Deep Fathom (10 page)

“We could rest a little longer. These ruins have waited centuries to be explored. A few more minutes won't make any difference.”

Miyuki settled back.

Karen did, too. She stared out over the amazing view. “I appreciate your help, Miyuki. I couldn't ask for a better friend.”

“Me, too,” Miyuki said softly.

The two women had met at a Ryukyu University social function. Both were single, about the same age, and working in a male-dominated environment. They had begun socializing—trips to a local karaoke bar, late dinners while
grading midterms, matinee movies on Saturdays—and had become close companions.

Miyuki said, “Did I tell you I heard from Hiroshi yesterday?”

“No! You didn't!” Karen sat straighter. Hiroshi Takata, a fellow university professor, had been engaged to Miyuki, but her success in her field had raised some professional jealousy and driven a wedge into their relationship. Two years ago he had abruptly broken off the engagement and transferred to Kobe. “The bastard! What did he want?”

Miyuki rolled her eyes. “He wanted me to know
he
was okay after the quakes. He didn't even bother to ask how I was doing.”

“Do you think he wants to reconcile?”

“In his dreams,” Miyuki snorted.

Karen laughed. “We do seem to attract the most obnoxious men.”

“Spineless, more like.”

Karen nodded knowingly. In Canada she had run through her own long series of bad relationships, from cold to abusive. And she was in no hurry to continue the pattern. It was one of the reasons she accepted the four-year position here on Okinawa. New city, new future.

“So what do you make of all this?” Miyuki asked, changing the subject. “Could this be a part of your great-grandfather's lost Atlantis?”

“You mean the lost continent of Mu?” she said slowly. “I doubt it. Hundreds of other megalithic ruins dot the Pacific: the statues of Easter Island, the canal city of Nan Madol, the Latte stones of Guam, the Burden of Tonga. All of them predate the oral histories of these islands. No one has been able to connect them together.” She warmed with the mystery.

“And you hope to do that?”

“Who knows what answers may be found here?”

Miyuki gave her a crooked grin and pushed up. “There is only one way to find out.”

Karen shoved to her feet, matching her friend's grin. “I should say so.”

The pair continued their climb, staying together, each
helping the other up the high steps. In twenty minutes, with the sun climbing higher, they reached the summit. Karen scrambled up first, breathing heavily.

The plateau was a single monstrous slab. A long crack traversed the surface, but the split was clearly due to more recent damage, most likely from the seismic activity. Karen guessed that when the pyramid was built, the slab must have been lifted intact atop this structure. She slowly turned. Ten meters on each side, she estimated. The meter-thick slab had to weigh hundreds of tons. How did these ancient builders get it up here?

Miyuki clambered up behind her, then turned in a slow circle, appreciating the view, her eyes shining. “Simply amazing.”

Karen nodded, too awestruck to speak yet. She crossed to the tumbled temple in the center of the roof. It had once been constructed of slabs and basalt logs. She could imagine how it must have looked. A squat, low building surmounted by a slab roof. She edged around it, viewing it from all angles.

Miyuki dogged her steps, video camera in hand.

Karen examined the temple. It was unadorned. Or perhaps any decorative carving had been worn away long ago. She straightened. “I'm going in.”

“What?” Miyuki lowered her camera. “What are you talking about?”

Karen pointed to a pair of wall slabs that had fallen and were tilting against each other. A narrow crawl space lay between them, descending at a slant.

“Are you crazy? You don't know how stable those stones are!”

Karen chipped some coral that had taken root between the two slabs. Like living cement. “For coral to grow here, it means they haven't moved in ages. Besides, I'm just going to take a quick peek. If there's any carving or petroglyphs, they'll be inside. Sheltered from erosion.” She slipped out of her embroidered jacket and dropped to her knees. “It's gonna be a tight squeeze.”

She yanked off her belt so the buckle wouldn't snag, then
shrugged out of her shoulder harness, lowering her holstered pistol to the stones.

“Is that penlight still in your bag?” she asked.

Miyuki shuffled through her pack and pulled out a tiny fluorescent purple flashlight. Karen took it, twisted it on, then put the handle in her mouth as she lay flat on her belly.

“Are you sure you should do this?”

As answer, Karen snuggled into the hole head first, penlight pointed forward. Worming her way inside, she used her fingers to find imperfections in the rock to help pull her forward, but mostly it was her toes that edged her inch by inch into the crawlway. She ignored the thick slabs hanging over her. She had done some caving in her past, but nothing this tight. She kept her breathing calm, told herself to just keep moving, don't stop.

“There go your feet!” Miyuki called to her.

