Deep Fathom (18 page)

“Jack! Turn off your lights!”

“Playing dead didn't work before,” he answered, and pushed up on one arm. He searched for the giant squid, but a cloud of silt enclosed the vehicle.

“Listen to me! We're going to try and draw the creature away.”

“How?” Jack shifted as the silt settled around him. His lights began to pierce through the cloud. It was not an encouraging sight. A mass of tentacles twisted toward him. Rather than intimidating the beast, his attack had only succeeded in angering it.

Jack toggled down his power—but didn't shut it off. The sub's lamps dimmed. He refused to go totally dead. He did not want to be blind down here again. “What's your plan?”

“I've just ordered the Navy to activate the second cable's electromagnet,” Robert said. “The strong electric field might attract the beast away…but only if you disappear.”

Jack bit his lip. He lowered his power further, flipping off the thrusters. The light was now just a weak glow. He could barely see the roiling mass of tentacles. Through the silt, the beast continued to crawl slowly toward him. “Okay. Try it,” Jack ordered.

“We already have. We turned it on a minute ago. Is the
Architeuthis
taking our bait?”

The squid continued to roll toward him.

“No,” he said with disgust. It wasn't working. He would have to fight, try to chase it off. Jack reached to power up again. Then a thought occurred to him. He remembered Robert's initial warning—
don't run
! “Robert, try moving the cable! Drag it along like a fishing line!”

“What? Oh…I get it. Hang on!”

Jack turned off all systems, except the sub's lamps. He searched for the cable, but the light was too weak to reach that far.

C'mon, Robert…c'mon…

The squid edged nearer, a wall of pale tissue, tentacles, and dinner-plate-sized suckers. He watched one of its huge eyes roll in his direction. Suspicion shone forth. He prayed the beast remained wary long enough for Robert's ruse to play out.

“Where are you, Robert?” he mumbled.

A tentacle lashed out toward the half-buried sub.

Jack reached for his manipulator controls. His thumb shifted to the battery toggle.

Then off to the left a new light suddenly bloomed in the inky gloom, its brilliance sharp.

Both Jack and the squid froze.

Slowly, the beast's huge eye rolled its attention toward the new source of light. Jack looked over, too.

Across the seabed, a spike of pure brilliance thrust up. It
was the crystal spire, aglow with an inner fire.

In the gleam, Jack spotted the winch cable drifting only a few feet from the spire, its electromagnet swinging even closer.

Jack stared, slack-jawed.
What the hell
…?

Under the sub the seabed began to tremble—at first mildly, then more vigorously. Bits of smaller wreckage began to dance atop the tremoring floor. Great, Jack thought, first a sea monster, now this!

He held on tight. The vibration traveled up his bones to his teeth.

Across the debris field the cable drifted away from the spike. As it moved farther, the brilliance of the crystal faded, and the trembling died away. As the light dimmed, Jack watched the electromagnetic lure float beyond his sight, disappearing into the dark water.

He stared at his adversary.

The giant squid remained near the sub. A hulk of tentacles. It seemed to hesitate, clearly spooked by the tremors and strangeness. Then, slowly, it crawled after the disappearing lure—away from the
Nautilus
.

“It's working!” Robert hailed from topside.

Jack remained silent, afraid of distracting the great beast. He watched the squid stalk its new prey. Soon the monster drifted beyond the reach of the sub's dimmed lamps. He dared not turn them brighter, having to remain satisfied with updates from Robert.

“We're drawing the cable both up and away. It's still following….”

Jack allowed himself a long low sigh.

“It's far enough away. Maybe you'd better get the hell out of there.”

Jack did not have to be told twice. He powered up the sub, dumped his ballast, and engaged the thrusters. Silt coughed up around him as the
Nautilus
pulled from the seabed. The tiny sub rose rapidly.

Robert's voice returned. “Damn.”

“What?”

“We lost it.”

Panic clutched Jack's throat. “What do you mean?”

“Don't worry. It's not heading your way.” Robert's voice was distinctly disappointed. “It gave up on us and dove back into the deeper troughs. It's gone back home. Damn, I would've loved to see it up close.”

“Trust me…the experience is not as fun as it looked on video.”

“Uh…oh yeah, sorry, Jack.”

“Coming up. Be topside in fifteen.”

“We'll be waiting for you.”

Jack leaned back into his seat. He wiped his face with a hand towel. Though the terror was still fresh, he grinned. He had survived.

Still, a nagging kernel of concern marred his perfect relief. He pictured the brilliant glow as the cable passed near the crystal spire. He remembered his own experience with the pillar: the odd sensations, the lost time. It seemed there were more mysteries down here than just the crash of Air Force One.

