Deep Fathom (16 page)

“No argument from me.”

They turned away from the smoking pyramid and crossed back to the officers. The white and blue police motorboat waited in the water below, its lights blinking.

Karen sighed with shaky relief. “Remind me I owe Gabriel a great big hug.”

“And you owe me a new pair of Ferragamos.” With a tired grin, Miyuki swiped her hair from her damp forehead. “After all this, I'm holding you to your promise!”

Ensconced in the ship's geology lab, Jack and the others sat staring at the frozen video image of the inscribed obelisk: metallic symbols etched crudely into the crystal's surface. “Who could have done this?” he asked.

George took off his bifocals. “I've never seen anything like it. But I'm going to get on-line and post some questions to various archaeology websites. See if I get any bites.” He picked up a legal pad with a handwritten copy of the writing. “But it would help if we had more data.” The historian glanced meaningfully at Jack.

Charlie clicked off the monitor. “I agree with the professor. We need more information.”

Jack found all eyes on him.

George spoke first. “You've got to go back down there.”

“I…I haven't made a decision on that yet.” He was in no hurry to return to the deep-sea graveyard.

Lisa added her support. “We should just take the money and run. We've met our obligation to the Navy. We're not required to haul pieces of the plane to the surface…and I don't like what happened when Jack was near that pillar.”

George crinkled his brow. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Lisa turned to Jack, allowing him to explain, but he remained silent. He felt foolish discussing his vague misgivings while down there.

“The
Nautilus
checked out fine,” Lisa explained, filling in for him. “Instruments, computers, radios, power supply…all get clean bills of health. But during Jack's communication blackout, when he was near that pillar, he reports sensing vibrations coming off it.”

Charlie offered a more plausible explanation. “If the sub's batteries were malfunctioning, the thrusters might
have become misaligned, tremoring the vessel.” He looked at Jack. “Or maybe you were picking up vibrations from the slight seismic readings. They occurred the same time as the blackout.”

Jack, embarrassed, felt heat rising to his cheeks. “No, it was not vibrations from the ship. It felt…I don't know, more electric…”

“Then a short in a system somewhere?” Charlie persisted.

Lisa shook her head. “I found no evidence of any electrical problems.”

George pocketed his paper. “So what are you saying?”

By now Jack's face was red. He could not meet the others' gazes. “It was the pillar. I can't explain how I know this, but it was. The crystal was giving off some type of…I don't know…harmonics, vibrations, emanations.”

George and Charlie stared at Jack. He recognized the doubt in their eyes. Charlie spoke first. “If you're right, it's even more of a reason to go down and do a little private snooping.”

George nodded. “And if there's more writing, I'd like a complete copy.”

A firm knock on the door saved Jack from having to answer. “It's Robert,” the marine biologist called from beyond the door.

“What is it?” Jack asked, relieved at turning aside more questions from the others.

“Word has come over from the
Gibraltar
. They have news about the crash.”

Jack unlocked the door. He hoped some concrete answer had been discovered, something that would dismiss the need to go back down.

Robert stood outside. He waved them all out. “They're faxing over a copy of the cockpit voice recorder.”

“Then let's go,” Jack said.

The marine biologist, excited, continued his explanation. “Whatever they found, it has everyone in a buzz. I saw the admiral's face when he was informed over a scrambled line. He did not look happy. He insisted that a full copy of the
cockpit's final conversation be faxed over to him.”

Jack hurried, climbing the stairs to the main deck, then up the steps to the pilothouse. As he opened the door, he found Houston's two personal aides inside, in uniform, armed, standing stiffly. They were twin bulldogs, old Navy.

Nearby, the
Fathom
's accountant leaned on the pilot seat.

“Where's the admiral?” Jack asked.

Kendall McMillan pointed toward the closed door to the radio and satellite system. “He's in there. He told us to wait for him.”

Jack frowned at the closed door. This was his ship. He did not like someone closing him out of his own ship's heart—even an admiral. He moved to the door, but the two burly aides blocked him, hands on holstered pistols.

