Nautical miles northwest of Enewak Atoll, Central Pacific

On the bridge of the Deep Fathom, Jack lounged in the pilot’s chair, sprawled out, his bare feet propped up on a neighboring seat. He wore a white cotton robe over a pair of red Nike swim trunks. The morning had started warm and had only grown warmer. Though the pilothouse was equipped with air-conditioning, Jack hadn’t bothered. He enjoyed the moist heat.

As he sat, one hand rested on the wheel of the ship. The Fathom had been on autopilot since it left the site of the sunken Kochi Maru yesterday, but Jack felt a certain comfort with his hand on the wheel. A twinge of mistrust for automated equipment. He liked to keep things in his immediate control.

As he sat, he chewed on the end of the cigar hanging from his lips. A Cuban El Presidente. The smoke trailed in a lazy circle toward the open window nearby. Behind him, Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major wafted gently from a Sony CD player. This was all he wanted: the open sea and a handsome ship to travel her.

Jack glanced at the reading from the Northstar 800 GPS. At their current cruising speed they should arrive at their destination in another three hours.

Exhaling out a stream of smoke, he stared out the windows across the upper deck of his salvage ship. He understood why his ship had been summoned to aid the search for the wreckage of Air Force One. The Fathom was the closest salvager with a deep-sea submersible on hand, and they were contractually obligated to lend the sub’s services during an emergency.

Still, though he knew his duty, he did not have to like it. He spit out his cigar and ground its fiery end into the ash tray. This was his ship.

Twelve years ago, using money from his settlement against General Dynamics after the shuttle accident, Jack had purchased the Deep Fathom from a shipyard auction house. The eighty-foot Fathom had originally been built as a research ship for the Woods Hole Institute back in 1973. In addition to the purchase price, he had been forced to take out a large loan to convert the aged research vessel into a modern salvage ship: adding a hydraulic cargo crane, upgrading to a five-ton capacity A-frame, and overhauling the Caterpillar marine diesel engine. He had also updated the navigation equipment and outfitted it so the Fathom could operate without outside assistance for weeks at a time. He added Naiad stabilizers, a Bauer diving compressor, and Village Marine water makers.

It had cost him his entire savings, but eventually the Fathom had become his home, his world. Over the years, he had gathered a team of scientists and fellow treasure hunters to his side. They became his new family.

Now, after twelve years, he was being called back to the world he had left behind.

The door to the pilothouse squeaked open behind him and a fresh cross-breeze blew in. “Jack, what are you still doing here?” It was Lisa. The doctor from UCLA scowled at him as she entered. In shorts and a bikini top, she did not look the part of an experienced medical researcher. Her limbs were deeply tanned, and her long blond hair had been bleached white by the months under the sun. She looked like she belonged on a beach, hanging on the arm of a muscled surfer. But Jack knew better. There was no sharper doctor on the high seas.

Lisa held open the door to let in another member of the crew. A lanky German shepherd loped inside the cabin and crossed to Jack’s side for a scratch behind the ear. The dog had been born aboard the Fathom, from a litter whelped during a storm in the South China Sea. Underweight and sickly, the pup had been abandoned by the bitch, and Jack took him in, nursing the pup back to health. That had been almost nine years ago.

“Elvis here was worried about you,” Lisa said. She sidled to the chair next to him, shoving Jack’s feet off.

Jack patted the large dog’s side and pointed to the cedar pillow in the corner. “Bed,” he ordered. The old dog crossed and collapsed into the thick pillow with a long sigh.

“Speaking of bed,” Lisa said, “I thought you were supposed to be relieved at sunrise. Shouldn’t you be trying to catch a nap?”

Lisa pushed away the ashtray to make room for the mug she brought in with her. She glanced at the navigation array. After five years on and off the Fathom, she had become a fairly skilled pilot herself. “Looks like we’ll be at the rendezvous site in less than three hours.” She faced Jack. “Maybe you should try to get some sleep. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

“Get some sleep,” she finished with a frown. She shoved her mug toward him. “Herbal tea. Try it. It’ll help you relax.”

