James Rollins - Deep Fathom

The rattling grew into a savage shaking. Doors rattled. Shelved containers tumbled.

“Sea quake!” John yelled.

Cries rose from the various science stations. The video connection to the Perseus disappeared as the monitor’s screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.

John stumbled to one of the porthole windows. “If any of the seals break—”

Ferdinand knew the threat. At a depth of six hundred meters, the pressures outside were close to half a ton per square inch. Any rupture would lead to immediate implosion.

Emergency klaxons bellowed; red warning lights flared.

Ferdinand yelled in a firm tone of command. “Retreat to Level 3! Prepare to evacuate!”

One of the marine biologists ran toward them, almost colliding with John. “The interlevel hatches have sealed themselves. I can’t override on manual.”

Ferdinand swore. In case of flooding, the safety systems automatically locked down and isolated each tier — but the manual override should have worked. He stood up on the bucking floor as the main lights flickered out. Everything became red-tinged in the glow of the emergency lights.

“Oh, God!” John said. His face was still pressed to the porthole.

Ferdinand stumbled to a neighboring port. “What is it?” It took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. The neighboring forest of lava pillars shook and vibrated as if a mighty wind were blowing through it. Distantly, bright fiery glows marked opening magma fissures. But neither sight was what had triggered John’s outburst.

In the direction of the pillar, a jagged crack split the seabed floor. As Ferdinand watched, the rift widened, and in vicious zigzags it raced toward the Neptune.

“No…”

There was no time to evacuate.

Other scientists took up positions at other portholes. A heavy silence settled. From somewhere across the way, a whispered prayer began to echo.

Ferdinand could do nothing as his lifelong dream was about to end. His fate was in the hands of God. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. How many had he killed down here? As fear and guilt clutched him, it took him a moment to realize the rumbling roar had begun to recede. The temblors underfoot calmed.

Ferdinand lifted his face.

John was staring back at him, wearing a frightened smile. “Is…is it over?”

Ferdinand glanced out the porthole. The jagged fissure had reached within a yard of Neptune’s steel legs.

The quake shook with one last fierce rumble, then died away.

“That was too close,” John said.

Ferdinand nodded.

Over the radio, a squelch of static erupted. “Neptune, this is Perseus . Is everyone okay in there?”

Ferdinand stumbled to the transmitter, relieved that Brentley had safely weathered the quake. “All clear, Perseus . Just shaken up.”

“Glad to hear it! I’ll pass the news topside.”

“Thank you, Perseus .”

Ferdinand slumped in his seat. He turned to John. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again.”

John nodded. “Oh, yeah. I don’t have enough clean pairs of underwear.”

Ferdinand smiled weakly. He willed his heart to stop pounding. That had been too damn close.

“Kaselehlie!” The small dark-skinned boatman greeted Karen in native Pohnpeian, smiling broadly. He was bare-chested and wore loose shorts that hung to his knobby knees. Behind him, the ruins of Nan Madol spread in a series of man-made islets toward the open sea. “Ia iromw?”

“We’re fine,” Karen answered, bowing her head slightly. “ Menlau . Thank you. I called earlier today about a day rental of one of your rowboats.”

The man nodded vigorously. “The scientists. Yes, I have better than a rowboat.” He turned and led them down a short stone quay of black basalt to a pair of long canoes. “Much better. Smaller. Travel the canals better. Faster.” He motioned with a hand, sweeping it back and forth.

Karen eyed the worn fiberglass canoes dubiously. They hardly looked seaworthy enough even for the shallow canals. “I guess these will be fine.”

The boatman’s smile widened. “I have map. Two American dollars.”

Karen shook her head. “I have my own. Thank you.”

“I act as guide. Seven American dollars an hour. I show you all the sights. Tell you stories.”

“I think we can manage on our own. Besides, we have our own guide.” She nodded toward Mwahu.

The boatman looked crestfallen and waved them toward the canoes.

“Menlau,” she said, passing down the quay, leading the others.

Jack kept pace with her and mumbled, “A real capitalist, that guy.”

At the two canoes, Miyuki joined them. She studied the sun low on the horizon. “Let’s get going. We don’t have that much daylight left.”

Karen sighed. She knew her friend still fretted over Mwahu’s earlier warning. “Miyuki, you’re supposed to be a computer scientist. Since when do you believe in ghosts?”

“Looking at this place, I’m beginning to waver.” Overhead, a pair of fruit bats swept past. Distantly, the calls of birds sounded lonely and lost. “It’s so creepy here.”

Karen nudged one of the boats. “Well, you’re right about one thing. We should get going. Why don’t you and Mwahu take this one? Jack and I will take the other.”

Miyuki nodded and climbed into the canoe as Mwahu held it steady. Then the islander clambered skillfully in afterward.

“Are you sure you can lead us to the grave of your ancient teacher?” Karen asked Mwahu.

He bobbed his head.

Satisfied, Karen turned to the other canoe. Jack already sat in the stern. She carefully stepped into the canoe’s bow end and picked up a paddle. “Everyone ready?”

There was a general sound of assent.

“Let’s go!”

Karen dug in her paddle, and the canoe slid smoothly from the dock. Ahead, Miyuki and Mwahu led the way, paddling under the basalt entry gate of the ruins. Past the gate, the breadth and scope of the site opened before them. High palaces, low tombs, great halls, miniature castles, simple homes. All framed by watery canals. Mangrove trees and thick vines were draped throughout, creating a maze of water, stone, and overgrown vegetation.

Karen paddled silently, while Jack guided the canoe with considerable skill. He cut the boat around a narrow corner. They were traveling through what was known as the “central city” of Nan Madol. The canals here were less than a meter wide, the basalt islets tightly packed around them. Jack continued to follow Mwahu’s zigzagging course.

“You’re good at this,” Karen said as Jack swung the canoe smoothly under a bridge of vines and lilting white flowers. “SEAL training?”

Jack laughed. “No. It’s a skill learned from years of float trips down the rivers and creeks of Tennessee. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”

Facing forward, Karen hid her smile. It was good to hear Jack laugh. She settled back as they paddled slowly toward the heart of the ruins, crisscrossing from canals dark with deep shadows to sunlit channels. Some paths were so choked with overhanging ferns and mangrove boughs that she wished they had a machete. Yet at all times the stacks of basalt logs surrounded them, prismatic crystals glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. Walls towered up to thirty feet, only broken by the occasional window or doorway.

Finally, the canals widened. To the right, an especially huge basalt island appeared, a great structure built upon it. Its walled fortifications towered forty feet, a monstrous construction of logs and gigantic boulders.

“Nan Dowas,” Karen said, pointing at it. “The city’s central castle.” They glided along the fern-choked coastline of the wide island. Doorways opened into the structure, some intact, some collapsed.