Before any confrontation could flare, the door swung open. The first one out was Jack's dog. Elvis padded from the radio room, tail sweeping back and forth. The admiral followed him. Jack opened his mouth, about to scold the old man, but when he saw the pallor to Mark Houston's face, he remained silent. Deep wrinkles etched the admiral's forehead.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Houston glanced around. The entire ship's crew was now crammed into the small pilothouse. “Is there a place to get a drink around here?”

Jack waved the others away and turned to his old friend. “Follow me. I have a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch in my stateroom.”

“Just what the doctor ordered.” The admiral smiled, but it came out sickly.

Jack led the way down to the main deck and to his stateroom. He held the door open for the old man.

Once both were inside, Houston nodded back at the door. “Lock it.”

Jack did as ordered. He pointed toward a pair of leather chairs in front of his shelves of nautical memorabilia. Houston crossed to the shelves, touching an ancient sextant. “Is this the one I gave you?”

“After I was accepted to the shuttle mission, yep.”

Huston turned and sank into one of the chairs with a long sigh. For the first time, Jack saw the man's age. He looked sunken, defeated. The admiral pointed back at the sextant. “So you haven't completely tossed away your past.”

Jack moved to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. “Not the important things.”

Houston nodded. He was silent for several moments. “Jack, have you made a decision yet on helping us retrieve sections of Air Force One?”

Jack sighed. He poured a couple fingers worth of his private stash into each glass. He knew Houston liked his scotch neat. “No, sir…we're still doing some diagnostics on the sub.”

“Hmm…” the admiral mumbled, accepting the glass. He sipped thoughtfully, clearly thinking something through. Finally, he settled the glass on a teak captain's table. Reaching inside his flight jacket, he pulled out a folded sheaf. “Maybe this will help you decide.” He held out the papers.

Jack gripped the proffered sheets, but the admiral did not release them. “This is confidential information. But if you're going to help us, you should be kept informed.” Houston let go of the report.

Jack moved to his chair. “This is from the cockpit voice recorder?”

“Yes, the last minutes between the cockpit crew.”

Jack sat down and slowly unfolded the papers. As much as he didn't want to be drawn further into this operation, his curiosity couldn't be ignored. He read the report.

 

B
OEING 27-200B

(DESIGNATION: VC-25 A)

Time: 18:56

 

CAPTAIN:
Honolulu, this is Victor Charlie Alpha. Can you update our weather? We're hitting some heavy pockets out here.

FIRST OFFICER:
Why aren't they answering?

CAPTAIN:
Honolulu, this is Victor Charlie Alpha. Please answer.
We're having trouble with our radar and compasses. Can you…Hang on!

[
loud rumble and rattle
]

NAVIGATOR:
What the hell was that?

CAPTAIN:
Another pocket. Try climbing higher.

FIRST OFFICER:
Climbing to thirty-five thousand.

NAVIGATOR:
I'm still getting conflicting readings here from the INS units. The Omega, the radar, the celestial sextant…it's making no sense. I'm going on dead reckoning.

CAPTAIN:
Everyone keep your heads in the game here.

FIRST OFFICER:
She's heavy, sir. Not able to climb.

CAPTAIN:
What?

NAVIGATOR:
This doesn't make sense. I'm picking up land ahead.

CAPTAIN:
Must be Wake Island. I'll try to pick up something local on the radio.

[
pause
]

Wake Island, this is Victor Charlie Alpha, we need assistance.

[
silence for thirty seconds
]

NAVIGATOR:
It's too big, sir. This can't be right. I'm going to check the manual sextant.

FIRST OFFICER:
What are those lights?

CAPTAIN:
Just glare off the windshield. Keep climbing.

NAVIGATOR:
Where the hell are we?

[
deep rumble
]

NAVIGATOR:
What is that? What is that?

FIRST OFFICER:
Losing altitude. Controls aren't responding!

CAPTAIN:
My God!

NAVIGATOR:
We're over land!

FIRST OFFICER:
I can't see! The light!

