From the air, the flickering outline of the Goya loomed on the horizon. At half a mile, Tolland could make out the brilliant deck lights that his crewmember Xavia had wisely left glowing. When he saw the lights, he felt like a weary traveler pulling into his driveway.

“I thought you said only one person was onboard,” Rachel said, looking surprised to see all the lights.

“Don’t you leave a light on when you’re home alone?”

“One light. Not the entire house.”

Tolland smiled. Despite Rachel’s attempts to be lighthearted, he could tell she was extremely apprehensive about being out here. He wanted to put an arm around her and reassure her, but he knew there was nothing he could say. “The lights are on for security. Makes the ship look active.”

Corky chuckled. “Afraid of pirates, Mike?”

“Nope. Biggest danger out here is the idiots who don’t know how to read radar. Best defense against getting rammed is to make sure everyone can see you.”

Corky squinted down at the glowing vessel. “See you? It looks like a Carnival Cruise line on New Year’s Eve. Obviously, NBC pays your electric.”

The Coast Guard chopper slowed and banked around the huge illuminated ship, and the pilot began maneuvering toward the helipad on the stern deck. Even from the air, Tolland could make out the raging current pulling at the ship’s hull struts. Anchored from its bow, the Goya was aimed into the current, straining at its massive anchor line like a chained beast.

“She really is a beauty,” the pilot said, laughing.

Tolland knew the comment was sarcastic. The Goya was ugly. “Butt-ugly”

according to one television reviewer. One of only seventeen SWATH ships ever built, the Goya’s Small-Waterplane-Area Twin-Hull was anything but attractive. The vessel was essentially a massive horizontal platform floating thirty feet above the ocean on four huge struts affixed to pontoons. From a distance, the ship looked like a low-slung drilling platform. Up close, it resembled a deck barge on stilts. The crew quarters, research labs, and navigation bridge were housed in a series of tiered structures on top, giving one the rough impression of a giant floating coffee table supporting a hodgepodge of multistaged buildings.

Despite its less than streamlined appearance, the Goya’s design enjoyed significantly less water-plane area, resulting in increased stability. The suspended platform enabled better filming, easier lab work, and fewer seasick scientists. Although NBC was pressuring Tolland to let them buy him something newer, Tolland had refused. Granted, there were better ships out there now, even more stable ones, but the Goya had been his home for almost a decade now—the ship on which he had fought his way back after Celia’s death. Some nights he still heard her voice in the wind out on deck. If and when the ghosts ever disappeared, Tolland would consider another ship.

Not yet.

When the chopper finally set down on the Goya’s stern deck, Rachel Sexton felt only half-relieved. The good news was that she was no longer flying over the ocean. The bad news was that she was now standing on it. She fought off the shaky sensation in her legs as she climbed onto the deck and looked around. The deck was surprisingly cramped, particularly with the helicopter on its pad. Moving her eyes toward the bow, Rachel gazed at the ungainly, stacked edifice that made up the bulk of the ship.

Tolland stood close beside her. “I know,” he said, talking loudly over the sound of the raging current. “It looks bigger on television.”

Rachel nodded. “And more stable.”

“This is one of the safest ships on the sea. I promise.” Tolland put a hand on her shoulder and guided her across the deck.

The warmth of his hand did more to calm Rachel’s nerves than anything he could have said. Nonetheless, as she looked toward the rear of the ship, she saw the roiling current streaming out behind them as though the ship was at full throttle. We’re sitting on a megaplume, she thought.

Centered on the foremost section of rear deck, Rachel spied a familiar, one-man Triton submersible hanging on a giant winch. The Triton—named for the Greek god of the sea—looked nothing like its predecessor, the steel-encased Alvin. The Triton had a hemispherical acrylic dome in front, making it look more like a giant fishbowl than a sub. Rachel could think of few things more terrifying than submerging hundreds of feet into the ocean with nothing between her face and the ocean but a sheet of clear acrylic. Of course, according to Tolland, the only unpleasant part of riding in the Triton was the initial deployment—being slowly winched down through the trap door in the Goya’s deck, hanging like a pendulum thirty feet above the sea.

“Xavia is probably in the hydrolab,” Tolland said, moving across the deck. “This way.”

Rachel and Corky followed Tolland across the stern deck. The Coast Guard pilot remained in his chopper with strict instructions not to use the radio.

“Have a look at this,” Tolland said, pausing at the stern railing of the ship. Hesitantly, Rachel neared the railing. They were very high up. The water was a good thirty feet below them, and yet Rachel could still feel the heat rising off the water.

“It’s about the temperature of a warm bath,” Tolland said over the sound of the current. He reached toward a switch-box on the railing. “Watch this.” He flipped a switch.

A wide arc of light spread through the water behind the ship, illuminating it from within like a lit swimming pool. Rachel and Corky gasped in unison. The water around the ship was filled with dozens of ghostly shadows. Hovering only feet below the illuminated surface, armies of sleek, dark forms swam in parallel against the current, their unmistakable hammer-shaped skulls wagging back and forth as if to the beat of some prehistoric rhythm.

“Christ, Mike,” Corky stammered. “So glad you shared this with us.”

Rachel’s body went rigid. She wanted to step back from the railing, but she could not move. She was transfixed by the petrifying vista.

“Incredible, aren’t they?” Tolland said. His hand was on her shoulder again, comforting. “They’ll tread water in the warm spots for weeks. These guys have the best noses in the sea—enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes. They can smell blood up to a mile away.”

Corky looked skeptical. “Enhanced telencephalon olfactory lobes?”

“Don’t believe me?” Tolland began rooting around in an aluminum cabinet adjacent to where they were standing. After a moment, he pulled out a small, dead fish. “Perfect.” He took a knife from the cooler and cut the limp fish in several places. It started to drip blood.

“Mike, for God’s sake,” Corky said. “That’s disgusting.”

Tolland tossed the bloody fish overboard and it fell thirty feet. The instant it hit the water, six or seven sharks darted in a tumbling ferocious brawl, their rows of silvery teeth gnashing wildly at the bloody fish. In an instant, the fish was gone. Aghast, Rachel turned and stared at Tolland, who was already holding another fish. Same kind. Same size.

“This time, no blood,” Tolland said. Without cutting the fish, he threw it in the water. The fish splashed down, but nothing happened. The hammerheads seemed not to notice. The bait carried away on the current, having drawn no interest whatsoever.

“They attack only on sense of smell,” Tolland said, leading them away from the railing. “In fact, you could swim out here in total safety—provided you didn’t have any open wounds.”

Corky pointed to the stitches on his cheek.

Tolland frowned. “Right. No swimming for you.”

Gabrielle Ashe’s taxi was not moving.

Sitting at a roadblock near the FDR Memorial, Gabrielle looked out at the emergency vehicles in the distance and felt as if a surrealistic fog bank had settled over the city. Radio reports were coming in now that the exploded car might have contained a high-level government official.

