Deep Fathom (24 page)

“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?”

Wrapped in a leather flight jacket, David Spangler stood at the bow of the Navy's salvage ship, the
Maggie Chouest
. It was an ugly ship, painted bright red and festooned with antennas, booms, and satellite dishes. A two-hundred-foot homely bitch, David thought. Manned by a crew of thirty, the salvage ship was the temporary home of the Navy's Deep Submergence Unit and the unit's newest rescue vessel, the submersible
Perseus
. Currently, the large sub still rested in the ship's dry dock at the stern, awaiting its first deployment later this day.

Alone at the bow, David sucked a long draw from his cigarette. Morning was still hours away, but he knew any attempt at sleep would fail him this night. Two hours ago he had gotten off the scrambled line with his boss, Nicolas Ruzickov. They had talked at length concerning David's revised assignment.

His primary goal of implicating the Chinese in the crash of Air Force One had been accomplished. With the country
still struggling to recover from the disaster on the West Coast, and with paranoia sky high across the country, the public was ready to accept any explanation. It was an easy sell. David had received the thanks of a grateful President. In fact, Lawrence Nafe would be making a formal announcement in only a couple more hours, confronting the Chinese aloud, drawing a line in the sand between their two countries.

But now David had a new assignment: to oversee a clandestine research project into an unknown power source. Something to do with the quakes from nine days ago.

He did not understand half the details Ruzickov related, but it was not important. All he had to do was maintain a blanket over the site. To the world abroad, the activity here had to look like the continuing salvage ops.

Staring out at the dark seas, David exhaled slowly, a circle of smoke curling up from his lips. Half a day ago the USS
Gibraltar
had left with the setting sun, steaming toward the Philippine Sea. Without the giant ship here, the seas seemed empty. Besides the
Maggie Chouest
, only three other ships still circled the region—destroyers with enough firepower to maintain their privacy.

Behind David a hatch clanged closed.

“Sir.”

David glanced over a shoulder. “What is it, Mr. Rolfe?”

“Sir, I just wanted to let you know that the research site in Hawaii has been locked down. They're dismantling the sea lab for shipment.”

“Any problems?”

“No, sir. The head of the project has been informed and signed a confidentiality agreement. The only concession was to let him oversee the research here. Our scientific liaison at Los Alamos vouched for the man. And the CIA director signed off on it.”

David nodded, wearing a grim smile. It seemed Ruzickov was getting as little sleep as he. “When are they due to be under way?”

“Less than two days.”

Two days. Ruzickov was moving fast. Good
. David studied the sea.

Later today he planned to dive in the Navy's submersible, to give the
Perseus
its first trial run here. He had watched the video recordings from Kirkland's other dives, but David wanted to see the crash site for himself. Once this mission was under way, Omega team would oversee topside, while he would remain below at the sea lab.

“Sir, the…um, other objective…Are we to continue…?”

David took a drag on his cigarette. “Yes. There'll be no change. If anything, we now have a stronger mandate to proceed. No outsider must know what lies below. Those are the standing orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are we still tracking the
Deep Fathom
?”

“Of course, sir. But when do you expect to proceed with—”

“I'll let you know. We can't move too soon. I want him well away from here before we proceed.” David flicked the dying butt of his cigarette into the sea, angered that his moment of peace had been shattered by the intrusion.

After waiting for over a decade, he told himself, he could be patient a bit longer. Three days, he decided. No more.

Just after midnight, a knock interrupted Lawrence Nafe's meeting with a trio of Democratic senators, three stubborn holdouts on his West Coast disaster-relief bill. The bill would be voted on in the morning, and his entire staff was working through the night to ensure they had the votes needed to pass. The door to the Oval Office opened and his personal aide stepped inside.

Nafe had finally learned the boy's name. “What is it, Marcus?”

“Sir, Mr. Wellington is here to—”

His Chief of Staff pushed past the young man. “Excuse the interruption, Mr. President, but I have an urgent matter to bring to your attention.”

Nafe noticed the hard set to the man's eyes and lips. William Wellington, from a rich Georgian family, usually exuded a gentile charm. Something was wrong. Nafe stood. “Thank you, gentlemen. That'll be all.”

The senator from Arizona opened his mouth as if to complain,
but Nafe stared him down. If Jacobson wanted his support in next year's election for the Arizona seat, he had better tow the line. On this bill, he would brook no defectors in his own party's ranks. The man closed his mouth. The others mumbled their thanks and departed with his aide.

Nafe turned his attention to his Chief of Staff. “What is it, Bill?”

Wellington spoke formally, strained. “Mr. President, you're needed in the Situation Room.”

“What's happened?”

“The Chinese, sir. Their air and naval forces have made a strike against Taiwan.”

Nafe almost fell back into his chair. “What? When? It's the goddamn middle of the night.”

“It's midday in the Far East. They struck just before noon Taiwan time.”

Nafe was stunned. He had not thought the Chinese would be so bold. Nicolas Ruzickov had assured him that the Chinese Premier would bow to Washington's accusations, paving the way to garner stiffer concessions from the People's Republic. Nafe wanted answers for this mistake. “Where's Nick Ruzickov?”

