Deep Fathom

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.

7:15 P.M., Oval Office, White House, Washington, D.C.

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.”