Pulling out her cellphone, she dialed the senator. He was no doubt starting to wonder what was taking Gabrielle so long.

The line was busy.

Gabrielle looked at the taxi’s clicking meter and frowned. Some of the other cars stuck here were pulling up onto the curbs and turning around to find alternative routes.

The driver looked over his shoulder. “You wanna wait? Your dime.”

Gabrielle saw more official vehicles arriving now. “No. Let’s go around.”

The driver grunted in the affirmative and began maneuvering the awkward multipoint turn. As they bounced over the curbs, Gabrielle tried Sexton again. Still busy.

Several minutes later, having made a wide loop, the taxi was traveling up C Street. Gabrielle saw the Philip A. Hart Office Building looming. She had intended to go straight to the senator’s apartment, but with her office this close…

“Pull over,” she blurted to the driver. “Right there. Thanks.” She pointed. The cab stopped.

Gabrielle paid the amount on the meter and added ten dollars. “Can you wait ten minutes?”

The cabbie looked at the money and then at his watch. “Not a minute longer.”

Gabrielle hurried off. I’ll be out in five.

The deserted marble corridors of the Senate office building felt almost sepulchral at this hour. Gabrielle’s muscles were tense as she hurried through the gauntlet of austere statues lining the third-floor entryway. Their stony eyes seemed to follow her like silent sentinels.

Arriving at the main door of Senator Sexton’s five-room office suite, Gabrielle used her key card to enter. The secretarial lobby was dimly lit. Crossing through the foyer, she went down a hallway to her office. She entered, flicked on the fluorescent lights, and strode directly to her file cabinets. She had an entire file on the budgeting of NASA’s Earth Observing System, including plenty of information on PODS. Sexton would certainly want all the data he could possibly get on PODS as soon as she told him about Harper. NASA lied about PODS.

As Gabrielle fingered her way through her files, her cellphone rang.

“Senator?” she answered.

“No, Gabs. It’s Yolanda.” Her friend’s voice had an unusual edge to it. “You still at NASA?”

“No. At the office.”

“Find anything at NASA?”

You have no idea. Gabrielle knew she couldn’t tell Yolanda anything until she’d talked to Sexton; the senator would have very specific ideas about how best to handle the information. “I’ll tell you all about it after I talk to Sexton. Heading over to his place now.”

Yolanda paused. “Gabs, you know this thing you were saying about Sexton’s campaign finance and the SFF?”

“I told you I was wrong and—”

“I just found out two of our reporters who cover the aerospace industry have been working on a similar story.”

Gabrielle was surprised. “Meaning?”

“I don’t know. But these guys are good, and they seem pretty convinced that Sexton is taking kickbacks from the Space Frontier Foundation. I just figured I should call you. I know I told you earlier that the idea was insane. Marjorie Tench as a source seemed spotty, but these guys of ours…I don’t know, you might want to talk to them before you see the senator.”

“If they’re so convinced, why haven’t they gone to press?” Gabrielle sounded more defensive than she wanted to.

“They have no solid evidence. The senator apparently is good at covering his tracks.”

Most politicians are. “There’s nothing there, Yolanda. I told you the senator admitted taking SFF donations, but the gifts are all under the cap.”

“I know that’s what he told you, Gabs, and I’m not claiming to know what’s true or false here. I just felt obliged to call because I told you not to trust Marjorie Tench, and now I find out people other than Tench think the senator may be on the dole. That’s all.”

“Who were these reporters?” Gabrielle felt an unexpected anger simmering now.

“No names. I can set up a meeting. They’re smart. They understand campaign finance law…” Yolanda hesitated. “You know, these guy actually believe Sexton is hurting for cash—bankrupt even.”

In the silence of her office, Gabrielle could hear Tench’s raspy accusations echoing. After Katherine died, the senator squandered the vast majority of her legacy on bad investments, personal comforts, and buying himself what appears to be certain victory in the primaries. As of six months ago, your candidate was broke.

“Our men would love to talk to you,” Yolanda said.

I bet they would, Gabrielle thought. “I’ll call you back.”

“You sound pissed.”

“Never at you, Yolanda. Never at you. Thanks.”

Gabrielle hung up.

Dozing on a chair in the hallway outside Senator Sexton’s Westbrooke apartment, a security guard awoke with a start at the sound of his cellular phone. Bolting up in his chair, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone from his blazer pocket.

“Yeah?”

“Owen, this is Gabrielle.”

Sexton’s guard recognized her voice. “Oh, hi.”

“I need to talk to the senator. Would you knock on his door for me? His line is busy.”

“It’s kind of late.”

“He’s awake. I’m sure of it.” Gabrielle sounded anxious. “It’s an emergency.”

“Another one?”

“Same one. Just get him on the phone, Owen. There’s something I really need to ask him.”

The guard sighed, standing up. “Okay, okay. I’ll knock.” He stretched and made his way toward Sexton’s door. “But I’m only doing it because he was glad I let you in earlier.” Reluctantly, he raised his fist to knock.

“What did you just say?” Gabrielle demanded.

The guard’s fist stopped in midair. “I said the senator was glad I let you in earlier. You were right. It was no problem at all.”

“You and the senator talked about that?” Gabrielle sounded surprised.

“Yeah. So what?”

“No, I just didn’t think…”

“Actually, it was kind of weird. The senator needed a couple of seconds to even remember you’d been in there. I think the boys were tossing back a few.”

“When did you two talk, Owen?”

“Right after you left. Is something wrong?”

A momentary silence. “No…no. Nothing. Look, now that I think of it, let’s not bother the senator this instant. I’ll keep trying his house line, and if I don’t have any luck, I’ll call you back and you can knock.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Ms. Ashe.”

“Thanks, Owen. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.” The guard hung up, flopped back in his chair, and went to sleep. Alone in her office, Gabrielle stood motionless for several seconds before hanging up the phone. Sexton knows I was inside his apartment…and he never mentioned it to me?

Tonight’s ethereal strangeness was getting murkier. Gabrielle flashed on the senator’s phone call to her while she was at ABC. The senator had stunned her with his unprovoked admission that he was meeting with space companies and accepting money. His honesty had brought her back to him. Shamed her even. His confession now seemed one hell of a lot less noble.

Soft money, Sexton had said. Perfectly legal.

Suddenly, all the vague misgivings Gabrielle had ever felt about Senator Sexton seemed to resurface all at once.

Outside, the taxi was honking.

The bridge of the Goya was a Plexiglas cube situated two levels above the main deck. From here Rachel had a 360-degree view of the surrounding darkened sea, an unnerving vista she looked at only once before blocking it out and turning her attention to the matter at hand.

Having sent Tolland and Corky to find Xavia, Rachel prepared to contact Pickering. She’d promised the director she would call him when they arrived, and she was eager to know what he had learned in his meeting with Marjorie Tench. The Goya’s SHINCOM 2100 digital communications system was a platform with which Rachel was familiar enough. She knew if she kept her call short, her communication should be secure.