[
screech of metal, rush of wind
]

FIRST OFFICER:
Engine number one is on fire!

CAPTAIN:
Shut it down! Now!

FIRST OFFICER:
Yes, sir.

NAVIGATOR:
What the hell is going on!

CAPTAIN:
Honolulu, this is Victor—

FIRST OFFICER:
Something ahead of us! Something ahead of us!

NAVIGATOR:
I'm not reading anything. Nothing on radar…nothing on anything!

CAPTAIN:
Honolulu, this is Victor Charlie Alpha. Mayday, mayday!

FIRST OFFICER:
The sky! The sky is opening up!

[
roaring noise, then silence
]

END OF COCKPIT VOICE RECORDING
Time: 19:08

Jack lowered the sheets. “My God. What happened up there?”

Houston shifted in his seat and reached for the fax sheets. “A chopper is on its way to collect me. I want to listen to the recording myself. But as to the true answer, there's only one way to find out…. The answer lies down below.”

Jack reached a trembling hand to his glass of scotch. He swallowed its contents in one gulp. The expensive liquor burned all the way to his belly.

“Jack…?”

Jack filled his glass one more time. He leaned back into his seat, sipping more gently at the smooth scotch, appreciating it this time. He met the admiral's gaze. “I'll go,” he said simply.

Houston nodded and raised his scotch. Jack reached over and tapped his old friend's glass with his own. “To absent friends,” Jack said.

Karen hurried across the staff parking lot, late for her lunch meeting with Miyuki. Her friend's office and lab were on the fourth floor of the old Yagasaki Building, once a government office complex. Ryukyu University had originally been founded by the United States Civil Administration in 1950, built upon the site of the ancient Castle of Shuri, but in 1972 the Japanese took over the administration. Since then the university had spread from its original site into the surrounding countryside and local buildings.

Dashing up the steps and through the double doors, Karen crossed to the stationed guard and flashed her identification card.

He nodded from behind his desk and waved her past, checking her name off his list. The president of Ryukyu University was taking no chances. Although the island of Okinawa was climbing out of the devastation, looting remained sporadic. The added security measures were the university's attempt to protect its assets.

Karen strode to the stairwell, passing a bank of elevators cordoned off with yellow tape declaring them “Out of Service.” She imagined the companies that produced those rolls of ribbon were making a fortune. The same yellow tape was strewn like party streamers throughout the island.

Checking her watch, she picked up her pace on the stairs. Since returning from their harrowing journey to the ruins of Chatan, this was the first chance the two women had to consult one another. Miyuki had called this morning and urged Karen to join her at her lab. She had news about the crystal star but would say no more over the phone.

Karen wondered what her friend had learned. Over the past three days, Karen had been doing her own research—investigating the cryptic language, trying to trace its origin. But progress had been slow. The island was continually plagued by power failures that interfered with communication. For a while, she'd been sure the glyphs were similar to a script found in the Indus Valley ruins of Pakistan, but on closer inspection she realized the similarity was only superficial. This line of study, however, was not a total waste. It did send her down another path, to another similar language, one even more exciting. Still, she needed further study before she was willing to voice her theory aloud.

At the top of the stairs, Karen found Miyuki waiting, dressed in her usual crisp lab coat. “The guard buzzed me that you were on the way up,” her friend said. “C'mon.”

As they walked, Karen asked, “What have you found?”

Miyuki shook her head. “You have to see this for yourself.” She led the way down the hall past other teachers' offices. “What about the hieroglyphics?”

Karen hesitated. “I may have a lead.”

Miyuki glanced at her with surprise. “Really? I've been having Gabriel try to decode it, but he's had little success.”

“He can do that? Decipher it?”

“One of his base algorithms is a decoding program. Ciphering
is a useful model for building an artificial intelligence construct, and if you correlate—”

Karen held up a hand, surrendering. “Okay, I believe you. Has Gabriel learned anything?”

“Only one thing…it's part of the reason I called you. But he'd have more success with additional examples of the language. More data from which to correlate, cross-check, and build a language base.”

