Deep Fathom

14 On the Run

David Spangler glided his submersible in a slow dive around the steel support base of the deep-sea research station. Each of the frame’s four alloy legs were solidly bolted to the seabed floor with ten-foot-long metal spikes. None of the stout legs even budged when the first section of the four-ton research station settled atop the landing base.

“Looking good from up here,” a topside technician radioed to him. “How’s it looking down there?”

David continued his survey. The laboratory had the appearance of a twenty-meter-wide white doughnut sitting on a raised platter. He dove underneath the section, craning his neck to make sure the piece was properly seated, then keyed his transmitter. “All clear. Perfect landing. I’ll unhook the winches and lines.” David goosed his thrusters and swung around, aiming for the four thick cables that had been used to lower and guide the laboratory section into place.

“No need. We’re getting good video from the ROVs, Commander. Our team has practiced this a thousand times. All we need you to do is monitor from there.”

On the seabed floor, David watched as a pair of boxy robots slowly lurched forward, churning up silt behind them. The pair, named Huey and Duey, were remotely operated by the topside technicians. They set about the task of latching the first section to its support base.

Over the next day, the team would lower the other two sections, secure them together, one atop the other, and then evacuate the water from the drowned labs. The plan was to pressurize the facility to one atmosphere, exactly matching the surface pressure, thus allowing the scientists to journey up and down in their own submersible without the need to decompress.

So far, everything was proceeding smoothly. David had to give some credit to the Mexican leader of the research team. With a fire lit under his ass, Cortez ran a tight ship himself. As such, perhaps the scientist deserved a bone tossed in his direction. Since yesterday, Cortez had not stopped nagging him for a closer peek at the crystal pillar. Perhaps it was time to oblige him a little.

After giving the developing station one final pass, David circled out in a widening spiral. About fifty yards away rested the graveyard of Air Force One, many of its parts still strewn across the seabed floor. In the distance giant flat-topped seamounts shadowed the site, while surrounding it all lay the twisted forest of lava pillars. David could not imagine a more inhospitable place on Earth.

He pushed the throttles on his sub and swept toward the wreckage site. In the center, the strange crystal obelisk thrust up from the seabed floor. He gave it a wide berth in the Perseus, still nervous about getting too close to the giant structure that had demonstrated such odd properties during Kirkland’s dives. Even from ten yards away he could appreciate its size. The top of the spire disappeared into the inky gloom far overhead.

Hovering in place, David guided his lights along its length. Its faceted surface seemed to absorb his lamplight and cast it back tenfold. Undoubtedly a marvel — and if his boss was correct, also potentially one of the world’s most powerful energy sources.

With care, David maintained his distance. Using the touchpad on his video monitor, he zoomed in on the crystalline surface. Tiny scratches focused into row after row of small figures and geometric shapes, etched and shining silver. His eyes grew wide. It was writing!

“Goddamn you, Kirkland!” he mumbled.

“What was that, sir?”

“Nothing. Continue securing the station!” David thumbed off the transmitter. He needed to think. Jack Kirkland had not mentioned writing on the crystal in any of his reports, and David knew he’d been close enough to see this. He couldn’t have missed it. The silver symbols practically glowed on the crystalline surface. So why hadn’t he reported it? What was he up to? David gripped the throttles tightly. What else was Jack Kirkland keeping secret? Every instinct in him screamed with suspicion.

On his touchpad, he activated his private encrypted line to the surface. He had it implemented after running into problems communicating directly with his team through an open channel.

It was answered immediately by his second-in-command. “What is it, sir?”

“Rolfe, we may have a problem. I need access to all communication into and out of the Deep Fathom since it first arrived here.”

“Sir, we didn’t tap the ship’s communication system.”

“I know that. But it’s a goddamn boat. Any telephone communication would’ve passed through a traceable satellite system. We may not know what he said, but I want to know who he said it to.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll put Jeffreys on it right away.”

“I’m coming topside immediately. I want some answers by the time I’m on deck.”

“Aye, Commander.”

David switched channels and hailed the sub’s technician. He repeated his plan to surface earlier than scheduled. “Get Brentley suited up,” he finished brusquely. “The lieutenant can finish babysitting the robots down here.”

Without waiting for an assent, David flicked off the radio and blew the ballast on his sub. He shoved both throttles forward. The Perseus shot upward, its thrusters whining as they were fully engaged.

What was Kirkland up to?

With the sun hovering above the eastern horizon, Jack stood behind the wheel of the sleek nineteen-foot Boston Whaler. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered as he cut the motor and glided around the headlands of Yonaguni Island.

Ahead, the small coastal city of Chatan lay nestled along the shore, a ramshackle village of cheap hotels and seaside restaurants. But it was not the town that captured Jack’s attention. It was the pair of terraced pyramids towering above the waves offshore.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Karen said.

Beyond the pyramids, more of the ancient city appeared: basalt columns, roofless homes, sharp-edged obelisks, worn statues. The city spread toward the horizon, fading into the morning mists.

“ ‘Amazing’ hardly describes this sight,” Jack said. “You told me what to expect, but to see it…” His voice dwindled away in awe. Finally, he settled back into the pilot’s seat and throttled up. “It was worth the hassle getting here.”

“I told you it was.” Karen remained standing as the boat sped toward the city, her hair blowing back, her cheeks rosy in the wind as the boat bounced through the chop. Her figure was framed in sea spray.

Jack studied his companion from the corner of his eye. At the port of Naha, he had spent an aggravating hour scrounging up this boat. With the island’s U.S. military bases at full alert because of the Chinese, sea traffic had been congested and chaotic. Jack was forced to pay an outrageous rental fee for the day use of his boat. Luckily, they took his American Express. Still, as he watched Karen, he knew the trip was definitely worth the hassles.

As they neared the first pyramid, Jack cut the engine and slowed the boat into a gentle glide.

Karen settled into her own seat. “Once you see this city, how can you not believe that a prehistoric people once lived among these islands?” She waved her arm to encompass the spread of ruins. “This is not the work of early Polynesians. Another people, an older people, built this, along with the many other megalithic ruins dotting the Pacific: the canal city of Nan Madol, the lattes stones of the Mariannas, the colossal Burden of Tonga.”

