Deep Fathom

Deep Fathom Page 30

Miyuki sighed. “The crystal star. Didn’t you listen when I phoned?”

Karen stood, remembering Miyuki’s urgent call. She had indeed mentioned something about the crystal star. “What have you learned? Did you find someone in the geology department to help you check it out?”

“No. Most of the geologists are still out in the field, researching the quakes and studying their effects. Such a catastrophe is a boon to those in their field. They won’t be back until the university reopens.”

“Then what did you learn?”

“I thought to do a bit of basic checking on my own. I was curious about its abnormally dense mass.” Miyuki led the way across the lab. “I borrowed an electronic scale and tools. I figured I’d do some simple measurements. Nothing complicated. Calculate its mass, density…that sort of thing.”

“And?”

“I kept failing.” Miyuki crossed to a workstation neatly arranged with graph paper, metal rulers, calipers, compasses, and a squat stainless steel box.

Karen scrunched up her nose. “You kept failing?”

Miyuki picked up a few leaves of graph paper. Neatly drawn on them were precise depictions of the five-pointed star, from multiple views. Each had tiny metric measurements denoted. It was clearly the work of many hours. “I calculated its volume both by geometry and water displacement. I wanted to be exact. I found it to occupy precisely 542 cubic centimeters.”

“What about its weight?”

Miyuki adjusted her bonnet. “That’s the strange part.” She waved at the graph papers and tools. “I thought these calculations were going to be the hard part. I figured that all I’d have to do afterward was weigh the artifact, then divide the weight by the calculated volume to get the density. Simple.”

Karen nodded. “So how much did it weigh?”

“That would depend.” Miyuki crossed to the steel box. “I borrowed this electronic scale from the geology department. It’s able to weigh an object down to a fraction of a milligram.”

“And?”

“Watch.” Miyuki switched on the power switch. “I left the crystal star in the sample chamber.”

Karen watched the red digital numbers climb higher and higher, settling at last on one number. Karen stared in disbelief.

14.325 KILOS

“Amazing. That’s over thirty pounds. I can’t believe it. The star is that heavy?”

Miyuki turned to Karen. “Sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

Miyuki opened the door to the electronic scale. Karen bent closer. Inside the sample chamber, the crystal star shone brightly, fracturing the room’s light into brilliant shards. Karen was once again stunned by its beauty.

She turned to Miyuki. “I don’t understand. What?”

Miyuki pointed to the red analog numbers of the electronic scale. The number had changed. It was smaller.

8.89 KILOS

Karen straightened, frowning. “Is there a problem with the scale?”

“I thought the same thing.” Miyuki picked up the flashlight from the table. “Watch.” She flipped on the flashlight and pointed its narrow beam at the crystal.

The star shone more brilliantly. Karen had to squint against its glare. But her gaze did not remain long on the crystal artifact. She stared at the digital reading. It was smaller again.

2.99 KILOS

“How…?”

Miyuki shadowed the flashlight’s beam with her palm and the number climbed higher. “Now you know why I had trouble with my calculations. The weight keeps changing. The stronger the light, the less it weighs.”

“That’s impossible. There’s no crystal on this planet that acts this way.”

Miyuki shrugged. “Why do you think I called you?”

10

Thunder

July 31, 10:17 A.M.

USS Gibraltar, Northwest of Enewak Atoll, Central Pacific

David Spangler crossed the rolling flight deck of the Gibraltar. A southern storm had whipped up overnight, pelting the vessel with rain and gale force winds. This morning the worst of the storm had blown itself out, but the sky remained stacked with dark clouds. Drizzle swept across the deck in wicked spats. Safety nets that fringed the ship snapped and flapped in the gusts.

David hunched against the cold and headed toward the ramp tunnel that led down to the hangar deck below. Striding briskly, he approached the two men sheltered just inside the tunnel’s entrance. Two guards. They were his men, members of his seven-man assault team. Like him, they wore gray uniforms, black boots, black belts. Even their blond crew cuts matched his. David had handpicked his team five years ago. He nodded as he approached. They snapped to attention, no salutes.

Though their uniforms were free of any rank or designation, the entire NTSB team knew David’s men. A personal letter from CIA Director Ruzickov had made it clear to the investigators and the ship’s command staff that Spangler’s team was in charge of security for the wreckage until the ship left international waters.