Karen bit her lip, then confessed her own secret. “I may be able to supply that.”

Miyuki looked over again, frowning. “How?”

“I wanted to confirm my idea before bringing it up. But the library was of no use, and I keep getting booted off the Internet by these hourly brownouts. I couldn't get an outside line all day yesterday.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Examples of a written language found on the island of Rapa Nui.”

“Rapa Nui? Isn't that Easter Island, the place with the big stone heads?”

“Exactly.”

“But that island's on the other side of the Pacific.”

Karen nodded. “That's why I need further information. It's not my area of expertise. I've been concentrating my studies on Polynesia and Micronesia.”

The pair reached Miyuki's laboratories. Miyuki unlocked the door with a key card and held it open for Karen. They entered a tiny anteroom. Starched white “clean suits” hung on the wall. Beyond the glass doors ahead was Miyuki's lab, all stainless steel and linoleum. Under the fluorescent bulbs, every surface gleamed, dust-free and spotless.

Karen took off her sweater and slipped out of her Reebok sneakers. She took a clean cloth suit from a peg. It was stiff after being freshly dry-cleaned and pressed. She wriggled into the white one-piece jumpsuit, then sat down on a tiny bench to slip on paper booties.

Miyuki did the same. She insisted that her lab maintain a
sterile environment. She wanted no contaminants interfering with the large banks of computers lining the center of the room, the birthplace of Gabriel. “What's this connection to Rapa Nui?”

Karen fixed her short blond hair under a disposable paper bonnet. “Back in 1864, a French missionary reported the discovery of hundreds of wooden tablets, staffs, even skulls carved with an unknown hieroglyphic script. The natives called this language
rongorongo
, but they couldn't read the script. Some claimed the language came from the time before the natives arrived on the island in 400
A.D.
Unfortunately, most of the artifacts were destroyed before they could be recovered. Only about twenty-five examples of the writing exist today in museums and universities.”

“And you think this language is the same one we discovered?”

“I can't be sure.
Rongorongo
is the only known indigenous written language among all the peoples of Oceania. But its origin remains a mystery, and the text unreadable. Many epigraphers and cryptologists have attempted to decipher the language, but all of them have failed.” Karen could not keep the excitement from her voice. “If we've discovered a new vein of this language, for the first time in centuries, we might have a chance not only to unlock the mysteries of
rongorongo
, but also to discover the lost history of Polynesia.”

Miyuki stood. “So what's the next step?”

“I need to get on-line and hunt down the other examples of the language. Confirm my hypothesis.”

Miyuki began to catch Karen's excitement. “And if you're right, we can add these other examples to Gabriel's database. With more information, he might be able to decipher it!”

“If so, it would be the archaeological discovery of the century.”

“Then let's get to work. Gabriel can get you a line to the outside by hooking into the U.S. military's phone lines.
They're the most stable.” Miyuki crossed to the glass door to her lab.

“He can do that?”

Miyuki nodded. “Of course. Who do you think is the main backer for my research? The U.S. military is very intrigued by artificial intelligence and its practical application. I have a Level 3 clearance.” Using her key card again, she unlocked the inner door. There was a
whoosh
as the door seal broke. The next room was under a slight positive pressure, extra insurance against contaminants entering the lab.

Karen followed her into the clean room. “You go through a lot of trouble to avoid a bit of dusting,” she mumbled with a smirk.

Miyuki ignored her and crossed to a half-arc bank of computer monitors. Two wheeled chairs rested nearby. Miyuki took a seat and waved Karen to the other. “Let me show you what Gabriel has been able to decode so far.” She began tapping a keyboard while speaking aloud. “Gabriel, could you please bring up the images of the hieroglyphs?”

“Certainly, Professor Nakano. And good morning, Karen Grace.”
The artificial voice came from stereo speakers behind the two women.

“Good morning, Gabriel,” Karen answered, still feeling awkward. She glanced over her shoulder at the speakers. It was as if someone stood behind her. “Th-Thank you for your help.”

