Devil's Gate

“Unfortunate,” Major Komarov added.

“Very,” the Bald Man agreed.

“Wallace didn’t make it to the United States,” he continued. “Or Newfoundland or Canada. He lasted precisely nine minutes before radioing a ‘Mayday’ and then crashing into the Atlantic. Miraculously, he survived. He was rescued a week later by Portuguese fishermen, and he told a strange story about electromagnetic interference, all his instruments failing, and a sudden loss of electrical power. A story we, naturally, did not believe.”

“You don’t think he crashed?”

The man across from her smiled, no doubt pleased by her curiosity.

“For years we thought it was a lie,” he said. “Either his lie or the CIA’s. The United States did not look for the plane, and our own search turned up nothing. It seemed a good cover story to brush the entire situation under the rug. But now we feel differently.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“Look at the bottom photo, Ms. Luskaya.”

She turned her attention back to the page. She saw a murky, somewhat blurred image. For a moment she couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. And then it hit her: three metallic fins sticking up out of the sediment. Co

“That is Hudson Wallace’s plane,” the Bald Man from the State informed her. “It appears to be mostly intact.”

“Amazing,” she said, looking up.

“Quite,” he replied. “And we want you to go there. You will pretend you’ve come to study the strange magnetism these Americans claim to have found. And when you get the chance, investigate this aircraft. If the trunks are still inside — or you can locate them nearby — then you are to recover them and bring them back home to Russia.”

In a weird way it was flattering. Her country needed her for a mission of some sort. But why did they need her?

“May I ask why you don’t send a professional agent?”

“You are a known member of the scientific establishment,” the Bald Man said. “You have been overseas many times before, your activities have always been legitimate. By sending you instead of an agent with a cover, we vastly reduce the possibility of suspicions being raised.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” she asked cautiously.

The Bald Man narrowed his gaze and stared at her. Over her shoulder, she felt the presence of Major Komarov just as strongly. It no longer felt as if they were asking. That shouldn’t have been a surprise. The State rarely made requests.

“We can be barbarians at times, Ms. Luskaya,” the Bald Man said. “But in this case there is no need. You want to go. You want to test yourself. I can see it in your eyes.”

She looked down at the photos once more. A strange mix of fear and excitement coursed through her. The feeling was so similar to the adrenaline rush she’d felt before competitions that it scared her. She was quite sure saying no was not an option, but it didn’t matter.

The Bald Man from the State was right: She wanted to go.

16

Eastern Atlantic, June 22

AFTER ARRIVING ON STATION THE DAY BEFORE, the NUMA vessel Matador had set up shop and begun “mowing the lawn”: a search pattern that allowed them to scan the ocean floor in strips, one ten-mile leg to the northeast and another ten-mile leg to the southwest, and then back again. With fairly precise information as to where the Kinjara Maru went down and good records on the currents in the area, they were able to find the ship in less than twelve hours.

Once found, the Kinjara Maru and her debris field had been mapped by a pair of deep diving ROVs. With the information and photographs plugged into a computer and a three-dimensional model of the ship created, the crew of the Matador were able to examine the ship and come up with a game plan for actually exploring it before they even went down.

It was the perfect mission for Rapunzel, with one particular problem.

“Didn’t anyone bring an extension cord?” Paul Trout grumbled.

“We weren’t expecting to go deep-sea fishing,” Gamay said in her best calming voice. She knew her husband well enough to know that he was slow to anger but hard to rope back in once he got there.

“The deepwater kit is on its way out,” she added. “It’ll be here the day after tomorrow, but in the meantime…” “Dirk still wants us to take a look at it,” he said.

She nodded. “The ship is resting halfway down a pretty steep slope. Dirk wants us to pull some samples before she goes any deeper.” Both of them knew what that meant. Despite the danger, they would have to go down in the deepwater submersible.

“We can co

“You barely fit,” she replied.

“So it’ll be a little cramped,” he said. “I like being in close quarters with you.”

THREE HOURS LATER, Paul and Gamay were hovering over the wreck in a bathyscaphe-type submersible named the Grouper. Rapunzel was attached to the outer hull and charging her batteries. They were lying on their stomachs side by side, like kids riding their sled. Paul piloted the Grouper while Gamay readied Rapunzel for her sortie.

The temperature in the Grouper was a cool 48 degrees as the deepwater currents surrounding them dropped to a few degrees above freezing. Between the cramped quarters and the cold, Paul’s entire body ached.

“Feels like Maine in November,” he said into the intercom.

“At least it’s not raining,” Gamay said. “We start getting rain in here, we have a big problem.” Paul looked around. The Grouper was the sturdiest of all NUMA’s deep-sea vehicles. It had been to twenty-four thousand feet, sixteen was a walk in the park.

“We’ll be all right,” he said.

“I know,” Gamay said. “It does make me wonder about our luck though.” They were approaching the hull of the sunken vessel. He slowed them to a crawl.

“How so?”

“Somewhere, Kurt and Joe are sitting on a beach, basking in the sun and their newfound fame and probably ogling pretty women all around them.” “I’m ogling one right now,” Paul said. “And when we’re done here, I actually get to kiss you.” “Promise?” she said, lightheartedly. “I’ll make it worth your while.” A cough on the intercom reminded him that others were listening in and monitoring everything in the sub.

Suddenly, Paul did not know how to respond. He felt a nervous flush rush across his face, an effect Gamay always managed to have on him.

“Paul, your heart rate is rising,” a voice said over the comm.

“Umm, we’re at the wreck site now,” he said, all very official. “Traveling along the port side.” “Better get into my gear,” Gamay said.

Paul brought the Grouper up and over the Kinjara Maru’s deck. The big ship was tilted hard over on one side, leaning into the slope. Her massive hatches were yawning wide, fish swimming here and there, but the vessel had yet to be claimed by the sea.

In a way it felt odd to Paul. Most of the wrecks they explored were old, covered in sediment, barnacles, and sea life. The Kinjara Maru looked as if she didn’t belong, all brightly painted and scarred only where the fires had burned her.

“All of her cargo hatches are open,” Paul said.

“Kurt said the pirates were firebombing the holds,” Gamay replied.

“No need to open all of them,” Paul said.

“Could they have been looking for something?” In some ways that made sense to Paul, although what a group of pirates in speedboats could be looking for on a bulk cargo ship was beyond him.

“Maybe they just wanted her to go down faster,” he said. “As soon as the forward hatch started taking on water the ship was a goner.” “Back to hiding something,” Gamay said.