He broke stride when he spotted Pitt and Bennett approach and met them at the gangway, still clutching the dive tanks.

“Greetings, Kemosabe,” he said to Pitt, “welcome back to the salt air. You have a good flight?”

“Quite. The Vice President fixed it so we could hop a Navy Gulfstream that was flying a couple of admirals to Coronado.”

“And I always end up on a Greyhound bus.” Giordino gazed at Bennett and smiled. “Another attempt to add beauty and sophistication to the crew?”

“Ann Bennett, this is Albert Giordino, NUMA’s Director of Technology—and occasional leering deckhand. Miss Bennett is with the NCIS and is joining us on the search.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Giordino.”

“Please, call me Al.” He rattled the tanks. “We can shake hands later.”

“I don’t think we’ll need those on this hunt,” Pitt said. “The water will likely be too deep.”

“Rudi only said that we had an underwater recovery job. He didn’t say what it was.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know. Is he aboard?”

“Yes. We all just returned from the funeral this morning.”

“Buddy Martin?”

Giordino nodded. Martin, the Drake’s captain, had died unexpectedly from a sudden illness.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in time,” Pitt said. “Buddy was a man of true loyalty and a dear pal. He’ll be sorely missed.”

“He bled turquoise,” Giordino said, referring to the color all NUMA craft were painted. “But now Rudi has taken temporary command of the ship. A regular Captain Bligh, if you ask me.”

Pitt turned to Ann. “I usually try to keep Rudi as close to Washington as possible, in order to safeguard the NUMA budget.”

“You’ll find him in the lab,” Al said, “tending to his flock of deepwater fish.”

Pitt and Ann found a pair of empty cabins and tossed their travel gear in them, then went hunting for Rudi Gunn. The search didn’t take long for the Drake was compact, both the newest and smallest in the NUMA fleet. Barely over a hundred feet, the research ship was designed for inshore survey work but was also more than capable in blue water. Her cramped deck carried a three-man submersible and an autonomous underwater vehicle. Any enclosed space not devoted to her small crew was configured as research labs.

They entered one of the labs and found it nearly pitch-black. With the lights off and the windows sealed, the only illumination was cast by a few tiny blue bulbs overhead. Pitt figured the lab’s air-conditioning unit must have been working nonstop as the temperature felt like the low fifties.

“Keep the door closed, please.”

As their eyes adjusted, they spotted the voice’s owner, a thin man in a jacket hunched over a large tank that almost filled the room. He wore a set of night vision goggles and was staring intently into the tank.

“Spying on the mating habits of the grunion again, Rudi?” Pitt asked.

Recognizing the voice, the man bolted upright and spun to greet the intruders.

“Dirk, I didn’t know it was you.” Gunn tore off the goggles and replaced them with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A brainy ex–Navy commander, Gunn served as NUMA’s Deputy Director. Like his boss, he escaped the confines of the Washington headquarters at every opportunity.

Pitt introduced Gunn to Ann.

“Why the cold, dark room?” she asked.

“Come take a look.” Gunn handed her the night vision goggles.

He guided her to the edge of the tank, where she slipped on the goggles and peered inside. A half dozen small fish swam in a lazy circle, glowing blue under the augmented light. But they were unlike any fish Ann had ever seen—flat translucent bodies, giant protruding eyes, and multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth jutting from their open mouths. She took a quick step back from the tank.

“What are those things? They’re hideous.”

“Rudi’s pet creatures of the deep,” Pitt said.

“Evermannella normalops is their scientific name,” Gunn said, “but we call them sabertooths. They’re an unusual species found only in very deep water. We discovered a large school of them thriving around a deepwater thermal vent near Monterey and decided to try and capture a few to study. Took quite a few dives with the submersible, but we brought up twenty of them. These are the last few we haven’t moved to shore yet.”

“They look like they’d eat you out of house and home.”

“Despite their appearance, we believe they are non-predatory. They’re actually quite docile. They don’t seem interested in eating other fish, so we think they may be scavengers.”

She shook her head. “I’m still not going to stick my hand in the tank.”

“Don’t worry,” Pitt said, “your cabin door has a lock on it, in case they grow legs in the night.”

“They’re no worse than a pet goldfish,” Gunn said. “Albeit, an ugly goldfish that can live a mile deep.”

“We’ll leave them in your care,” Pitt said. “Rudi, how soon can we shove off?”

Gunn tilted his head. “I think we can make like that pizza delivery outfit. Thirty minutes or less.”

“Then let’s get under way,” Pitt said. “I’m curious to find out where Ann is going to take us.”

TRUE TO HIS WORD, Gunn had the Drake inching away from the dock a half hour later. Ann joined him on the bridge with Pitt and Giordino, watching the green hills of Point Loma drift past as they exited the harbor. Feeling more secure at sea, she opened up and explained their objective to Gunn and Giordino, then handed Pitt a small piece of paper.

“Here’s the coordinates where the two bodies were picked up. Apparently they were within sight of each other.”

“That may be a good indication the currents didn’t get too daffy with them,” Giordino said.

Pitt typed the coordinates into the Drake’s navigation system, which plotted the position as a triangle on the digital map display. It lay just beyond a small rocky island grouping off the Mexican coast called the Coronados.

“The currents run southerly along the coast,” Pitt said, “so that would likely define a lower boundary from which to conduct the search.”

“The coroner’s report placed their time of death between eight and ten hours earlier,” Ann said.

“That gives us something to work with.” Pitt drew a box on the map with a cursor. “We’ll start with a ten-mile-square grid, working north of the discovery point, and expand beyond that as necessary.”

Ann contemplated the size of the Drake, then asked Pitt, “How are you going to handle the recovery?”

Pitt tilted his head at Gunn. “Rudi?”

“I found a local barge and crane that’s waiting on call. It’ll come to the site once we find her. I guess I should have asked, but how big a boat are we looking for?”

Ann glanced at her notes. “The Cuttlefish was registered at forty feet.”

“We’ll get her up.” Gunn took over the helm and set the Drake on a path to Pitt’s grid.

Two hours later, they reached the site where a passing sailboat had found the bodies of Heiland and his assistant Manny. Pitt saw the depth was around four hundred feet. He decided to conduct the search using the vessel’s towed array sonar, choosing ease of deployment over the deeper-diving AUV. Crewmen at the stern deployed the bright yellow sonar fish, which was soon relaying electrical pulses to a processing station on the bridge via its tethered cable. Pitt took a seat at the controls and adjusted the cable winch until the fish was skimming a few meters above the bottom.

Ann stood glued to Pitt’s shoulder, staring at the monitor that displayed a gold-tinted image of the sandy, undulating seafloor.

“What will the boat look like?”

“We’re running a wide swath, so it will appear small in scale but should be readily identifiable.” He pointed to the screen. “Here, you can see what a fifty-five-gallon drum looks like in comparison.”