The watch officer was approaching fifty years old and had a daughter not much younger than Spirit Williams. He thought C.W. had gotten a handful when he married her. She was a deadly combination of hardened opinions, iron will and absolutely no patience. On the other hand, she was gypsy beautiful and obviously loved C.W. with every fiber of her being. Carlyle used the keyboard to deepen his attack on C.W.’s king by advancing his bishop two-thirds the way across the board. “I think that since you two apparently never sleep and don’t mind keeping me company on the graveyard watch, I’ll withhold an answer so you don’t abandon me.”
“Diplomacy from a chessboard warrior?” Spirit teased. “Maybe you’re a little enlightened too.”
“I’m many things”—the veteran seaman smiled across to her—“but you’re the first to call me enlightened.”
The research ship Sea Surveyor II was owned by a consortium of California universities and was used exclusively for hard science research on the world’s oceans. While many who sailed aboard her were wide-eyed grad students who knew little beyond their specialties, her crew were all experienced sailors, many with military backgrounds, who enjoyed the relaxed pace of a ship at sea nearly ten months of every year.
This was Carlyle’s fifth voyage and C.W.’s second, but for Spirit Williams, a second-year doctoral student studying the effects of global warming on deep-ocean currents, this was her first trip on the 238-foot ship. C.W. was a new member of the vessel’s support staff and was responsible for the NewtSuits, high-tech one-person submersibles that resembled a combination suit of medieval armor and the cartoon Michelin Man. He was also rated to pilot Bob, the three-man submarine, stowed in a special garage over the Sea Surveyor’s fantail.
C.W. and Spirit had met a mere six months ago and married just four weeks later. He’d grown up in Southern California and retained the toned physique and tan of a lifetime surfer. His moppy hair was just starting to lose its sun-bleached brassy sheen and return to a more natural blond while the top of his nose remained lumpy and scarred by layers of precancerous skin. He was two years shy of thirty and had gotten into the field of deep-sea submersibles because his college roommate’s father owned a company that designed and built them in a warehouse in Long Beach. During his schooling C.W. worked for him during summer vacations and was hired on full-time after graduating. Charlie had a relaxed live-and-let-live attitude, caring little beyond the immediate scope of his life. He had never voted, hadn’t been in a church since he was a kid and harbored few deeply held opinions.
Spirit Williams was opposite in nearly every way. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin pale. Like her name implied, she was deeply spiritual. She’d grown up in a commune outside of Monterey, raised by parents who’d never accepted that the sixties had ended. Her mother, a Wicca priestess and midwife, and her father, a so-called organic farmer who grew the most potent marijuana in the state, had schooled her in the ways of the natural world. She believed that the earth was Gaia, a living spirit, and that humankind was actually at the bottom of the world social order, not the top. Unlike her husband, Spirit firmly believed in a list of tenets. Environmentalism, feminism, animal rights, children’s rights, Native American rights, prisoners’ rights, and nearly every other liberal cause fell within her interest. At twenty-five, she’d already been arrested for smashing a Starbucks window in Seattle and was pepper-sprayed at a WHO summit in Washington, D.C.
“Since you don’t know chess, I wonder, what kind of games did you play growing up?” Carlyle asked her.
Spirit marked her place in the book with an owl feather. “Your typical kid games. You know, like natives and oppressors.”
“Cowboys and Indians?”
She nodded. “If you insist on using bigoted names. Um, there was hide from the pigs.
“Hide and seek.”
Spirit smiled. “And when I was a teenager there was always medicine man.”
It took Carlyle a second to translate that one. He was aghast at her impudence. “Doctor?”
“Like your daughter never played it.”
“Maybe she did, but she had the sense not to tell me about it.”
“I bet you were one of those fathers who didn’t know when his little girl got her period, yet knew the exact day and time your son had his first hard-on.”
Jon could have been offended but knew she meant nothing by her comment. It was just her way and he threw it right back at her. “It was June eighteenth, 1997, at seven twenty-one in the morning. He seemed mighty impressed with it as I recall.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I should meet him someday.”
Jon shot an uncomfortable look at C.W., but her husband was used to her flirtations and was studying the electronic chessboard to see if there was any hope of escape.
“All ships signify, all ships signify. This is the USS Smithback. Mayday, mayday, mayday.” The voice from the speakers rang clear, and all three on the bridge could hear the fear in the sailor’s voice.
Jon Carlyle grabbed up the radio handset. “Smithback , Smithback, Smithback, this is the MV Sea Surveyor. State your location and the nature of your emergency.”
“Sea Surveyor, we’ve been authorized by Pacific Command to issue a mayday and ask for immediate assistance.”
Carlyle imagined the scenario. A U.S. Navy ship was in trouble—from the tension in the radioman’s voice, severe trouble—yet they still had to get permission to ask for help.
“Smithback, please state your location and the nature of your emergency,” Carlyle asked smoothly. Over his shoulder he asked the Filipino helmsman to alert the ship’s captain, Perry Jacobi, and have him summoned to the bridge.
“We’ve struck an iceberg. We are shipping water, but our pumps are keeping pace.”
