“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.”

“Sir?”

“Would you be willing to haul cable from the winches?”

Jack bit his lower lip, holding back a curse. He had hoped the retrieval of the flight’s data recorders would end his obligation here. “I’d have to check with the rest of my team.”

“Of course, you have the night to sleep on it. The NTSB will have enough on its hands just analyzing the black boxes.”

Jack grimaced. He did not want to return to the deep-sea graveyard. Though he had been searching wrecks for the past decade, this one was different. It reminded him too acutely of his own accident.

“I’ll consider it, Admiral. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

Sighing, Jack leaned back and watched the depth gauge wind toward the two hundred meter mark. The seas around him began to lighten. It was as if dawn were approaching after a long moonless night. He had never wanted to see the sky so desperately.

A more familiar voice returned to the radio. “We have your GPS picked up,” Lisa said. “Charlie already has the dinghy in the water.”

“Thanks, Lisa. The sooner I get out of this titanium coffin and into a cold shower, the better.”

“What about what the admiral wants us to do?”

Jack screwed up his face. He did not want this conversation. “What do you think? Should we do it?”

He could almost hear Lisa shrug. “It’s up to you, Jack, but I don’t like that communication glitch. The sub is still experimental. It was not meant to be tested so vigorously. I’d really like to see the sub dry-docked and inspected to make sure the seals are undamaged. You don’t take chances at these depths.”

“You’re probably right, Lisa. This wreckage isn’t going anywhere.” Jack warmed to the idea. It would buy him time to sort through his feelings. “Could you have Robert prepare the A-frame? We’ll haul the Nautilus out and give her a thorough going over before we consider the Navy’s request.”

“Good.” Lisa sounded relieved.

The depth gauge crossed the hundred meter level. Jack craned his neck back. He could see the distant sun as a watery glow in the dim water. “I should be up in less than a minute.”

“We’re ready for you. Charlie is on his way.”

Jack closed his eyes, allowing himself a few private moments. If the admiral was aboard the Fathom, he suspected this would be his last moment of peace for the remainder of the day. He knew he faced a long debriefing.

As sunlight suddenly burst around him, Jack peeked open his eyes. He fished into a side compartment and retrieved his sunglasses. After being submerged for so long, the light stung. As he snapped the side compartment closed his hand settled on the video DVD recorder.

Without a good reason, but unable to resist, he popped out the tiny disk, slipped it into a pocket of his wet suit, and zippered it closed. The video of the crystal spire had nothing to do with the crash, and Charlie would want to see it. If the investigators knew of it, they would just confiscate it and lose it among the thousands of other details — or so he rationalized to himself.

In truth, the bit of subterfuge was his way of exerting some control over the situation. He meant to keep something for himself from this adventure.

The sound of an outboard motor sounded, buzzing through the gentle slosh of waves against his acrylic bubble. Jack turned and spotted the Fathom’s Zodiac dinghy, its green pontoons bouncing through the small swells.

Grinning, he slipped on his sunglasses. He spotted Charlie at the wheel. The tall Jamaican waved a long arm in his direction. Here comes the cavalry! Then Jack saw someone standing beside the geologist. Someone in a black wet suit. He frowned. Who’s that?

Charlie pulled alongside the bobbing sub and hopped over. As he secured the mooring lines, the dinghy’s other occupant dumped over the side before Jack could get a better look at him.

Charlie clambered over and unscrewed the acrylic dome. Jack pushed from the inside and shoved the dome back. Fresh air swept into the cabin and he breathed deeply, not realizing until this moment how dead the air in the sub had become. He had shaved this dive a little close.

Pulling with his arms, Jack yanked himself from the compartment. “Who’s with you?”

“One of those NTSB investigator boys. He’s here to make sure the black boxes are secure.”

Jack stretched, joints popping, then clambered over toward the nose of the sub. “I could have brought them in myself.”

“They’re not taking any chances. National security and all that. Someone had to be present.”

Jack knelt and saw the man, in snorkel and mask, working at the grips of the submerged arms. He worked fast and efficiently. At least they sent someone who knew something about submersibles. The man loosened the first pincer and collected both data recorders into a bulky float bag. It bobbed to the surface, tied by a tether to the man’s belt. The man did not even come up for air as he turned his attention to the second pincer. He freed the jade bust and collected it into another float bag.

Jack felt a twinge of respect. The man knew his stuff.

As the second float bag broke the surface, Charlie called to Jack, “Help me turn the dinghy!”

Jack left his observation point and assisted Charlie with the final preparations to haul the submersible back to the Fathom. Not that they would have far to go; the Fathom was already motoring toward their position. Jack squinted at his ship, a welcome sight.

The dinghy suddenly rocked under Jack’s feet. He grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat to keep his footing. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the NTSB man haul himself over the leeward pontoon. Jack stumbled over to assist the man into the dinghy, but by the time he got there the man had rolled aboard and was hauling one of the float bags inside.

“Let me help you,” Jack said, leaning over the side and grabbing the edge of the other float bag.

Jack found himself hip-checked and knocked onto his rear. “Leave it!” the man ordered. His words were harsh and carried a tone of command.

Jack pushed to his feet, his cheeks red, his blood up. No one shoved him around his own boat. He stepped nearer. “Who the hell do you think—”

The big man turned, ripped away his mask and pulled back the hood of his wet suit.

Jack gasped as he recognized the diver. It could not be. He had not seen his former teammate in over a decade. “David?”

The tall blond man’s face was twisted with hatred. Before Jack could move, a fist flew toward his face. Hard knuckles struck his lower jaw and threw him backward. Sparks of light danced across his vision as he hit the floor.

Charlie was instantly there, stepping between the attacker and his captain. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, mon?”

Jack sat up. “Stay out of it, Charlie.” He pushed himself to his feet, tasted blood on his tongue. The tall Jamaican moved back a half step, ready to defend his friend if necessary.