Deep Fathom

“Good enough. We’re getting out of here.”

Off in the distance, silent explosions bloomed in fiery flowers.

“We’ll be okay,” he promised.

Through the rumbling explosions, Karen heard a sound much closer. A scuff of rock. She swung around and was startled to see a dark stranger standing in the doorway. “Jack!”

He spun, moving like a lion.

The man leveled a pistol at him.

Even in the gloom, Karen recognized the tattoo on the man’s forearm: a coiled snake with ruby eyes.

5:55 A.M., Washington, D.C.

A knock on the door woke Lawrence Nafe. He pushed to one elbow. “What is it?” he asked blearily. He glanced to the clock on the nightstand. It was not even six.

The door swung partly open. “Sir?”

He recognized the voice and felt a twinge of misgiving. “Nicolas?” The CIA director had never called upon him in his bedroom. “What’s gone wrong?”

Nicolas Ruzickov entered the room, pausing at the threshold. “I’m sorry to disturb you and the First Lady, but—”

Nafe rubbed his eyes. “Melanie is still down in Virginia for the dedication of some damned statue. What do you want?”

Ruzickov closed the door firmly behind him. “The Chinese have attacked Okinawa.”

“What?” Nafe sat up and switched on a lamp. In the light, he saw that the director was wearing the same suit as the night before.

Ruzickov moved farther into the room. “We’ve just received word of skirmishes between their forces and ours along the Ryukyu Island chain.”

“Who shot first?”

“All our reports claim the Chinese…”

“And what are the Chinese saying?”

“That we attempted to break their blockade of Taiwan, and they were defending.”

“Great, just great…and which is true?”

“Sir?”

“Between us and these four walls, who pulled the first trigger?”

Ruzickov glanced at a chair. Nafe waved him into it. The CIA director sat down with a long sigh. “Does it matter? The Chinese know of our intention to push for a formal declaration of war. If they mean to hold the region, Okinawa is the closer and more significant threat. They’ve been bombarding the island with missile fire.”

“And the damage?”

“A few strikes. Uninhabited areas. So far, our new Patriot missiles are doing a satisfactory job of protecting the island.”

Nafe eyed his CIA director. “What are we going to do?”

“The Joint Chiefs have already convened in the Situation Room, awaiting your order.”

Nafe got out of bed and paced the room. “With this newest aggression directed against our forces in the Pacific—” He stared pointedly at Ruzickov. “Unprovoked, of course…”

“That is the way all newscasts will report it.”

He nodded. “Then we should have little political opposition to a formal declaration of war.”

“No, sir.”

Nafe stopped before the mantel of the cold fireplace. “I’ll address the Joint Chiefs, but I want Congress fully behind this declaration. I don’t want another Vietnam.”

Ruzickov stood. “I’ll make sure all is in order.”

Nafe clenched a fist. “If need be, we’ll bring this war to Beijing. It’s about time we instilled the fear of God into the Chinese people.”

“That’s all they respond to, sir. Strength. We cannot show weakness.”

Nafe scowled. “And neither will we show them mercy.”

8:14 P.M., ruins off the coast of Yonaguni

Crouched, Jack eyed the snub end of the pistol pointed at his chest. In a fraction of a second he quickly calculated the odds of disarming their assailant. He would have to take a bullet—there was no way around it—but he could still tackle the smaller man and probably knock the gun away. But what then? Depending on where he was hit, could he keep the man down long enough for Karen to grab the weapon? And what if there were others?

“He’s the leader of the group that attacked us before,” Karen whispered beside him, hands half raised.

Recalling Karen’s stories, Jack leaned closer to her. “I can take him out…but be ready.”

“How can I help?”

He was surprised by Karen’s resolve. This woman was no wilting flower. “A distraction—”

Before any plan could be set in motion, the man acted first. “Come wit’ me,” he whispered in stilted English. “We must leave here. Danger.” He lowered his gun and holstered it at his waist.

Jack straightened from his half crouch, suspicious. He looked with confusion toward Karen, who wore a matching expression. “Do we trust this guy?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He didn’t shoot us.”

The man disappeared through the low doorway into the roofless building’s rear chamber. Jack glanced behind him. Distant explosions continued to echo across the water. Through the window, the glow of fires dotted the southern horizon.

Karen nodded toward the grim view. “It’s not like we have a lot of choices here. Maybe we should go.”

Jack joined her. “Yeah, but did you ever hear the expression, ‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire’?”

She waved him through the doorway. “Then by all means, you go first.”

Jack ducked through the low door and found the stranger standing by another window, his back to them.

Beyond the window, a small dark boat floated in the lapping waters. As Jack moved nearer, he recognized it as a sampan, one of the ubiquitous fishing vessels of the eastern seas. Made of wood, it was short and narrow-beamed, with its stern half covered in a frame of bamboo and tattered tarpaulin. Two other men were aboard the sampan. One held the mooring line and kept glancing nervously to the south.

“Chinese come,” the leader said, indicating that Jack should board the vessel. “We take you to Okinawa.”

Karen joined Jack and gave him a gentle nudge. “We could always jump overboard if there’s trouble.”

Gathering his pack in one hand, Jack climbed over the stone sill. The man with the mooring line offered him a hand of support, but Jack ignored it. Instead, he dropped to the boat and eyed the men. Dark-skinned and short, they were clearly South Pacific islanders, but he could not place where exactly. He noticed that both men wore holstered weapons.

With a moan of complaint, Karen landed beside him. She grabbed his elbow as the boat shifted under her weight. He steadied her, but she kept her grip on him. “Okay, now what?”