“If these ancient people were so skilled, what happened to them?”

Karen grew thoughtful, eyes glazed. “I don’t know. Some great cataclysm. My great-grandfather believed, from studying Mayan tablets, that a larger continent once existed in the middle of the Pacific. He called it Mu…after the Hawaiian name for this lost continent.”

“Your great-grandfather?”

“Colonel Churchward.” She smiled back at him. “He was considered…well, eccentric in most respectable scientific circles.”

“Ah…” Jack rolled his eyes.

Karen scowled good-naturedly at him. “Regardless of my ancestor’s eccentricities, myths of the lost continent persist throughout the Pacific Islands. The Indians of Central and South America named these lost people the viracocha. In the Maldive Islands, they are the Redin, their word for ‘ancient people.’ Even the Polynesians speak of ‘Wakea,’ an ancient teacher, who arrived in a mighty ship with massive sails and oarsmen. Across the Pacific, there are just too many stories to dismiss it out of hand. And now here we have another clue. A sunken city rising again.”

“But this is just one city, not a whole continent.”

Karen shook her head. “Twelve thousand years ago these seas were about three hundred feet shallower. Many regions now underwater would have been dry land back then.”

“Still, that doesn’t explain the disappearance of a whole continent. We’d know about its presence, even if it was under three hundred feet of water.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think the continent’s disappearance was due only to a change in the water table. Look at this city. An earthquake shoved this section of coastline up, while in Alaska the entire Aleutian chain of islands sinks. There are hundreds of other such stories. Islands sinking or rising.”

“So you think some great cataclysm broke up this continent and sank it.”

“Exactly. Around the same time, twelve thousand years ago, we know a great disaster occurred, a time of major worldwide climatic changes. It happened suddenly. Mastodons were found frozen on their feet with grass in their bellies. Flowers were found frozen in mid-bloom. One of the theories was that a massive volcano or series of volcanoes erupted, casting enough smoke and ash into the upper atmosphere that it caused dramatic climatic shifts. If such an extreme seismic event truly happened, perhaps the quakes were bad enough to break up and sink this lost continent.”

As Jack listened, he remembered the crystal column six hundred meters under the sea. Could this have once been dry land? he wondered. A part of Karen’s lost continent? He pondered her theories. They seemed far-fetched. But still…

Karen glanced at him, blushing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bend your ear like that. But I’ve been buried in books and historical texts all week. It helps to voice some of my theories aloud.”

“Well, there’s no doubt you’ve been doing your homework.”

“I’m just following up on my great-grandfather’s research.” She turned her attention forward. “He may have been crazy. But if we can decode the language here, I believe we’ll have our answer — one way or the other.”

Jack heard the frustration in her voice. He wanted to reach out to her, to reassure her. But he kept his hands on the boat’s wheel. The best way to assist her was to help solve this mystery.

As he glided up to and between the two pyramids, he put Karen’s theories together in his mind: a lost continent sunk during an ancient cataclysm, an ancient seafaring race who demonstrated mysterious powers, and at the center of it, a crystal unlike anything seen before. As much as he tried to dismiss it all, he sensed that Karen was on the right track. Still, a critical question remained unanswered: How did any of this explain the downing of Air Force One?

He had no answer himself — but he knew this intriguing woman was closer than any of them to solving it. For now, he would follow her lead.

A whining roar cut above the rumble of their boat’s engine. It drew their attention around. Low in the sky, a military jet sped toward them. Jack recognized its silhouette as it shot past and screamed south — an F-14 Tomcat — from one of Okinawa’s military bases.

Frowning, Karen followed the path of the plane. “This war is gonna get ugly,” she said.

David stormed into his cabin. Two men jumped to their feet at his arrival: Ken Rolfe, his second-in-command, and Hank Jeffreys, the team’s communications officer. In the center of the cabin, the table was covered with various communication tools: two satellite phones, a GPS monitor, and a pair of IBM laptops trailing both modem cables and T-lines.

“What have you learned?” David demanded.

Rolfe visibly swallowed. “Sir, we’ve traced all telephone communication from the Deep Fathom.” From the clustered worktable, he found a sheet of paper and looked at it, saying, “Calls were sent to First Credit Bank of San Diego…a private residence in the suburbs of Philadelphia…an apartment building in Kingston, Jamaica…a Qantas Airline office on Kwajalein Atoll, and—” Rolfe looked up at David. “—several calls to Ryukyu University on Okinawa.”

David held out his hand for the list.

Rolfe passed it to him. “We have it correlated by date and time.”

“Very good.” David scanned the list to the bottom. Ryukyu University. A woman’s name was listed with the connection: Karen J. Grace, Ph.D. “Do we know who this woman is?”

Rolfe nodded. “We connected to the university’s Internet site and downloaded a fact sheet on Dr. Grace. She’s an associate professor of anthropology, visiting from Vancouver.”

“What’s her connection to Kirkland?”

Rolfe flicked a nervous glance at Jeffreys. “We’ve been working on that, sir. We noticed the first communication between the Deep Fathom and the university was the day after the ship sailed from here.”

“Any idea why Kirkland was calling this woman?”

“Actually, that’s what we were just working on when you arrived. It seems it was not the Deep Fathom that made the initial contact call, but the other way around. She called him.”

David frowned, lowering the sheet of paper. “She called him?”

“Yes, sir. We found it suspicious, too. So Lieutenant Jeffreys spent the last half hour gaining access to all e-mail coming and going from the ship. It took a bit of time to convince their ISP to allow us access.” Rolfe swung one of the laptop computers around so its screen faced David. “We downloaded the e-mail. There were five exchanges between the two parties.”

David leaned his palms on the table and bent nearer the computer.

Rolfe continued, “All the mail dealt with some cryptic language.”

David slammed his fist against the table. “I knew it. The bastard did discover the inscription!”

