Deep Time

by Rob Sangster

  Deep Time

  Deep in the Earth’s crust beneath the Pacific Ocean lies an ancient site likely to be the birthplace of life on our planet . . .

  And a portal into unimaginable forces and incredible wealth . . .

  A place where large ships mysteriously disappear, including the vessel carrying Jack Strider’s goddaughter, Katie . . .

  A greedy energy baron risks everything to pursue vast supplies of power trapped deep in the Pacific Ocean seabed off the Oregon coast. But the man’s psychopathic scheme is about to launch a terrifying tsunami that will destroy the entire west coast of the United States. Strider’s beautiful, brilliant partner in law and love joins the fight, and Jack leads a desperate attack on the largest offshore platform ever built. Jack Strider may be the only man who can stop the disaster that is already underway . . . or maybe no one can.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Lisa Turner: Calming, stimulating, and a fountain of happiness. My writing mentor, critic, and cheerleader.

  And with deep gratitude to:

  Deb Smith-my editor who sees the big picture, asks the right questions, and provides sound advice

  Dr. Brian Todd-geophysicist whose expertise draws him to the oceans

  Ed Gardner-expert on deep sea platforms and those who go to sea

  Jeanette Roycraft-for her many insights

  Kelly Brother-illustrator and map maker with boundless curiosity

  Deb Dixon-publisher and astute counselor

  Pam Ireland and Linda Orsburn-who always believed

  V. K. Holtzendorf-for her information on gene sequencing

  Linda Kichline-publisher/editor/friend-in memoriam

  Bart Shea-schooner sailor extraordinaire/friend-in memoriam

  And my thanks to the generous and courageous readers who critiqued my manuscript in its early, most ungainly stages: Dr. Ann Livingston, Eric Murphy, Marq de Villiers and Frank Williams

  Also by Rob Sangster from Bell Bridge Books

  Ground Truth

  A Jack Strider Thriller

  Deep Time

  A Jack Strider Thriller

  Book 2

  by

  Rob Sangster

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-650-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-632-1

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2015 by Rob Sangster

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites:

  BelleBooks.com

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Ship/ocean (manipulated) © Maxirf | Dreamstime.com

  Oil rig (manipulated) © 1971yes | Dreamstime.com

  Map design: Kelly Brother

  Author photo: Hal Jaffe

  :Etdc:01:

  Chapter 1

  July 6

  7:30 p.m.

  Northeast Pacific Ocean

  “ALL HANDS TAKE cover,” Captain Turner shouted into the microphone that reached every space on his ship, Aleutian. “Rocket-propelled grenades incoming. Helmsman, hard to starboard. Engine Room, get us out of here.”

  Turner dove for shelter behind a steel bulkhead on the bridge as a rocket-propelled grenade whistled past and threw up a geyser beyond his ship. A second RPG slammed into the hull just forward of the deckhouse and exploded.

  He’d had Aleutian circling Nikita Maru since dawn, loudspeakers citing the international laws the whaling ship was violating. His crew had dropped small explosives and noise-making devices into the water to scare off any whales in the neighborhood.

  To him, Nikita Maru was far more than a seaborne factory butchering whales its high-tech hunting boats had killed. It represented insatiable corporate greed driving its prey to extinction. He had committed himself to fighting them every way he could. Damn them to hell.

  Very aware that a sister Greenpeace vessel had been rammed and sunk by a similar Japanese ship, he’d felt like a matador engaging a maddened bull, but with no weapon that could kill it. Now the bull had turned on him. He had to flee to save the crew and the ship.

  He kept Aleutian turning until she presented only her stern to the whaler, heavy seas making her an erratic target. The next two RPG shells splashed harmlessly short. Just as he thought Aleutian was out of range, a Hail Mary shot crashed squarely into the fantail.

  “All hands, man your stations. Damage Control, see whether that last shot hit the rudder or steering gear. Communications, tell our Vancouver office what happened, and that we’re running for Seattle.” He looked over his shoulder at his navigator. “How far to the nearest land?”

  “Two hundred ten miles to the Oregon coast, Skipper.”

  The Japanese captain had already been so aggressive he might decide to come after them. If he did, he had the speed to run them down. It would be dark soon, and that also favored the whaler, because its electronic equipment was far superior to Aleutian’s thirty-year-old systems.

  “Jenkins, have the lifeboats made ready. Katie, keep close watch on the radar. Tell me immediately if Nikita Maru is catching up to us.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead. This is going to be a very long night.

  A FEW MINUTES after midnight, the ship entered a pocket of cold air. Captain Turner shivered and said to the helmsman, “Holding up okay, Tommy?”

  “Heavy seas. Doin’ my damnedest to keep on course, sir.”

  For the hundredth time, he stared over Katie’s shoulder at the radar screen. More than once he’d seen ghostly blips that faded away. Must be nerves from worrying that the son of a bitch might run right over his ship. Katie had been aboard only a week, but had already proved smart and strong-minded. She’d kept her attention riveted on the radar screen for hours without a break. He knew if anything real showed up, he could count on Katie to spot it.

