Deep Fathom

Pride for his team fired his blood. They were men he had trained from the start. Handpicked. He knew each of them would die for him. They were one of the most successful covert ops teams, with a body count numbering over a thousand.

The phone at the secretary’s desk buzzed. David’s gaze twitched in her direction. She picked up the receiver. “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.” She put down the phone and turned to face David. “The President—” She blushed at her mistake. Nafe had not been formally sworn in yet, not without more concrete evidence of Bishop’s demise. “The Vice President requests you join Mr. Ruzickov in the Oval Office.”

David stood smoothly, a single line on his forehead marking his surprise at the invitation.

The secretary waved him toward the door, then returned to her typing. He crossed the room, unsure why he was being called into this conference. The door was opened by a Secret Service agent, whom David did not even acknowledge.

He took three steps inside, then snapped to attention at the edge of the circular rug bearing the presidential seal. The eagle icon on the carpet seemed to stare at him, as did the two occupants in the room. His boss sat in an armchair. The former Marine, though gray-haired and edging toward sixty, was as lithe and wiry as when on duty. As usual, his hard blue eyes remained unreadable. David respected Ruzickov deeply.

“Commander Spangler, please come join us,” the Vice President said, waving him in as the door shut with a click behind David. Lawrence Nafe stood, leaning on the edge of the wide desk. In appearance, he was the opposite of the CIA director. His features were soft: thick lips, a hint of a double chin, cow eyes. His belly bulged slightly over his belt, and the dung-brown color of his hair, what remained of it, clearly came from a bottle. “Please take a seat.”

Nodding curtly, David strode into the room, maintaining a stiff posture.

The Vice President came around the desk and settled easily into the chair, as if he had done so a thousand times before. The man nudged a folder on his desk. “Mr. Ruzickov has been telling me much about your team’s exploits.” His eyes rose to study David, who was still standing. “Please take a seat,” Nafe repeated, with a trace of irritation.

David glanced to the CIA director, who gestured to a neighboring chair. He sank into the seat, spine straight, not leaning back. Suspicious, alert.

Nafe continued, “Omega team has served our country well, whether the public knows this fact or not.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Nafe leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his belly. “I’ve read the report on Somalia. Fine job. We could not have a Communist newspaper starting in that volatile region.”

David nodded. Fourteen deaths, staged like a mass suicide. It was artfully done, discrediting the Communist insurgents while ending their threat. Besides Omega team, only two other people knew the truth, and they sat in this room now.

“We have been discussing another mission for your team. We believe you and your men are ideally suited.” The silent question hung in the air.

David answered it. “Anything, sir.”

His response raised a small smile from Nafe, again with an icy hint of condescension. “Excellent.” Nafe sat up straighter again, grabbed a folder and passed it to the CIA director. “Your orders and details are in here.”

In turn, Nicolas Ruzickov passed the folder to David, maintaining the chain of command in these matters. If anything went wrong, David could honestly say the order came from the CIA director, not from the Vice President.

David placed the folder on his lap.

His boss spoke for the first time, outlining the mission, while Nafe sat silently, leaning back, hands over his belly again. “As you know, the Chinese have been a thorn in our side for decades. While we’ve helped drag them into the twenty-first century with aid and favorable trade status, they in turn have grown more belligerent and inflexible.”

“Biting the hand that feeds them,” Nafe interjected.

“Exactly. While our government has kowtowed to these Communist leaders, the Chinese have grown stronger — increasing their nuclear arsenal, stealing the secrets for intercontinental ballistics, growing and spreading their naval presence. In just ten years they’ve grown from a Communist nuisance to a global threat. This tide must be stopped.”

David found his fingers tightening on the arms of his chair. No truer words had been spoken. He nodded, hard. “Yes, sir.”

Ruzickov’s eyes flicked to Nafe, then back to David. “But public sentiment does not favor such action. The average American is more interested in the value of his stock portfolio and what’s on TV at night. Confrontation with China is not a priority. If anything, the opposite is true. We have grown complacent. If we are to stem this rising tide of communism, then this sentiment must be changed also.”

David nodded his understanding.

Ruzickov studied him, then spoke again. “You know of the mobilization to recover Air Force One.”

David didn’t answer; the CIA director’s words were not a question. Of course he knew of the mobilization. It was in the news. The entire world had turned its eyes to an empty stretch of ocean. Still, his nostrils flared. He almost smelled his boss’s discomfort.

“We believe this is an opportunity not to be missed. A chance to gain some value for the loss of President Bishop.”

“How so?” David asked, intrigued.

“You are to join the NTSB’s go-team at the crash site.”

David’s left eye twitched in surprise. “To help in the recovery?”

“Yes…but also to help ensure that the information that comes from the crash site serves our end.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nafe clarified. “We want the crash to be blamed on the Chinese.”

“Whether the facts substantiate this claim or not,” the director finished.

Both of David’s brows rose.

Nicolas Ruzickov stood up. “With the Chinese blamed for the assassination of the President, there will be a public outcry for retribution.”

“And we will answer it,” Nafe added.

David appreciated the plan. With the world already in turmoil after the Pacificwide disasters, the moment was ripe for such a change.

“Does Omega accept this mission?” Ruzickov asked formally.

David stood. “Yes, sir, without question.”

Nafe cleared his throat, drawing both their attention. “One other thing, Commander Spangler. It seems that a colleague of yours is already on site. A fellow SEAL…someone you once worked alongside.”

Again David sensed a bomb was about to be dropped. “Who?”

“Jack Kirkland.”

A gasp escaped David’s throat. He barely heard the Vice President’s next few words. His vision grew black at the edges.

“We know you still blame the man for the Atlantis accident. The entire country mourned the death of your younger sister.”

“Je

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Nafe said, drawing back David’s attention.

He straightened, going cold. “Thank you, sir.”

Ruzickov spoke at his shoulder. “We just want to make sure Kirkland’s presence isn’t going to interfere with your mission.”

“No, sir. The past is the past. I understand the importance of this mission and will let nothing stand in my way — not even Jack Kirkland.”

“Very good.” Ruzickov turned toward the exit. “Then gather your team. You ship out in two hours.”

With a nod to the country’s new leader, David swung around on numb legs. He would do as he had been ordered. Omega team had never failed in a mission. But on this journey, David intended to add a side objective of his own.