Her friend's voice was muffled. Karen's body fit snugly within the tunnel. She found it harder to breathe with the walls compressing her chest. An edge of panic set in, but she bit it back. She took quicker, shallower breaths. She would not suffocate.

She moved on. If she became stuck, she could always use her hands to propel her backward, plus Miyuki could pull her by the ankles. There was no real danger here. Still, her mouth grew dry and sticky as her toes began to slip on the damp stone.

“How you doing?”

Karen opened her mouth to answer and realized she did not have enough air to yell back to her friend. “I'm okay.” It came out in a gasped whisper around the flashlight held in her teeth.

“What was that?”

Karen stretched her arms forward. The fingers of her right hand just caught the edge of the slab's end. The end was that close! She locked her fingers and pulled, shoving with her toes at the same time. Her body thrust forward. By now her pulse pounded in her ears. Her jaw ached from biting on the metal penlight. “C'mon, goddamnit!” she swore in a short gasp.

Fingers scrambling, she found a purchase for her left hand, too. Grinning, she heaved her body forward, pulling her head free of the tunnel. She paused to crane her neck around, the beam of light casting back and forth.

A cramped space lay open here. No bigger than a half bath. But what caught her eye was what looked like an altar on the far side. Barnacle-covered urns and broken pottery lay scattered about the floor, all frosted with algae. Around the edge of the altar wove a carved snake. Karen followed it with her light until she reached the serpent's nose. A mane of stone feathers surrounded its fanged head. Its eyes, red stones, reflected back her light. Most likely rubies.

Ignoring the jewels, she moved the light, more excited by the representation of feathers. It reminded her of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered snake god of the Mayas. Could this be a sign that the Mayas had built this site?

She spat out the penlight. Twisting and using her arms as leverage, she hauled herself out of the damp tunnel and into the chamber. Recovering her flashlight, she turned to the entrance. Miyuki should see this.

Karen bent by the tunnel as a shot rang out.

The sharp blast echoed in the small space, followed by a terrified scream.

Karen dropped to her knees, trying to peer down the tunnel. “Miyuki!”

For the first time in over twelve years, Jack placed his foot aboard a United States military vessel—and it was no small tugboat. He stepped from the Sea Knight helicopter onto almost an acre of open flight deck. The USS
Gibraltar
was two football fields long and half a field wide, a monstrous beast powered by two boilers. Up and down the flight deck, huge painted numbers signaled, landing pads for up to nine aircraft.

Ducking his head, he strode from under the helicopter's rotors. Overhead, the roar of the blades was deafening. The rotorwash tore at his unzippered jacket. As he cleared the blades, he almost tripped over one of the many aircraft tie-downs. He caught himself, feeling foolish. A rookie's mistake. It truly
had
been a long time since he walked this deck.

Past the deadly blades, Jack straightened and glanced out to sea. Near the horizon, he could just make out the tiny dot that was the
Deep Fathom
. He had been flown here for an organizational briefing due to start at noon. Closer to the
huge ship, flanking its two sides, were three smaller destroyers, support ships for the mighty behemoth.

Jack scowled at the sight. Talk about overkill. At least the Vice President hadn't deployed an entire goddamn battle group.

Turning, Jack eyed the bristling array of weapons systems near the
Gibraltar
's superstructure. With that much firepower, he thought, who needed an entire battle group? The
Gibraltar
could probably take over a small country by itself. Its air contingent consisted of forty-two Sea Knight helicopters, five Harrier attack planes, and six ASW helicopters. Additionally, the vessel bore its own defenses: Sea Sparrow surface-to-air missile systems, Phalanx Close-in Weapons System, Bushmaster cannons, even a Nixie torpedo-decoy system. All in all, one hell of a big stick to shake at the enemies of the United States.

Motors whined on his left. A portside elevator lifted another Sea Knight helicopter from the hangar below. Men and women in red and yellow jackets buzzed around the deck. With the large ship approaching ground zero of the crash site, the great beast was stirring.

Near the stern, Jack noted new additions to the flight deck: three large cranes and winch assemblies. Now he understood one reason for the vessel's late arrival. Before steaming here, they had clearly readied the ship for the salvage operation.

“Mr. Kirkland,” a stern voice barked from behind.

Jack turned. A trio of uniformed personnel strode toward him. He did not know any of them, but did recognize their credentials. Instinctively, he found himself straightening, throwing his shoulders back.

In the lead was the C.O. of the
Gibraltar
. “Captain John Brenning,” the man said, introducing himself as he stopped in front of Jack. No hand was offered to shake. He gestured to his right and left, saying, “My executive officer, Commander Julie Knudson, and Master Chief Hayward Lincoln.”

