Deep Fathom

had vented his frustration on her. But he would no longer tolerate failures — not from himself, not from his men, not from her.

Rolfe reappeared, climbing from the doorway with their captive slung over a shoulder.

The rain seemed to revive the woman a bit. She stirred, raising her face. Her left eye was bruised and blood dribbled from her nose and split lip. She coughed thickly.

David turned away, satisfied she would live.

No, I wasn’t too rough.

3:22 P.M., USS Gibraltar, Luzon Strait

The strip of water between Taiwan and the Philippines was tight with ships, many with guns blazing. Admiral Houston watched the fighting through the green-tinted windows of the bridge. Overhead, the sky was choked with smoke, turning day to a gloomy twilight. That morning the Gibraltar had joined the battle group of the USS John C. Stennis, consisting of the massive Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, its air wing and destroyer squadron.

Just as the Gibraltar arrived, an attack by the Chinese air force began. Jets roared across the skies, bombarding the ships below with missile fire. In response, Sea Sparrow anti-aircraft missiles blasted skyward. A handful of jets exploded, tumbling in fiery streams into the ocean — but the true battle was only beginning. The Chinese navy, over the horizon, had soon joined the conflict, bombarding the region with rocket barrages.

All day, the sea war had raged.

Off to the south, a destroyer, the USS Jefferson City, lay burning. An evacuation was under way. ASW helicopters from the Gibraltar were already in the air, rising like hornets to aid in the defense of their section of the sea.

To Houston’s side, Captain Brenning shouted orders to his bridge crew.

Houston stared out over the smoke and chaos. Both sides were chewing each other apart. And for what?

An alarm sounded. The Phalanx Close-in Weapons System at the front end of the island’s superstructure swung its 20mm Gatling guns and began firing, chugging out fifty rounds a second. Off on the starboard side an incoming missile, a sea-skimmer, blew apart about two thousand yards away.

Orders were screamed.

Rocket fragments rained down upon the Gibraltar, pounding and peppering the ship’s Kevlar armor panels. The ship bore the assault with minimal damage.

“Sir!” One of the lieutenants pointed. Two of the ASW helicopters, pelted by the missile shards, tumbled into the sea. At the same time, the Phalanx CIWS defensive guns near the fantail sponson rattled as more missiles bore down on the beleaguered ship. Mortars were launched by the SLQ-32, throwing up a cloud of chaff against the attack.

The Gibraltar echoed and rattled with frag impacts.

Captain Brenning said, “Admiral, we must retreat. The zone is too hot for the helicopters.”

Houston clenched his fists, but he nodded. “Order the flight deck cleared.” As his command was relayed, Houston turned toward the Jefferson, bearing silent witness to the death of so many sailors. He watched as the fires worsened. Tiny lifeboats fled the sinking giant.

Then a huge explosion blew near the ship’s stern and a fireball rolled over the ship. Lifeboats, too near, were thrown through the air. The great ship’s bow rose ominously, its stern sinking. In seconds the Jefferson slipped deeper and deeper. Houston refused to look away.

“Sir!” a lieutenant yelled from the radar station. “I have multiple vampires vectoring in from the north. Thirty missile signatures across the board.”

Captain Brenning responded, screaming orders.

Houston continued to watch the Jefferson sink. He knew the limits to the Gibraltar’s defense systems and made a silent prayer for his crew as the first explosion blew out the fantail section of his ship.

6:32 P.M., en route to Neptune base

Karen sat in the Sea Stallion helicopter. Through the windows, she watched dully as the ocean passed beneath her. Her face ached, and she could not completely swallow away the taste of blood. The beating from this morning had left her weak and sick. She had already vomited twice.

Across from her, Spangler lay slumped in his seat, eyes closed, lightly snoring. Three of his men took up the other seats, strapped in. One of them, Spangler’s second-in-command, stared at her. She glared back at him. He looked away, but not before she spotted the flicker of shame on his face.

She returned her attention to the sea, thinking, plotting. They might hurt her physically, but she would not give up fighting. As long as she lived, she would strive for a way to thwart Spangler and his team.

As she stared at the passing water, she leaned against the cool window. Even with all the horror of the past day, one worry remained foremost in her mind—Jack. Bound to the cell’s bed, she had heard the muffled explosions, felt the ship rock.

She closed her eyes, remembering the pain in his eyes as he swung through the door and left her behind. Was he alive? She made a silent promise to herself. She would survive, if only to answer that question.

7:08 P.M., Deep Fathom, off the northern coast of Pohnpei Island

Jack stood at the head of the worktable in Robert’s wet lab. His crew were seated around its length, including two newcomers to the Fathom: Miyuki and Mwahu. The pair had boarded a few hours ago.

The police had questioned all of them, but it was clear where the blame lay. They were released. The chief of police seemed more interested in seeing them gone from the area, than in getting to the bottom of the night’s attack and kidnapping. Jack suspected an unseen hand urging the whole matter to be brushed under the rug.

Rogue pirates was the final lame answer. The chief of police promised to continue the search for the missing anthropologist, but Jack knew it was a line of bullshit. As soon as they left, the matter would fade away.

“So what do we do from here?” Charlie asked.

With a wince of complaint from his wrapped rib cage, Jack lifted the backpack at his feet. It was Karen’s bag. He dumped its contents on the worktable. The crystal star rattled on the tabletop. Beside it dropped the platinum- bound book recovered from the crypt.

“We need answers,” he stated fiercely. He slid the book toward Miyuki. “First, we need this translated.”

Miyuki opened it. Jack knew what lay inside. Earlier, he had studied it himself. Its pages were thin sheaves of platinum, crudely etched with more of the hieroglyphic writing. “Gabriel and I will get to work on it immediately.”

Mwahu leaned over the book as Miyuki closed it. He touched the single symbol drawn into its top cover. A triangle within a circle. “Khamwau,” he said. “I know this mark. My father teach. It means ‘danger.’ ”

“That’s a real surprise,” Kendall McMillan said sarcastically. Eyes turned in the accountant’s direction. Jack had offered to leave the nervous man on Pohnpei, but he had refused, stating, “With the cover-up going on here, I wouldn’t stand a rat’s ass of a chance getting off this island alive.” So he had stayed on the Fathom.

Returning his attention to the book, Jack said, “Mwahu, since you know some of the ancient language, maybe you could help Miyuki with its translation.”

Next, Jack passed the crystal star toward Charlie. “I need you to research its properties and abilities.”

The geologist smiled, eyeing the artifact greedily.

“George…” Jack turned to the gray-haired historian. “I want you to continue researching the lost ships of this Dragon’s Triangle. See if you can spot any other patterns.”

He nodded. “I’m working on a few theories already.”

Kendall McMillan frowned, speaking up again. “How is any of this going to pull our asses out of the fire? Why don’t we just lay low? Keep running.”

“Because we’d never stop running. They’d never stop hunting us. The only way out is to discover the true reason for the crash of Air Force One.” Jack leaned on his fists. “That answer lies at the heart of it all. I just know