Reaching over, Rolfe clicked on one of the e-mails. The page opened up on the screen. “Here’s a bit of the language. It seems the naval historian aboard the Deep Fathom had blanketed the Internet news boards, inquiring about the origins of this language.”

On the screen, David stared at the five tiny icons included in the e-mail. He recognized their similarity to what he had seen below. “And this professor from Okinawa responded to the inquiry?”

“Yes, sir. She answered, saying she had more examples of the language and wanted to meet.”

“So Kirkland went out there. The bastard is investigating this lead.”

“That’s not all, sir.”

David turned from the computer screen. “What else?”

“You’d better read her response yourself.” Rolfe clicked open a second piece of mail.

David leaned over and read the message. As he scanned the e-mail it was clear the woman knew more than she was willing to divulge. But one item caught his eye. She hinted at the discovery of a crystal that exhibited unusual properties. He straightened up. “Goddamn it! She must have some of our crystal.”

“That’s what we thought, too.”

“If she has some of it, our mission here is compromised. No one was supposed to know of the crystal deposit. If Kirkland goes blabbing about it and they have a sample of the crystal…” David’s voice trailed off. This was bad. He waved his men away. “Clear out. I need to talk to Ruzickov.”

“Aye, sir.” Both men quickly left the cabin.

Alone, David crossed to his bunk and pulled out his personal scrambled phone. It was late evening in Washington, but he knew this information was too vital to sit on overnight. He opened a channel and keyed in the number for the head of the CIA. With the escalating tensions between the U.S. and China, he suspected that the director would still be in his office. He was not wrong.

“Ruzickov here.”

“Sir, it’s Commander Spangler.”

“I know who it is,” the director snapped at him. Even over the encrypted line, David could hear the exhaustion in the man’s voice. “What do you want? I have a war about to erupt out here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been following the reports.”

Nicolas Ruzickov sighed. “It’s worse than in any reports. The Chinese know of the President’s intention to seek a declaration of war. It’s chaos out there. The Chinese navy has already secured a blockade around Taiwan — from Batan Island to the south and swinging full around the Taiwanese coastline.”

David gripped the phone’s receiver tighter. “And our forces?”

“The USS John C. Stennis is already in the region, just awaiting word from us. But with tensions so high out there, the whole mess could explode before Washington officially responds. As you can imagine, I’m up to my neck with problems. So your call had better be important enough to interrupt me.”

“I think it is, sir. The security of this site may be compromised.” David related the discovery of the communication between Kirkland’s ship and university on Okinawa. “If other parties gain wind of the crystal’s properties, we could lose our edge here.”

Ruzickov’s voice lost its exasperated tone. “You were right to bring this to my attention.” David was impressed by the man’s ability to switch gears so smoothly from one crisis to the next. The CIA director quickly put together a game plan. “It seems this professor knows more than we do. I want you to fetch her, convince her to join our team. But more importantly, her crystal sample must be confiscated. This is a black priority.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Black priority were the code words to unleash Omega team with lethal force. There was no higher designation for a mission.

“Do you truly understand, Commander? If the tensions out East turn to war, we may need a secret weapon, the equivalent of the atomic bomb during World War Two. We cannot let this discovery fall into foreign hands. And with Okinawa only a stone’s throw from the battlelines being drawn out there, I don’t want that crystal sample anywhere near there.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I will see to it personally.”

“Do so.” It sounded like Ruzickov was about to sign off.

David spoke quickly. “What about Jack Kirkland?”

Ruzickov sighed. “I told you this is a black priority mission. No word must leak out about what we’re doing. Silence him however you must.”

David smiled grimly. “I’m already on it, sir.”

“Don’t fail me, Commander.” The phone line went dead.

David slowly lowered the receiver and clicked its case closed. He sat for a moment with his palm resting atop the case. Black priority. His blood thrilled with those two words. He savored them for a moment, then stood up.

He crossed to the cabin door, opened it and barked an order to his man in the hall: “Fetch Lieutenant Handel. Tell him to bring the detonation transmitter.”

With a nod, the man hurried away.

David closed the door and leaned his back against it. He would bring a whole shitload of hurt down upon Kirkland’s head, he thought. And he knew where to strike first — at the man’s heart and soul.

At the Deep Fathom.

It was Charlie Mollier’s turn to prepare dinner. Behind him the galley door to the stern deck was open. But no breeze blew in to relieve the moist heat. The day had started out humid and grew worse as the sun climbed into the sky. In the galley, with both of the stove’s burners going, the heat was stifling.

Charlie, though, whistled in tune to the reggae music of Bob Marley on the tape deck beside the sink. Wearing onlya pair of baggy swim shorts that reached his knees, he swayed slightly as he stirred his homemade gungo pea and coconut soup, a family recipe. The spicy steam stung his nostrils. He smiled widely. “Nothin’ like hot food on a hot day.”

Reaching behind him, he tapped the blender. Its grinding roar drowned out the reggae music. “And margaritas, of course. Lots of margaritas!”

Ladle in hand, he spun around in sync with the chaotic melody of kitchen noises. With Jack gone, the entire ship had relaxed, enjoying the temporary reprieve. And Charlie was in an especially good mood. The moist heat, the tropical islands dotting the horizons…it was as if he were back home in the Caribbean. Bending over, he checked the oven. The fruity scent of his jerked chicken rolled out as he cracked the door open.

“Perfect,” he said contentedly.

Bent over, he felt something goose him from behind. He snapped upward with a squawk of surprise. Swinging around, he found Elvis staring up at him. The German shepherd nosed Charlie again, a small whine rising from his throat.

“Come begging, my ol’mon? You smell ol’ Charlie’s cookin’ and think to sneak a little mouthful?” He grinned at the large dog and grabbed a chicken wing from the counter-top. “Don’t go telling Jack, now. You know how he hates you begging. I’m not supposed to encourage you.”

He held out the treat. Elvis sniffed at it, then backed up a step and gazed toward the open galley door.

Charlie frowned. “What’s wrong, my ol’mon? Don’t like my cookin’?”