Jesus, Carlyle thought, he must be receiving an errant signal, a radio distress from Arctic or Antarctic waters that had bounced around the atmosphere, a not uncommon occurrence. That was how ham radio operators could talk to counterparts on the opposite side of the globe. He recognized, too, that it was unlikely the Sea Surveyor was the closest to render assistance. In fact, depending on where the navy vessel was located, it might be days before a rescue ship could reach them.
“We are at 21.21 degrees north by 173.32 west. . . .”
With an angry shake of his head Carlyle tuned out the rest of what he was hearing. This was a crank radio distress, the maritime version of yelling fire in a crowded theater. Some jerk with a powerful transceiver was pretending to be a sinking American ship, only he was too stupid to realize the coordinates put him in tropical waters a mere ninety miles from the Sea Surveyor. Struck an iceberg, my ass.
“This is Sea Surveyor,” he said tautly. “You are in violation of maritime law and are liable for prosecution if you don’t desist.”
A new voice came over the airwaves, more assured than that of the crank radio operator. “Sea Surveyor, this is Commander Kenneth Galloway, captain of the USS Smithback. This is not a joke. We are a U.S. Navy cargo ship and we’ve struck an iceberg. It didn’t show up on radar. It sort of popped out of the water just ahead of us. We didn’t have time for evasive maneuvers. We first thought we’d hit a submarine, but now there are dozens of bergs around us.”
Over the radio link Carlyle and the others could hear alarms wailing and the frantic voices of panicked men on the floundering ship. Carlyle got busy computing an intercept course.
“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, Captain,” Carlyle replied. “We are seven hours from your position and are getting under way now. What is your situation?”
“At first the damage didn’t appear that severe. Our pumps can handle the inflow of seawater, and emergency crews already have the hole repaired with timbers and plates, but we still appear to be sinking. We’re down four feet in the past thirty minutes. If this continues, your seven hours will be too late.”
In the minute the Surveyor’s officer took to consider the situation, three other ships in the area—two container ships hea
ding to Los Angeles from Japan and a small tanker ferrying gasoline to Wake Island—responded to the distress call. None was closer than the research ship, although their captains had ordered detours to offer assistance. A navy patrol plane from Midway Island was en route.
Carlyle didn’t question the impossibility of what Galloway was telling him. If he said his ship was sinking despite effecting repairs, then that was exactly what was happening. He considered that they had missed another spot where their ship was holed, but it didn’t seem likely. Repair teams on navy ships were well trained. They wouldn’t make such an elemental mistake.
“What does this mean?” C.W. asked the officer. Spirit was at his side, holding his hand.
Carlyle had almost forgotten their presence. “I don’t know.”
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” It was the radioman again and his voice was a shriek over the radio. “We’re sinking fast. Down at the head. The bow’s awash. This is the USS Smithback. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The sea. The sea is starting to burn.”
A muffled explosion rumbled from the bridge speakers. Another scream and then the roar of water. And then silence.
For the six hours and forty minutes it took the Sea Surveyor II to reach the Smithback’s last known coordinates, Jon Carlyle continued to radio and received no replies. The P-3 Orion antisubmarine warfare plane out of Midway had already reported in by the time they reached the site. That had been an hour after the last call from the Smithback. The Orion found no wreckage, no debris, not even an oil slick.
It was as if the navy cargo ship had never been.
DS-TWO MINE AREA 51, NEVADA
Ira Lasko wasn’t waiting in the cave when Mercer and Sykes emerged from the flooded mine. He wasn’t in the control van either. Mercer, still wearing his borrowed wet suit and oblivious to the sharp stones that cut into his bare feet as he searched the camp, found his friend in the rec hall. Dr. Briana Marie was with him, her lab coat tossed over a sofa as she and Ira conferred over a thick binder.
Both simply glanced up when he crashed through the door. Dr. Marie closed the file and leaned back in her chair. Ira ran a hand across his bald head. The only sound was a steady whir from an air conditioner and the drip of seawater off Mercer’s body. He threw his flippers into a corner.
“Nuclear physicist?” he taunted Briana. “How about Harry fucking Houdini?”
“You were told not to enter the cavern,” she snapped back.
“Easy, Doctor,” Ira said.
“He isn’t cleared for this project, Admiral. You assured me he could complete the tunnel to the cavern and not ask questions.”
Ira shot her a hard look. “I don’t like lying to my friends and I’ve done it long enough. It’s over.” He turned to Mercer. “I didn’t have a choice. The orders came straight from the secretary of defense and the president’s office.”
Mercer heard the sincerity in Ira’s voice, saw the shame in his eyes. This was the Ira he’d known and agreed to work for. The tension lines that had etched his face seemed to be relaxing with each passing second. Mercer unzipped his wet suit and used a handful of paper napkins stored in a sideboard to wipe water from his eyes and dry the hair on his chest. Whatever he was about to hear, he knew he’d need to sit for it. He’d probably need a drink too, but the camp was dry.
“That cavern,” he said, “it’s not natural, is it?”
“No,” Ira replied, “it’s not. It was formed when the submarine refocused.”
