Deep Fathom (22 page)

The admiral remained standing, silent, stone-faced, then spoke slowly. “President Nafe has promised that these terrorists will not go unpunished. Washington has already demanded that the Chinese turn over all persons involved to international authorities.” Houston clenched a fist. “And let me add my personal promise. Justice will be served—whether the Chinese government cooperates or not. America will answer terrorism upon her people with swift and terrible fury.”

Jack had never seen Admiral Houston so incensed. The cords of his neck stuck out, his lips were bled of color.

“That is all. If there are any further questions of detail, I refer you to my protocol officer. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Jack raised a hand, unsure if his own crew would continue to play a role here. “Sir, if I might ask about the salvage op—”

The admiral cut him off angrily. “Mr. Kirkland, any such questions should be directed to Commander Spangler.” Without another word, Houston swung through the door and was gone.

Jack's gaze twitched to David. A small, spiteful smirk flickered on Spangler's face before he stood. “In answer to your question, Mr. Kirkland, we thank you for your service. As this matter is now one of national security, your additional presence is no longer needed.”

“But—”

“This is now a military operation. No civilians will be allowed.
A two-mile cordon will be set up around the crash site. You will be expected out of the zone by 1800 hours.”

Jack glowered at David, knowing this banishment was of a personal nature.

“If you are not out of the region or if you attempt to reenter, you and your crew will be arrested and your ship impounded.”

This response drew murmurs from the audience.

“I have already arranged for two men to escort you from the
Gibraltar
.” David lifted a hand. Two of his men stood up.

Jack's face warmed. He ground his teeth in frustration. He did not know what to say. He knew he couldn't go to the admiral, since Houston was clearly overburdened and did not need to be bothered by a petty squabble. Jack scowled at David Spangler. He had risked his life here, and was now being unceremoniously dumped out on his ear. “I have no need for an escort,” he said coldly.

David signaled his men with a flip of a hand. “Make sure Mr. Kirkland leaves immediately.”

Jack did not resist as he was led away. What was the use? If the government didn't want his help, so be it.

Within minutes, he found himself seated aboard a Navy launch. The pilot, a Navy seaman, revved the engine and aimed for the
Deep Fathom
, bouncing through the mild chop. With the storm front blown past, the day remained breezy but clear.

Behind Jack, Spangler's two men were seated. He had not spoken a single word to the pair of gray-uniformed men, nor did he intend to.

Jack leaned back into his seat. From the security team's lack of racial diversity, it seemed Spangler had not changed. David's sister had once confided to him that her father had been a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan and often dragged David to meetings when he was a boy, beating him if he refused. Jack eyed the twin blond escorts. It seemed these childhood teachings had taken root in fertile ground.

With a bump, the seamen slid the boat near the launch platform at the stern of the
Fathom
. “All clear,” the pilot called out.

Jack stood and crossed over the boat's starboard edge. Before he could clamber onto his own ship, one of David's men grabbed his elbow. “Mr. Kirkland, Commander Spangler asked us to give you this once you boarded.”

The blond man held out a small square box, the size of a jeweler's ring box. It was sealed with a small ribbon. Jack frowned at it.

“A parting gift,” the man said. “With Commander Spangler's thanks.”

Jack accepted the gift, and the man nodded and stepped back. Jack hopped to his own boat's platform and grabbed the ship's ladder with one hand. As he turned, the Navy boat swung away with a throaty whine of its motor. Its wake splashed over the ribbed platform, soaking Jack's boots.

Robert appeared on the main deck overhead, leaning over the stern rail. “How did it go?” he called down. “Learn anything more?”

“Yeah, gather everyone together.”

Robert gave him a thumbs-up and vanished.

Jack looked down at the small black gift box. He was sure it was not a thank-you gift for his service. More likely, it was one of David's little jabs, a final insult to send him on his way. Jack had a sudden urge to fling it into the sea, but curiosity got the better of him. He fingered the ribbon, then shook his head. His day had been bad enough already—why add to it? He'd open the damned thing later. Pocketing the box in his jacket, he turned to the ladder.