Elvis backed toward the doorway and barked at Charlie.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Lisa appeared in the doorway. “Now he’s bothering you,” she said with a concerned look. Lisa was dressed in a bikini. She’d been sunbathing on the aft deck. “He woke me up when I dozed off and wouldn’t leave me alone until I shoved him away.”

Charlie turned off the noisy blender. “Must be missin’ Jack. The captain’s never left the ship for longer than a day before.”

“I guess.”

From the ladder to the lower deck, Robert climbed into the galley. “Is dinner ready? I can smell your cooking all the way down in the bilge.”

Charlie waved him off with an exaggerated scowl. “Your nose could smell bacon cooking from over the horizon.” It was an ongoing joke. The young marine biologist had the most remarkable metabolic rate. He ate four times his body weight every day but remained as skinny as a bamboo pole.

“So is lunch ready?” Robert asked, hungrily eyeing the stove.

“Almost.”

Robert glanced at Lisa, kneeling by Jack’s dog. “Is something wrong with Elvis?”

Charlie shrugged. “Missing the boss, we think.”

“He was pestering me all day. It wasn’t until I hid in the cargo hold that he left me alone.”

Lisa stood. “He’s been bothering all of us…and I don’t think it’s all because of Jack being gone. I think it’s something more.”

As if understanding her, Elvis barked and wagged his tail. He edged through the galley door, then stopped and looked back at them.

“What is it?” Lisa asked. She stepped toward Elvis, and the dog moved another few steps away, stopping again, egging her to follow him. Lisa turned to Charlie and Robert. “He wants something.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Maybe Timmy’s stuck down in a well.”

The trio moved after the dog. As if realizing his message had been understood, Elvis moved quickly, leading the group up the stairs to the bridge.

“Where’s he going?” Robert asked.

Elvis scratched on the door. Lisa opened it for him, and the dog dashed toward the small hatch to the communications room.

Lisa glanced at the others with a frown, then opened the hatch door.

“Must be after a rat,” Charlie said. “When he was a pup, he was always hunting them down. Better than any cat.”

Inside the small space, Elvis had his nose pressed against a door to a lower drawer. Lisa pulled it open. Charlie crowded next to her. The drawer was full of fax paper and old receipts.

“I don’t see anything,” Lisa said.

“Maybe he wants you to fax a note to Jack,” Robert joked.

Elvis nudged between Charlie and Lisa. He began pawing at the drawer, whining in the back of his throat. His digging became more vigorous.

“Okay, ol’mon. Let me help you.” Charlie shouldered the dog aside and pulled free the drawer. He set it on the floor.

But Elvis ignored the drawer and had his nose pointed into the empty space in the cabinet. Charlie knelt on hands and knees and peered inside, but it was too dark. “Pass me a flashlight.”

Robert grabbed one from the bridge and tossed it to Lisa, who passed it to Charlie.

With his cheek close to the deck, Charlie probed the light into the dark space. “If there’s a rat in here…” he warned. Then the light reflected off something hidden in the dead space beneath the drawer’s steel runners. “Oh, shit…”

“What is it?” Lisa asked.

Charlie swore under his breath. Leaning closer, he ran his light over the array of electronics perched atop a nest of tiny gray cubes. Red LED lights blinked at him. “I think I’ve found Elvis’s rat.”

Karen sipped from her water bottle as they rested inside a roofless building among the Chatan ruins. “Stories of a lost continent in the Pacific aren’t limited just to the islands,” she continued, snugging her water bottle into her pack. “During the period of the Chinese Warring States, ancient stories describe a huge land mass in the Pacific, named Peng Jia. A place supposedly inhabited by a people who could fly and who lived forever.”

“Uh-huh,” her companion responded.

Karen looked at Jack, who leaned out one of the windows. He soaked his handkerchief with cold seawater, then sat on the windowsill, draping the wet cloth over his sweaty face. They had been clambering among these ruins all day, going from one site to another, stopping only for a cold lunch of bread and cheese. So far their search had proved fruitless. They had found a handful of barnacle-encrusted pieces of pottery and broken bits of statuary, but no further evidence of writing or crystals. Just rock and more rock. The ravages of sea, sand, and currents had erased everything but the basalt bones of this ancient city.

“Tired?” she asked, realizing her litany of stories were probably falling on deaf ears by now. She sat down on the wide sill beside him. “Sorry to take up your whole day. Maybe it would be best if we headed back.” She checked her watch. “Hopefully, Miyuki has made some headway on the translations.”

Jack pulled the wet handkerchief from his face and smiled. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve opened my eyes on a past I never knew existed out here. I’ve traveled these seas in search of treasures for over a decade, but never heard a tenth of these stories.”

“Thanks for listening.”

Jack stood. “But you’re right. We should be heading back.”

Karen glanced out the window. Dusk was falling. Long shadows crept across the waters. She nodded.

Jack helped her stand, his grip firm on her hand. They crossed over to the building’s entrance where their motorboat was docked. Jack worked the rope loose, while Karen tossed her backpack into the stern.

Rope in hand, Jack suddenly froze. “Did you hear—” Then he was flying across the small room, tackling her to the hard floor. “Stay down.”

She heard it, too. A high-pitched whistle that was growing louder. She lifted her head. “What is it?”

“Rockets,” he hissed, straddling her.

“What—”

Then the world exploded with a crashing roar. Jack rolled off her and peeked out the window. Karen joined him. Off to the south she saw a billow of smoke and bits of rock climb high into the sky. As they watched, another explosion blew apart one of the basalt statues far to the west. A stone hand flew across the setting sun.

“What’s happening?” Karen asked, cringing.

Overhead, a military jet streaked south. United States markings. Twin streams of fire bloomed as a pair of missiles were launched from the jet’s underbelly, screaming across the darkening sky. Other jets shot past, one winging low across the islands, trailing smoke.

Jack pulled Karen back down. “Something tells me the blockade around Taiwan just exploded.” Together, they crawled to a window. The southern horizon glowed as if a new sun were rising. “We’d better get clear of here.”