  He braced himself against a steel bulkhead while his eyes scanned the darkness. Almost immediately, he saw something unexpected. He squinted. Good God, it isn’t possible.

  “Skipper,” the helmsman shouted, “tell me what—”

  Before he could answer, it was too late.

  Chapter 2

  July 7

  5:00 p.m.

  Tikal, Guatemala

  JACK STRIDER pressed his long frame against a nearly vertical rock face hundreds of feet above the Guatemalan jungle tree canopy.

  His weight rested on his left toes wedged into a crack and his right foot on a slightly higher, angled shelf. He’d jammed his left hand into a shallow crevice above his shoulder, but his right hand was useless, unable to reach any handhold. His muscles quivered from fatigue, ready to let go. He could hang on for only a few more seconds. He’d taken one chance too many.
<
br />   Trying to back down blind would be suicide. His only chance was an unprotected leap for a hold above. If he missed, he’d be dead in however many seconds it would take to plunge into the tree tops far below. The humid stillness was broken by buzzing insects strafing his head.

  Son of a bitch. I was insane to try this climb alone.

  He sucked in a deep breath. Time was up. He had to try.

  Desperate for lift, he shifted more weight to his right foot. As he lunged upward, top layers of rock scaled off, and the shelf collapsed. He hooked his right hand, fingers like talons, over the edge of an impossibly out-of-reach hold. Dangling from his hands, he jerked his left knee up and flattened his climbing shoe against a crease in a column. His stability would only last for a few heartbeats. A one-arm pull-up gained him a higher connection with his left hand. His foot found a niche.

  Adrenaline, skill, and urgency all kicked in, and he moved fluidly from point to point, defying gravity, until he hauled himself across the summit outcrop.

  Muscles burning, he rolled onto his back and tossed his Petzi helmet to the side. After several looping spins across the rock, it dropped out of sight over the lip of the cliff. Damn. There was a spot a few hundred yards away where he could rappel down, but now he’d have to descend with his head unprotected against falling rocks.

  Something that had seemed so important when he’d stood at the bottom of the cliff looking up had vanished a couple of minutes ago when he’d felt trapped. Now it filled his mind again. His old friend, Zalman Amos, fascinated by the ancient Maya civilization, had proposed months ago that they attempt to scale this peak in Guatemala’s Tikal National Park. They both knew the climb would be tough, but the panoramic view of Tikal, seat of power of the Maya empire, was said to be unsurpassed. When Zalman later developed health problems, he’d made climbing to this place the only entry on his bucket list. Then he became too weak to make the trip.

  Thinking the climb was too risky to attempt solo, Jack had invited Debra Vanderberg, his law partner and very significant other, to join him. She was an experienced climber who could hold her own. She was also the love of his life. He remembered how days under a tropical sun and nights wrapped in sultry breezes had stoked their intimacy in the past.

  She had accepted, but had been very reserved on their flight down, keeping busy and avoiding eye contact with him. Not long after they’d reached their room at the Tikal Inn, her frustration had burst out.

  “You keep hiring more lawyers—sure, they’re hotshots, but they’re all expensive, and they need desks and paralegals and. . . . The point is that the firm’s revenues haven’t been keeping up. We’re close to going on the rocks. And you’ve been acting like a stress-bomb because you’re way behind schedule finishing your brief for the make-or-break appearance in federal court coming up. That lawsuit against Armstrong Air Force Base is the most important this firm has ever handled for our clients, for the firm, and for you.”

  Her flashing eyes and flushed cheeks told him that her frustration had transformed into anger—at him.

  “I care about helping people too,” she’d said, “but we can’t keep turning away paying clients. We’re on the edge, and I’m fed up.”

  Caught by surprise, he’d been defensive. That had upset her so much she’d packed up and hired a van to catch a plane to Guatemala City and back to San Francisco.

  The intensity of her feelings had shaken him, but he’d still felt committed to the mission he’d accepted from Zalman. It was about respect. Okay, maybe some of his decision had been a testosterone-fuelled need to prove something to Debra. Taking on this wicked technical climb solo had been nuts, but he hadn’t thought it would almost kill him.

  Giving his nerves a few moments to unclench, he sat crossed-legged at the edge of the cliff, looking down at monumental stone structures built in the fourth century BC, hundreds of years before London was even a settlement on the Thames. Fierce Mayan kings had ruled from Tikal’s palaces until the whole region was mysteriously abandoned in the tenth century. Since then, the grip of the rain forest had taken over. Temples poked above Spanish cedars and mahogany giants laced together by spiny lianas. He couldn’t see the jaguars, ocelots, and coatimundis in the dense forest, but knew they were there. A brilliant red and gold toucan tilted to inspect him as it blazed past far below.

  He reached into his fanny pack and pulled out the cell phone he’d brought to photograph the landscape so important to Zalman. Moving carefully along the ledge, he took the shots and emailed them.

  The ringtone startled him. He hoped it was Debra calling from Guatemala City to say she was coming back to Tikal to work it out. Then he saw Hank Thompson’s name on the screen.

