We’ve known from the start that the eclipse-day quakes all occurred along the edge of the Pacific tectonic plate.” He marked out the rough margins of the outermost ring on his map.

Nafe’s brow remained wrinkled.

“Maybe I’d better elaborate further,” Ruzickov said, putting Fielding on hold. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. President, the Earth’s surface is actually a hard shell over a molten core, a fractured shell, actually, like a hardboiled egg struck on a table. Each shell piece or ‘tectonic plate’ floats atop this liquid core and is constantly in motion, one grinding against another, sometimes sinking under to form trenches, or conversely, riding up to form mountains. It is at these friction points between plates that seismic activity is highest.”

“I know all this,” Nafe said irritably, feigning insult.

Ruzickov pointed to the map. “There’s one big plate under the Pacific Ocean. The quakes and volcanic activity eight days ago all occurred along the margins or fault lines of that plate.” The CIA director pointed at some of the islands in the center of the map. “Additional catastrophes to coastlines and islands were the result of tidal wave activity generated by quakes under the sea.”

Nafe sat up, too tired to feign interest any longer. “Fine. I understand. So why this late night science lesson?”

“Jeb, why don’t you finish from here?”

Fielding nodded. “For the past week, we’ve been trying to find out what triggered so many points along the Pacific plate’s edge to go active at the same time, what triggered this catalytic reaction.”

“And?” Nafe said.

Fielding pointed to each concentric ring drawn on the map, starting at the outermost and ticking down each smaller ring. “By triangulating data from hundreds of geologic stations, we’ve been able to trace the direction of intensity, zeroing in on the true epicenter of this entire series of quakes.”

“You mean all these quakes may have originated from a single bigger event somewhere else?”

“Exactly. It’s called plate harmonics. A strong enough force striking a tectonic plate could send shockwaves radiating out, causing the plate’s rim to blow out with activity.”

“Like a pebble dropped into a still pond,” Ruzickov added. “Generating waves on the shorelines.”

Nafe’s brows rose. “Do we know what this ‘pebble’ might be?”

“No,” Fielding said, “but we do know where the pebble struck.” The head of OES continued to draw his fingertip down the map until he reached the centermost circle, a tiny red ring. He tapped his finger. “It was right here.”

Leaning closer, Nafe studied the map. It was only empty ocean. “What’s the significance?”

Ruzickov answered, “That circle is where Air Force One crashed.”

Nafe gasped. “Are you saying the crash of Air Force One caused this? That Bishop’s jet was this pebble we’ve been talking about?”

“No, certainly not,” Fielding said. “The quakes started hours before Air Force One crashed. In fact, it was the quakes in Guam that required the President’s evacuation. But either way, a plane crash would not yield a fraction of the force necessary to trigger a harmonic wave across the Pacific plate. Instead we’re talking about a force equal to a trillion megaton explosion.”

Nafe settled back onto the sofa. “Are you saying, then, that such an event occurred down there?” He nodded toward the tiny red circle.

Fielding slowly nodded back.

Ruzickov spoke into the silence. “Jeb, that’s all we’ll need for now. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Fielding reached for the map.

“Leave it,” Ruzickov said.

The man reluctantly pulled back his hand. He gathered up his other papers and stood. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

Nafe lifted a hand, dismissing him.

As Fielding moved off, Ruzickov said, “And, Jeb, your confidence in this matter would be appreciated. This stays between us for now.”

“Of course, sir,” Fielding replied, then left the room.

When he was gone, Nafe spoke. “So what do you think, Nick?”

Ruzickov pointed to the map. “I think this discovery may be the most important find of this century. Something happened out there. Something that might be related to the crash of Air Force One.” The CIA director stared Nafe full in the face. “That’s why I wanted you to hear about this tonight, before the official announcement tomorrow, before we commit ourselves fully to our current plan of blaming the Chinese.”

Nafe shook his head. “I’m not changing our position. Not at this late stage of the game.” He scowled at the concentric rings. “All this is just…just science. Not politics.”

“I agree,” Ruzickov said with a firm nod. “You’re in charge. It is ultimately your decision. I wanted you to be fully informed.”

Nafe felt a surge of self-pride at the CIA director’s support. “Good. But Nick, what about all this other information? Can we keep it buried?”

“Jeb’s my man. He won’t talk unless I tell him to.”