Another explosion erupted nearby, quickly followed by another. Karen’s ears rang with the echoing roars as she scrambled to her feet. Out the window the twilight sky was streaked with ribbons of smoke. They moved back to the door.

“Damn it,” Jack muttered. Their motorboat, untethered a moment ago, had drifted several yards away. He shrugged out of his own pack and kicked off a boot. “I’ll fetch it.”

Karen grabbed his elbow as he teetered on one foot. Another telltale whistle pierced their ears, much louder this time. Jack’s eyes were huge as he glanced at her. Together, they leaped away from the doorway and rolled behind sheltering walls.

Karen screamed as the blast shook the walls and dust showered her. The roar of the detonation seemed endless. Jack scuttled to her side. His lips moved but she could not make out his words. A huge boulder landed in the next room, crashing down. As the echoes faded, she could finally hear Jack’s words.

“…okay. It was a near hit, but we’re safe.”

She nodded, her eyes blurry with tears.

He helped her up. This time she remained in the shelter of his arms. They returned to the door.

Jack kicked off his other boot. “I’ll just grab the boat, and we’ll get our asses out of the line of fire.”

Karen groaned as they reached the threshold. “Oh, no.”

His grip tightened on her.

The squat building across the canal was a blasted ruin. Smoke was so thick it was hard to see clearly. The force of the explosion had blown the boat right back to their doorway. They could easily clamber back in. But the boat was quickly filling with water. Huge rocks had pelted it, punching holes through its hull. Gas leaked in a slow spray from its ruptured outboard tank.

“Now what?” Karen asked.

Jack shook his head.

More explosions erupted — but farther south. Jack pulled Karen to his side. “Sit down.”

They sank to the stone floor, leaning against the wall. Each explosion trembled the stones. Karen found herself leaning less on the wall and more on Jack’s arm.

For a half hour they listened. Beyond the window, full night descended. The whistle of rocket fire and dull rumblings continued, but now far to the south.

Jack finally spoke. “I think maybe they’re done with us. Just retaliatory strikes. Harassing fire meant to intimidate. I think we’ll be okay. We’ll hole up here tonight. In the morning I’ll swim to Chatan and get help.”

Karen shivered with his words. “The Chinese—”

“I think they’ll leave us alone now.” Jack got up and crossed to the doorway. “I’ll keep watch.”

Karen stood and joined him. She kept near his shoulder. With the night already cold, she could feel the heat radiating from Jack’s body and leaned closer.

The dark sky was foggy with smoke. A jet sped past to the west. Karen followed its course with worry. Movement closer at hand caught her eye. Glancing to the sea beyond the ruins, she spotted a brief glint of starlight on metal. “What’s that?” she asked, squinting.

“What?”

She pointed.

Jack squinted, then fished her binoculars out of her pack. He stared through them for a few seconds and scowled. “Great…”

“What is it?”

“Conning tower. Chinese sub. Now I know why they were bombarding the ruins. Covering fire as it crept beyond the blockade. I spotted some type of special forces team loading into a pontoon.”

“Why? What are they doing?”

“Probably being sent in for surveillance and sabotage.” He lowered the binoculars. “How good a swimmer are you?”

Cold terror trickled through her veins. “I was on the university’s intramural swim team. But that was ten years ago.”

“Good enough. We’re getting out of here.”

Off in the distance, silent explosions bloomed in fiery flowers.

“We’ll be okay,” he promised.

Through the rumbling explosions, Karen heard a sound much closer. A scuff of rock. She swung around and was startled to see a dark stranger standing in the doorway. “Jack!”

He spun, moving like a lion.

The man leveled a pistol at him.

Even in the gloom, Karen recognized the tattoo on the man’s forearm: a coiled snake with ruby eyes.

A knock on the door woke Lawrence Nafe. He pushed to one elbow. “What is it?” he asked blearily. He glanced to the clock on the nightstand. It was not even six.

The door swung partly open. “Sir?”

He recognized the voice and felt a twinge of misgiving. “Nicolas?” The CIA director had never called upon him in his bedroom. “What’s gone wrong?”

Nicolas Ruzickov entered the room, pausing at the threshold. “I’m sorry to disturb you and the First Lady, but—”

Nafe rubbed his eyes. “Melanie is still down in Virginia for the dedication of some damned statue. What do you want?”

Ruzickov closed the door firmly behind him. “The Chinese have attacked Okinawa.”

“What?” Nafe sat up and switched on a lamp. In the light, he saw that the director was wearing the same suit as the night before.

Ruzickov moved farther into the room. “We’ve just received word of skirmishes between their forces and ours along the Ryukyu Island chain.”

“Who shot first?”

“All our reports claim the Chinese…”

“And what are the Chinese saying?”

“That we attempted to break their blockade of Taiwan, and they were defending.”

“Great, just great…and which is true?”

“Sir?”

“Between us and these four walls, who pulled the first trigger?”

Ruzickov glanced at a chair. Nafe waved him into it. The CIA director sat down with a long sigh. “Does it matter? The Chinese know of our intention to push for a formal declaration of war. If they mean to hold the region, Okinawa is the closer and more significant threat. They’ve been bombarding the island with missile fire.”

“And the damage?”

“A few strikes. Uninhabited areas. So far, our new Patriot missiles are doing a satisfactory job of protecting the island.”

Nafe eyed his CIA director. “What are we going to do?”

“The Joint Chiefs have already convened in the Situation Room, awaiting your order.”

Nafe got out of bed and paced the room. “With this newest aggression directed against our forces in the Pacific—” He stared pointedly at Ruzickov. “Unprovoked, of course…”

“That is the way all newscasts will report it.”

He nodded. “Then we should have little political opposition to a formal declaration of war.”

“No, sir.”

Nafe stopped before the mantel of the cold fireplace. “I’ll address the Joint Chiefs, but I want Congress fully behind this declaration. I don’t want another Vietnam.”

Ruzickov stood. “I’ll make sure all is in order.”

Nafe clenched a fist. “If need be, we’ll bring this war to Beijing. It’s about time we instilled the fear of God into the Chinese people.”

