Deep Fathom (37 page)

He heard the scuffle of stone.

Of the two risks, he knew which was the less dicey.

He dropped his rifle and, tugging the backpack over both shoulders, slid into the lake. Its bottom fell away steeply. He tread water for a few breaths, taking deep lungfuls of air. Usually, he could hold his breath for up to five minutes, but
this was going to be a long dark swim.

With a final deep breath, he dove down into the depths. The fresh wound in his ear burned in the saltwater, but at least the pain kept him focused.

His hands reached the silty bottom. Curling around, he searched the edges of the artificial lake, struggling to find the sea tunnel opening. He swam first along the section facing the breakwater, believing this the most likely place. It quickly proved true: his arm disappeared down the throat of a stone tunnel.

Fixing its location in his mind, he rose to the surface and refreshed his lungs with rapid, deep inhalations. As he readied himself, he listened. It sounded like the jet skis were leaving. But the sounds echoed strangely around the lake. He couldn't be sure, especially with so many. Then closer, he heard whispers, arguing, and the rattle of loose rocks, the word “bomb.” That was enough for him.

He dove with a clean scissor kick and reached the entrance to the tunnel. Not pausing, he ducked into the coral-encrusted hole and pulled and propelled himself down the chute, using hands and toes. There was nothing to see. Scooting blindly, his legs and arms were scraped and cut by the sharp coral. But he no longer felt the pain. He pushed past it, concentrating on one thing—moving forward.

As he wiggled and kicked, his lungs began to ache.

He ignored this pain, too.

Reaching forward, his hand touched stone. A moment of panic clutched him. He frantically reached out with both palms. A wall of stone blocked his way forward. He struggled, gasping out a bit of air, before he forced himself to calm down. Panic was a diver's worst enemy.

He searched the walls on either side and realized the way opened to the right. It was simply a blind turn in the tunnel. He reached it and pulled himself around the corner.

Though relieved, he was also concerned. How long and torturous was this tunnel? Darong Island lay only thirty yards from the edge of the reef, but if the passage twisted and turned, how long did he really have to swim?

By now he was running out of air. The hours of exertion were taking their toll. His limbs demanded more oxygen. Small specks of light began to dance across his vision. Ghost lights of oxygen deprivation.

Jack increased his pace, refusing to let panic rule him. He moved quickly but methodically. The passage made two more turns.

His lungs began to spasm. He knew that eventually reflexes would quickly kick in and make him gasp. But blind, with no idea how far he had yet to traverse, he had no choice but to squeeze past his animal instincts.

Jack's head began to pound. Lights swirled in multicolor spectrums.

Knowing he was close to drowning, he slowly exhaled a bit of air from his lungs. This gave his body a false sense that he was about to breathe. His lungs relaxed. The trick bought him a bit more time.

He kicked onward, periodically blowing out a bit more air.

But eventually this last ruse failed him. His lungs were almost empty. His body screamed for oxygen.

Jack strained to see, searching for some clue to how far he had to travel. But darkness lay all around him. There was no sign of an end to the tunnel.

He knew he was lost.

His arms scrabbled but he had no strength. His fingers dug at the rock.

Then a flicker of light appeared far ahead. Was it real? Or was he hallucinating, close to death?

Either way, he forced his leaden limbs to move.

He heard a muffled explosion behind him, the noise reverberating through his bones. He glanced over his shoulder just as the shock wave struck him. He was shoved roughly by a surge of water, tumbled in the tide, bumping along the walls. Water surged up his nose. With the last of his air, he choked it back out. Blindly, he pawed around him. It took him a second to realize walls no longer surrounded him.

He was out of the tunnel!

Jack crawled toward the surface. Air, all he needed was one breath.

He stared up and saw starlight…and a moon!

Kicking, writhing, he fought upward. His fingers broke the surface just as his lungs gave out and spasmed, sucking saltwater through his nose and mouth. He choked and gasped. His body wracked as it sought to expel the water.

Then his hair was grabbed and his head pulled out of the water. Into air, into light. Jack looked up. The moon had come down to the sea. A circle so bright. He twisted around…or was flung around.