“Where’s Weintraub?” he asked his second-in-command, Lieutenant Ken Rolfe.

“At the electronics station. Working on the flight data recorder.”

“Any news?”

“They’re still having no luck, sir. It’s tits up.”

David allowed himself a grim smile. Edwin Weintraub was the lead investigator for the NTSB—and a prime thorn in his side. The man was thorough, keen-eyed and sharp-witted. David knew that his presence wouldn’t make subterfuge any easier.

“Any suspicion?” he said in a lower voice, stepping closer.

“No, sir.”

David nodded, satisfied. Gregor Handel, Omega team’s electronics expert, had done his job well. As head of security, David had no trouble granting his man access to the recorder, out of sight of anyone in the NTSB. Handel had promised he could sabotage the recorder without any telltale sign of tampering. So far the lieutenant had proven as good as his word. After the revelation on the cockpit voice recording, David had not wanted the information on the flight’s data box to pinpoint a simple malfunction of one of Air Force One’s primary systems. It would be hard to blame the Chinese for an ordinary mechanical glitch. So he had ordered the second black box damaged.

“Do you know why Weintraub called me this morning?” David asked.

“No, sir. Only that something stirred up the hornet’s nest in there an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” David clenched his teeth. If something new had been discovered, the standing orders were for him to be informed immediately. He stormed past his men. Since the first day, Weintraub had been testing the line between his team and David’s. It looked like a lesson might be necessary.

David walked down the long tunnel leading into the massive hangar bay below the flight deck. His footsteps echoed on the nonskid surface. The hangar space ahead was a cavernous chamber, two decks high and stretching almost a third of the ship’s length. Before sailing here, half of the air wing normally stowed in the hangar had been sent to Guam, leaving space for the recovered wreckage.

As David left the tunnel, he stood and surveyed the wide expanse. The chamber reeked of seawater and oil. Across the wide floor, pieces and sections of the plane were laid out in distinct quadrants. Each area was overseen by its own field expert. Overhead, in the rafters, small offices had been taken over by his men, acting as additional lookouts to spy upon the jet’s remains and the personnel below.

Pausing, David observed a large section of a cracked engine nacelle being hauled up another ramp from the lower well deck.

Satisfied that all was in order, he continued through the cavernous hangar. A large circus could have performed in here. And considering the scores of investigators scurrying around the pieces of wreckage, it might as well be a circus. Clowns, all of them, David thought.

He jumped aside as an electric forklift swung a chunk of twisted wing past him, almost taking his head off. Over the past three days, the team of investigators had been shifting sections around twenty-four hours a day, as if working a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. Once the forklift had safely passed, David proceeded deeper into the NTSB base of operations. Larger pieces of wreckage towered to either side: the smashed nose of the plane, the tail fin, chunks of fuselage. Steel-ribbed gravestones to the crew and passengers.

David spotted the electronics lab, a section of the deck cordoned off by banks of computers, twisted power cables, and worktables covered with circuit boards and whorls of wiring from Air Force One. As he approached he spotted the red and orange box of the flight’s data recorder. It had been splayed open and its guts torn down. Little colored flags peppered its contents; however, none of the four investigators were giving the box a second look.

Instead, the three men stood around their portly leader, Ed Weintraub, who was seated at a computer and tapping furiously.

David stepped over. “What’s going on?”

Weintraub waved a hand behind him. “I think I’ve figured out how the recorder’s data became corrupted.”

David’s heart jumped. He glanced at the open box. Had Gregor’s tampering been discovered? “What do you mean?”

Weintraub heaved himself to his feet. “Come. I’ll show you.” He tugged up his pants and absentmindedly tucked in his shirt.

David could not hide his disgust. The man’s skin was oily, his black hair sticking out in odd directions, his thick glasses making his eyes swim. David couldn’t imagine a more distasteful bearing. Weintraub was every repugnant image brought to mind by the expression “slimy civilian.”

The investigator led the way from the electronic station. “We’ve come upon an intriguing finding. Something that might explain the recorder’s damage.” He crossed over to a quadrant where sections of the fuselage lay. The pieces were laid out in rough approximation of the actual plane.

David followed. “You still haven’t explained what you’re talking about. And I don’t appreciate being the last to know. I informed you—”

Weintraub looked at David and interrupted. “I report when I have something to report, Mr. Spangler. I needed to rule out a more plausible explanation first.”