“Good, then tomorrow’s announcement will go along as planned.” Nafe leaned into the sofa, relieved that nothing would upset his schedule. “Now what did you mean about this being the discovery of the century?”

Ruzickov remained silent for a few moments, studying the map. “I’ve been keeping abreast on all reports from the crash site. Did you know that all the wreckage’s parts are magnetized?”

“No, but what does that matter?”

“The chief investigator, the deceased Edwin Weintraub, theorized that the parts were exposed to a strong magnetic force shortly after settling to the ocean’s bottom. I also read reports that the salvage operation’s submersible experienced some strange effects while down there…something associated with the discovery of a new crystalline formation.”

“I still don’t understand the significance.”

Ruzickov looked up. “Whatever is down there was strong enough to shake the entire Pacific plate. As Jeb said, a force equal to a trillion megatons. What if we could harness that power? Discover its secret? A supreme new energy source. Could you imagine that firepower at our fingertips? It could free us of the Arab’s stranglehold on our oil supply…power weapons and ships to dwarf any other military. There would be no end to the possibilities.”

“Sounds pretty far-fetched to me. How can you harness a onetime event at the bottom of the ocean?”

“I’m not sure yet, but what would happen if some other foreign nation were to get hold of this power? Jeb is not the only scientist in the world. In the months to come, someone else might devise a similar map and go to investigate. Those are international waters out there. We couldn’t stop them.”

Nafe swallowed. “What are you proposing?”

“Currently, we are uniquely situated to explore this site without raising suspicion or outside interest. We’re just recovering our lost President’s ship. It’s the perfect cover. We’ve got men and ships on-site already. Commander Spangler has it cordoned off. Under this cover, we could send down a research team.”

Nafe watched as Ruzickov’s eyes lit up. “So you’ve already thought about this?”

“And I’ve developed a tentative plan,” he said with a grim smile. “Off the coast of Hawaii, a deep-sea project, jointly run by the National Science Foundation and a consortium of Canadian private industries, has been under way for the past decade. They have developed and constructed a self-contained deep-sea research lab…equipped with its own submersible and ROV robots. It could be on-site and manned in four days. The two missions — recovering the last pieces of Air Force One and our clandestine research — should merge together smoothly. No one would suspect.”

“Then what’s the first step?”

“I just need your okay.”

Nafe nodded. “If there is something down there, we can’t risk it falling into foreign hands. You have the go-ahead to proceed.”

Ruzickov collected the map and stood. “I’ll contact Commander Spangler immediately and begin the operation.”

Nafe pushed to his feet. “But, Nick, after we set things in motion tomorrow, no one must know about this. No one.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. President. Commander Spangler will lock everything down tight. He has never failed me.”

Nafe swung around his desk and settled into the executive chair once again. “He had better not.”

Jack and the Deep Fathom’s crew sat around the table in the ship’s wet lab. The marine laboratory was one of the roomiest spaces on the small ship, a convenient meeting hall — if not the most homey. There were only hard metal stools on which to sit, and lining the cabin’s shelves were hundreds of clear jars of marine-life samples, preserved in brine or formaldehyde. The rows of dead animals seemed to stare down upon the assembled crew.

“I’m still not buying this explanation,” George said heatedly. “I’ve wired into the news reports all day long, heard the so-called experts spouting on CNN, CNBC, and the BBC. I’m not believing a word of it.”

Jack sighed. Earlier, he had related to his crew the findings announced at the briefing and their new orders: vacate the area. It took the entire afternoon to restow their gear, secure the Nautilus, and get under steam. By evening they had long cleared the crash zone, and only empty sea surrounded them.

“The crash is no longer our concern,” Jack said, exasperated.

The meeting was not going along as he’d expected. He had called this evening’s session to congratulate everyone for their help and to concoct a plan. With the treasure ship Kochi Maru sunk into a deep-sea volcano, the Fathom would need a new target. The two gold bars dredged up from the dive a week ago had been shipped to Wake Island, and from there to Kendall McMillan’s bank in San Diego. The small treasure barely covered their expenses in the year-long search for the Kochi Maru. The salvage fee for their assistance with the Navy would buy them a bit of latitude, but not much. They would still need to renegotiate a loan.

McMillan, the bank’s accountant, sat at the far end of the table, still looking green around the gills from yesterday’s storms. Whatever was decided here, the bank would make the final decision, deciding whether or not to finance their next venture. McMillan sat with a pen in hand, doodling in the margins of his legal pad. The crew, still angry at being so rudely booted out, had yet to make any progress.