Dialing Pickering’s private number, she waited, clutching the SHINCOM 2100

receiver to her ear and waiting. She expected Pickering to pick up on the first ring. But the line just kept ringing.

Six rings. Seven. Eight…

Rachel gazed out at the darkened ocean, her inability to reach the director doing nothing to quell her uneasiness about being at sea.

Nine rings. Ten rings. Pick up!

She paced, waiting. What was going on? Pickering carried his phone with him at all times, and he had expressly told Rachel to call him. After fifteen rings, she hung up.

With growing apprehension, she picked up the SHINCOM receiver and dialed again.

Four rings. Five rings.

Where is he?

Finally, the connection clicked open. Rachel felt a surge of relief, but it was shortlived. There was no one on the line. Only silence.

“Hello,” she prompted. “Director?”

Three quick clicks.

“Hello?” Rachel said.

A burst of electronic static shattered the line, blasting in Rachel’s ear. She yanked the receiver away from her head in pain. The static abruptly stopped. Now she could hear a series of rapidly oscillating tones that pulsed in half-second intervals. Rachel’s confusion quickly gave way to realization. And then fear.

“Shit!”

Wheeling back to the controls on the bridge, she slammed the receiver down in its cradle, severing the connection. For several moments she stood terrified, wondering if she’d hung up in time.

Amidships, two decks below, the Goya’s hydrolab was an expansive work space segmented by long counters and islands packed to the gills with electronic gear—bottom profilers, current analyzers, wet sinks, fume hoods, a walk-in specimen cooler, PCs, and a stack of organizer crates for research data and the spare electronics to keep everything running.

When Tolland and Corky entered, the Goya’s onboard geologist, Xavia, was reclining in front of a blaring television. She didn’t even turn around.

“Did you guys run out of beer money?” she called over her shoulder, apparently thinking some of her crew had returned.

“Xavia,” Tolland said. “It’s Mike.”

The geologist spun, swallowing part of a prepackaged sandwich she was eating.

“Mike?” she stammered, clearly stunned to see him. She stood up, turned down the television, and came over, still chewing. “I thought some of the guys had come back from bar-hopping. What are you doing here?” Xavia was heavyset and darkskinned, with a sharp voice and a surly air about her. She motioned to the television, which was broadcasting replays of Tolland’s on-site meteorite documentary. “You sure didn’t hang around on the ice shelf very long, did you?”

Something came up, Tolland thought. “Xavia, I’m sure you recognize Corky Marlinson.”

Xavia nodded. “An honor, sir.”

Corky was eyeing the sandwich in her hand. “That looks good.”

Xavia gave him an odd look.

“I got your message,” Tolland said to Xavia. “You said I made a mistake in my presentation? I want to talk to you about it.”

The geologist stared at him and let out a shrill laugh. “That’s why you’re back?

Oh, Mike, for God’s sake, I told you, it was nothing. I was just pulling your chain. NASA obviously gave you some old data. Inconsequential. Seriously, only three or four marine geologists in the world might have noticed the oversight!”

Tolland held his breath. “This oversight. Does it by any chance have anything to do with chondrules?”

Xavia’s face went blank with shock. “My God. One of those geologists called you already?”

Tolland slumped. The chondrules. He looked at Corky and then back to the marine geologist. “Xavia, I need to know everything you can tell me about these chondrules. What was the mistake I made?”

Xavia stared at him, apparently now sensing he was dead serious. “Mike, it’s really nothing. I read a small article in a trade journal a while back. But I don’t understand why you’re so worried about this.”

Tolland sighed. “Xavia, as strange as this may sound, the less you know tonight, the better. All I’m asking is for you to tell us what you know about chondrules, and then we’ll need you to examine a rock sample for us.”

Xavia looked mystified and vaguely perturbed to be out of the loop. “Fine, let me get you that article. It’s in my office.” She set her sandwich down and headed for the door.

Corky called after her. “Can I finish that?”

Xavia paused, sounding incredulous. “You want to finish my sandwich?”

“Well, I just thought if you—”

“Get your own damn sandwich.” Xavia left.

Tolland chuckled, motioning across the lab toward a specimen cooler. “Bottom shelf, Corky. Between the sambuca and squid sacs.”

Outside on deck, Rachel descended the steep stairway from the bridge and strode toward the chopper pad. The Coast Guard pilot was dozing but sat up when Rachel rapped on the cockpit.

“Done already?” he asked. “That was fast.”

Rachel shook her head, on edge. “Can you run both surface and air radar?”

“Sure. Ten-mile radius.”

“Turn it on, please.”

Looking puzzled, the pilot threw a couple of switches and the radar screen lit up. The sweep arm spun lazy circles.

“Anything?” Rachel asked.

The pilot let the arm make several complete rotations. He adjusted some controls and watched. It was all clear. “Couple of small ships way out on the periphery, but they’re heading away from us. We’re clear. Miles and miles of open sea in all directions.”

Rachel Sexton sighed, although she did not feel particularly relieved. “Do me a favor, if you see anything approaching—boats, aircraft, anything—will you let me know immediately?”

“Sure thing. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’d just like to know if we’re having company.”

The pilot shrugged. “I’ll watch the radar, ma’am. If anything blips, you’ll be the first to know.”

Rachel’s senses were tingling as she headed for the hydrolab. When she entered, Corky and Tolland were standing alone in front of a computer monitor and chewing sandwiches.

Corky called out to her with his mouth full. “What’ll it be? Fishy chicken, fishy bologna, or fishy egg salad?”

Rachel barely heard the question. “Mike, how fast can we get this information and get off this ship?”

Tolland paced the hydrolab, waiting with Rachel and Corky for Xavia’s return. The news about the chondrules was almost as discomforting as Rachel’s news about her attempted contact with Pickering.

The director didn’t answer.

And someone tried to pulse-snitch the Goya’s location.

“Relax,” Tolland told everyone. “We’re safe. The Coast Guard pilot is watching the radar. He can give us plenty of warning if anyone is headed our way.”

Rachel nodded in agreement, although she still looked on edge.

“Mike, what the hell is this?” Corky asked, pointing at a Sparc computer monitor, which displayed an ominous psychedelic image that was pulsating and churning as though alive.

“Acoustic Doppler Current Profiler,” Tolland said. “It’s a cross section of the currents and temperature gradients of the ocean underneath the ship.”

Rachel stared. “That’s what we’re anchored on top of?”

Tolland had to admit, the image looked frightening. At the surface, the water appeared as a swirling bluish green, but tracing downward, the colors slowly shifted to a menacing red-orange as the temperatures heated up. Near the bottom, over a mile down, hovering above the ocean floor, a blood-red, cyclone vortex raged.

“That’s the megaplume,” Tolland said.

Corky grunted. “Looks like an underwater tornado.”

