James Rollins - Deep Fathom

“You’d better read her response yourself.” Rolfe clicked open a second piece of mail.

David leaned over and read the message. As he scanned the e-mail it was clear the woman knew more than she was willing to divulge. But one item caught his eye. She hinted at the discovery of a crystal that exhibited unusual properties. He straightened up. “Goddamn it! She must have some of our crystal.”

“That’s what we thought, too.”

“If she has some of it, our mission here is compromised. No one was supposed to know of the crystal deposit. If Kirkland goes blabbing about it and they have a sample of the crystal…” David’s voice trailed off. This was bad. He waved his men away. “Clear out. I need to talk to Ruzickov.”

“Aye, sir.” Both men quickly left the cabin.

Alone, David crossed to his bunk and pulled out his personal scrambled phone. It was late evening in Washington, but he knew this information was too vital to sit on overnight. He opened a channel and keyed in the number for the head of the CIA. With the escalating tensions between the U.S. and China, he suspected that the director would still be in his office. He was not wrong.

“Ruzickov here.”

“Sir, it’s Commander Spangler.”

“I know who it is,” the director snapped at him. Even over the encrypted line, David could hear the exhaustion in the man’s voice. “What do you want? I have a war about to erupt out here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been following the reports.”

Nicolas Ruzickov sighed. “It’s worse than in any reports. The Chinese know of the President’s intention to seek a declaration of war. It’s chaos out there. The Chinese navy has already secured a blockade around Taiwan — from Batan Island to the south and swinging full around the Taiwanese coastline.”

David gripped the phone’s receiver tighter. “And our forces?”

“The USS John C. Stennis is already in the region, just awaiting word from us. But with tensions so high out there, the whole mess could explode before Washington officially responds. As you can imagine, I’m up to my neck with problems. So your call had better be important enough to interrupt me.”

“I think it is, sir. The security of this site may be compromised.” David related the discovery of the communication between Kirkland’s ship and university on Okinawa. “If other parties gain wind of the crystal’s properties, we could lose our edge here.”

Ruzickov’s voice lost its exasperated tone. “You were right to bring this to my attention.” David was impressed by the man’s ability to switch gears so smoothly from one crisis to the next. The CIA director quickly put together a game plan. “It seems this professor knows more than we do. I want you to fetch her, convince her to join our team. But more importantly, her crystal sample must be confiscated. This is a black priority.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” Black priority were the code words to unleash Omega team with lethal force. There was no higher designation for a mission.

“Do you truly understand, Commander? If the tensions out East turn to war, we may need a secret weapon, the equivalent of the atomic bomb during World War Two. We cannot let this discovery fall into foreign hands. And with Okinawa only a stone’s throw from the battlelines being drawn out there, I don’t want that crystal sample anywhere near there.”

“Don’t worry, sir. I will see to it personally.”

“Do so.” It sounded like Ruzickov was about to sign off.

David spoke quickly. “What about Jack Kirkland?”

Ruzickov sighed. “I told you this is a black priority mission. No word must leak out about what we’re doing. Silence him however you must.”

David smiled grimly. “I’m already on it, sir.”

“Don’t fail me, Commander.” The phone line went dead.

David slowly lowered the receiver and clicked its case closed. He sat for a moment with his palm resting atop the case. Black priority . His blood thrilled with those two words. He savored them for a moment, then stood up.

He crossed to the cabin door, opened it and barked an order to his man in the hall: “Fetch Lieutenant Handel. Tell him to bring the detonation transmitter.”

With a nod, the man hurried away.

David closed the door and leaned his back against it. He would bring a whole shitload of hurt down upon Kirkland’s head, he thought. And he knew where to strike first — at the man’s heart and soul.

At the Deep Fathom.

It was Charlie Mollier’s turn to prepare dinner. Behind him the galley door to the stern deck was open. But no breeze blew in to relieve the moist heat. The day had started out humid and grew worse as the sun climbed into the sky. In the galley, with both of the stove’s burners going, the heat was stifling.

Charlie, though, whistled in tune to the reggae music of Bob Marley on the tape deck beside the sink. Wearing onlya pair of baggy swim shorts that reached his knees, he swayed slightly as he stirred his homemade gungo pea and coconut soup, a family recipe. The spicy steam stung his nostrils. He smiled widely. “Nothin’ like hot food on a hot day.”

Reaching behind him, he tapped the blender. Its grinding roar drowned out the reggae music. “And margaritas, of course. Lots of margaritas!”

Ladle in hand, he spun around in sync with the chaotic melody of kitchen noises. With Jack gone, the entire ship had relaxed, enjoying the temporary reprieve. And Charlie was in an especially good mood. The moist heat, the tropical islands dotting the horizons…it was as if he were back home in the Caribbean. Bending over, he checked the oven. The fruity scent of his jerked chicken rolled out as he cracked the door open.

“Perfect,” he said contentedly.

Bent over, he felt something goose him from behind. He snapped upward with a squawk of surprise. Swinging around, he found Elvis staring up at him. The German shepherd nosed Charlie again, a small whine rising from his throat.

“Come begging, my ol’ mon ? You smell ol’ Charlie’s cookin’ and think to sneak a little mouthful?” He grinned at the large dog and grabbed a chicken wing from the counter-top. “Don’t go telling Jack, now. You know how he hates you begging. I’m not supposed to encourage you.”

He held out the treat. Elvis sniffed at it, then backed up a step and gazed toward the open galley door.

Charlie frowned. “What’s wrong, my ol’ mon ? Don’t like my cookin’?”

Elvis backed toward the doorway and barked at Charlie.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Lisa appeared in the doorway. “Now he’s bothering you,” she said with a concerned look. Lisa was dressed in a bikini. She’d been sunbathing on the aft deck. “He woke me up when I dozed off and wouldn’t leave me alone until I shoved him away.”

Charlie turned off the noisy blender. “Must be missin’ Jack. The captain’s never left the ship for longer than a day before.”

“I guess.”

From the ladder to the lower deck, Robert climbed into the galley. “Is dinner ready? I can smell your cooking all the way down in the bilge.”

Charlie waved him off with an exaggerated scowl. “Your nose could smell bacon cooking from over the horizon.” It was an ongoing joke. The young marine biologist had the most remarkable metabolic rate. He ate four times his body weight every day but remained as skinny as a bamboo pole.

“So is lunch ready?” Robert asked, hungrily eyeing the stove.

“Almost.”

Robert glanced at Lisa, kneeling by Jack’s dog. “Is something wrong with Elvis?”

Charlie shrugged. “Missing the boss, we think.”