Deep Fathom (25 page)

Then Karen was climbing into the cab again. “Got it. Here.” She handed him a small leather satchel.

He took it—and almost dropped it. Its weight caught him by surprise.

“Heavy, isn't it?”

“This is the crystal?”

“See for yourself.”

Jack fingered loose the leather straps and tugged the satchel open. At the bottom lay a crystal star, smaller than his outstretched hand. Even in the shadowed light of the cab, he appreciated its brilliance. He also recognized the distinct appearance: translucent crystal veined with azure and ruby
whorls. “It's the same.”

“What?”

He reached in and pulled out the crystal. “I'd swear this is the same type of crystal that I found at the crash site.”

“The crystal obelisk with the inscription on it?”

“Exactly.” Jack held the artifact up to the direct sunlight. Its facets burst with brilliance.

“Notice anything odd about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You're holding it up with one hand.”

“Yeah, so.”

Karen pulled out a black handkerchief and tossed it over the crystal. Jack's arm dropped. It was as if the handkerchief weighed ten pounds. “What the hell?”

“The crystal's weight is dependant upon light exposure. The stronger the light, the less it weighs.”

Jack whisked off the bit of cloth, exposing the crystal again. It
was
lighter. “My God!”

Karen took the crystal and lowered it back into her satchel.

“My geologist would sell his soul to see this.”

“We've already arranged to have it studied. Next Monday, in fact, when the university's geology staff returns. I'll pass the data on to your friend.”

Jack knew this would hardly satisfy Charlie. He wished he had collected a sample of the crystal pillar himself.

“Now it's your turn,” Karen said. “You said you would bring a copy of the obelisk's inscription.”

He patted his own bag. “I have it.”

“May I see?”

Shrugging, Jack bent over and fished through his backpack for his notebook. Pulling it free, he handed it to her.

Karen opened the book. The first page was covered with the tiny hieroglyphics. A small gasp escaped her throat.
“Rongorongo.”

“Excuse me?”

Karen flipped through the remainder of the notebook. There were forty pages of glyphs. The book trembled in her fingers as she mumbled, “There has never been a discovery
of this length before.”

“Discovery of what?”

She closed the book and gave him a quick lesson on the history of the etchings found on Easter Island. “Over the centuries,” she finished, “no one has been able to translate them. This may hold the final clue.”

“I hope it helps,” Jack said lamely as his mind spun. If the language was from Easter Island, what was it doing inscribed on a crystal spire six hundred meters underwater? He struggled to incorporate this newest bit of information. Could this have anything to do with the crash of Air Force One?

Before flying here, he had not mentioned to Karen his own agenda in meeting with her—to tie the strange crystal to the downing of Air Force One. It seemed too far-fetched to admit to a stranger. “Do you think you'll be able to translate what's on the pillar?”

Karen clutched the notebook in her lap. She stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. “I don't know.”

Within a few minutes they reached her apartment: a second-floor town house, two bedrooms, neat and wonderfully cool. Karen apologized for the drab furnishings, all beige and browns. “It came prefurnished.”

But Jack noted small personal touches. On a mantel rested a collection of stone statues and fetishes from Micronesia. In a corner were four carefully tended bonsai plants. And stuck on the apartment's refrigerator were scores of pictures—family, friends, old vacation photos—affixed by an equally colorful assortment of kitchen magnets.

Jack followed Karen toward the bedroom area. As his host passed the decorated refrigerator, all the magnets suddenly clattered to the floor, the pictures fluttering after them.

Startled, Karen jumped away.

Jack glanced from the refrigerator to Karen. She stood with the satchel clutched to her chest. “It think it's the crystal. It's demonstrated strange magnetic effects before.”

As proof, he waved her away. When she moved off a few
steps, he collected one of the magnets and put it back on the refrigerator. It stuck again.

“That is so weird,” Karen said. “No wonder the looters thought the crystal was cursed.”

Jack frowned. “Cursed?”