“That’s all they respond to, sir. Strength. We cannot show weakness.”

Nafe scowled. “And neither will we show them mercy.”

Crouched, Jack eyed the snub end of the pistol pointed at his chest. In a fraction of a second he quickly calculated the odds of disarming their assailant. He would have to take a bullet — there was no way around it — but he could still tackle the smaller man and probably knock the gun away. But what then? Depending on where he was hit, could he keep the man down long enough for Karen to grab the weapon? And what if there were others?

“He’s the leader of the group that attacked us before,” Karen whispered beside him, hands half raised.

Recalling Karen’s stories, Jack leaned closer to her. “I can take him out…but be ready.”

“How can I help?”

He was surprised by Karen’s resolve. This woman was no wilting flower. “A distraction—”

Before any plan could be set in motion, the man acted first. “Come wit’ me,” he whispered in stilted English. “We must leave here. Danger.” He lowered his gun and holstered it at his waist.

Jack straightened from his half crouch, suspicious. He looked with confusion toward Karen, who wore a matching expression. “Do we trust this guy?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He didn’t shoot us.”

The man disappeared through the low doorway into the roofless building’s rear chamber. Jack glanced behind him. Distant explosions continued to echo across the water. Through the window, the glow of fires dotted the southern horizon.

Karen nodded toward the grim view. “It’s not like we have a lot of choices here. Maybe we should go.”

Jack joined her. “Yeah, but did you ever hear the expression, ‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire’?”

She waved him through the doorway. “Then by all means, you go first.”

Jack ducked through the low door and found the stranger standing by another window, his back to them.

Beyond the window, a small dark boat floated in the lapping waters. As Jack moved nearer, he recognized it as a sampan, one of the ubiquitous fishing vessels of the eastern seas. Made of wood, it was short and narrow-beamed, with its stern half covered in a frame of bamboo and tattered tarpaulin. Two other men were aboard the sampan. One held the mooring line and kept glancing nervously to the south.

“Chinese come,” the leader said, indicating that Jack should board the vessel. “We take you to Okinawa.”

Karen joined Jack and gave him a gentle nudge. “We could always jump overboard if there’s trouble.”

Gathering his pack in one hand, Jack climbed over the stone sill. The man with the mooring line offered him a hand of support, but Jack ignored it. Instead, he dropped to the boat and eyed the men. Dark-skinned and short, they were clearly South Pacific islanders, but he could not place where exactly. He noticed that both men wore holstered weapons.

With a moan of complaint, Karen landed beside him. She grabbed his elbow as the boat shifted under her weight. He steadied her, but she kept her grip on him. “Okay, now what?”

Behind them a few terse words were passed between the leader and his men before he climbed in to join them. Once aboard, he waved for Karen and Jack to follow him under the overhang.

The other two men used long paddles to push away and propel them between the buildings. Jack now understood how he had been ambushed. The sampan moved silently through the waters, its dark wood matching the sea.

As they glided, Jack searched for the Chinese submarine. It was gone — as was the pontoon full of armed men. They could be anywhere.

For close to twenty minutes, the sampan slowly drifted among the ruins, moving skillfully through the dark. No one spoke. Distant thunder warned of the war to the south. At last, two large structures towered to either side.

The Chatan pyramids.

From his spot under the overhang, Jack allowed himself a sigh of relief. They were almost free of the ruins.

Rifle fire suddenly tore through the tarpaulin fabric. Bullets chewed into the old wooden sides of the boat. Jack pulled Karen to the floor, shielding her. The leader yelled orders.

A motor at the stern suddenly roared. Jack felt the bow end lift as the prop dug into the water. The sampan lurched forward.

A small explosion blew not far from the stern. A column of water flumed up. Grenade.

Hurry, he urged silently. Rifle fire continued to pepper the boat.

The leader, busy with the rudder, leaned toward Jack. He held out his pistol, offering it. Jack hesitated, then took it. The man pointed to the bow.

Jack crawled forward.

“Jack?” Karen warned.

“Stay down. I’ll be right back.”

Jack inched his way toward the other two men, who crouched with pistols in hand. When he reached them, he silently pantomimed that they should wait for his signal.

Free of the shelter, there was a light breeze. Jack listened as rifle fire pelted the starboard rail over his head, digging away chunks of teak. He waited for a pause in the attack.

When it happened, he jerked up, firing blindly in the direction of the rifle blasts. The other two followed suit. Jack fired for a count of five, then ducked down. Again the other two men followed his lead.

Covering his head, the next barrage was less riotous. Most shots whizzed by harmlessly. By now the sampan had gained sufficient speed to race and bounce away. Jack stayed down. When they were past the range of the rifles, the men tentatively stood.

Jack rolled to his feet and slipped under the overhang. He found Karen sitting up, eyes worried. “You okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

The leader met Jack’s gaze. They stared at each other quietly for a moment, then Jack handed the pistol back. The man took the weapon, slipped it back into its holster, and waved them to a worn teak bench.

Karen sat down, but Jack remained standing. He wanted answers. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Mwahu, son of Waupau.”

“Why did you help us?”

This earned a scowl from the man. “Elders say we must. To punish us. We failed our great ancestor.”

“Failed to do what?” Jack jerked a thumb in Karen’s direction. “Failed to kill her and her friend last week?”

“Jack…” Karen cautioned him under her breath.

Mwahu leaned on the rudder, glancing away. “We want to hurt no one. Only to protect. It is our duty.”

“I don’t understand,” Karen said softly. “Protect who?”

The man remained silent.

“Who?” Jack repeated.

He raised his eyes to the roof. “Protect the world. Oldest teachings say that none must disturb the stone villages, or a curse will come to destroy us all.” He glanced back toward the fires near the horizon. “Already the curse comes.”

Jack leaned toward Karen. “Do you recognize any of his mumbo jumbo?”

She shook her head but kept her eyes on the leader. “Mwahu, tell me more about these teachings. Whose are they?”

“The words of our great ancestor, Horon-ko, were written long ago. Only elders read it.”