“It has been a pleasure, Dr. Grace. You have presented an intriguing conundrum.”
Across the long curved bank of monitors, the glyphs of the unknown language ran along the multiple screens in a continuous line: Birds, fishes, human shapes, geometric figures, and strange squiggles.

“What has he learned?” Karen asked.

“He was able to decipher a small section at the beginning.”

“You're kidding!” Karen sat up straighter.

The line of script ran across the screen until a section appeared highlighted in red. Then the scrolling images
stopped, centering on the highlighted section. It contained six symbols.

“Gabriel believes it's a lunar calendar designation. A date, so to speak.”

“Hmm…those central symbols do look like the sickle shapes of a waning or waxing moon.” Karen shifted back. “But if it is a date, what does it mean? The date when the inscription was written or some historical notation?”

“I'd guess the latter,” Miyuki said. “Some ancient historical event being described.”

“Why do you think that?”

Miyuki remained silent.

Karen glanced at her friend. “What?”

Miyuki sighed. “Gabriel came to his calendar conclusion by cross-referencing with the starscape etched on the ceiling of the inner chamber.”

Karen recalled the quartz star map on the room's domed ceiling. “So?”

“He compared the chamber's starscape with an astronomical program, then tied it to the lunar calendar.” Miyuki looked at Karen. “He's calculated the rough date noted in the inscription.”

“Amazing…When? What's the date?”

“Gabriel?”

The program answered:
“The icons denote the fourth month of a lunar year.”

Karen noted the four moon sickles. “Early spring.”

“Correct…and from the relative position of the depicted constellations, I can extrapolate the approximate year.”

“Within a statistical error of fifty years,” Miyuki elaborated.

“Of course, I could not be more precise.”

“That's close enough!” Karen's mind spun. If Gabriel's
calculations were correct, this might be a clue to when the ancient ruins had been constructed. “What year? How long ago?”

“According to the astronomical map—twelve thousand years ago.”

Aboard the
Nautilus
submersible, Jack drifted over the debris field. From his position several yards away, he watched the tail fin of the Boeing 747 rise from the silt, drawn up by two four-inch-thick steel cables. Disturbed clouds of silt wafted up as the fin was pulled like a bad tooth from where it was embedded. Six hundred meters overhead, the motorized winch aboard the USS
Gibraltar
hauled on the cables, slowly but efficiently drawing its catch to the surface.

“Going for the next fish,” Jack called into his throat microphone. He worked the foot pedals and swung his sub around. He checked the
Nautilus
's clock. He had been working for almost three hours, targeting the specific pieces of the plane the NTSB had picked out from the video feed of his first dive.

By now the salvage of Air Force One was becoming almost routine. Over the past three days they had hauled up almost forty sections of the plane. The recovered wreckage was now spread and numbered in the lower hangar deck of the USS
Gibraltar
like a macabre jigsaw puzzle.

Though the recovery of the plane was well under way, so far only four bodies had been recovered: two floaters discovered in the tricky currents, identified as two men from the press pool, and the pilot and copilot, found strapped to their seats. Jack drove away that memory. The plane's crumpled nose cone had been one of the first pieces to be hauled to the surface. He had diverted his eyes from the shattered window as he attached the cables, but had caught a brief look. The pressures at this depth had crushed their bodies to a pulp. They looked like flesh-colored clay molded into a
vague approximation of the human form. The only way to identify them were by their uniforms and their seats in the cockpit.

Since then, as Jack sifted through the wreckage, he had held his breath, fearing what else he might chance upon, but no other bodies were found. The impact and currents had thoroughly scattered the plane's human cargo.

“We're ready with the second winch,” the NTSB radioman announced.

“Aye. Ready on the second winch. Going for the next target.”

Jack swung the sub around and edged to the opposite side of the debris field. Ahead, another cable appeared, seeming to hang on its own, its end disappearing into the gloom above. It connected to a second surface winch aboard the
Gibraltar
. Jack dove the
Nautilus
down to the electromagnet hook attached to its end.