She matched his frown with a nod to the single magnet. “It seems both of us have been holding back a little. Let's get you settled and then head over to the lab. We have much to discuss.”

Jack slowly nodded.

He showered, shaved, and changed into a pair of loose khakis and a light short-sleeve shirt. He repacked his backpack: camera, notebooks, pens, cellular phone. He felt worlds better as he left Karen's apartment. It was only a short walk to the university.

“I already called Miyuki,” Karen said. “She's waiting for us at her lab.”

Jack nudged his pack higher on his shoulder. “You mean Professor Nakano?”

Karen nodded. “She has a program to decrypt the language.”

As they walked an awkward silence descended. Jack sought to break it. “So tell me where you found the crystal.”

Karen sighed. “That's a long story.” But she gave Jack a quick sketch: the risen pyramids, the ambush, the escape through an underwater passage.

As the story unfolded, Jack's respect for the two women grew. “And these looters were the same ones who broke into Professor Nakano's office?”

Karen nodded.

“How could they possibly know about the crystal within the pyramid?”

“I'm not sure they did. They just know we found
something
. Something they think is cursed.”

Jack thought about the crash of Air Force One, wondering if these men's warning might hold a kernel of truth. “Definitely strange,” he mumbled.

“Here we are,” Karen pointed to a building just ahead.
She led the way. Inside, she flashed her credentials, and a guard escorted them to the elevators.

“The lifts are working again?” she asked as the doors opened.

The guard nodded. He joined them in the small space.

Karen caught Jack's inquisitive look at their escort. “Pre-cautions because of the break-in last week.”

The elevator ascended swiftly. When the doors opened, Jack found a small Japanese woman waiting for them, pacing anxiously.

Stepping forward, Karen introduced them. Miyuki bowed slightly but offered no hand. Jack nodded in greeting. Asian customs involved little physical contact. “Professor Nakano, thank you for your help.”

“Please call me Miyuki,” she said shyly.

“Let's go,” Karen said as the guard returned to the elevator. “I want to enter Jack's data as soon as possible.” Karen hurried forward, waving for Jack and Miyuki to follow.

Jack leaned over to Miyuki. “Is she always like this?”

Miyuki rolled her eyes. “Always,” she said with an exaggerated sigh.

Once at the office, Miyuki stepped forward and keyed open the lock. Karen was first through the door. “Miyuki maintains a clean room for her computers,” she explained as Jack entered. She pointed to a row of starched coveralls hanging on the wall. “You'll need to wear one of those.”

“I don't know if I have a suit that'll fit him,” Miyuki said. She sifted through the coveralls. “This might do.” She passed him a large suit.

Jack took it and placed his backpack on a bench by the wall.

Karen was already zipping into her own coverall. “Jack, while you dress, may I show Miyuki your notebook?”

He nodded and nudged his pack in her direction, then applied himself to forcing his large frame into the tight suit.

“Miyuki, come see this.” She tugged free his notebook. As she did, something tumbled from his backpack and rolled across the floor.

Miyuki bent to pick it up.

As Jack struggled to work both shoulders into the coveralls, he saw that Miyuki held David Spangler's gift box, and an idea dawned on him. “Open it,” he said to Miyuki. “I could use your expert opinion.”

She pulled back the lid. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at its contents.

“What do you think it is?” Jack asked.

Miyuki leaned closer. “It's an inexpensive switching circuit.” She closed the box with a snap. “Worthless really.”

Jack frowned. What was David's scam here? The circuitry must contain some veiled insult, but what?

Miyuki handed the box back to Karen. “It's just an obsolete Chinese design.”

Her words struck Jack in the stomach. He suddenly felt ill.
“Chinese?
Are you sure?”

She nodded.

Jack's mind fought for any other explanation. His first suspicion couldn't possibly be true. But he remembered George's question a few days back:
What if the explosion had been staged? A frame-up?
Jack ran various scenarios through his mind, but only one rang true: Spangler had faked the explosion.