“Elders of which island? Where is your home?”

“No island home.” He cast an arm to encompass the open seas. “Here is our home.”

“The ocean?”

He frowned and turned his back on Karen. “No.”

“Mwahu—”

“I no speak no more of it. The elders tell me to help you. I help you.”

Jack interrupted. “Why did they tell you to?”

The islander fingered the coiled serpent tattoo. “Elder Rau-ren says you cannot put poison back into snake’s fang once it bites.” He lowered his arm, signaling the end to this discussion. “Killing the snake, no good. Only help can save you.”

“In other words,” Karen whispered to Jack, “the cat’s out of the bag. The wrong can’t be undone.”

“What wrong?” Jack asked.

“Something about us taking the crystal out of the pyramid.”

He frowned. “Everything keeps coming back to the crystal.”

“If his elders have some ancient text that warns about these ruins, it must have come from the same era in which they were built.” Karen stood up, excited. “Mwahu, can you read any of the ancient writings?”

He glanced at her. “Some. My father was an elder. He teach me before he die.”

Karen shuffled in her pack for pen and paper. Moving closer to Mwahu, she held the paper to the deck and scrawled a crude rendition of a few of the symbols. He leaned over, one hand still on the long wooden rudder.

“Can you read any of this?” she asked.

As he stared at it, his breathing became harder and his eyes widened. Then, abruptly, he ripped it from the deck, crumpled it and tossed it into the sea. “It is forbidden!” he said between clenched teeth.

Karen backed away from his vehemence and sat down. “It must be the same language,” she said to Jack. “But clearly there’s some taboo about putting it to paper.”

“Maybe it’s their attempt to maintain the language’s secrecy.”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “You’re probably right, but I’ve never heard of any island sect like this. Why the mystery? What were his ancestors warning against?”

Jack shook his head. “Who knows?”

“Perhaps there might be an answer in the inscriptions. If we could get Mwahu to help us, it might accelerate our work.”

“That is, if you can trust anything this man says.”

Karen sighed. “He seems sincere enough. And he clearly believes what he said.”

“Just because he believes it doesn’t make it true.”

“I suppose. Still, it’s a place to begin.” She leaned back, her eyes glazing as she stared out at the sea.

Sighing, he leaned back, too, but ignored the view and kept a wary watch on the three men aboard the boat. They might claim to want to help, but considering Karen and Miyuki’s encounters with them, he knew they could be dangerous.

The rest of the journey was made in silence. Soon the lights of Naha’s harbor could be seen ahead. Even from a mile out, it was apparent that the island was in turmoil. The U.S. base on the south side of the harbor was lit up like Times Square. Planes of all sizes circled the island, while the waters ahead were thick with military vessels.

Jack and Karen moved to the bow. She pointed. One of the government buildings was now a cratered and smoking ruin.

“Rocket strike,” Jack commented.

Karen’s eyes widened. “Miyuki…”

He took her hand in his. “I’m sure she’s fine. The university is inland, away from the most likely targets. Besides, she has thirty-nine U.S. military bases protecting her.”

Karen did not look convinced.

En route to the island, their own boat was stopped twice and searched before it was allowed to proceed. Jack was glad to see the trio’s weapons taken from them during the first search. He had tried to urge Karen to abandon these islanders and board the military cutter, but she refused. “Mwahu might hold the only key to this language,” she’d mumbled. “I can’t lose him.”

So they remained on the sampan as it glided through the harbor to the marina. They moored and climbed onto the docks. A Japanese officer checked their papers. Jack was surprised to see the Pacific islanders produce tattered and weathered passports.

When the officer handed back all their papers, he spoke to them in English. “You picked a poor time to go sightseeing. We’ve had a flood of refugees from the south. We’re trying to divert as many to the north as possible. Otherwise, all other civilians are being evacuated via the international airport.”

“You’re evacuating the entire island?” Jack asked.

“Or relocating them into bunkers. As many as we can. We don’t expect fighting to reach our shores, but we’re taking no chances. Another rocket barrage could occur at any time. I suggest you collect your personal belongings and report to the airport.”

Karen nodded. “Ryukyu University…?”

“It’s already cleared out.” The man waved them down the dock as more makeshift crafts drifted in. “Good luck.”

Jack led Karen and Mwahu toward the shore and the city. Mwahu’s two men remained with the sampan. Karen moved up next to Jack. “What if Miyuki is already gone?” she asked.

“She’ll be there. I can’t imagine her leaving her lab unless they dragged her out kicking and screaming.”

She smiled at that. Without thinking, Jack put his arm around her. Karen leaned in to him, tucking herself against his side.

No words were spoken. With Mwahu following, they moved on through the earthquake-ravaged city to where a bus still serviced the university area. It was a short ride to Ryukyu, and a quiet walk to the computer facility.

Once at the steps, Karen pointed toward the fifth floor. There were no lights on. Then they discovered that the door to the building was locked and the lobby dark. “Hello!” she called out, knocking.

A guard appeared around a corner, his flashlight’s beam washing across the three of them and settling on Karen.

“Professor Grace,” he said with clear relief. He climbed the stairs, passing Mwahu with a suspicious glance. With a jangle of keys, he moved to the door. “Professor Nakano refused to leave until you returned.”

“Is she in her lab?”

“No, she’s in my office. We’ve locked down all the upper floors.”

He opened the door and led them into the lobby, guiding them with his flashlight through the dark interior. From under a door ahead, light glowed. The guard knocked, then pushed the door open.

Miyuki was sitting at a desk, the thick briefcase open before her containing a portable computer. At the sight of them, she burst to her feet. “Thank God you’re okay!”

“We’re fine,” Karen said, hugging her reassuringly. “What about you?”

“Shaken up. Lots of fireworks.”

Karen noticed the portable computer. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I couldn’t risk losing all our work. So I diverted Gabriel into moving all our research off site and backed up everything onto this computer, just in case. I also revamped the portable unit to accommodate Gabriel.” Miyuki reached out and touched a key.

