“Word has come over from the Gibraltar. They have news about the crash.”

Jack unlocked the door. He hoped some concrete answer had been discovered, something that would dismiss the need to go back down.

Robert stood outside. He waved them all out. “They’re faxing over a copy of the cockpit voice recorder.”

“Then let’s go,” Jack said.

The marine biologist, excited, continued his explanation. “Whatever they found, it has everyone in a buzz. I saw the admiral’s face when he was informed over a scrambled line. He did not look happy. He insisted that a full copy of the cockpit’s final conversation be faxed over to him.”

Jack hurried, climbing the stairs to the main deck, then up the steps to the pilothouse. As he opened the door, he found Houston’s two personal aides inside, in uniform, armed, standing stiffly. They were twin bulldogs, old Navy.

Nearby, the Fathom’s accountant leaned on the pilot seat.

“Where’s the admiral?” Jack asked.

Kendall McMillan pointed toward the closed door to the radio and satellite system. “He’s in there. He told us to wait for him.”

Jack frowned at the closed door. This was his ship. He did not like someone closing him out of his own ship’s heart — even an admiral. He moved to the door, but the two burly aides blocked him, hands on holstered pistols.

Before any confrontation could flare, the door swung open. The first one out was Jack’s dog. Elvis padded from the radio room, tail sweeping back and forth. The admiral followed him. Jack opened his mouth, about to scold the old man, but when he saw the pallor to Mark Houston’s face, he remained silent. Deep wrinkles etched the admiral’s forehead.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

Houston glanced around. The entire ship’s crew was now crammed into the small pilothouse. “Is there a place to get a drink around here?”

Jack waved the others away and turned to his old friend. “Follow me. I have a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch in my stateroom.”

“Just what the doctor ordered.” The admiral smiled, but it came out sickly.

Jack led the way down to the main deck and to his stateroom. He held the door open for the old man.

Once both were inside, Houston nodded back at the door. “Lock it.”

Jack did as ordered. He pointed toward a pair of leather chairs in front of his shelves of nautical memorabilia. Houston crossed to the shelves, touching an ancient sextant. “Is this the one I gave you?”

“After I was accepted to the shuttle mission, yep.”

Huston turned and sank into one of the chairs with a long sigh. For the first time, Jack saw the man’s age. He looked sunken, defeated. The admiral pointed back at the sextant. “So you haven’t completely tossed away your past.”

Jack moved to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. “Not the important things.”

Houston nodded. He was silent for several moments. “Jack, have you made a decision yet on helping us retrieve sections of Air Force One?”

Jack sighed. He poured a couple fingers worth of his private stash into each glass. He knew Houston liked his scotch neat. “No, sir…we’re still doing some diagnostics on the sub.”

“Hmm…” the admiral mumbled, accepting the glass. He sipped thoughtfully, clearly thinking something through. Finally, he settled the glass on a teak captain’s table. Reaching inside his flight jacket, he pulled out a folded sheaf. “Maybe this will help you decide.” He held out the papers.

Jack gripped the proffered sheets, but the admiral did not release them. “This is confidential information. But if you’re going to help us, you should be kept informed.” Houston let go of the report.

Jack moved to his chair. “This is from the cockpit voice recorder?”

“Yes, the last minutes between the cockpit crew.”

Jack sat down and slowly unfolded the papers. As much as he didn’t want to be drawn further into this operation, his curiosity couldn’t be ignored. He read the report.

Jack lowered the sheets. “My God. What happened up there?”

Houston shifted in his seat and reached for the fax sheets. “A chopper is on its way to collect me. I want to listen to the recording myself. But as to the true answer, there’s only one way to find out…. The answer lies down below.”

Jack reached a trembling hand to his glass of scotch. He swallowed its contents in one gulp. The expensive liquor burned all the way to his belly.

“Jack…?”

Jack filled his glass one more time. He leaned back into his seat, sipping more gently at the smooth scotch, appreciating it this time. He met the admiral’s gaze. “I’ll go,” he said simply.

Houston nodded and raised his scotch. Jack reached over and tapped his old friend’s glass with his own. “To absent friends,” Jack said.

Karen hurried across the staff parking lot, late for her lunch meeting with Miyuki. Her friend’s office and lab were on the fourth floor of the old Yagasaki Building, once a government office complex. Ryukyu University had originally been founded by the United States Civil Administration in 1950, built upon the site of the ancient Castle of Shuri, but in 1972 the Japanese took over the administration. Since then the university had spread from its original site into the surrounding countryside and local buildings.

Dashing up the steps and through the double doors, Karen crossed to the stationed guard and flashed her identification card.