“Same principle. Oceans are usually colder and more dense near the bottom, but here the dynamics are reversed. The deepwater is heated and lighter, so it rises toward the surface. Meanwhile, the surface water is heavier, so it races downward in a huge spiral to fill the void. You get these drainlike currents in the ocean. Enormous whirlpools.”

“What’s that big bump on the seafloor?” Corky pointed at the flat expanse of ocean floor, where a large dome-shaped mound rose up like a bubble. Directly above it swirled the vortex.

“That mound is a magma dome,” Tolland said. “It’s where lava is pushing up beneath the ocean floor.”

Corky nodded. “Like a huge zit.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And if it pops?”

Tolland frowned, recalling the famous 1986 megaplume event off the Juan de Fuca Ridge, where thousands of tons of twelve hundred degrees Celsius magma spewed up into the ocean all at once, magnifying the plume’s intensity almost instantly. Surface currents amplified as the vortex expanded rapidly upward. What happened next was something Tolland had no intention of sharing with Corky and Rachel this evening.

“Atlantic magma domes don’t pop,” Tolland said. “The cold water circulating over the mound continually cools and hardens the earth’s crust, keeping the magma safely under a thick layer of rock. Eventually the lava underneath cools, and the spiral disappears. Megaplumes are generally not dangerous.”

Corky pointed toward a tattered magazine sitting near the computer. “So you’re saying Scientific American publishes fiction?”

Tolland saw the cover, and winced. Someone had apparently pulled it from the Goya’s archive of old science magazines: Scientific American, February 1999. The cover showed an artist’s rendering of a supertanker swirling out of control in an enormous funnel of ocean. The heading read: MEGAPLUMES—GIANT KILLERS

FROM THE DEEP?

Tolland laughed it off. “Totally irrelevant. That article is talking about megaplumes in earthquake zones. It was a popular Bermuda Triangle hypothesis a few years back, explaining ship disappearances. Technically speaking, if there’s some sort of cataclysmic geologic event on the ocean floor, which is unheard of around here, the dome could rupture, and the vortex could get big enough to…well, you know…”

“No, we don’t know,” Corky said.

Tolland shrugged. “Rise to the surface.”

“Terrific. So glad you had us aboard.”

Xavia entered carrying some papers. “Admiring the megaplume?”

“Oh, yes,” Corky said sarcastically. “Mike was just telling us how if that little mound ruptures, we all go spiraling around in a big drain.”

“Drain?” Xavia gave a cold laugh. “More like getting flushed down the world’s largest toilet.”

Outside on the deck of the Goya, the Coast Guard helicopter pilot vigilantly watched the EMS radar screen. As a rescue pilot he had seen his share of fear in people’s eyes; Rachel Sexton had definitely been afraid when she asked him to keep an eye out for unexpected visitors to the Goya.

What kind of visitors is she expecting? he wondered.

From all the pilot could see, the sea and air for ten miles in all directions contained nothing that looked out of the ordinary. A fishing boat eight miles off. An occasional aircraft slicing across an edge of their radar field and then disappearing again toward some unknown destination.

The pilot sighed, gazing out now at the ocean rushing all around the ship. The sensation was a ghostly one—that of sailing full speed despite being anchored. He returned his eyes to the radar screen and watched. Vigilant.

Onboard the Goya, Tolland had now introduced Xavia and Rachel. The ship’s geologist was looking increasingly baffled by the distinguished entourage standing before her in the hydrolab. In addition, Rachel’s eagerness to run the tests and get off the ship as fast as possible was clearly making Xavia uneasy. Take your time, Xavia, Tolland willed her. We need to know everything. Xavia was talking now, her voice stiff. “In your documentary, Mike, you said those little metallic inclusions in the rock could form only in space.”

Tolland already felt a tremor of apprehension. Chondrules form only in space. That’s what NASA told me.

“But according to these notes,” Xavia said, holding up the pages, “that’s not entirely true.”

Corky glared. “Of course it’s true!”

Xavia scowled at Corky and waved the notes. “Last year a young geologist named Lee Pollock out of Drew University was using a new breed of marine robot to do Pacific deepwater crust sampling in the Mariana Trench and pulled up a loose rock that contained a geologic feature he had never seen before. The feature was quite similar in appearance to chondrules. He called them ‘plagioclase stress inclusions’—tiny bubbles of metal that apparently had been rehomogenized during deep ocean pressurization events. Dr. Pollock was amazed to find metallic bubbles in an ocean rock, and he formulated a unique theory to explain their presence.”

Corky grumbled. “I suppose he would have to.”

Xavia ignored him. “Dr. Pollock asserted that the rock formed in an ultradeep oceanic environment where extreme pressure metamorphosed a pre-existing rock, permitting some of the disparate metals to fuse.”

Tolland considered it. The Mariana Trench was seven miles down, one of the last truly unexplored regions on the planet. Only a handful of robotic probes had ever ventured that deep, and most had collapsed well before they reached the bottom. The water pressure in the trench was enormous—an astounding eighteen thousand pounds per square inch, as opposed to a mere twenty-four pounds on the ocean’s surface. Oceanographers still had very little understanding of the geologic forces at the deepest ocean floor. “So, this guy Pollock thinks the Mariana Trench can make rocks with chondrulelike features?”

“It’s an extremely obscure theory,” Xavia said. “In fact, it’s never even been formally published. I only happened to stumble across Pollock’s personal notes on the Web by chance last month when I was doing research on fluid-rock interactions for our upcoming megaplume show. Otherwise, I never would have heard of it.”

“The theory has never been published,” Corky said, “because it’s ridiculous. You need heat to form chondrules. There’s no way water pressure could rearrange the crystalline structure of a rock.”

“Pressure,” Xavia fired back, “happens to be the single biggest contributor to geologic change on our planet. A little something called a metamorphic rock?

Geology 101?”

Corky scowled.

Tolland realized Xavia had a point. Although heat did play a role in some of earth’s metamorphic geology, most metamorphic rocks were formed by extreme pressure. Incredibly, rocks deep in the earth’s crust were under so much pressure that they acted more like thick molasses than solid rock, becoming elastic and undergoing chemical changes as they did. Nonetheless, Dr. Pollock’s theory still seemed like a stretch.

“Xavia,” Tolland said. “I’ve never heard of water pressure alone chemically altering a rock. You’re the geologist, what’s your take?”

“Well,” she said, flipping through her notes, “it sounds like water pressure isn’t the only factor.” Xavia found a passage and read Pollock’s notes verbatim.

“‘Oceanic crust in the Mariana Trench, already under enormous hydrostatic pressurization, can find itself further compressed by tectonic forces from the region’s subduction zones.’”

Of course, Tolland thought. The Mariana Trench, in addition to being crushed under seven miles of water, was a subduction zone—the compression line where the Pacific and Indian plates moved toward one another and collided. Combined pressures in the trench could be enormous, and because the area was so remote and dangerous to study, if there were chondrules down there, chances of anyone knowing about it were very slim.