He leaned over the steaming mug and sniffed. The medicinal tang was sharp after smoking his cigar. “I’ll pass.”

Jack rolled his eyes and picked up the cup. He took a few sips to placate her. It tasted as bad as it smelled. “Needs sugar,” he said.

“Sugar? And taint my healing herbs?” Lisa feigned shock and nudged the ashtray. “As it is, you have enough bad habits.”

He took another sip and stood. “I should check on Charlie. See how the tests are going.”

Lisa turned, her lips firm, her eyes hard. “Jack, Charlie and the gold aren’t going anywhere. Go to your cabin, shut the drapes, and try to sleep.”

She held up a hand. Her expression softened, as did her words. “Listen, Jack. We all know what’s got you so anxious. Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around you.”

Lisa stopped him with a touch. She stood, parted his robe, and raised a hand to his chest. Jack did not flinch at such casual intimacy. Lisa had seen him naked many times. On such a small ship, privacy was limited. But more than that, years ago, when Lisa first arrived onboard, the two of them had played at being lovers. Eventually it became clear their feelings were more physical than heartfelt. Without a word, their trysts had eventually ended, settling into a warm companionship. More than friends, less than lovers.

She traced a finger down from his collarbone, trailing through the coarse black hair on his chest. Her finger was warm on his skin. But as it moved below his right nipple, the feeling vanished. Jack knew why. Across the middle of his chest lay a swath of trailing scars. Old burns. The scars were pale against his bronzed skin. Numb and dead.

Jack shivered as he felt Lisa’s touch return, past the scarring, just above his navel. Her finger traveled still lower and crooked into the waistband of his trunks. She pulled him nearer. She whispered, “Let it go, Jack. The past can’t be changed. Only forgiven and forgotten.”

Gently pushing her hand away, he stepped back. Those were easy words for Lisa to say, a girl who had led a charmed life in Southern California.

She stared up at him, her eyes slightly wounded. “You weren’t found at fault, Jack. You were even offered the goddamn Medal of Honor.”

“I turned it down,” he said, swinging away. He headed toward the door. The shuttle accident was a private matter, a subject he did not want to share and discuss. Not with anyone. He had enough of that from the Navy’s psychiatrists. Free of the pilothouse, he hurried down the steps to the boat deck.

In the corner, Elvis had lifted his head from the bed, and watched his master storm out. The big dog grumbled under his breath, a throaty complaint.

Lisa settled into the pilot’s seat, still warm from its previous occupant. “My words exactly, Elvis.” She sagged into the chair. Though their fiery relationship had died to ash, Lisa could still touch the warmth of her old feelings: Jack’s hard body holding her tight, the heat of his mouth on her breasts and neck, his lovemaking both rough and tender. He was an attentive lover, one of the best she had ever experienced. However, strong hands and legs couldn’t build a relationship by themselves. It took an even stronger heart. Jack loved her. She never doubted this, but there was a part of Jack’s heart that was as dead and numb as the scars on his chest. She had never found a way to heal this old wound — and doubted she ever could. Jack would not let it heal.

Lisa reached for the mug of herbal tea and dumped its contents into the trashcan. She had spiked the tea with Halcyon before climbing up here. Jack needed to sleep, and the sleeping pill hidden in her elixir should help him relax.

At least, she hoped. She had never seen Jack this bad before. He was normally outgoing, quick to smile and joke, full of an energy that shone from his skin. But there had been times in the past when he would sink into a funk, drift away from the others, hole up in his cabin or pilothouse. They had all learned to give Jack the space he needed during these times. But the past twenty-four hours had been his worst.

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.

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?”

“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.

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.”

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.”

“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. ”

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.

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.

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?”

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.

As he drifted, he pictured Jennifer’s body and wondered what it would be like to share a bed out here, with the whole blue Earth looking on. What could be a better honeymoon?

As he daydreamed he was slow to see the mistake. One of the three locking boom arms, built by General Dynamics, had failed to release completely. From his position, he saw the satellite drift a few degrees to the starboard side. Oh, God! He took one second to confirm the error. It was one second too many.