“Get that light out of his face!”

Voices surrounded him. Familiar voices. The voices of the dead.

He saw a dark visage bent over him. It was an old friend, come to take him away. He reached numbly up as darkness again swept over him. In his head, he whispered his friend's name:
Charlie
…

“Is he going to be okay?” Lisa asked.

Charlie hauled Jack's limp body into the pontoon boat. “You're the doctor, you tell me.” He rolled Jack over, pulled off the water-logged backpack, and pumped a wash of saltwater from his drowned chest. Jack coughed and vomited out more.

“He's breathing, at least.” Lisa bent over Jack's form. “But we need to get him back to the
Deep Fathom
. He'll need oxygen.”

The motor revved as Robert, at the stern, gunned the engine and spun the launch toward the waiting ship. The
Fathom
lay not far across the bay. Two other police cutters patrolled back and forth along the edge of the ruins.

Earlier, Charlie had spent half the evening trying to convince the local authorities to aid him in his search for Jack
and the others. No one had listened, insisting he wait until morning. Then a frantic call had come in from Professor Nakano, relating an attack upon their party at Nan Madol. Now motivated, the police had converged on the location, arriving with the
Fathom
to find the place already deserted.

Apparently, Spangler's assault team had been tipped off, for just as they entered the bay, a large blast blew apart one of Nan Madol's tiny islets. Already in the
Fathom
's launch, Charlie had aimed for the site, knowing there must be a reason for the explosion.

As they neared the reef's edge, Robert spotted a bubbling surge. He aimed for it just as a pale hand broke the surface. Then the fingers sank back down. It would have been easy to miss.

The sea gods must have been watching over their captain, he thought afterward.

In the boat, Jack groaned and struggled to right himself. His eyelids fluttered but he did not regain consciousness. Charlie leaned down to his ear and whispered, “Rest,
mon
. We got you. You're safe.”

His words seemed to sink in. Jack's limbs relaxed.

“His color's looking better,” Lisa said, but she herself was as pale as a ghost, bloodless with fear and worry.

If they had arrived even a minute later…

Robert spoke up from the rear. He had a radio pressed to his ear. “The police say they'll search the ruins until sunup.” He lowered the radio. “But it looks like the ops team got clean away.”

“Damn those bastards,” Charlie swore. “If I ever get my bloody hands on them…”

David stormed down the narrow stairs of the small commandeered police cutter. His team's escape had been too damn close. Over the radio, he received word of the police at the same time his assault team found Jack.

Pressed for time, David had ordered explosive charges set around the islet, then ordered all of them to evacuate to the boat. For a black ops mission, exposure or capture was worse than death. Working efficiently, they left no trail behind. Gathering their dead, they quickly vanished into the maze of atolls and islands. All told, it took less than five minutes to evacuate the site.

Even so, it had been a close call. Running without his lights, David had watched the first police cutter, its sirens blaring, enter the bay just as he slipped away. The explosion helped cover their escape, distracting the arriving ships.

Still, never in his career had he come so close to capture.

Scowling, David reached the lower level of the ship and crossed to a steel door. He tapped in the electronic code and shoved into the small cell beyond. Though he had lost two good men on this mission, the sortie hadn't been a total failure. Inside the cell, the Canadian anthropologist was tied, spread-eagled, to the bed. She struggled against her bonds as he entered. Gagged, her eyes grew large at the sight of him.

“Give it up. You can't escape.” He slipped his diving knife from its thigh sheath and crossed toward her.

Instead of crying or struggling further, she just glared at him.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached out with the knife and cut her gag. She spit out the wad of cloth. “You bastard!”

David fingered the edge of his blade. “We're gonna have a little chat, Professor Grace. Let's hope I don't have to free your tongue with this blade.” He spotted a trickle of blood running from her hairline down her neck, reached out and pressed his thumb against the lump there.

She winced.