Xavia kept reading. “‘Combined hydrostatic and tectonic pressures could potentially force crust into an elastic or semiliquid state, allowing lighter elements to fuse into chondrulelike structures thought to occur only in space.’”

Corky rolled his eyes. “Impossible.”

Tolland glanced at Corky. “Is there any alternative explanation for the chondrules in the rock Dr. Pollock found?”

“Easy,” Corky said. “Pollock found an actual meteorite. Meteorites fall into the ocean all the time. Pollock would not have suspected it was a meteorite because the fusion crust would have eroded away from years under the water, making it look like a normal rock.” Corky turned to Xavia. “I don’t suppose Pollock had the brains to measure the nickel content, did he?”

“Actually, yes,” Xavia fired back, flipping through the notes again. “Pollock writes: ‘I was surprised to find the nickel content of the specimen falling within a midrange value not usually associated with terrestrial rocks.’”

Tolland and Rachel exchanged startled looks.

Xavia continued reading. “‘Although the quantity of nickel does not fall within the normally acceptable midrange window for meteoritic origin, it is surprisingly close.’”

Rachel looked troubled. “How close? Is there any way this ocean rock could be mistaken for a meteorite?”

Xavia shook her head. “I’m not a chemical petrologist, but as I understand it, there are numerous chemical differences between the rock Pollock found and actual meteorites.”

“What are those differences?” Tolland pressed.

Xavia turned her attention to a graph in her notes. “According to this, one difference is in the chemical structure of the chondrules themselves. It looks like the titanium/zirconium ratios differ. The titanium/ zirconium ratio in the chondrules of the ocean sample showed ultradepleted zirconium.” She looked up.

“Only two parts per million.”

“Two ppm?” Corky blurted. “Meteorites have thousands of times that!”

“Exactly,” Xavia replied. “Which is why Pollock thinks his sample’s chondrules are not from space.”

Tolland leaned over and whispered to Corky, “Did NASA happen to measure the titanium/zirconium ratio in the Milne rock?”

“Of course not,” Corky sputtered. “Nobody would ever measure that. It’s like looking at a car and measuring the tires’ rubber content to confirm you’re looking at a car!”

Tolland heaved a sigh and looked back at Xavia. “If we give you a rock sample with chondrules in it, can you run a test to determine whether these inclusions are meteoric chondrules or…one of Pollock’s deep ocean compression things?”

Xavia shrugged. “I suppose. The electron microprobe’s accuracy should be close enough. What’s this all about, anyway?”

Tolland turned to Corky. “Give it to her.”

Corky reluctantly pulled the meteorite sample from his pocket and held it out for Xavia.

Xavia’s brow furrowed as she took the stone disk. She eyed the fusion crust and then the fossil embedded in the rock. “My God!” she said, her head rocketing upward. “This isn’t part of…?”

“Yeah,” Tolland said. “Unfortunately it is.”

Alone in her office, Gabrielle Ashe stood at the window, wondering what to do next. Less than an hour ago, she had left NASA feeling full of excitement to share Chris Harper’s PODS fraud with the senator.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

According to Yolanda, two independent ABC reporters suspected Sexton of taking SFF bribes. Furthermore, Gabrielle had just learned that Sexton actually knew she had snuck into his apartment during the SFF meeting, and yet he had said nothing to her about it?

Gabrielle sighed. Her taxi had long since departed, and although she would call another in a few minutes, she knew there was something she had to do first. Am I really going to try this?

Gabrielle frowned, knowing she didn’t have a choice. She no longer knew whom to trust.

Stepping out of her office, she made her way back into the secretarial lobby and into a wide hallway on the opposite side. At the far end she could see the massive oak doors of Sexton’s office flanked by two flags—Old Glory on the right and the Delaware flag on the left. His doors, like those of most senate offices in the building, were steel reinforced and secured by conventional keys, an electronic key pad entry, and an alarm system.

She knew if she could get inside, even if for only a few minutes, all the answers would be revealed. Moving now toward the heavily secured doors, Gabrielle had no illusions of getting through them. She had other plans. Ten feet from Sexton’s office, Gabrielle turned sharply to the right and entered the ladies’ room. The fluorescents came on automatically, reflecting harshly off the white tile. As her eyes adjusted, Gabrielle paused, seeing herself in the mirror. As usual, her features looked softer than she’d hoped. Delicate almost. She always felt stronger than she looked.

Are you sure you are ready to do this?

Gabrielle knew Sexton was eagerly awaiting her arrival for a complete rundown on the PODS situation. Unfortunately, she also now realized that Sexton had deftly manipulated her tonight. Gabrielle Ashe did not like being managed. The senator had kept things from her tonight. The question was how much. The answers, she knew, lay inside his office—just on the other side of this restroom wall.

“Five minutes,” Gabrielle said aloud, mustering her resolve. Moving toward the bathroom’s supply closet, she reached up and ran a hand over the door frame. A key clattered to the floor. The cleaning crews at Philip A. Hart were federal employees and seemed to evaporate every time there was a strike of any sort, leaving this bathroom without toilet paper and tampons for weeks at a time. The women of Sexton’s office, tired of being caught with their pants down, had taken matters into their own hands and secured a supply room key for

“emergencies.”

Tonight qualifies, she thought.

She opened the closet.

The interior was cramped, packed with cleansers, mops, and shelves of paper supplies. A month ago, Gabrielle had been searching for paper towels when she’d made an unusual discovery. Unable to reach the paper off the top shelf, she’d used the end of a broom to coax a roll to fall. In the process, she’d knocked out a ceiling tile. When she climbed up to replace the tile, she was surprised to hear Senator Sexton’s voice.

Crystal clear.

From the echo, she realized the senator was talking to himself while in his office’s private bathroom, which apparently was separated from this supply closet by nothing more than removable, fiberboard ceiling tiles.

Now, back in the closet tonight for far more than toilet paper, Gabrielle kicked off her shoes, climbed up the shelves, popped out the fiberboard ceiling tile, and pulled herself up. So much for national security, she thought, wondering how many state and federal laws she was about to break.

Lowering herself through the ceiling of Sexton’s private restroom, Gabrielle placed her stockinged feet on his cold, porcelain sink and then dropped to the floor. Holding her breath, she exited into Sexton’s private office. His oriental carpets felt soft and warm.

Thirty miles away, a black Kiowa gunship chopper tore over the scrub pine treetops of northern Delaware. Delta-One checked the coordinates locked in the auto navigation system.