Jack tried to refocus the discussion. “We need to put this matter behind us and consider what to do from here.”

George scowled. “Listen, Jack, before the explosion last night, I wanted to show you something. I still want to get this off my chest.”

Jack recalled the historian’s interrupted midnight talk with Admiral Houston. “Okay, but this is the last time we discuss this matter. Then on to real business.”

“Agreed.” George reached down and retrieved a rolled map from beside his chair. With a flick of his wrists, he unrolled its length across the table. The map held a view of the entire Pacific basin. A large red triangle had been penciled on its surface, with tiny X’s marked within its boundaries.

Lisa stood up to get a wider view. “What are you showing us?”

George tapped the map. “The Dragon’s Triangle.”

“The what?” she asked.

George ran a finger along the boundaries of the penciled triangle. “It goes by other names. The Japanese call it, ‘Mano Umi,’ the Devil’s Sea. Disappearances in this region go back centuries.” He sat down and tapped each of the tiny X’s, describing the tragedy of a lost ship, submarine, or plane.

Lisa whistled. “It’s like the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Exactly,” George said, and continued his litany, ending at last with the story of a WWII Japanese pilot and the man’s final, fateful words before his plane disappeared. “ ‘The sky is opening up!’ That was his last radioed message. Now, I find that a remarkable coincidence. Air Force One crashes into the center of the Dragon’s Triangle, and the final words from its pilot are the same as the vanished Japanese pilot from half a century ago.”

“Amazing,” Lisa agreed.

Robert just stared, his boyish eyes wide.

Charlie leaned in closer, running a finger along longitude and latitude numbers. His brows were deeply furrowed.

George looked up at Jack. “How do you explain that?”

“I saw the explosion site from the bomb,” Jack said. “That was no weird phenomenon. That was plain murder.”

George made a scoffing noise. “But what of your own findings down below? The crystal spire, the strange hieroglyphics, the odd emanations. On top of all this, most of the wreckage of the President’s plane just happens to settle at this site. If a midair explosion had truly happened, the debris field would be much wider.”

Jack sat silently. In George’s words, he heard his own argument with the admiral last night. He, too, had been convinced that something powerful lay down there. Something with the strength to knock a plane from the sky. He studied the map. The number of coincidences kept piling up, too high to ignore. “But the bomb in the jade bust, the electronic circuitry…?”

“What if it was staged?” George asked. “A frame-up. Washington had already been implicating the Chinese before the explosion.”

Jack frowned.

Charlie spoke up, his Jamaican accent thick. “I don’t know, mon. I think ol’ George might be on to something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I, too, have heard of this Dragon’s Triangle. I just never made the connection until now.”

“Great, another convert,” Kendall McMillan mumbled from the far side of the table.

Jack ignored the accountant. He turned to the ship’s geologist. “What do you know of the region?”

As answer, Charlie nudged Robert. “Would you please grab the globe from the library?”

“Sure.” Robert took off.

Charlie nodded to the map. “Do any of you know the term ‘agonic lines’?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“It is one of the many theories for explaining the disappearances here. Agonic lines are distinct regions where the Earth’s magnetic field is a bit off kilter. Compass readings are slightly out of sync with the rest of the world. The principal agonic line of the Eastern Hemisphere passes through the center of this Dragon’s Triangle.” Charlie looked around the table. “Do any of you know where the Western Hemisphere’s main agonic line passes through?”

Again a general shaking of heads.

“The Bermuda Triangle,” Charlie answered, letting the fact sink in.

“But what causes these magnetic disturbances in the first place?” Lisa asked. “These agonal lines?”

“Agonic,” Charlie corrected. “No one knows for sure. Some blame it on increased seismic activity in the regions. During earthquakes, strong magnetic fluxes are generated. But in general, magnetism, including the earth’s magnetic field, is still poorly understood. Its properties, energies, and dynamics are still being researched. Most scientists accept that the Earth’s magnetic field is generated by the flow of the planet’s molten core around its solid nickel-iron center. But many irregularities still remain. Like the fluidity of this field.”

“Fluidity?” George interrupted. “What do you mean?”

Charlie realized that in his excitement he’d spoken too fast. “From a geological standpoint,” he went on, speaking more slowly, “man has only been here for a flicker. During such a small scope in time, the Earth’s magnetic field seems fixed. The North Pole is up and the South Pole is down. But even over this short course, the poles have wobbled. The true position of magnetic north constantly bobbles around a bit. But this is only a minor fluctuation. Over the course of Earth’s entire geologic history, not only have these poles shifted dramatically, but they have reversed several times.”

