“Brilliant,” Zavala said with unabashed admiration. He crinkled his brow. “It’s hard to believe anything this size could vanish.”
“The lab’s design may have made the hijacking possible,” Austin said. “As you can see, it was designed as a mobile undersea observatory. Lieutenant Casey said that the Navy built the components on land, towed them out to sea on specially designed barges, then assembled the components and lowered the lab into place. They built in flotation capability, and the spheres and connectors were reinforced structurally so the lab could be moved without breaking apart. The lab also had a stabilization system to keep it level during movement.”
Zavala took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the diagrams.
“Imagine this pen is a submarine or large submersible,” he said. “They hook onto the lab, get it pumped up to neutral buoyancy, and tow it away.”
“Great minds think alike,” Austin said. “The Russian government has been trying to sell off its fleet of Typhoons for use as cargo carriers in the Arctic. Maybe they found a buyer.”
“That solves only part of the mystery,” Zavala said. “If this was such a big secret, how did the hijackers know Davy Jones’s Locker existed and where it was located?”
“The lab’s security was outsourced to a private contractor,” Austin said, “and that may have been the weak point. The Navy talked to the support-ship survivors. Lieutenant Casey said the crew got a request from their security company to shuttle a representative down to the lab a short while before the attack. They said he was a friendly guy with a Southern accent. Phelps, of course.
“Phelps admitted he hijacked the lab,” Austin continued. “What he didn’t say was that the company rep who authorized his visit was killed in a car crash. My guess is, he was coerced into getting Phelps an ID, then was eliminated.”
“A convenient coincidence,” Zavala said. “What was the lab’s last position?”
Austin dug a map out of the pouch and spread it on the coffee table. An area in the Pacific Ocean had been circled in black grease pencil near the island of Pohnpei in Micronesia.
Zavala sat back and laced his hands behind his head.
“Gee, that narrows it down,” he said with a sour expression on his face. “It could take months to find the lab.”
“Sandecker says we have to wrap it up in less than seventy-two hours,” Austin said.
“I’m surprised the old sea dog didn’t ask us to solve the problem of global hunger and the energy crisis in our spare time.”
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Austin said. “He’ll want us to clean up the oceans on our coffee break.”
The sound of approaching jet engines broke the early-morning stillness. Austin got up and went to the door. A NUMA jet was taxiing up to the hangar. The engines went silent, and three figures emerged and walked across the tarmac toward the Citation. Austin recognized Paul Trout’s tall, lanky form and Gamay’s red hair. The Asian woman walking by the Trouts’ side was a stranger to him.
Austin greeted the Trouts, and warned Paul to duck his head entering the cabin. He welcomed the Asian woman with a friendly smile.
“You must be Dr. Song Lee,” Austin said, offering his hand. “I’m Kurt Austin. This is Joe Zavala. We’re NUMA colleagues of the Trouts. Thank you for coming to Washington.”
“And thank you for sending Paul and Gamay to Bonefish Key, Mr. Austin,” Lee said. “I’d be dead if they hadn’t arrived when they did.”
Kurt’s eyes drank in Song’s flowerlike beauty.
“That would have been a shame, Dr. Lee,” he said. “Please have a seat. We don’t have much time. You must have many questions.”
Song Lee settled into the sofa and looked around in wonderment. With their imposing physical prowess, quiet competence, and easy banter in the face of danger, the Trouts had seemed larger than life. But this pale-haired man, with his broad shoulders and sculpted bronze profile, was even more intriguing. Austin’s courtly manner could not disguise the fearlessness and daring that she detected in his remarkable coral-blue eyes. And his dark-complexioned friend Zavala had the swashbuckling air of a pirate prince.
“The Trouts told me about the attack on the bathysphere,” Lee said. “Do you know where Dr. Kane is?”
“Safe in protective custody. I spoke to Kane last night, and he filled me in on the work at Bonefish Key and the undersea lab they called Davy Jones’s Locker.”
Lee’s jaw dropped.
“I was aware of the secret facility, of course,” she said, “but I had no idea it was under the sea!”
“The Pacific Ocean, to be exact. It was in Micronesian waters, three hundred feet below the surface.”
Lee had a dazed expression on her delicate features.
“I would expect Dr. Kane to be unconventional,” she said, “but I never dreamed it was anything like that.”
Austin went on.