Although Rachel’s shipboard transmission device and Pickering’s cellphone were encrypted to protect the contents of their communication, intercepting content had not been the goal when the Delta Force pulse-snitched Rachel’s call from sea. Intercepting the caller’s position had been the goal. Global Positioning Systems and computerized triangulation made pinpointing transmission coordinates a significantly easier task than decrypting the actual content of the call. Delta-One was always amused to think that most cellphone users had no idea that every time they made a call, a government listening post, if so inclined, could detect their position to within ten feet anywhere on earth—a small hitch the cellphone companies failed to advertise. Tonight, once the Delta Force had gained access to the reception frequencies of William Pickering’s cellular phone, they could easily trace the coordinates of his incoming calls. Flying now on a direct course toward their target, Delta-One closed to within twenty miles. “Umbrella primed?” he asked, turning to Delta-Two, who was manning the radar and weapons system.

“Affirmative. Awaiting five-mile range.”

Five miles, Delta-One thought. He had to fly this bird well within his target’s radar scopes to get within range to use the Kiowa’s weapons systems. He had little doubt that someone onboard the Goya was nervously watching the skies, and because the Delta Force’s current task was to eliminate the target without giving them a chance to radio for help, Delta-One now had to advance on his prey without alarming them.

At fifteen miles out, still safely out of radar range, Delta-One abruptly turned the Kiowa thirty-five degrees off course to the west. He climbed to three thousand feet—small airplane range—and adjusted his speed to 110 knots.

On the deck of the Goya, the Coast Guard helicopter’s radar scope beeped once as a new contact entered the ten-mile perimeter. The pilot sat up, studying the screen. The contact appeared to be a small cargo plane headed west up the coast. Probably for Newark.

Although this plane’s current trajectory would bring it within four miles of the Goya, the flight path obviously was a matter of chance. Nonetheless, being vigilant, the Coast Guard pilot watched the blinking dot trace a slow-moving 110knot line across the right side of his scope. At its closest point, the plane was about four miles west. As expected, the plane kept moving—heading away from them now.

4.1 miles. 4.2 miles.

The pilot exhaled, relaxing.

And then the strangest thing happened.

“Umbrella now engaged,” Delta-Two called out, giving the thumbs-up from his weapons control seat on the port side of the Kiowa gunship. “Barrage, modulated noise, and cover pulse are all activated and locked.”

Delta-One took his cue and banked hard to the right, putting the craft on a direct course with the Goya. This maneuver would be invisible to the ship’s radar.

“Sure beats bales of tinfoil!” Delta-Two called out.

Delta-One agreed. Radar jamming had been invented in WWII when a savvy British airman began throwing bales of hay wrapped in tinfoil out of his plane while on bombing runs. The Germans’ radar spotted so many reflective contacts they had no idea what to shoot. The techniques had been improved on substantially since then.

The Kiowa’s onboard “umbrella” radar-jamming system was one of the military’s most deadly electronic combat weapons. By broadcasting an umbrella of background noise into the atmosphere above a given set of surface coordinates, the Kiowa could erase the eyes, ears, and voice of their target. Moments ago, all radar screens aboard the Goya had most certainly gone blank. By the time the crew realized they needed to call for help, they would be unable to transmit. On a ship, all communications were radio-or microwave-based—no solid phone lines. If the Kiowa got close enough, all of the Goya’s communications systems would stop functioning, their carrier signals blotted out by the invisible cloud of thermal noise broadcast in front of the Kiowa like a blinding headlight. Perfect isolation, Delta-One thought. They have no defenses. Their targets had made a fortunate and cunning escape from the Milne Ice Shelf, but it would not be repeated. In choosing to leave shore, Rachel Sexton and Michael Tolland had chosen poorly. It would be the last bad decision they ever made.

Inside the White House, Zach Herney felt dazed as he sat up in bed holding the telephone receiver. “Now? Ekstrom wants to speak to me now?” Herney squinted again at the bedside clock. 3:17A.M.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the communications officer said. “He says it’s an emergency.”

While Corky and Xavia huddled over the electron microprobe measuring the zirconium content in the chondrules, Rachel followed Tolland across the lab into an adjoining room. Here Tolland turned on another computer. Apparently the oceanographer had one more thing he wanted to check.

As the computer powered up, Tolland turned to Rachel, his mouth poised as if he wanted to say something. He paused.

“What is it?” Rachel asked, surprised how physically drawn to him she felt, even in the midst of all this chaos. She wished she could block it all out and be with him—just for a minute.

“I owe you an apology,” Tolland said, looking remorseful.

“For what?”

“On the deck? The hammerheads? I was excited. Sometimes I forget how frightening the ocean can be to a lot of people.”

Face-to-face with him, Rachel felt like a teenager standing on the doorstep with a new boyfriend. “Thanks. No problem at all. Really.” Something inside her sensed Tolland wanted to kiss her.

After a beat, he turned shyly away. “I know. You want to get to shore. We should get to work.”

“For now.” Rachel smiled softly.

“For now,” Tolland repeated, taking a seat at the computer. Rachel exhaled, standing close behind now, savoring the privacy of the small lab. She watched Tolland navigate a series of files. “What are we doing?”

“Checking the database for big ocean lice. I want to see if we can find any prehistoric marine fossils that resemble what we saw in the NASA meteorite.” He pulled up a search page with bold letters across the top: PROJECT DIVERSITAS. Scrolling through the menus, Tolland explained, “Diversitas is essentially a continuously updated index of oceanic biodata. When a marine biologist discovers a new ocean species or fossil, he can toot his horn and share his find by uploading data and photos to a central databank. Because there’s so much new data discovered on a weekly basis, this is really the only way to keep research up-todate.”

Rachel watched Tolland navigating the menus. “So you’re accessing the Web now?”

“No. Internet access is tricky at sea. We store all this data onboard on an enormous array of optical drives in the other room. Every time we’re in port, we tie into Project Diversitas and update our databank with the newest finds. This way, we can access data at sea without a Web connection, and the data is never more than a month or two out of date.” Tolland chuckled as he began typing search keywords into the computer. “You’ve probably heard of the controversial music file-sharing program called Napster?”

Rachel nodded.

“Diversitas is considered the marine biologist’s version of Napster. We call it LOBSTER—Lonely Oceanic Biologists Sharing Totally Eccentric Research.”

Rachel laughed. Even in this tense situation, Michael Tolland exuded a wry humor that eased her fears. She was beginning to realize she’d had entirely too little laughter in her life lately.

“Our database is enormous,” Tolland said, completing the entry of his descriptive keywords. “Over ten tera-bytes of descriptions and photos. There’s information in here nobody has ever seen—and nobody ever will. Ocean species are simply too numerous.” He clicked the “search” button. “Okay, let’s see if anyone has ever seen an oceanic fossil similar to our little space bug.”

After a few seconds, the screen refreshed, revealing four listings of fossilized animals. Tolland clicked on each listing one by one and examined the photos. None looked remotely like the fossils in the Milne meteorite. Tolland frowned. “Let’s try something else.” He removed the word “fossil” from his search string and hit “search.” “We’ll search all living species. Maybe we can find a living descendant that has some of the physiological characteristics of the Milne fossil.”

The screen refreshed.