Climbing up, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the
Gibraltar
. He forced down a twinge of regret. It was as if he'd been discharged all over again, cut free from a past that had been his whole life.

Surprisingly melancholy, Jack pulled himself onto the deck. Elvis came loping over to greet him. Jack knelt and gave the dog a vigorous pet, and its tail thumped in contentment. Some things never changed.

“You'd never shove me overboard, would you, boy?” he
said, giving voice to his disappointment with the Navy.

Alone for the moment, Lawrence Nafe shifted in his chair, assessing the latest developments. His plan to implicate the Chinese had been proceeding like clockwork. Nicolas Ruzickov had proven a loyal friend and a skilled manipulator of the media. Earlier, Nafe had glanced over the letter his Secretary of State drafted to the Chinese Premier. It was fierce. Nafe recognized Ruzickov's fingerprints all over the letter:
no compromise…immediate reprisals…stiff sanctions…

It was just short of a declaration of war. Nafe had been only too happy to sign it. As far as he was concerned, it was about time the Chinese government felt the full weight of American diplomacy…a diplomacy backed by the might of the world's greatest fighting force. The brief letter signaled an abrupt end to the pandering policies of Bishop's administration. A shot across the bow, so to speak.

Nafe leaned back in his chair, surveying the spread of the Oval Office. This was now
his
administration, he mused, enjoying his new status. But his short moment to himself was interrupted by a knock at his door. “Come in,” he snapped.

The door was opened by his personal aide, a thin twenty-something boy whose name Nafe could not remember. “What is it?”

The youth half bowed, nervous. “Sir, the CIA director and the head of the OES are here to see you.”

Nafe sat up straighter. Neither man had an appointment. “Show them in.”

The boy backed out, allowing the two men inside.

Nicolas Ruzickov entered first and waved Jeb Fielding, the head of the Office of Emergency Services, toward the upholstered leather chairs to one side of the room. The older man, of bookish appearance, with rolled shoulders and an emaciated demeanor, bore an armful of papers tucked under
his arm.

“Mr. President,” Ruzickov said, “I thought you should see this.” The CIA director gestured toward the sofas and chairs around an antique coffee table, where Fielding already sat. “If you'll join us.”

With a groan, the heavyset Nafe stood and walked around his desk. “It's late, Nicolas. Can't this wait? I have my nationwide address first thing in the morning and I don't want to look too tired. The American people will need a strong face in the morning as the news of Air Force One sinks in.”

Ruzickov bowed his head slightly, remaining officious. “I understand, Mr. President, and I implore your forgiveness. But this matter may have a bearing on tomorrow's address.”

Nafe settled onto the sofa in the informal seating arrangement. Ruzickov and Fielding were in the chairs, the OES chief with his pile of papers…maps, Nafe realized.

“What is all this?” Nafe asked, leaning forward, as Fielding unfolded a map on the coffee table.

Ruzickov answered, “Late news.”

“Hmm?”

“As you know, the OES has been investigating the series of quakes from eight days ago. Given the devastation on the West Coast, detailed information was slow to dribble out.”

Nafe nodded impatiently. He had publicly addressed the whole “national disaster” bit last week. It was no longer his concern. He knew that in another few days he was due to tour the region, to shake hands at various homeless shelters and attend memorial services. He was even scheduled to cast a wreath off the coast of Alaska to mourn the thousands of deaths associated with the sinking of the Aleutian Islands. He was ready for the trip. He had his suits picked out and had posed before a mirror with his Armani jacket over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It was a solid down-to-earth look, a President ready to help out his people.

Ruzickov drew Nafe's attention to the map now open on the table. “With data flowing again from scientific stations on the West Coast, Jeb's office has been compiling the information and seismic readings, trying to explain the natural catastrophe.”

Nafe looked up. “Do we know what triggered it?”

“No, not exactly, but maybe Jeb had better explain from here.” Ruzickov nodded for Fielding to speak.