He saw the springs release, catapulting the satellite out of the bay. The springs had been engineered to thrust the satellite gently into proper orbital insertion, but instead the releasing mechanism snagged.

The five-ton satellite slammed against the starboard bay doors. One of the satellite’s solar wings smashed into the shuttle’s side. Soundlessly, the bay door bent. Hundreds of ceramic tiles cracked from the shuttle’s surface and spun away, like playing cards cast into the wind.

Spartacus spun out into space, its broken wing flailing. It tumbled toward a higher orbit.

He witnessed a brief explosion on the underside of the satellite as it passed overhead. A small panel blew out as its axial guidance system was overloaded.

Hours later he found himself strapped to a seat in the mid deck, wearing his Advanced Crew Escape Suit. Overhead, in the flight deck, he heard the pilot and shuttle commander conferring with NASA. The bay door had been repaired, but the loss of protective heating tiles made reentry risky.

The plan: get as far through the upper atmosphere as possible — then eject if there was any mishap. But the new emergency evacuation system, installed after the Challenger tragedy, had yet to be tested.

Jennifer sat beside him, in the mission specialist’s chair. His voice sounded far away as he tried to reassure her. “We’ll make it, Jen. We have a wedding to plan.”

She nodded, offering a weak smile, but she couldn’t speak. This was her first shuttle mission, too. Her face remained pale behind her faceplate.

He glanced to either side. Two other astronauts shared the mid-deck seats, backs tense, fingers clutching the seat arms. Only the commander and pilot were on the flight deck above. The commander insisted all the crew be as near the mid-deck emergency hatch as possible.

At the controls, Colonel Jeff Durham checked one last time with Houston as he began their descent. “Here we go. Pray for us.”

A static-filled reply from Shuttle Mission Control. “God-speed, Atlantis.”

Then they hit the atmosphere hard. Flames chased them. Their ship rocked and bucked. No one spoke, breaths were held.

Sweat pebbled his forehead. The heat grew too rapidly for his suit’s air-conditioning unit to compensate. He checked the cooling bib connection, but it was secure. He glanced at Jennifer. Her faceplate had misted over. He wished he could reach her, hold her.

Then he heard the best words of his life from the pilot. “Approaching sixty thousand feet! Almost home, folks!”

Before their jubilation died down, the shuttle bucked violently. He saw the Earth spin into view as the ship hoved over on its side. The pilot fought to right the ship but failed.

Only later would he learn that the damaged patch of the shuttle’s exterior surface had overheated and burned through a hydraulic line, igniting the auxiliary oxygen tank. But at that moment all he knew was terror and pain as the orbiter tumbled through the upper atmosphere.

He knew it was futile as the pilot continued to wrestle his controls. Another violent quake shook through the bones of the ship.

The commander’s voice came over the intercom. “Prepare for bailout! Depressurize on my count!”

“Forty-five thousand!” the pilot yelled. “Forty thousand!” They were falling fast.

“Close your visors and activate emergency oxygen. Jack, open the pyro vent valve.”

He found himself rising from his seat, his personal parachute assembly strapped to his back. He lumbered across the bucking mid-deck and reached the T-handle box. He tugged the vent handle and twisted it. The valve would slowly depressurize the cabins to match external pressures.

The orbiter bucked more violently and he flew up, striking his head savagely. One of the other astronauts, who had been unbuckling from his seat, struck an overhead support bar. His helmet split and the man fell limp.

He started to cross to the man’s aid, but the second astronaut waved him off. “Man your station!”

“Autopilot’s off line!” the commander screamed. “Gonna have to stay on manual!”

He glanced over his shoulder at Jennifer. She was struggling out of her seat, meaning to assist with the injured crewman. But she was clearly having some trouble. She tugged at something by her left arm.

“Thirty-five thousand!” the pilot announced. The shuttle continued to rock viciously. “I can handle it! I can handle it!” The pilot sounded as if he were arguing with himself, then—“Jesus Christ!”

A litany of swearing erupted from Colonel Durham. “Bailout!” he screamed over their comlinks. “Get your asses out of here!”