Again Tolland frowned. The computer had returned hundreds of entries. He sat a moment, stroking his now stubble-darkened chin. “Okay, this is too much. Let’s refine the search.”

Rachel watched as he accessed a drop-down menu marked “habitat.” The list of options looked endless: tide pool, marsh, lagoon, reef, mid-oceanic ridge, sulfur vents. Tolland scrolled down the list and chose an option that read: DESTRUCTIVE

MARGINS/OCEANIC TRENCHES.

Smart, Rachel realized. Tolland was limiting his search only to species that lived near the environment where these chondrulelike features were hypothesized to form.

The page refreshed. This time Tolland smiled. “Great. Only three entries.”

Rachel squinted at the first name on the list. Limulus poly…something. Tolland clicked the entry. A photo appeared; the creature looked like an oversized horseshoe crab without a tail.

“Nope,” Tolland said, returning to the previous page.

Rachel eyed the second item on the list. Shrimpus Uglius From Hellus. She was confused. “Is that name for real?”

Tolland chuckled. “No. It’s a new species not yet classified. The guy who discovered it has a sense of humor. He’s suggesting Shrimpus Uglius as the official taxonomical classification.” Tolland clicked open the photo, revealing an exceptionally ugly shrimplike creature with whiskers and fluorescent pink antennae.

“Aptly named,” Tolland said. “But not our space bug.” He returned to the index.

“The final offering is…” He clicked on the third entry, and the page came up.

“Bathynomous giganteus…” Tolland read aloud as the text appeared. The photograph loaded. A full-color close-up.

Rachel jumped. “My God!” The creature staring back at her gave her chills. Tolland drew a low breath. “Oh boy. This guy looks kind of familiar.”

Rachel nodded, speechless. Bathynomous giganteus. The creature resembled a giant swimming louse. It looked very similar to the fossil species in the NASA rock.

“There are some subtle differences,” Tolland said, scrolling down to some anatomical diagrams and sketches. “But it’s damn close. Especially considering it has had 190 million years to evolve.”

Close is right, Rachel thought. Too close.

Tolland read the description on the screen: “‘Thought to be one of the oldest species in the ocean, the rare and recently classified species Bathynomous giganteus is a deepwater scavenging isopod resembling a large pill bug. Up to two feet in length, this species exhibits a chitinous exoskeleton segmented into head, thorax, abdomen. It possesses paired appendages, antennae, and compound eyes like those of land-dwelling insects. This bottom-dwelling forager has no known predators and lives in barren pelagic environments previously thought to be uninhabitable.” Tolland glanced up. “Which could explain the lack of other fossils in the sample!”

Rachel stared at the creature on-screen, excited and yet uncertain she completely understood what all of this meant.

“Imagine,” Tolland said excitedly, “that 190 million years ago, a brood of these Bathynomous creatures got buried in a deep ocean mud slide. As the mud turns into rock, the bugs get fossilized in stone. Simultaneously, the ocean floor, which is continuously moving like a slow conveyer belt toward the oceanic trenches, carries the fossils into a high-pressure zone where the rock forms chondrules!”

Tolland was talking faster now. “And if part of the fossilized, chondrulized crust broke off and ended up on the trench’s accretionary wedge, which is not at all uncommon, it would be in a perfect position to be discovered!”

“But if NASA…,” Rachel stammered. “I mean, if this is all a lie, NASA must have known that sooner or later someone would find out this fossil resembles a sea creature, right? I mean we just found out!”

Tolland began printing the Bathynomous photos on a laser printer. “I don’t know. Even if someone stepped forward and pointed out the similarities between the fossils and a living sea louse, their physiologies are not identical. It almost proves NASA’s case more strongly.”

Rachel suddenly understood. “Panspermia.” Life on earth was seeded from space.

“Exactly. Similarities between space organisms and earth organisms make excellent scientific sense. This sea louse actually strengthens NASA’s case.”

“Except if the meteorite’s authenticity is in question.”

Tolland nodded. “Once the meteorite comes into question, then everything collapses. Our sea louse turns from NASA friend to NASA linchpin.”

Rachel stood in silence as the Bathynomous pages rolled out of the printer. She tried to tell herself this was all an honest NASA mistake, but she knew it was not. People who made honest mistakes didn’t try to kill people. The nasal voice of Corky echoed suddenly across the lab. “Impossible!”

Both Tolland and Rachel turned.

“Measure the damn ratio again! It makes no sense!”

Xavia came hurrying in with a computer printout clutched in her hand. Her face was ashen. “Mike, I don’t know how to say this…” Her voice cracked. “The titanium/zirconium ratios we’re seeing in this sample?” She cleared her throat.

“It’s pretty obvious that NASA made a huge mistake. Their meteorite is an ocean rock.”

Tolland and Rachel looked at each other but neither spoke a word. They knew. Just like that, all the suspicions and doubts had swelled up like the crest of a wave, reaching the breaking point.

Tolland nodded, a sadness in his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks, Xavia.”

“But I don’t understand,” Xavia said. “The fusion crust…the location in the ice—”

“We’ll explain on the way to shore,” Tolland said. “We’re leaving.”

Quickly, Rachel collected all the papers and evidence they now had. The evidence was shockingly conclusive: the GPR printout showing the insertion shaft in the Milne Ice Shelf; photos of a living sea louse resembling NASA’s fossil; Dr. Pollock’s article on ocean chondrules; and microprobe data showing ultradepleted zirconium in the meteorite.

The conclusion was undeniable. Fraud.

Tolland looked at the stack of papers in Rachel’s hands and heaved a melancholy sigh. “Well, I’d say William Pickering has his proof.”

Rachel nodded, again wondering why Pickering had not answered his phone. Tolland lifted the receiver of a nearby phone, holding it out for her. “You want to try him again from here?”

“No, let’s get moving. I’ll try to contact him from the chopper.” Rachel had already decided if she could not make contact with Pickering, she’d have the Coast Guard fly them directly to the NRO, only about 180 miles. Tolland began to hang up the phone, but he paused. Looking confused, he listened to the receiver, frowning. “Bizarre. No dial tone.”

“What do you mean?” Rachel said, wary now.

“Weird,” Tolland said. “Direct COMSAT lines never lose carrier—”

“Mr. Tolland?” The Coast Guard pilot came rushing into the lab, his face white.

“What is it?” Rachel demanded. “Is someone coming?”

“That’s the problem,” the pilot said. “I don’t know. All onboard radar and communications have just gone dead.”

Rachel stuffed the papers deep inside her shirt. “Get in the helicopter. We’re leaving. NOW!”

Gabrielle’s heart was racing as she crossed the darkened office of Senator Sexton. The room was as expansive as it was elegant—ornate wood-paneled walls, oil paintings, Persian carpets, leather rivet chairs, and a gargantuan mahogany desk. The room was lit only by the eerie neon glow of Sexton’s computer screen. Gabrielle moved toward his desk.

