Devil's Gate

This week, however, was vastly different. Shokara’s president and CEO, Haruto Takagawa, was in residence. As a result, both the level of activity and the level of security had increased many times over.

Takagawa had originally pla

And while those tasks still loomed on his schedule, Takagawa had spent most of the past week dealing with the aftermath of a pirate attack and the sinking of one of his ships, the Kinjara Maru.

The situation was doubly tricky for Takagawa, first because it came at a terrible time, right before the pla

And while those two thorns irritated his side, they would be inconsequential in the long run. A deal would be struck with the insurance company, once they’d weaseled a percent or two off the price, and in a few days no one in New York would care about his sunken ship any more intensely than they cared about a truck that had a flat tire. These things happened.

What did matter was the demands from the buyer in China that they be reimbursed for the cargo that was lost. This was tricky for many reasons, but mostly because of the nature of the cargo itself.

As a Japanese conglomerate, Shokara operated under Japanese law, but in trying to open a U.S.-based subsidiary, Takagawa was expected to comply with American rules. Those rules prohibited the transfer of certain technologies to other countries, and some of the materials on board the Kinjara Maru might well fit that category.

At this particular moment in time, he couldn’t afford for that information to come out. If it did, or if the right people caught wind of the truth and got angry, Takagawa’s time in New York might add up to nothing more than an expensive vacation.

Just when things seemed to be settling down, his intercom buzzed.

“Mr. Takagawa,” his secretary a

Takagawa didn’t bother asking if they had an appointment, they would have been allowed up if that were the case.

“Who are they?”

“Their credentials indicate they are on staff with an American organization known as the National Underwater Maritime Agency,” she said. “They want to talk to you about the Kinjara Maru.”

NUMA. Takagawa knew the Agency well, and not just because chance had allowed some of its agents to spot the piracy on one of his ships and attempt to intervene. He knew all about NUMA from an incident that had occurred more than a decade ago.

Unlike others in the Japanese shipping world, he had a great fondness for the men and women of NUMA. It made his answer that much harder.

“Tell them I ca

Silence returned for a moment, and Takagawa reached over to one side. He flipped on a monitor and pressed a button that allowed him to see the front desk in the lobby.

Two young men in suits stood there, appearing bright-eyed and eager. They looked more like Ivy League lawyers or accountants than the intrepid men he’d once dealt with. Then again, there could be only one reason they wanted to talk to him about the Kinjara Maru. So why not send lawyers?

The secretary’s voice returned. “They say they’re willing to wait all day if they have to, but they must speak with you.”

“They can wait until the end of time,” he said, “but I will not talk to them. Have security escort them out of the building.”

He switched off the video monitor and went back to his work. NUMA could be a problem for him. Takagawa had found they could be a problem for anyone if they wanted to be.

14

Eastern Atlantic, June 20

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER THE DISCOVERY of the marine graveyard, Kurt Austin stood by the Argo’s port railing. The ship was holding station near the subsurface caldera that had nearly swallowed the XP-4, along with Kurt, Joe, and the Barracuda.

As Kurt stared out across the water, the midafternoon sun was starting to fall. It gave the light a warm bronze hue as the shadows stretched out and the air grew more humid. Beneath this pleasant light, the sea appeared calm and glassy, almost oily in complexion, as if the warm sun had lulled it to sleep like a tiger on the African sava

Standing there, Kurt reflected on the strange turn of events. Upon reporting the discovery, Kurt and Joe had been publicly thanked by the Portuguese authorities. And then, in private, they’d been scolded, and immediately ordered not to disturb or take anything from the site or even return to it, as if they were vandals or thieves of some kind.

All kinds of orders came down. Officially, the Portuguese insisted these precautions were for safety reasons. In a way, Kurt could understand that. The fluctuating magnetic properties around the rock formations made subsurface navigation difficult. At times, when the magnetic field was peaking, steel-hulled submersibles, including the Barracuda, were literally drawn toward it as if being reeled in by a cable. Fighting that pull became harder the closer one got to the tower.

On one run, Kurt had found himself in a position where the current and the magnetic pull were acting in the same direction. God help him if he bumped it, he’d thought.

Shortly after Kurt’s experience, a second sub reported electrical problems. And even days after their exposure, the driver and navigator from the XP-4 continued to complain of headaches and strange issues with their vision. All of which added to the mystery of the place and the conspiracy theories already swirling.

As for the Portuguese government, it had no reason to quash the stories. They might even lead to a bonanza in tourist dollars, something every small island could use.

In some ways, that influx was already begi

Tours of the site were being touted, with press releases going out, and a grainy YouTube video already capturing over a million hits.

In a few days, Kurt guessed he’d be looking at a free-for-all, something like trying to snorkel with a thousand other tourists, with their bright bathing suits and Styrofoam noodles, and yet imagining you were getting a “real life” aquatic experience.

As he pondered this, footsteps approached him from behind. Kurt turned to see Joe Zavala, carrying a frosty tall-necked bottle of beer in each hand.

“Bohemia,” Joe said, handing him one. “Best beer in Mexico.”

Kurt took the bottle and tipped it back, savoring the icy taste on such a hot, humid day.

“Where’d you scrounge this up?” Kurt asked.

“From the captain’s private stock,” Joe said. “Supposed to be for our victory celebration.”

“And the captain let you get your paws on it early?” Kurt asked.