“In the Situation Room. The National Security Council and Cabinet are already gathering.” William Wellington backed toward the door. “Sir, we must get going. An immediate response will be necessary.”

Nafe nodded and headed toward the door. The Joint Chiefs had better have a contingency plan in place. With the Chief of Staff at his side, he strode through the West Wing, trailed by his Secret Service men. In short order, Nafe pushed angrily into the White House's inner sanctum.

The agitation and noise in the Situation Room quieted at his entrance.

Around the long table, a score of uniformed men and women stood at his arrival: the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of the Navy, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and other military heads. Nafe's own Cabinet members stood to either side of the table.

On the far side of the room a wall-sized monitor displayed a complicated map of the Philippine Sea. Forces were highlighted in blues, reds, and yellows.

Scowling, Nafe crossed to the head of the table. He would make sure the U.S. answered this display of Chinese aggression. There would be no diplomacy. If necessary, he would wipe the Chinese navy from the seas.

He sat down. Those members who had seats returned to their own chairs. The others remained standing.

“So where are we?” Nafe asked.

No one spoke. No one would even meet his gaze.

“I want answers and a plan for an aggressive response,” Nafe said angrily.

Nicolas Ruzickov stood. “Mr. President, it's too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fighting is already over. Taiwan conceded.”

Nafe struggled to understand. “How could that be? Are you saying during the time it took me to cross from the Oval Office, the Chinese have taken Taiwan?”

Ruzickov bowed his head. “With their island in shambles from the recent quakes, the Taiwanese could offer no resistance. Before we could respond, their government had agreed to rescind their independence, accepting Chinese hegemony in exchange for both aid and an end to hostilities. Chinese forces have already landed. Taiwan is once again a Chinese province.”

Nafe was too stunned to speak. It had happened so fast.

The Secretary of Defense spoke up. “We can't just accept this. We have forces on the island…in the area.”

The Chief of Naval Operations answered, “We cannot act without a request from the Taiwanese government. And we won't get it. We've been in touch with their embassy. They do not want to be caught between our two warring forces, fearing in their current state that it would lead to the annihilation of their island. In fact, we've just received word that their government has demanded that our forces evacuate their waters.”

Nafe felt the heat rising in his face. Less than two weeks
in office, and he was losing Taiwan to the Chinese. He clenched his fists. “I do not accept this. I will not see the spread of communism while I'm in charge.”

“Sir—” Ruzickov cautioned.

Nafe slammed his fist against the table. “It's time to stop coddling China. It will stop here. Now.”

“Sir, what do you propose?”

“With the cowardly assassination of President Bishop and this newest aggression, I see no other choice.” Nafe stared down the heads of the United States fighting forces. “I will demand a declaration of war from Congress.”

Forgetting how much he hated airline travel—the stale air, the cramped seats, the crying children—Jack was glad when the jet's tires finally touched down and he was freed from the belly of this beast. Though, in truth, his annoyance did not entirely arise from the usual discomforts of flight, but from his memory of Air Force One's crash. The flight here had been in the same class of jet, a Boeing 747. Jack had spent much of the journey staring out the window, studying every wing seam, bolt, and flap.

But after three days since making the decision to travel here, he had finally reached Okinawa. The journey had taken so long because the closest airport was on Kwajalein Atoll, a day's sail in the
Deep Fathom
. And once there, he had been forced to fly standby, killing another half day waiting for a seat to open up. But at least the journey was finally over.

Free of the plane now, Jack crossed through the con-course to the customs area. His only luggage, a single backpack, was hooked over his shoulders. He stepped up to the Japanese customs agent and slapped down his passport. The officer gestured him to open his bag.

As Jack obeyed, the man studied his passport and spoke to him in English. “Welcome to Okinawa, Mr. Kirkland. If
you'll step over to the right.”

Jack turned and saw a second agent carrying a metal-detecting wand.

The first man spoke as he sifted through Jack's backpack, picking through his underwear and toiletries. “Extra security,” the officer explained, “because of China's attack.”

Jack nodded. Over the plane's intercom, the pilot had described the short skirmish and Taiwan's concession. The strong were always eating the weak.

Jack stepped over to the second agent, who waved a metal detector over his legs and up his body. The detector buzzed at his wrist. He pulled back his sleeve to expose his watch. The officer continued his sweep. The detector sang out again as it passed over his heart. The officer looked up at him.

Frowning, Jack patted his jacket. There was a small bulge in the inner pocket. He opened his jacket and reached inside, remembering David Spangler's parting gift as he pulled out a tiny, ribbon-wrapped box. With all the commotion, he'd forgotten about it.

“You'll have to open that,” the first agent said.

Jack nodded and moved back to the customs table. He tugged the ribbon free.
Leave it to David to cause trouble from half a world away.
He popped open the tiny ring box.

Inside, resting on its velvet-lined interior, lay a small piece of circuitry. A couple of blue wires stuck out of it.