“That bastard!” he spat out. Even the little “gift” was David's way of rubbing his nose in this fact, knowing he couldn't do a thing about it. Washington had wanted this explanation for the tragedy, and David had handed it to them. No one would listen to anything contradictory.

Bile rose in Jack's throat.
The stupendous gall of the murderous bastard!
And how far up did this treachery go? he wondered. Was it just a frame job, or had David played a role in the jet's downing, too? Jack swore under his breath and clenched his fists, sharpening his resolve. He would discover the truth behind the crash—or die trying!

“What's wrong?” Karen asked.

Jack finally noticed the two women gaping at him. He sat down, his legs suddenly weak as his anger faded. “It seems I also have a long story to share.”

“About what?” Karen sat down next to him.

“About the crash of Air Force One.”

On his belly in the submersible, David Spangler ascended through the depths of the sea, rising in a slow spiral toward the surface. Over the past three days the Navy's new prototype sub, the
Perseus
, had been functioning far better than the estimates from the drawing board.

David lay sprawled on his stomach within the sub's inner shell, a torpedo-shaped chamber molded of two-inch-thick Lexan glass. Except for the clear nose cone, where his head and shoulders protruded, the rest of the Lexan cubicle was encased in the sub's outer shell, a top-secret ceramic composite that was lighter and stronger than titanium. Within this outer shell were housed all the ship's mechanical, electrical, and propulsion systems. This dual shell system was designed for safety. In case of emergency, the entire outer shell could be jettisoned with manual pyrotechnics, freeing the inner Lexan pod to rise to the surface under its own buoyancy.

“Perseus,”
a voice said in his ear, “we have you locked in. If you'd like to switch to autopilot, we'll guide you into the docking bay.”

David answered the topside technician, “I'll take her in myself.” This was his sixth dive in the
Perseus
, and he felt comfortable enough with her controls now to do this manually. With his thumb, he flicked a switch, and a heads-up display appeared superimposed over the nose cone's glass. His trajectory to the bay of the Navy's salvage ship, the
Maggie Chouest,
was delineated in red. It was simply a matter of guiding his sub along the designated approach, not unlike a flight simulator.

“I'm hooked into the tracking computer,” he radioed. “I'll be at the bay in three minutes.”

“Aye, sir. See you topside.”

Slowing the thrusters, David eased the sub upward. Around him, as he neared the surface, the dark waters began to lighten. As he aligned his sub he could not escape the sensation of true flight. On his belly, it was as if he and the ship were one. The sub's hand controls were as responsive as his own thoughts. The telescoping wings to either side were like the fins of a creature born to the sea, twisting and tucking to guide the vessel.

But this was no creature of the sea. Under its belly a pair of titanium manipulator arms were folded and stored, capable of crushing granite, and atop the sub, protruding like a shark's dorsal fin, stood a stacked array of minitorpedoes, on a pivoting dolly for ease of targeting. Though small, each missile was tipped with a powerful warhead, able to pierce an armored submarine. They were nicknamed “sub-busters” by the
Perseus
's support team, the Navy's Deep Submergence Unit. The weapons gave the tiny rescue sub an extra advantage in hostile waters.

David ran a finger over the torpedoes' activation control. Earlier that day he had been informed of the loss of Taiwan to the Chinese. The news had kept him agitated all day. How had they lost the island to the goddamn Communists? It was an embarrassment and a black eye to all of America. If only he could have taken part in the fighting…

The technician came on the line. “Sir, one of your men is here. He says it's urgent he speak with you.”

“Put him on.”

A short pause, then Rolfe's voice came over the radio. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you told us to let you know if there were…um, any change in your secondary objective.”

David frowned.
Secondary objective?
He had been so focused on the timetable here and on the growing drums of war that he had momentarily forgotten about Jack Kirkland. “What is it?”

“The target has vacated the zone.”

David bit back a long curse. Kirkland had gone missing. He knew any further details and explanations could not be discussed over an open radio. “I'll be topside in two minutes.
Meet me in my cabin and brief me then.”