“I am continuing to collect and correlate your data. May I be of additional assistance?”

The singsong chanting continued uninterrupted from beyond the tunnel. Their conversation had not been heard.

“Can you pick up our location?”

“Of course, my GPS is working perfectly, Professor Nakano.”

“Then please contact the Chatan authorities. Tell them we are under assault by looters at this location.”

Before Gabriel could acknowledge this command, the chanting outside abruptly ended. Karen clutched Miyuki’s arm, warning her to silence. Miyuki yanked back her computer, and the two women rolled to the side. Karen saw the first man’s face appear again at the tunnel’s mouth. This time it was not a flashlight he held in his free hand, but a matchstick.

Time had run out.

He struck the match on the stone. A tiny flame sprouted. Holding the match aloft, the man again called toward them. His words almost sounded laced with regret. Then he tossed the flaming match down the tunnel.

Northwest of Enewak Atoll, Central Pacific

“You’re running out of air, Jack,” Lisa warned through the radio. Her voice had remained edgy since the glitch in communications. She had been calling him every other minute.

“I know,” he snapped back at her. “I can see my oxygen gauge.” Jack worked the pedals of his submersible while simultaneously manipulating the controls to the remote exterior arms. He dragged a large chunk of fuselage out of the way. Silt billowed up from his motion, clouding his view. He had been working now close to an hour, shifting through the debris, following the ping of the wreck’s black boxes. Jack released the chunk of twisted metal and shifted the sub into reverse, using the thrusters to blow the silt clear. He didn’t have time to wait for it to settle on its own.

The Nautilus glided backward, but he watched the water clear ahead of him. Once satisfied, he slowed the submersible and edged back to the work site. Tilting the sub, Jack examined the sandy seabed. A thick sea cucumber rolled across the empty space, disturbed by his passage.

C’mon, you bastard, where are you?

Then he spotted it. A squarish object half buried in the muddy silt. He swung his lights to focus on it and sighed in relief. Thank God! He wiped sweat from his eyes. The small space had grown humid from his labors. “Found it!” he called hoarsely into his microphone.

“Say again?”

“I found the second black box.”

He inched the sub forward and settled it to the seabed. The characteristic orange and red box lay near the sub’s nose. The term “black” box was a misnomer. The data recorders had never been black. Jack reached out with his titanium arms. Using the right pincer, he gripped the rectangular box and carefully pulled it from the mud. He lifted it into view and grinned in relief, suddenly giddy. He had done it! It was Air Force One’s cockpit recorder.

“Got it!”

“Then get your ass up here, Jack. You’re damn near the point of no return. Your CO2 levels are already rising.”

“I hear you, Mother,” he said, checking his gauges. He had just enough oxygen to reach the surface—at least, he hoped so. Swinging around in a tight arc, he returned to where he had left the first box—the flight’s data recorder—and collected it up in his left pincer.

“Got both prizes. Coming up!”

Jack had reached for the key to blow his ballast when a glint from the seafloor caught his eye. Frowning, he swung his lamps. A gasp escaped his throat. “Oh, God!”

“Jack, what is it?”

In the lamp’s glare a face stared back at him from the seabed floor. It took Jack a couple heartbeats to realize the visage was not that of a dead body—instead, the face shone bright green under his light. It was hard, crystalline. Jade. As he adjusted the light, he recognized the distinct Asian features and ancient war crown. He’d been told about the gift given to President Bishop by the Chinese Premier—a full-sized replica of a terra-cotta warrior, done in jade. Jack nudged the Nautilus closer and bumped the bust with one of the sub’s arms. The head rolled across the silty bottom. It was all that was left of the ten-foot statue.

“Jack, what is it?” Lisa repeated.

Jack swallowed hard. “Nothing. I’m okay. Coming up.”

But before he could leave, his eyes returned to the green gaze of the jade bust. The features were so lifelike—the sole survivor of the tragedy. Switching both black boxes to one pincer, Jack used the freed-up arm to grab the piece of jade sculpture. It had been the last gift to a dead President. He would not leave it behind.

With his treasures in hand, Jack tapped a key and blew his ballast. The sub burst upward from the seabed with a goose of his thrusters.

Below, he watched the debris field fade away. Near its center, the strange spear of crystalline rock came into view again, jabbing up from the seabed. His gaze was drawn to it. He knew Charlie would sell his eyeteeth to catch a glimpse of the amazing structure. Jack hoped the video footage he had recorded to disk would come out.

As he climbed, the sight vanished beyond the reach of the sub’s searchlights. Jack settled back to his seat. Every muscle ached. He had not realized how the effort had worn on him: the tension, the cramped quarters, the meticulous work. While sifting through the debris, he had kept himself tight as a fist. Periodically as he’d worked, the strange tingling sensation had washed over him, quivering the tiny hairs all over his body. It was as if the eyes of the dead were studying him. Occasionally he would swear he caught movement at the corners of his eyes. But when he’d looked, all he found was wreckage and debris.

“Jack, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

“Who?”

A new voice came over the radio. “How are you doing, Jack?”

“Admiral?” What was Mark Houston doing aboard the Fathom?

As if reading his mind, the admiral answered, “I was flown to your boat about ten minutes ago. I heard the good news en route. So you’ve recovered both data recorders?”

“Yes, sir. I should be up with them in about fifteen minutes.”

“I knew you could do it, Jack.”

Jack remained silent. As much as he wanted to distance himself from his naval past, praise from his old commander still affected him.

Admiral Houston continued, “How did your submersible handle?”

“Except for that glitch in communications, she handled like a dream.”

“Good, because the NTSB team has been monitoring your video feed of the wreckage. The team has already targeted a few key pieces of the plane that they’d like to see brought to the surface.”

Tags: James Rollins Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net