Deep Fathom

The door on the opposite side of the pilothouse suddenly crashed open. Lisa jumped at the noise, caught off guard by her reverie. From his corner, Elvis let out a warning bark.

Lisa swung around as two people shoved their way inside, still in mid-argument.

Charlie Mollier’s face was darker than its usual Jamaican mocha. The geologist’s eyes were lit with an inner fire. “You can’t be serious, Kendall. Those gold bars weigh fifty stone each. They’re worth a half-million U.S. easy.”

Kendall McMillan simply shrugged, unimpressed by the larger man’s tirade. McMillan was an accountant from Chase Manhattan Bank, assigned to be present here when the wealth of the Kochi Maru was brought to the surface, to watch after the bank’s investment. “Perhaps, Mr. Mollier, but as your laboratory results proved, the bullion is full of impurities. Not even sixteen carat. The bank has offered a good deal.”

“You’re a bloody thief!” Charlie sputtered angrily. The geologist finally seemed to see Lisa. “Can you believe this mon?”

“What’s going on?”

“Where’s Jack?” Charlie answered. “I thought he was up here.”

“Gone down below.”

“Where?” Charlie crossed to the opposite door. “I need to tell him—”

“No, you don’t, Charlie. The captain has enough on his plate right now. Let him be.” Lisa glanced at McMillan.

Where Charlie was dressed in his usual deckwear—a baggy set of trunks hanging down to his knees with a floral Jamaican shirt—McMillan wore Sperry deck shoes, khaki slacks, and a smart shirt buttoned to the top. The middle-aged accountant had been on board the Fathom for almost two months now, but he had yet to relax into the casual routine of the ship. Even his red hair was carefully trimmed and combed.

“What’s this all about?” Lisa asked.

McMillan drew himself straighter under her gaze. “As I was explaining to Mr. Mollier after reviewing his laboratory analysis, there is no way the bank will pay current market price for the gold. The old bullion is full of impurities. I’ve used the satellite phone to confirm my own estimates with the bank’s experts.”

Charlie threw his hands in the air. “It’s high seas piracy.”

McMillan’s face tightened. “I take affront at your allegation that I’d—”

“I can’t believe you two,” Lisa finally interrupted. “The entire Pacific Rim is trying to recover from a day of horrible disasters, and you two are arguing over pennies and percentages. Can’t this wait?”

Both men hung their heads. McMillan pointed toward Charlie. “He started it. I just gave him my numbers.”

“If he hadn’t—”

“Enough! Both of you get out of here! And if I hear that you dump any of this on Jack, you’ll be sorry you ever stepped on board the Fathom.”

“I’m already sorry,” McMillan grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?” Lisa asked fiercely.

The accountant backed up a step. “Nothing.”

“Get off my bridge,” she demanded, pointing toward the door.

Both men retreated quickly.

Quiet returned to the pilothouse. The German shepherd settled back to his bed, eyes closing. Soft classical music returned to fill the space. Lisa combed her hair back with her fingers. Men! She had enough of all of them.

Swiveling in her seat, she popped out the classical music CD. Why does Jack like this stuff? She shuffled through the stack and found one of her own. After inserting the disk, she hit the Play button, and the all-girl band, Hole, blared from the speakers. Backed by a strident guitar and a mean drum riff, the lead singer’s harsh voice echoed through the cabin, singing of men’s inadequacies and faults.

Lisa sank back into her seat. “That’s more like it.”

In his cabin, Jack lay sprawled atop his bed on his back, still in his robe. He snored softly, mouth hanging open. He sank deeply into a Halcyon-colored nightmare.

Floating in his EVA suit, tethered to the shuttle Atlantis, he was surrounded by the unrelenting darkness of space. Below him, the payload bay doors were open. In the orbiter’s workspace, he saw other crew members manhandling the large satellite into position using the shuttle’s manipulator arms.

The stenciled logo of the Navy’s seal gleamed unnaturally bright on the satellite, as did the weapon’s name: Spartacus. In slow motion, the satellite, a half-billion-dollar test model outfitted with an experimental particle-beam cannon, was lifted from the bay on a system of lever arms. Clear of the bay doors, the satellite’s solar wings and communication array unfolded.

It was a wondrous sight as sunlight reflected off its solar cells. A butterfly climbing from a cocoon.

Beyond the shuttle, the blue globe of Earth loomed bright.

He thanked the stars around him for this opportunity. He had never imagined anything so beautiful—especially knowing he was sharing it with the one woman whose eyes out-shone even these stars.

Jennifer Spangler was the mission specialist for this trip, and as of last night, she was also his fiancée. He had first met her six years ago, when one of his fellow SEALs introduced him to his younger sister. He ran into her again as a fellow astronaut in training. They had quickly and passionately fallen for each other: furtively meeting in empty closets and wardrooms, sneaking off to dance at the Splashdown pub, even sharing midnight picnics on the acres of tarmac around the center. During those endless nights, under these very stars, they had planned their lives together.

Still, when he had corralled her alone aboard the flight deck last night and held out a small gold band between them, he was as nervous as a schoolboy. He did not know what her answer would be. Was he moving too fast? Did she share the depth of his feelings? For an eternal moment the gold ring had hung between them, weightless, shining in the moonlight—then she reached out and accepted his offer, her smile and tears answer enough.

Grinning at the memory, he was interrupted by Jennifer’s all-business voice over his comlink, drawing his attention back to the satellite. “Unlocking arms. One, two, three. All go. I repeat, go for spring launch. Jack?”

He answered. “Visual check confirmed.”

Colonel Durham, commander of this flight, chimed in from the flight deck. “All clear here. Green lights all around. Releasing payload in ten seconds…nine…eight…seven…”

Time slowed as the work crew retreated from under the satellite. Wrench in hand, he maneuvered along his tether to the port side, out of the way. They had practiced the release a hundred times.