Both nodded. The woman eyed Jack up and down as if he were a bug. The black master chief remained stoic, barely
acknowledging him.

“Rear Admiral Houston has requested a private meeting before the noon briefing. Commander Knudson will take you below to the officer's wardroom.”

The captain and master chief turned away, meaning to cross toward the main deck and the rallying air wing. The female officer spun on her heel, ready to lead Jack away.

But Jack remained standing. “Why the private meeting?”

Three pairs of eyes swung his way. Clearly, their orders were seldom questioned. Jack met their stares, unmoving, awaiting an answer. The sun glared mercilessly off the metal flight deck. Jack knew he was no longer in their chain of command. He was a civilian, his own man.

Captain Brenning sighed. “The admiral did not elaborate on his reasons. He asked us only to deliver you to him ASAP.”

“If you would please follow,” the executive officer said with the barest trace of irritation.

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He would not be bullied into a subordinate position here. When it came to dealing with the military mentality, it was best to let them know where you stood, to get the pecking order firmly established up front.

“I agreed to lend the use of my submersible in this search,” he said. “Nothing more. I only accepted today's meeting so I could discharge this duty as swiftly as possible. I am in no way obligated to kiss a rear admiral's rear.”

Agruff voice called from an open hatch behind him. “And who the hell would want you to, Jack?”

The three uniforms snapped to attention, hands raised in sharp salute. “Admiral on deck!” the master chief barked.

From the shadows of the open hatch a large man stepped into the sunlight. He wore a green flight jacket, casually loose. His battle ribbons were in plain view. He strode forward from the shelter of the doorway. When Jack had last spoken to Mark Houston, the admiral had been a captain. Otherwise, Houston had not changed. The old man had the same thick gray hair cropped short, the same weathered features. His frosted blue eyes were as keen as ever as they
stared Jack down.

Houston acknowledged his people with a nod.

Captain Brenning stepped forward. “There was no need for you to come up here, sir. Mr. Kirkland was just on his way down to meet you.”

The admiral chuckled. “I'm sure he was. But there's one thing you need to learn about Jack Kirkland, Captain. He doesn't take orders well.”

“So I am learning, sir,” the C.O. said stiffly.

Though Jack stood six-foot-three, the admiral still seemed to tower over him, fists on hips. “Jack ‘the Flash' Kirkland,” he muttered sternly. “Who would have ever thought to see you on the
Gibraltar
again?”

“Not me, sir. That's for damn sure.” Though Jack hated to be aboard another Navy vessel, he could not shake a certain warmth at seeing the old man. Mark Houston had been more than his commanding officer. He had proved a friend and mentor. In fact, it was Mark Houston who had successfully campaigned for him to be awarded the seat on the military shuttle mission. Jack cleared his throat. “It's good to see you again, sir.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that. Now maybe you'll cooperate and follow me down to the conference room.”

“Yes, sir.”

The admiral dismissed his officers with a nod. “Come. I have coffee and sandwiches below,” he said to Jack, leading the way toward the hatch in the looming superstructure. “The NTSB people have had a long night, so we're catering this briefing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jack held his breath as he ducked through the hatch and entered the ship's bowels. Out of the sun, the cold of the ship struck him immediately. He had forgotten how frigid the inside of the ship's “island” could be, but the smell of oiled metal triggered old memories. Voices echoed from deeper in the ship. It was as if he had entered a living creature. Jonah in the whale, he thought morosely.

The admiral led him down to Level 2, stopping periodically to bow his head with other officers, to share a joke or pass on an order. Mark Houston had always been a hands-on
officer. Before becoming admiral, when Houston was the C.O. here, he had never holed himself up in his room. He could be found as often as not down in the crew quarters as up in the officers' galley. It was what Jack liked best about the old man. He knew all his crew, and the crew were all the more loyal for it.

“Here we are,” Houston said. He rested his hand on the latch to the door and glanced down the hall, a tired smile on his face. “The
Gibraltar
. I can't believe I'm back here.”

“I know what you mean.”

Houston snorted. “They've got me berthed up in Flag Country. Seems strange. Last night I almost returned to my old C.O.'s cabin by habit. Funny how the mind works.” The old man shook his head and pulled open the door. He waved for Jack to enter first.

The conference room was dominated by a long mahogany table. It had already been set up for the briefing. Water glasses, notebooks, and pens were aligned precisely before each of the ten chairs. There were also thermoses of coffee and platters of small sandwiches.

Jack glanced around as he crossed to the table. Maps and charts hung on the walls, with tiny flagged pins poking out. He recognized a regional map of local currents on a nearby wall. Inked squares were checkered on it. The search parameters. It seemed that the admiral had not been lax on the ride here.