“Reversed?” Lisa asked.

Charlie nodded. “North became south, and south became north. Such events are not fully understood yet.”

Jack scratched his head. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Hell if I know. Like I said, I find it intriguing. Didn’t you say that Air Force One’s wreckage was magnetized? Doesn’t this fact add to the list of coincidences? And what about your own compass problems down there?”

Jack shook his head. After the passing of a couple days, he was not so sure what he had experienced down there.

“And what about those strange time lapses?” Lisa asked. “I’ve been struggling to find out why the Nautilus’s clock was always messed up when the submersible neared that crystal thing, but I could never find anything wrong afterward.”

George sat up straighter. “Of course! Why didn’t I make that connection, too?” He began sifting through his pile of papers. “Time lapses! Here’s a report from a pilot, Arthur Godfrey. Back in 1962 he flew an old prop plane to Guam. His craft traveled the 340 miles in one hour. Two hundred miles farther than his plane could have traveled in an hour.” George lifted his nose from his papers. “On landing, Mr. Godfrey could not explain his early arrival, nor why his clocks read differently from the airport’s.”

Lisa glanced at Jack. “That sounds damn familiar.”

“I have other examples,” the historian said excitedly. “Modern planes crossing the Pacific but inexplicably arriving hours earlier than their ETAs. I have the details down below.” George stood. “I’m going to go fetch them.”

“This is ludicrous,” Jack said, but he had a hard time mustering much strength behind his words. He recalled his own forty-minute time gap.

“It may not be that strange,” Charlie said as the historian slipped past. “It has been theorized that strong enough electromagnetic fields could possibly affect time, similar to a black hole’s gravity.”

As the historian left the room, he almost collided with Robert. The marine biologist stepped aside for the old professor, then entered. He bore a beachball-sized globe in his hands.

“Ah!” Charlie said. “Now let me show you the really bizarre part. Something I remember reading in a university research paper.”

Robert passed the geologist the blue globe.

Charlie held it up and pointed a finger at the Pacific. “Here is the center of the Dragon’s Triangle. If you drove an arrow from this point through the center of the world and out the other side, do you know where it would come out?”

No one answered.

Charlie flipped the globe around and jabbed a finger on it. “The center of the Bermuda Triangle.”

Lisa gasped.

Charlie continued, “It’s almost as if these two diametrically opposed triangles mark another axis of the Earth, poles never studied or understood before.”

Jack stood up and took the globe from Charlie. He set it on the table. “C’mon. All of this is interesting, but it’s not going to pay the rent, folks.”

“I agree with Mr. Kirkland,” McMillan said sourly. “If I knew this was going to turn into an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, I could’ve been in bed.”

Jack rested his palm on the globe. “I think we need to turn this conversation over to more than theories and ancient myths. Set aside conjecture for now. This is a business I’m trying to run.”

George reentered the room then. He wore a blanched expression and held a single sheet in his hand. “I just received this e-mail.” He held up the paper. “From an anthropology professor in Okinawa. She claims to have discovered more of the strange hieroglyphic writing…etched on the wall of a secret chamber in some newly discovered ruins.”

Jack groaned. He could not seem to squelch this line of discussion.

“But that’s not the most amazing thing.” George looked around the room. “She discovered a crystal, too. She has it!”

Charlie sat straighter, abandoning his interest in the map. “A crystal? What does she say about it?”

“Nothing much. She’s vague, but hints that it bears some odd properties. She refuses to give out further information…not unless we meet with her.”

Jack found everyone’s eyes turning in his direction. “None of you are going to let this go, are you? Strange crystals, ancient writing, magnetic fluxes…listen to you!”

Except for the bank’s accountant, Jack saw a wall of determination. He threw his hands in the air and sank to his stool. “Fine…whether the Navy wants our help or not, whether we go broke or not, you all want to continue investigating what’s down there?”

“Sounds good to me,” Charlie said.

“Yep,” Lisa added.

“How could we walk away?” Robert asked.

“I agree,” George said.

Only Kendall McMillan shook his head. “The bank is not going to like this.”

Jack stared at his crew, then sighed. He rested his head in his hands. “Okay, George, how soon can you book me a flight to Okinawa?”