Deep Fathom

satisfied, he slowed the submersible and edged back to the work site. Tilting the sub, Jack examined the sandy seabed. A thick sea cucumber rolled across the empty space, disturbed by his passage.

C’mon, you bastard, where are you?

Then he spotted it. A squarish object half buried in the muddy silt. He swung his lights to focus on it and sighed in relief. Thank God! He wiped sweat from his eyes. The small space had grown humid from his labors. “Found it!” he called hoarsely into his microphone.

“Say again?”

“I found the second black box.”

He inched the sub forward and settled it to the seabed. The characteristic orange and red box lay near the sub’s nose. The term “black” box was a misnomer. The data recorders had never been black. Jack reached out with his titanium arms. Using the right pincer, he gripped the rectangular box and carefully pulled it from the mud. He lifted it into view and grinned in relief, suddenly giddy. He had done it! It was Air Force One’s cockpit recorder.

“Got it!”

“Then get your ass up here, Jack. You’re damn near the point of no return. Your CO₂ levels are already rising.”

“I hear you, Mother,” he said, checking his gauges. He had just enough oxygen to reach the surface — at least, he hoped so. Swinging around in a tight arc, he returned to where he had left the first box — the flight’s data recorder — and collected it up in his left pincer.

“Got both prizes. Coming up!”

Jack had reached for the key to blow his ballast when a glint from the seafloor caught his eye. Frowning, he swung his lamps. A gasp escaped his throat. “Oh, God!”

“Jack, what is it?”

In the lamp’s glare a face stared back at him from the seabed floor. It took Jack a couple heartbeats to realize the visage was not that of a dead body — instead, the face shone bright green under his light. It was hard, crystalline. Jade. As he adjusted the light, he recognized the distinct Asian features and ancient war crown. He’d been told about the gift given to President Bishop by the Chinese Premier — a full-sized replica of a terra-cotta warrior, done in jade. Jack nudged the Nautilus closer and bumped the bust with one of the sub’s arms. The head rolled across the silty bottom. It was all that was left of the ten-foot statue.

“Jack, what is it?” Lisa repeated.

Jack swallowed hard. “Nothing. I’m okay. Coming up.”

But before he could leave, his eyes returned to the green gaze of the jade bust. The features were so lifelike — the sole survivor of the tragedy. Switching both black boxes to one pincer, Jack used the freed-up arm to grab the piece of jade sculpture. It had been the last gift to a dead President. He would not leave it behind.

With his treasures in hand, Jack tapped a key and blew his ballast. The sub burst upward from the seabed with a goose of his thrusters.

Below, he watched the debris field fade away. Near its center, the strange spear of crystalline rock came into view again, jabbing up from the seabed. His gaze was drawn to it. He knew Charlie would sell his eyeteeth to catch a glimpse of the amazing structure. Jack hoped the video footage he had recorded to disk would come out.

As he climbed, the sight vanished beyond the reach of the sub’s searchlights. Jack settled back to his seat. Every muscle ached. He had not realized how the effort had worn on him: the tension, the cramped quarters, the meticulous work. While sifting through the debris, he had kept himself tight as a fist. Periodically as he’d worked, the strange tingling sensation had washed over him, quivering the tiny hairs all over his body. It was as if the eyes of the dead were studying him. Occasionally he would swear he caught movement at the corners of his eyes. But when he’d looked, all he found was wreckage and debris.

“Jack, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

“Who?”

A new voice came over the radio. “How are you doing, Jack?”

“Admiral?” What was Mark Houston doing aboard the Fathom?

As if reading his mind, the admiral answered, “I was flown to your boat about ten minutes ago. I heard the good news en route. So you’ve recovered both data recorders?”

“Yes, sir. I should be up with them in about fifteen minutes.”

“I knew you could do it, Jack.”

Jack remained silent. As much as he wanted to distance himself from his naval past, praise from his old commander still affected him.

Admiral Houston continued, “How did your submersible handle?”

“Except for that glitch in communications, she handled like a dream.”

“Good, because the NTSB team has been monitoring your video feed of the wreckage. The team has already targeted a few key pieces of the plane that they’d like to see brought to the surface.”

“Sir?”

“Would you be willing to haul cable from the winches?”

Jack bit his lower lip, holding back a curse. He had hoped the retrieval of the flight’s data recorders would end his obligation here. “I’d have to check with the rest of my team.”

“Of course, you have the night to sleep on it. The NTSB will have enough on its hands just analyzing the black boxes.”

Jack grimaced. He did not want to return to the deep-sea graveyard. Though he had been searching wrecks for the past decade, this one was different. It reminded him too acutely of his own accident.

“I’ll consider it, Admiral. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Sighing, Jack leaned back and watched the depth gauge wind toward the two hundred meter mark. The seas around him began to lighten. It was as if dawn were approaching after a long moonless night. He had never wanted to see the sky so desperately.

A more familiar voice returned to the radio. “We have your GPS picked up,” Lisa said. “Charlie already has the dinghy in the water.”

“Thanks, Lisa. The sooner I get out of this titanium coffin and into a cold shower, the better.”

“What about what the admiral wants us to do?”

Jack screwed up his face. He did not want this conversation. “What do you think? Should we do it?”

He could almost hear Lisa shrug. “It’s up to you, Jack, but I don’t like that communication glitch. The sub is still experimental. It was not meant to be tested so vigorously. I’d really like to see the sub dry-docked and inspected to make sure the seals are undamaged. You don’t take chances at these depths.”

“You’re probably right, Lisa. This wreckage isn’t going anywhere.” Jack warmed to the idea. It would buy him time to sort through his feelings. “Could you have Robert prepare the A-frame? We’ll haul the Nautilus out and give her a thorough going over before we consider the Navy’s request.”

“Good.” Lisa sounded relieved.

The depth gauge crossed the hundred meter level. Jack craned his neck back. He could see the distant sun as a watery glow in the dim water. “I should be up in less than a minute.”

“We’re ready for you. Charlie is on his way.”

Jack closed his eyes, allowing himself a few private moments. If the admiral was aboard the Fathom, he suspected this would be his last moment of peace for the remainder of the day. He knew he faced a long debriefing.

As sunlight suddenly burst around him, Jack peeked open his eyes. He fished into a side compartment and retrieved his sunglasses. After being submerged for so long, the light stung. As he snapped the side compartment closed his hand settled on the video DVD recorder.

Without a good reason, but unable to resist, he popped out the tiny disk, slipped it into a pocket of his wet suit, and zippered it closed. The video of the crystal spire had nothing to do with the crash, and Charlie would want to see it. If the investigators knew of it, they would just confiscate it and lose it among the thousands of other details — or so he rationalized to himself.

In truth, the bit of subterfuge was his way of exerting some control over the situation. He meant to keep