Jack took it all in quickly, then turned to find Houston directly behind him. Again the admiral seemed to study him. “So how've you been, Jack?”

He shrugged. “Surviving.”

“Hmm…that's too bad.”

Jack scrunched up his brows, surprised by this response. He did not think the admiral bore him any ill will.

But Houston clarified his statement as he sank into one of the seats and kicked another toward Jack. “Life isn't just about surviving. It's about living.”

Jack sat. “If you say so.”

“Any women in your life?”

Jack frowned. He did not understand this line of questioning.

“I know you're not married, but is there anyone special in your life?”

“No. Not really. Friends, that's all. Why?”

The admiral shrugged. “Just wondering. We haven't spoken in over a decade. Not even a Christmas card.”

Jack wrinkled his brow. “But you're Jewish.”

“Okay, a Hanukkah card, you ass. My point is that I thought you'd at least keep in touch.”

Jack studied his own hands, rubbing at his chair's arm-rests in discomfort. “I wanted to put everything behind me. Start new.”

“And how's that going for you?” Houston asked sourly.

Jack's discomfort welled toward anger. He bit it back and remained silent.

“Goddamn it, Jack. Can't you tell when someone is trying to help you?”

Jack glanced to his former C.O. “And how's that?”

“Whether you know it or not, I've been keeping tabs on you. I know the financial straits you're in. You're about to lose that rust bucket of yours.”

“I'll manage.”

“Yeah, and you'll manage a hell of a lot better with several thousand dollars from the Navy for assisting us in the search for Air Force One.”

Jack shook his head. “I don't need your charity.”

“Well, you need something, you goddamn stubborn fool.”

Both men just stared at one another for several breaths. Houston finally clenched a fist on his knee, but his voice softened with old pain. “Do you remember when Ethel died?”

Jack nodded. Ethel had been the admiral's wife for over thirty years. A year before the shuttle accident, she had succumbed to complications from ovarian cancer. In many ways, Ethel had been the only mother Jack had ever known. His own mother had died when he was three years old.

“The day before she slipped into a coma, she told me to watch over you.”

Jack looked up in surprise. The admiral would not meet his eyes, but Jack noticed a glint of tears.

“I don't know what Ethel ever saw in you, Jack. But I won't let the old broad down. I've given you enough time to yourself…to work through what happened on the
Atlantis
. But enough is enough.”

“What do you want of me?”

He met Jack's eyes. “You've been hiding out here long enough. I want you to come in from the sea.”

Jack just stared, dumbfounded.

“That's why I recruited you. Not just for your submersible. It's time you returned to the real world.”

“And the Navy is the real world?” Jack snorted.

“Close enough. We at least come to port every now and then.”

Jack shook his head. “Listen, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I'm almost forty years old, not a child to be coddled. Whether you believe it or not, I'm happy in my current life.”

His former commander sighed and lifted his hands in surrender. “You are a goddamn piece of work, Jack.” He stood up. “The briefing should be under way shortly. I suppose you understand the importance of our work here.”

Jack nodded, standing also. “Of course. It's Air Force One. The President.”

“It's more than just the President, Jack. We've lost Presidents before. But never under such circumstances, in the middle of a worldwide catastrophe. As much as the rest of the world disparages the United States and its foreign policy, it still doesn't stop them from looking to us for leadership during a time of crisis—and now we are leaderless, rudderless.”

“What about the Vice President? Lawrence Nafe?”

“I see you at least keep abreast of current events out here,” Houston teased lightly, but his voice quickly grew sober again. His brows knit with worry. “Washington is screaming for answers. Before Nafe can be sworn in, we need to put the fate of President Bishop to rest. Already rumors are spreading. Some are claiming terrorists—Arabs,
Russian, Chinese, Serbian, or even the I.R.A. Take your pick. Some are saying it's all a hoax. Some say it's a conspiracy tied to JFK.” The admiral shook his head. “It's a friggin' mess. For order to be restored, we need concrete answers. We need a body we can bury with the usual pomp and ceremony. That's why we're here.”

Jack had never seen Mark Houston look so worried. “I'll do my best to help,” he said sincerely. “Just ask, and I'll do it.”

“I never expected less of you.” Before Jack could stop him, the admiral reached out and gave him a quick hug. “And whether
you
believe it or not, Jack, I'm glad to see you again. Welcome back to the
Gibraltar
.”

Jack froze in the man's embrace, unable to speak.

Houston released him and headed toward the door. “I have a few last minute details to address, but help yourself to the sandwiches, Jack. The egg salad is especially good. Real eggs, not that powdered shit.” The admiral gave him a tired smile, then left, closing the door behind him.