Senator Sexton had embraced the “digital office” to maniacal proportions, eschewing the overflow of file cabinets for the compact, searchable simplicity of his personal computer, into which he fed enormous amounts of information—digitized meeting notes, scanned articles, speeches, brainstorms. Sexton’s computer was his sacred ground, and he kept his office locked at all times to protect it. He even refused to connect to the Internet for fear of hackers infiltrating his sacred digital vault.

A year ago Gabrielle would never have believed any politician would be stupid enough to store copies of self-incriminating documents, but Washington had taught her a lot. Information is power. Gabrielle had been amazed to learn that a common practice among politicians who accepted questionable campaign contributions was to keep actual proof of those donations—letters, bank records, receipts, logs—all hidden away in a safe place. This counterblackmail tactic, euphemistically known in Washington as “Siamese insurance,” protected candidates from donors who felt their generosity somehow authorized them to assert undue political pressure on a candidate. If a contributor got too demanding, the candidate could simply produce evidence of the illegal donation and remind the donor that both parties had broken the law. The evidence ensured that candidates and donors were joined at the hip forever—like Siamese twins. Gabrielle slipped behind the senator’s desk and sat down. She took a deep breath, looking at his computer. If the senator is accepting SFF bribes, any evidence would be in here.

Sexton’s computer screensaver was an ongoing slideshow of the White House and its grounds created for him by one of his gung-ho staffers who was big into visualization and positive thinking. Around the images crawled a ticker-tape banner that read: President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton…President of the United States Sedgewick Sexton…President of the…

Gabrielle jostled the mouse, and a security dialogue box came up. ENTER PASSWORD:

She expected this. It would not be a problem. Last week, Gabrielle had entered Sexton’s office just as the senator was sitting down and logging onto his computer. She saw him type three short keystrokes in rapid succession.

“That’s a password?” she challenged from the doorway as she walked in. Sexton glanced up. “What?”

“And here I thought you were concerned about security,” Gabrielle scolded goodnaturedly. “Your password’s only three keys? I thought the tech guys told us all to use at least six.”

“The tech guys are teenagers. They should try remembering six random letters when they’re over forty. Besides, the door has an alarm. Nobody can get in.”

Gabrielle walked toward him, smiling. “What if someone slipped in while you’re in the loo?”

“And tried every combination of passwords?” He gave a skeptical laugh. “I’m slow in the bathroom, but not that slow.”

“Dinner at Davide says I can guess your password in ten seconds.”

Sexton looked intrigued and amused. “You can’t afford Davide, Gabrielle.”

“So you’re saying you’re chicken?”

Sexton appeared almost sorry for her as he accepted the challenge. “Ten seconds?”

He logged off and motioned for Gabrielle to sit down and give it a try. “You know I only order the saltimbocca at Davide. And that ain’t cheap.”

She shrugged as she sat down. “It’s your money.”

ENTER PASSWORD:

“Ten seconds,” Sexton reminded.

Gabrielle had to laugh. She would need only two. Even from the doorway she could see that Sexton had entered his three-key password in very rapid succession using only his index finger. Obviously all the same key. Not wise. She could also see that his hand had been positioned over the far left side of his keyboard—cutting the possible alphabet down to only about nine letters. Choosing the letter was simple; Sexton had always loved the triple alliteration of his title. Senator Sedgewick Sexton.

Never underestimate the ego of a politician.

She typed SSS, and the screensaver evaporated.

Sexton’s jaw hit the floor.

That had been last week. Now, as Gabrielle faced his computer again, she was certain Sexton would not have taken time yet to figure out how to set up a different password. Why would he? He trusts me implicitly. She typed in SSS.

INVALID PASSWORD—ACCESS DENIED

Gabrielle stared in shock.

Apparently she had overestimated her senator’s level of trust.

The attack came without warning. Low out of the southwest sky above the Goya, the lethal silhouette of a gunship helicopter bore down like a giant wasp. Rachel had no doubt what it was, or why it was here.

Through the darkness, a staccato burst from the nose of the chopper sent a torrent of bullets chewing across the Goya’s fiberglass deck, slashing a line across the stern. Rachel dove for cover too late and felt the searing slash of a bullet graze her arm. She hit the ground hard, then rolled, scrambling to get behind the bulbous transparent dome of the Triton submersible.

A thundering of rotors exploded overhead as the chopper swooped past the ship. The noise evaporated with an eerie hiss as the chopper rocketed out over the ocean and began a wide bank for a second pass.

Lying trembling on the deck, Rachel held her arm and looked back at Tolland and Corky. Apparently having lunged to cover behind a storage structure, the two men were now staggering to their feet, their eyes scanning the skies in terror. Rachel pulled herself to her knees. The entire world suddenly seemed to be moving in slow motion.

Crouched behind the transparent curvature of the Triton sub, Rachel looked in panic toward their only means of escape—the Coast Guard helicopter. Xavia was already climbing into the chopper’s cabin, frantically waving for everyone to get aboard. Rachel could see the pilot lunging into the cockpit, wildly throwing switches and levers. The blades began to turn…ever so slowly. Too slowly.

Hurry!

Rachel felt herself standing now, preparing to run, wondering if she could make it across the deck before the attackers made another pass. Behind her, she heard Corky and Tolland dashing toward her and the waiting helicopter. Yes! Hurry!

Then she saw it.

A hundred yards out, up in the sky, materializing out of empty darkness, a pencilthin beam of red light slanted across the night, searching the Goya’s deck. Then, finding its mark, the beam came to a stop on the side of the waiting Coast Guard chopper.

The image took only an instant to register. In that horrific moment, Rachel felt all the action on the deck of the Goya blur into a collage of shapes and sounds. Tolland and Corky dashing toward her—Xavia motioning wildly in the helicopter—the stark red laser slicing across the night sky. It was too late.

Rachel spun back toward Corky and Tolland, who were running full speed now toward the helicopter. She lunged outward into their path, arms outstretched trying to stop them. The collision felt like a train wreck as the three of them crashed to the deck in a tangle of arms and legs.

In the distance, a flash of white light appeared. Rachel watched in disbelief and horror as a perfectly straight line of exhaust fire followed the path of the laser beam directly toward the helicopter.

When the Hellfire missile slammed into the fuselage, the helicopter exploded apart like a toy. The concussion wave of heat and noise thundered across the deck as flaming shrapnel rained down. The helicopter’s flaming skeleton lurched backward on its shattered tail, teetered a moment, and then fell off the back of the ship, crashing into the ocean in a hissing cloud of steam. Rachel closed her eyes, unable to breathe. She could hear the flaming wreckage gurgling and sputtering as it sank, being dragged away from the Goya by the heavy currents. In the chaos, Michael Tolland’s voice was yelling. Rachel felt his powerful hands trying to pull her to her feet. But she could not move. The Coast Guard pilot and Xavia are dead.

We’re next.