A familiar disembodied voice arose from the tiny speakers. “Good evening, Professor Nakano. I will continue troubleshooting our connections and interfaces to make certain all is in order.”

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

Behind Jack, the South Pacific islander pushed into the room, glancing with suspicion toward the computer. Miyuki noticed him and jerked back.

Karen put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll explain it all later.”

Keeping a watch on the tattooed stranger, Miyuki snapped the computer case closed. She unhooked the cables and wound them up. “We need to leave.”

“I heard about the evacuation. Do you have the crystal?”

Miyuki frowned at her, then tilted her head toward Mwahu.

“It really is okay,” she said. “He’s here to help us now.”

Miyuki hardly looked convinced. Jack moved beside her. “And if it helps, he’s alone and unarmed.”

She studied Jack for a breath, then seemed to sag. “The star’s in my luggage.” She nodded toward a wheeled suitcase behind the desk. “I also went to your flat and collected everything I could see that you might want…including Jack’s stuff.” She pointed to a second suitcase.

“We could’ve done it ourselves,” Karen said.

“Not if you want to catch a flight off this island. My cousin pilots a small private jet, a charter service. He’s agreed to get us out, but we have to leave—” She glanced at her watch. “—in thirty minutes.”

Jack frowned. Everything was moving too fast. “Where to? Tokyo?”

Miyuki bit her lip. “No. I thought it best if we leave the area entirely.”

“Then where?” Karen asked.

“I asked him to take us to Pohnpei Island.” Miyuki looked from one of them to the other. “I thought if we had to go somewhere, why not follow the one clue in the transcription? To the ruins at Nan Madol.”

Karen laughed. “Fantastic. I knew you were an adventurer at heart.”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Jack said. “We can search for additional clues without being in the middle of a war zone. But I’ll need to contact my ship first, let them know the change in plans.”

“Oh God, in all the craziness, I forgot. Just before I left Karen’s apartment, I received a call from your boat. A Charles Molder.”

“Charlie Mollier?”

“Right. He seemed anxious to speak to you.”

“When did he call?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“Is there a working phone around here?”

Miyuki nodded. “The line I was using for the computer should still be okay.” She hooked up a small desk phone and passed him the receiver.

He crouched over the desk and tapped in the Deep Fathom’s satellite number. A short burst of static briefly turned into Charlie’s voice.

“Jack? Is that you?”

“Yeah, what’s up? All hell’s breaking loose out here and I’m heading to Pohnpei.”

“In Micronesia?”

“Yeah, it’s too long a story. You still near Kwajalein?”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s not that far from Pohnpei. Can you meet us there?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Good. I’ll keep you post—”

“Goddamn it, Jack!” Charlie burst in. “Listen to me.”

“What?” Jack realized he hadn’t asked Charlie why he’d called.

“We’ve got a bomb on board here.”

It took Jack a few moments to understand. “A bomb?”

“A goddamn bomb. As in big fucking explosion.”

“How…? Who…?”

“It was planted in the radio room.”

“Get rid of it!”

“Oh jeez, mon, why didn’t I think of that? I may not know much about explosive devices, but this baby looks booby-trapped and has an electronic receiver. I ain’t touching it.”

As his shock bled away, Jack suspected that David Spangler was the culprit behind the bomb. He remembered the little gift of Chinese electronics. “Spangler,” he hissed.

“What?”

“One of Spangler’s men must have planted it.” In the back of his mind he wondered if this act of sabotage was simply revenge on David’s part, or if David had suspected that he was on to something. “Listen, Charlie, I don’t know what you’re still doing on the Fathom, but get everyone off and alert the authorities.”

“Already working on that. We’ve got the launch outfitted. Everyone is loaded up, except Robert and I. You almost missed us.”

“Get your asses out of there! Why did you even bother to call?”

“We were hoping you could talk us through defusing it?”

“Are you insane?”

“Hell, it’s the Fathom we’re talking about, Jack.”

Jack gripped the receiver tightly. “Listen to me—”

“Just a sec…”

Jack heard Charlie call out, then heard another voice, faintly in the background. It was Robert. “The light…it’s blinking more rapidly.”

Oh, God! Jack yelled into the phone. “Charlie! Get out of there!”

The receiver suddenly squelched with static, standing his small hairs on end — then the phone went ominously dead. “Charlie!” He clicked the receiver again and again. A dial tone returned. Savagely, he tapped in the code for the Deep Fathom again. “Goddamn it!”

Karen stood behind him. “Jack? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He listened as the satellite connection fed through, but all he got as an answer was a screech of white noise. Then nothing again. He lowered the phone. He was numb all over, fearing the worst. He prayed it was just the connection frizzing out. But in his heart he knew he was wrong. He had heard the panic in Robert’s voice.

“Jack?” Karen placed a hand on his shoulder.

He slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle. “I…I think someone just blew up my ship.”

“It’s done,” Gregor Handel said. “I’m reading nothing from the Deep Fathom. Not even a mayday. She’s tits up, sir.”

“Perfect.” David lowered the headset from his ears. Earlier, Rolfe had succeeded in breaking the Fathom’s Globalstar code, allowing them to tap into the transmitted call. Using the headphones, David had eavesdropped on the final phone conversation between Jack and his ship. He placed the headset on the table. “What could be better?” he said. “Jack knew it was me. He heard his fucking ship explode. And he knows his crew was still on board.”

Rolfe spoke from his station. “I’ve got the port authority of Kwajalein. Do you want me to send a helicopter to confirm?”

“Wait about an hour. Ideally, we don’t want any survivors.”

Handel made a scoffing noise. “With that much C-4, almost a pound, there’s a kill zone of a good hundred yards. Nothing could’ve survived.”

David’s grin grew wider. “Well done, men.” He reached under the table and pulled out a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He raised the bottle. “To the perfect execution of this mission.”

“Execution is right,” Rolfe said with a smirk of satisfaction.

David stood and twisted the cork free of the bottle. It popped and shot across the cabin. As the champagne frothed over the neck, he lifted the bottle high. “And this is only the first step in bringing Kirkland down.”