He knew they were still too high, but he obeyed the direct order. He twisted the second T-handle. The side hatch blew out. Winds exploded out of the cabin. The depressurization had not been complete. He found himself almost sucked out the hatch, only saving himself by clutching the T-handle in an iron grip.

Screams filled the com system. The shuttle rolled on its back. The floor buckled.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Jennifer slide past him, belly first, her fingers scrabbling for a hold. Her parachute assembly was missing.

A huge explosion sounded from behind him. The mid-deck hatch blew out with a screech of metal. A whirlwind of flames tore into the cabin, burning all the way to the flight deck. He lost sight of the other astronauts. The fires rolled toward him and Jennifer.

“Help!” he yelled into his communication unit. But there was no answer. The shuttle had become a plummeting rock. He began to slip.

“Let go of me!” Jennifer gasped at him, struggling to free her hand. “I’m pulling you loose—”

“I’m not taking you down with me!” Jennifer reached her other hand and unlocked the metal flange that mated her suit’s glove to its sleeve.

“No!” He clenched his hand, but he was too late. He clutched only an empty glove. Jennifer slipped beyond his grip.

As in all nightmares, he found himself unable to move. In slow motion he watched Jennifer slide away from him…so slowly. He struggled to reach out to her, but his limbs refused to obey. He could only watch.

His last view was not of Jennifer’s panicked face…but of a small gold band, blazing brightly on her hand, shining with the promise of undying love as she fell away.

Deaf to his own screams, he dove after her, chased by a wall of flame. He tumbled through the hatch just as the shuttle flipped end over end. The huge wing of the orbiter sliced through the air over his head. Darkness harried the edges of his vision as he twisted and spun uncontrolled. He could not breathe.

Still, he searched as best he could for some sign of Jennifer, but the blue skies were empty. Only a flaming trail marked the path of the burning shuttle.

Tears in his eyes, he fumbled for the manual parachute release. The eighteen-inch pilot chute deployed, instantly drawing out the four-foot drogue chute, stabilizing his spinning tumble. But the small chutes did little to stop his rate of descent. They were not meant to. Not in this thin air. Later, a third chute would automatically engage as he descended, but he never saw it.

Jack fell all the way back to Earth, back to his own bed aboard the Deep Fathom. With a jolt, his eyelids popped open. Too bright. It took him a second to recall where he was. He struggled to sit up, his robe soaked with sweat. He shivered and shrugged out of the garment. Half naked, he stood on wobbly feet.

He shuddered again and crossed to the wall safe. He thumbed the combination and pulled open the door. Amid the ship’s papers and a few thousand dollars in American currency lay a crumpled glove. Jack pulled it out. The fingers and edges were scorched, but he had not been able to part with it. No matter how much he wanted to forget the past. He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, Jennifer,” he whispered, pressing it to his lips. When the rescue crew had found Jack’s unconscious body amid the billowing parachutes, they had found this glove still clutched in his hand. He had been the only survivor. Even now he could still feel Jennifer’s frightened and panicked grip on his hand.

Jack returned the glove slowly to the safe, his eyes closed against the tears. “What?” he growled irritably.

“Just thought you should know, Jack. We’re about to reach the rendezvous point.”

He recognized the marine biologist’s voice and glanced to his clock. Three hours had passed. “All right, Robert. I’ll be up in a moment.”

Crossing to his room’s head, Jack splashed cold water on his face. As he straightened, he stared up at his reflection. Water dripped off his hard features and strong chin. His black hair, though still dark, was now dusted with gray at the temples. He wore it long, to his shoulders. No longer the military crew cut. He shoved the damp hair behind his ears and toweled off his sun-bronzed skin. He turned away, unable to face his own reflection.

Tuned to his ship, Jack recognized the slight change in the engines’ constant rumble. They were slowing down. Hurrying, he slipped into a loose shirt, left it unbuttoned, and crossed barefoot to the door. As he exited he found Robert Bonaczek still waiting for him.

The marine biologist seemed nervous, shifting his feet, unable to meet Jack’s eyes. Robert Bonaczek was only twenty years old, the youngest on the crew, but also the most serious and dour. He seldom smiled. He had graduated with a master’s degree in marine sciences at the tender age of eighteen and had been on board the last two years, working toward his doctorate. Lisa called him “an old soul trapped in a young body.” This assessment was compounded by the fact that the man’s thin blond hair was already balding.