It was the spot where he had bludgeoned her with the butt of his rifle after discovering her hiding place. Her ruse with the penlight had come close to working. He dug his thumb into the tender spot, eliciting a sharp cry from her. “Now are you done with your little tricks?”

She spat at him, the spittle striking his cheek.

He let it dribble down, not bothering to wipe it away. “Just so we both understand each other.” He grabbed her between the legs. She was still damp from the swim through the canals. He squeezed her, hard.

She gasped, her eyes growing wide, and tried to squirm from his touch. “Get away from me, you goddamn bastard.”

He held her tight. “Though my bosses may want you alive to pick your brain, that doesn't mean we can't hurt you in ways you never imagined. So let's start again. Where's the crystal you mentioned in your e-mail to Kirkland?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Wrong answer,” he said with a hard smile.

A knock on the door drew him around from his play. He saw Rolfe standing at the threshold, still in his wet suit, half unzipped. The man eyed their prisoner, then his gaze returned to David.

“Sir, Jeffreys has continued to monitor the police bands. Some…um, startling news has come through.” Rolfe nodded to the prisoner. “Perhaps outside…”

The woman spoke from the bed. “Jack's alive, isn't he?”

David struck her with the heel of his hand. “Mind your manners, bitch.”

Rolfe nervously shifted his feet. “She's right, sir. They've dragged Kirkland from the ocean. He's hurt but alive.”

David felt a surge of heat. “Goddamn it! Can't that man stay dead?”

“That's not all.”

“What?”

“He…he's aboard the
Deep Fathom
.”

David was too stunned to speak.

Rolfe explained, “I don't know how, but his ship is here.”

Closing his eyes, rage swelled through David. At every turn, Kirkland had thwarted him. He swung to the bound woman. Kirkland had risked his own life so she could escape. Why? He studied her. He sensed an edge here, a way of turning this to his advantage.

David stood up and pointed back at their prisoner. “Haul her ass on deck.”

Jack woke slowly. It took him several breaths to realize where he was. The teak paneling, the chest of drawers, the captain's table and hutch. It was his own cabin aboard the
Deep Fathom
. It made no sense.

“Well, look who's up,” a voice said.

He turned his head, noticing for the first time the oxygen mask strapped to his face. Tubes led to a portable tank. He lifted a hand to brush it away.

“Leave it.”

Jack focused on his bedside companion. “Lisa?” Beyond her, he saw Charlie Mollier standing over her shoulder. At the sound of his master's voice, Elvis lifted his head from the floor and rested it on the bedside.

“Who did you expect?” Lisa straightened his pillow. “Do you feel strong enough to sit up?”

Jack's mind fumbled, trying to recall his situation. He remembered the chase through the ruins of Nan Madol, the struggle through the underwater tunnel, but…“You're all dead.” He coughed thickly as he pushed up, then groaned loudly.

“Careful.” Lisa helped him sit up, cushioning his back with pillows.

“Ow.” Every inch of him ached. He lifted his arms and saw an IV line trailing to a bag of saline. His arms were smeared with salve and bandages.

“
We're
supposed to be dead?” Charlie said with a toothy smile. “
Mon
, you're the lucky one to be alive.”

He coughed again. It felt as if someone had scoured his lungs with a Brillo pad. “But the bomb…?”

Charlie sat on the edge of his bed. “Oh, about that, sorry, but we needed to make everyone think we were sunk. The bomb is down in my lab, locked away.”

Jack shook his head, then regretted it, grimacing at the
pain. “What the hell happened?” he barked with irritation.

Charlie related the events. The crew had found the bomb, and Robert recognized the trigger as a radio receiver. With Lisa's skill at electronics, it was a simple matter to remove the receiver. But they knew whoever had set it would not be satisfied unless the ship blew up. So they placed a call to Jack and warned him about the bomb, knowing that if someone were eavesdropping, they would probably trigger the device. “Which they did,” Charlie explained. “When we saw the detached receiver blink, we knew the signal to blow the bomb was being sent, so we staged our own deaths. Dumped a bunch of oil and fuel, threw in some deck chairs and floaters, then lit the whole mess on fire.”