  An instant of disappointment, then pleasure. He and Hank had been good friends since sophomore year of college. They’d rowed on the Stanford crew, double-dated, even bought an old Ford convertible together for $500. Even though they lived hundreds of miles apart and led hectic lives, they found time to get together for some small adventure at least once a year.

  Hank’s job at Greenpeace had led to Jack doing pro bono work for the non-profit. When Hank had asked him to be godfather to his only daughter, Katie, he’d been delighted to accept. With his own parents dead, and having no siblings, it was his chance to become part of a family.

  Katie was no distant goddaughter. Last summer, she’d put her blond hair up in a bun and worked for Debra as an intern. She’d also crewed for him in Saturday sailing races, sure-footed on deck and able to read the wind as well as any seagull. He and Debra thought of her as almost their shared child.

  He’d sworn to himself that as a surrogate father, he’d do a damned sight better job than his own father had. That brought a flash-memory of his father to whom he’d been no more than an extension of ego. He’d been too young then to understand why that hurt. Now he did. He brushed the dark thought back into its cave.

  “Hey, Hank, what’s up?”

  “Katie’s in bad trouble. I need your help.” His voice was raw.

  “Of course. What’s the problem?”

  “Aleutian, our ship in the northeast Pacific, was attacked. Katie is aboard as radar operator.”

  “My God, no. Tell me what happened.”

  Hank told him about the RPG attack by Nikita Maru and Aleutian’s attempt to escape. “Captain Turner said Aleutian was taking on some water but seemed seaworthy. No one was hurt. He thought he could make Seattle unless the whaling ship tracked them down. Using the VHF emergency channel, he hailed what he thought was a fleet of fishing boats a few miles south of him, but they didn’t respond.”

  “Damn them. As soon as Aleutian makes port in Seattle, get depositions from Turner and his crew. We’ll file a complaint against Nikita Maru and track down the fishermen who refused to help.”

  “Aleutian never made it to port, and Captain Turner never contacted us again. That’s why I’m freaked out. We tried to reach him. No answer. We also tried to communicate with ships and aircraft that might be in the area, including the fishing fleet he saw. Nothing.”

  “Then you have no idea where Aleutian is.” Or even if she’s afloat, he didn’t say. “You must have a search going.”

  “Coast Guard Air-Sea Rescue, but they’ve found nothing, not even debris or an oil slick. She’s disappeared.”

  He pictured Katie and the rest of the crew clinging to lifeboats somewhere in the vast northeast Pacific.

  “I know someone who can help search. Give me the coordinates of Aleutian’s last position.” Seconds ticked away. “Hank? Hank, are you there?” Damn it. Some mindless satellite had dropped the call. He tried again. No signal.

  He heard fluttering overhead. Surprised, he turned just as a king vulture—bald head, hooked orange beak, and white shoulders—dropped to the rock a dozen yards away.

  “Get away!” He shouted and waved both arms. Flappi
ng heavy wings, it hopped on its talons but didn’t go far. Others would be on the way, lured by the possibility of a big meal. He hurled a stone. The vulture ignored it.

  He was damn glad Debra wasn’t with him now. He fitted the harness, got the line in his hand, and backed over the side, hanging in space. If he got stuck as he rappelled down and hung motionless against the cliff, he’d have to fight off the vultures. That didn’t matter. Katie needed his help.

  “WELCOME BACK, Sr. Strider,” the clerk at the desk of the Tikal Inn called softly to him as he hurried past the open window of the rustic hotel’s office. “You had a pleasant afternoon I hope,” she said with a tentative smile.

  “I’d call it . . . memorable. Listen, an emergency has come up. I need your help to get back to San Francisco right away.”

  Her eyes opened wider and the corners of her mouth turned down, meaning she knew Debra had left abruptly and alone. Then a smile returned as she assumed that he was doing the right thing, going after his maiden.

  After giving her instructions about lining up transportation and airline tickets, he walked to his thatched-roof bungalow. Distracted by his thoughts, he banged his head on a doorway not designed for someone his height.

  He slumped into an armchair and punched the stored phone number for Frank Williams, president of Google Maps which had exclusive use of the GeoEye satellite. If GeoEye didn’t cover the section of the northeast Pacific where Aleutian had last checked in, he’d know who had a bird that did. The signal was back, so he impressed on Frank the urgent need for satellite reports.

  “I’ll get right on it. If Aleutian is afloat, GeoEye will spot her,” Frank said.

  Jack told him how to contact Hank to get the last coordinates they had for Aleutian.

  “I’ll get them. Problem is, GeoEye is blind until after dawn. I’ll call you as soon as I have something to report.”

  He couldn’t accept that Katie might be lost. If the satellite didn’t find her, then what? The Coast Guard was doing what it could with limited resources, but had found nothing. Maybe an airplane that could fly low, slow patterns over the area like an airborne bloodhound could do better. He wondered how fast he could charter a plane and pilot. Wait a minute! He already knew the perfect pilot for the job. He tapped in a number in Mexico and listened to it ring over and over. No answer. No invitation to leave a message.