The biologist shook his head. “You need to see it for yourself.” The young man turned and headed for the door to the open deck.

The sun, now lower in the sky, blinded Jack. He blinked against the glare and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The other members of the team were all on deck, except for the geologist, Charlie Mollier. Jack spotted his large frame behind the windows of the pilothouse. Charlie gave him a short wave.

Jack joined the others at the rail; Robert, on one side, Lisa on his other. “How’d you sleep?” the doctor asked.

He thought to reprimand her. What right did she have to treat him like a child? He was the goddamn captain of this boat. But instead his eyes were drawn forward.

Ahead, the normally empty stretch of ocean was crowded with ships: fishing trawlers, cargo ships, military cutters. Flags from various countries flapped above the ships. Overhead, a pair of Jayhawk helicopters buzzed by. Jack followed their path, guessing they had been sent from the Air Force base on Wake Island. Near the horizon, a wide-bodied C-130 swept back and forth over the scene, a search pattern. The plane had probably been scanning the area all night with its sonar. The U.S. National Transportation Safety Board had clearly mobilized its “go-team” on this crash.

George Klein stepped up behind Jack, reading his mind. “The NTSB has been busy. An impressive mobilization, considering how far out we are.”

The professor puffed on a pipe as he stared out at the turmoil. Except for the thick pipe, George looked nothing like a sixty-something Harvard professor. The older man was muscular, wearing a pair of trunks and nothing else. His wispy white hair fluttered in the thin breeze. Jack had always thought George bore a striking resemblance to Jacques Cousteau.

Brought to his attention, Jack caught the acrid taint in the ocean breeze. “Fuel spill.” He finally noticed the slight stain on the ocean’s surface off the port bow. The oil slick spread in a black bloom. There was no question that some sort of crash had occurred here.

Within the oil slick, Jack spotted a few bobbing red buoys. Data buoys, he realized, dropped to give the searchers some indication where wreckage and bodies may have drifted. “Someone should have hauled my ass up here earlier,” he said.

George glanced at Lisa, who suddenly bore a more intense interest in the ocean. “And bear Lisa’s wrath? I’d rather face a Great White with chum hanging around my neck. Besides, Charlie contacted the head of operations here an hour ago.” George glanced at Jack with his brows raised. “The Coast Guard vice admiral himself…flown in from San Diego last night. Not exactly a friendly fellow, from Charlie’s description.”

“We’re on standby until they localize the pinging of Air Force One’s data recorders and initiate an action plan. It seems NTSB is really only interested in our Nautilus. We’re to sit out here until our sub is called into play.”

“And what about Admiral Houston?” Jack asked. His old Navy commander had been the one to order them to service. “Isn’t he here?”

“I guess it takes longer to grease the huge wheels of the U.S. military machine. He’s due at daybreak in the USS Gibraltar. ” George waved his pipe forward. “All this malarkey is just preparation. Getting all the ducks in a row before the true deep-water search begins.”

Jack nodded. He had served aboard the ship for seven years. The Gibraltar was a Wasp-class Landing Helicopter Dockship, one of the largest ships in the Navy, only dwarfed by the supercarriers themselves. The LHD was a part of the infamous ’Gator Navy, an amphibious task force combining the combat power of the Marines with the speed and mobility of the Navy.

Off to the port, a bit of debris bobbed among the buoys. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. It must have just surfaced. Jack squinted. “Get me a pair of binoculars.”

Robert hurried away and returned with a set of Minolta glasses. Jack donned them. It took him a moment to find and focus on the piece of equipment. It was the back of an airline seat, the presidential seal bright blue against the red seat back.

A sudden swell rolled the seat over. A flash of pale flesh. An arm hanging limply. Then the sight vanished.

Jack could not answer. He flashed to his own tumble through the air twelve years ago. The crash of the shuttle Atlantis. The sight struck too close to home.

He lowered his binoculars, pale, trembling. “We should never have come here. No good can come of it.”

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