The older man was clearly nervous. He wiped a handkerchief over his forehead and cleared his throat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. President.”

“Yes, yes…what have you learned?”

Fielding smoothed the map on the table. It depicted the Pacific Ocean, a topographic map of the sea floor, continental shelf, and coastlines. Drawn over it were a series of concentric circles. The outer circle, the largest, brushed across the western coast of the United States and arced around to the islands of Japan. The inner circles grew progressively smaller. Little red crosses dotted the coastlines and islands caught within these narrowing rings, marking disaster sites. Fielding ran his fingers along the concentric circles. “Our office has been able to map out the vectors of tectonic force during the series of quakes.”

Nafe wrinkled his brow. He hated to admit ignorance, but Ruzickov picked up on his confusion and said to Fielding, “Start at the beginning.”

Fielding bobbed his head. “Of course…I'm sorry…” He licked his lips. “We've known from the start that the eclipse-day quakes all occurred along the edge of the Pacific tectonic plate.” He marked out the rough margins of the outermost ring on his map.

Nafe's brow remained wrinkled.

“Maybe I'd better elaborate further,” Ruzickov said, putting Fielding on hold. “As I'm sure you know, Mr. President, the Earth's surface is actually a hard shell over a molten core, a fractured shell, actually, like a hardboiled egg struck on a table. Each shell piece or ‘tectonic plate' floats atop this liquid core and is constantly in motion, one grinding
against another, sometimes sinking under to form trenches, or conversely, riding up to form mountains. It is at these friction points between plates that seismic activity is highest.”

“I know all this,” Nafe said irritably, feigning insult.

Ruzickov pointed to the map. “There's one big plate under the Pacific Ocean. The quakes and volcanic activity eight days ago all occurred along the margins or fault lines of that plate.” The CIA director pointed at some of the islands in the center of the map. “Additional catastrophes to coastlines and islands were the result of tidal wave activity generated by quakes under the sea.”

Nafe sat up, too tired to feign interest any longer. “Fine. I understand. So why this late night science lesson?”

“Jeb, why don't you finish from here?”

Fielding nodded. “For the past week, we've been trying to find out what triggered so many points along the Pacific plate's edge to go active at the same time, what triggered this catalytic reaction.”

“And?” Nafe said.

Fielding pointed to each concentric ring drawn on the map, starting at the outermost and ticking down each smaller ring. “By triangulating data from hundreds of geologic stations, we've been able to trace the direction of intensity, zeroing in on the true epicenter of this entire series of quakes.”

“You mean all these quakes may have originated from a single bigger event somewhere else?”

“Exactly. It's called plate harmonics. A strong enough force striking a tectonic plate could send shockwaves radiating out, causing the plate's rim to blow out with activity.”

“Like a pebble dropped into a still pond,” Ruzickov added. “Generating waves on the shorelines.”

Nafe's brows rose. “Do we know what this ‘pebble' might be?”

“No,” Fielding said, “but we do know
where
the pebble struck.” The head of OES continued to draw his fingertip down the map until he reached the centermost circle, a tiny red ring. He tapped his finger. “It was right here.”

Leaning closer, Nafe studied the map. It was only empty ocean. “What's the significance?”

Ruzickov answered, “That circle is where Air Force One crashed.”

Nafe gasped. “Are you saying the crash of Air Force One caused this? That Bishop's jet was this pebble we've been talking about?”

“No, certainly not,” Fielding said. “The quakes started hours before Air Force One crashed. In fact, it was the quakes in Guam that required the President's evacuation. But either way, a plane crash would not yield a fraction of the force necessary to trigger a harmonic wave across the Pacific plate. Instead we're talking about a force equal to a trillion megaton explosion.”

Nafe settled back onto the sofa. “Are you saying, then, that such an event occurred down there?” He nodded toward the tiny red circle.

Fielding slowly nodded back.

Ruzickov spoke into the silence. “Jeb, that's all we'll need for now. We'll talk in the morning.”