“What is that?” the agent asked, tweezing it between his fingers.

Jack had no idea, but he knew some explanation was needed. He thought fast. “It…It's for a repair job. An expensive and critical component. I'm a computer consultant.”

“So you gift-wrapped it?” the man asked, studying the tiny piece of electronics, searching for some threat.

“It's a joke between—” He struggled to remember the name of the computer scientist helping the anthropologist. “—Professor Nakano and myself.”

The customs officer nodded. “I've heard of her. The university's computer expert. Smart woman. Nobel Prize winner.” He replaced the circuit, snapped the ring box closed,
and passed it back. “She taught my nephew.”

Jack shoved the box into his backpack.

Behind him, a loud Portuguese family aimed for the customs station. A large woman was arguing with her husband. Both dragged gigantic suitcases.

The agent glanced at them and sighed in exasperation. “You're free to go.” He waved Jack off.

Jack zipped his bag and proceeded through the gates into the main terminal. The airport was in a tumult, with masses of travelers leaving. Clearly, the Chinese attack had made everyone nervous. Taiwan was too close for comfort, just south of the Ryukyu chain of islands, of which Okinawa was a part.

Jack's eyes drifted over the crowd. The terminal was so busy he failed to notice the woman trying to get his attention until she called out his name.

“Mr. Kirkland!”

Jack stumbled to a stop, glancing to his left.

The woman hurried over. She had been waiting at the customs gate. She stopped and held out her hand. “I'm Karen Grace.”

Jack blinked stupidly at her for a second. “The…the professor?” He had not expected her to be so young.

She smiled. “I know you told us you would call once you were settled in your hotel, but…well…” A blush brightened her cheeks. “Miyuki hacked into the airport's computers and downloaded your itinerary. I figured you could stay at my apartment rather than a hotel. It'll make things easier.” She began to stammer, clearly realizing she might be stepping over a line. “That is…if you'd like.”

Jack rescued her from further embarrassment. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer. I hate hotels.”

“Good…good…We'll get a taxi.”

She turned and led the way. Jack watched her. For just a moment as the woman had rushed up to him, Jennifer's memory had flashed before him. Not that the two women looked anything alike. Except for the blond hair, the professor bore no resemblance to Jennifer. Karen was taller, her hair cropped shorter, her eyes green. She carried herself differently,
too. Striding sternly, no sway in her step.

Still, Jack recognized a similar energy coming from this professor. She practically glowed with it, a light that shone past the superficial differences.

“So you're that astronaut,” Karen said when he caught up to her. “I remember the news stories. The hero. God, I'd love to go up there sometime.”

“I can't say I enjoyed it much.”

Karen stumbled to a stop. “Oh, God, I'm sorry. The accident. You lost friends up there. What was I thinking?”

“It's ancient history,” he mumbled, wanting to end the conversation.

She stared up at him with an apologetic grin. “I'm sorry.”

Jack turned the conversation in another direction as they moved off again. “So you're American?”

“Canadian actually. A visiting professor. I have an apartment near the university…faculty housing.”

“Sounds good. After I clean up, I'd like to get to work as soon as possible.”

“Of course.”

Exiting the terminal, Karen pushed forward through the throng. At the curb, she raised a hand to hail a cab. One zipped to a stop at the curb. Stepping forward, she pulled open the door. “C'mon. I want to get to the bank before it closes.”

Jack ducked inside the small car as Karen spoke rapidly to the driver in Japanese. Then she slid in next to him. “If you want to work this afternoon, I'll need to collect something from my safe deposit box first.”

“What's that?”

“The crystal.”

“You have it at the bank?”

As the taxi wove into highway traffic, aiming for the city, she looked at him, studying him. In her eyes, Jack saw her weighing something in her mind. Finally, she said, “You don't have any tattoos, do you?”

“Why?”

She just stared, waiting for him to answer.

“Okay, I do. I
was
with the SEALs.”

“Could I see them?”

“Not unless you want me to moon the driver.”

She blushed again.

Jack fought down a grin. He was growing to like this reaction.

“Um, that won't be necessary,” she mumbled. “How about snake tattoos? Any of those?”

“No. Why?”

She chewed her lower lip, then spoke. “We've had some trouble with a group trying to steal the crystal artifact. They bear these snake tattoos on their forearms. That's why I insisted on meeting you in person. We need to be cautious.”

Jack pushed back his jacket's sleeves, baring his forearms. “No snakes. Anywhere. I swear.”

She grinned at him, settling back into her seat. “I believe you.”

After a short drive, they exited the highway. Signs for the university were written in both Japanese and English.

Karen leaned forward and again spoke to the driver, who bobbed his head. She pointed at the next corner, to a large Bank of Tokyo sign. The taxi squealed to a halt. “I'll be right back.” She hopped out.

Jack sat in the steaming heat. With the car stopped, there was not even a breeze through the window to move the air. His thoughts drifted back to the professor. She smelled vaguely of jasmine. Her scent remained in the cab. He could not help smiling. Perhaps this trip wasn't such a bad idea.