“Refocused? What does that mean?”
Ira hesitated. “I think it’s best if Dr. Marie explains it.”
For a moment she seemed to struggle between the need to keep her project secret and the desire to brag about her work. And then it came in a rush of pride.
“How much do you know about quantum physics, Dr. Mercer?”
“It’s the realm of the subatomic, where the rules we live by, like gravity and magnetism, no longer apply. Most everything I’ve read about it is so counterintuitive that I tend to ignore it.”
She nodded. “A reasonable and honest answer. There are only a handful of scientists in the world who wouldn’t give that exact same response. And yet what you don’t know is that it is the branch of physics that will one day revolutionize the way we live our lives.”
“I don’t think the ability to move a submarine into a mountain is going to better my life any time soon,” Mercer said sarcastically, still riled by all the lies he’d been told.
She didn’t like his flippant comment and her tone became brusque. “Well, then how is this for counterintuitive, Doctor—we didn’t move the submarine into the mountain. In fact, the sub never moved at all.”
Mercer held up a supplicating hand. Antagonizing her wasn’t going to get the answers he wanted. “Could you start from the beginning, please? In laymen’s terms.”
“All right. What is the fastest possible speed in the universe?”
“The speed of light. One hundred eighty-six thousand miles per second.”
“Newton’s second law of thermodynamics basically states that all systems decay into chaos, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Does a tree falling in the forest make a sound?”
“What does this have to do with that submarine?”
“Please answer the question.”
“Sure, why wouldn’t it?”
“In the quantum world, you just gave three wrong answers. The study of the subatomic came about from the work of Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg. One of the principles all subsequent research has been based on is called the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. In the simplest terms it means that observing an event alters its outcome. Therefore nothing in the universe happens without direct observation. It sounds arrogant, I know, that we, the observers, make things happen by our very presence, but it has been proven in the lab dozens of times. That means the tree in the forest can’t make a sound because it never fell.
“And in the world of the subatomic, both in time and in space, order can spontaneously arise from chaos. Albeit for fractions of a second, but even that short time span refutes Newton’s second law.”
“And the galactic speed limit?” Mercer pressed. “The speed of light?”
“What if I told you I’ve seen an experiment where a beam of laser light that was shot through a gas medium at extremely low temperatures actually came out the other side of the chamber before it was fired. Effect came before cause. Somehow in the quantum world, a message traveling faster than the speed of light was relayed to the detector that the laser beam was coming.”
Mercer didn’t doubt her claims. He was more aware than most that the immutable laws of the past were falling to scientific breakthroughs at an ever-accelerating pace. Yet he couldn’t fully grasp the implications, or how this got a submarine weighing a thousand tons or more into a mountain hundreds of miles from the sea.
“Now, what if we take that experiment one step further? What if we could do it with particles? In one sense, that is what light is, a particle we call a photon.”
“You’d have a particle existing at two places at once.”
“And what if in the process of shooting the particle, the original you started with gets destroyed?”
“You’d end up with a duplicate particle on the other side of your super-cold gas chamber.” The realization hit like a body blow. “You’re talking about some kind of science fiction transporter system.”
She gave him a pained grimace. “That isn’t how it is. There’s no ‘Beam me up, Scotty’. The media keeps hyping the possibility, but in truth transporting a human being, while possible in the abstract, will never be practical.”
“But is that what you wanted to do with the submarine? Transport it to Area 51?”
Her expression turned even more sour. “No, but we were afraid it might happen. You see, our aim was to make it invisible. We call it optoelectric camouflage. It’s designed for surface ships and perhaps aircraft if we can scale down the necessary equip
ment and reduce the power consumption. We used a sub because there was a theoretical chance something like this could happen.”
Ira interrupted. “It got away from them.”
“It didn’t get away from us,” she said curtly. “The navy was told about this possibility. We built in the fail-safes.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“The system my team and I developed uses a bubble of intense magnetism to bend visible light into a toroid, a kind of doughnut shape. We observe an object because light is reflected off its surface. Some wavelengths get absorbed and the ones that bounce back give the object its color. Now, something that is black will absorb all the wavelengths, so we can’t see it, yet we perceive its presence against a colored background. My theory was that if we could trap the light in a toroid so it couldn’t escape, and then bend it around the object, the observer wouldn’t see anything. It would be like how water bends light so a pencil looks disjointed if half of it sticks above the surface.
“And?” Mercer prompted, because while what she was saying sounded far-fetched, it wasn’t an explanation for what he’d seen in the mine.
“We ran into the quantum world,” she said as if that clarified everything.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there was a consequence we had considered, took precautions against, but rejected as a real concern. The magnetic field bent visible light until it became a self-sustaining loop, a point in space in which light itself couldn’t escape.”
“Hold it, that sounds like a black hole.”
“No. Black holes are the collapse of matter due to gravity. We were using magnetism.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that gravity hasn’t been reconciled with the quantum world. It was what Einstein was working on when he died, a grand theory of everything—nuclear forces, magnetism and gravity.”
Deep Fire Rising Page 13