“Twelve thousand years? That's impossible!” Karen exclaimed.

Miyuki pushed away from the bank of monitors. “It might be a mistake. The database of this new language is limited right now. If Gabriel had more information…more examples…”

Karen nodded. “It has to be a miscalculation. There is no way the date could be denoting a real incident twelve millennia in the past. Unless the event were some fable…some creation myth being recounted.”

“Still, how would these people know how to map a snapshot of the night sky from twelve thousand years ago? Gabriel says the position of the constellations and stars is precise to a tenth of a millimeter.”

“It's not impossible,” Karen argued. “The Mayans of South America had astronomical calendars of such precision
that they rival our abilities today.”

“But to extrapolate that far back?”

“If the Mayans could do it, why not these folks? In fact, the builders might even be some lost tribe of the Maya. Who knows?”

“You're right,” Miyuki said, shaking her head and standing up. “Who knows? There are too many variables. That's why I didn't bring it to your attention when Gabriel first told me of his discovery two days ago.”

Karen frowned. “You knew this two days ago?”

Miyuki shrugged. “I didn't think it was that important. I was just testing Gabriel's decoding ability. Since you were studying the language, I figured we'd discuss it later.”

“Then if it wasn't this bombshell, why did you call me over today?”

Miyuki sighed. “The crystal star. Didn't you listen when I phoned?”

Karen stood, remembering Miyuki's urgent call. She had indeed mentioned something about the crystal star. “What have you learned? Did you find someone in the geology department to help you check it out?”

“No. Most of the geologists are still out in the field, researching the quakes and studying their effects. Such a catastrophe is a boon to those in their field. They won't be back until the university reopens.”

“Then what did you learn?”

“I thought to do a bit of basic checking on my own. I was curious about its abnormally dense mass.” Miyuki led the way across the lab. “I borrowed an electronic scale and tools. I figured I'd do some simple measurements. Nothing complicated. Calculate its mass, density…that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“I kept failing.” Miyuki crossed to a workstation neatly arranged with graph paper, metal rulers, calipers, compasses, and a squat stainless steel box.

Karen scrunched up her nose. “You kept failing?”

Miyuki picked up a few leaves of graph paper. Neatly drawn on them were precise depictions of the five-pointed
star, from multiple views. Each had tiny metric measurements denoted. It was clearly the work of many hours. “I calculated its volume both by geometry and water displacement. I wanted to be exact. I found it to occupy precisely 542 cubic centimeters.”

“What about its weight?”

Miyuki adjusted her bonnet. “That's the strange part.” She waved at the graph papers and tools. “I thought these calculations were going to be the hard part. I figured that all I'd have to do afterward was weigh the artifact, then divide the weight by the calculated volume to get the density. Simple.”

Karen nodded. “So how much did it weigh?”

“That would depend.” Miyuki crossed to the steel box. “I borrowed this electronic scale from the geology department. It's able to weigh an object down to a fraction of a milligram.”

“And?”

“Watch.” Miyuki switched on the power switch. “I left the crystal star in the sample chamber.”

Karen watched the red digital numbers climb higher and higher, settling at last on one number. Karen stared in disbelief.

14.325
KILOS

“Amazing. That's over thirty pounds. I can't believe it. The star is that heavy?”

Miyuki turned to Karen. “Sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

Miyuki opened the door to the electronic scale. Karen bent closer. Inside the sample chamber, the crystal star shone brightly, fracturing the room's light into brilliant shards. Karen was once again stunned by its beauty.

She turned to Miyuki. “I don't understand. What?”

Miyuki pointed to the red analog numbers of the electronic scale. The number had changed. It was smaller.

8.89
KILOS

Karen straightened, frowning. “Is there a problem with the scale?”

“I thought the same thing.” Miyuki picked up the flashlight from the table. “Watch.” She flipped on the flashlight and pointed its narrow beam at the crystal.

The star shone more brilliantly. Karen had to squint against its glare. But her gaze did not remain long on the crystal artifact. She stared at the digital reading. It was smaller again.

2.99
KILOS

“How…?”

Miyuki shadowed the flashlight's beam with her palm and the number climbed higher. “Now you know why I had trouble with my calculations. The weight keeps changing. The stronger the light, the less it weighs.”

“That's impossible. There's no crystal on this planet that acts this way.”

Miyuki shrugged. “Why do you think I called you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Any news?”

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

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

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

“No, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Explanation for what?”

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

David's eyes grew wide.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you saying?”

Weintraub sighed, clearly exasperated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do your job and I'll do mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, sir.”

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

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

“Has Edwin been able to formulate any explanation?”

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

Before he could move, booted footsteps sounded behind him.

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

The man stopped. “Sir.”

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

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

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

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