Ann peered at a dime-sized object as it scrolled down the screen, easily recognizing it as an old barrel someone had dumped in the ocean.

“The clarity is quite remarkable.”

“The technology’s improved to where you can almost see a carbuncle on a clamshell,” Giordino said.

The seas were empty, save a large powerboat flying a Mexican flag a mile or two away, its occupants busy fishing. Gunn piloted the Drake in a slow, steady pattern, running wide survey lanes north and south. The sonar registered some tires, a pair of playful dolphins, and what looked to be a toilet—but no sunken boats.

After four hours of surveying, they drew near the Mexican powerboat, which held its position with a pair of unmanned fishing rods protruding over its stern.

“Looks like we’ll have to skip a lane to get around those guys,” Gunn said.

Pitt looked out the bridge window at the craft a quarter mile ahead, then turned back to the monitor. He smiled as a triangular object appeared at the top of the screen.

“Won’t be necessary, Rudi. I think we just found her.”

Ann leaned over in puzzlement, then saw the shape expand into a boat’s bow and grow into the full image of a cabin cruiser, sitting upright on the seafloor. Pitt marked the wreck’s position and measured its length against a digital scale.

“Looks to be right at forty feet. I’d say that’s our missing boat.”

Gunn looked at the image, then slapped Pitt on the shoulder.

“Nice work, Dirk. I’ll call the lift barge and get them headed our way.”

Ann stared at the image until it scrolled off the bottom of the screen. “Are you sure you can raise it?”

“It looks intact,” Gunn said, “so that should be no problem for the lift barge.”

“So we’re just going to wait here until the barge arrives?”

“Not exactly,” Pitt said, giving Ann a sly grin. “First, we’re going to drag a Washington spook to the bottom of the sea.”

11

THE SUBMERSIBLE DANGLED FROM A SUSPENSION crane, rotating lazily in the air before Gunn lowered it into the cool waters of the Pacific. He engaged a hydraulic release clamp, which allowed the submersible to drift free. Inside, Pitt tapped the electric motors, powering the sub away from the Drake, while Giordino flooded the ballast tanks from his perch in the copilot’s seat. Ann sat behind them in a cramped third seat, watching with all the excitement of a small child.

Giordino glanced over his shoulder and noticed her fascination with the green murk beyond the view ports. “Ever been diving before?”

“Lots,” Ann said, “but only in a swimming pool. I was a platform diver in college.”

The submersible settled into a slow descent. Beyond the range of the exterior spotlights, the sea quickly turned black.

“I was never one to voluntarily throw myself off high objects,” Giordino said. “How’d you go from jumping off diving boards to chasing bad guys?”

“I was a Marine brat growing up, so I joined ROTC in college. Took my commission with the Navy at graduation and finagled them into paying for law school. I worked at a JAG unit in Bahrain, then spent a few months at Guantánamo, where I made a number of Washington contacts. My military marriage failed about that time, so I decided to try something different. A friend referred me to the NCIS two years ago and I landed in their counterintelligence directorate.”

“You sound like a regular Perry Mason.”

“Used to be. In the JAG’s office I enjoyed the investigations but not the prosecutions. That’s what I like about my current assignment. Most of my work is strictly investigative, which allows me to spend a lot of time in the field. I was assigned the Eberson case to determine if he or the boat had been a target of espionage.”

“We’ll know more shortly,” Pitt said. “The bottom’s coming up.”

Giordino neutralized their ballast as a sandy seabed appeared. Pitt eyed a lobster scurrying across the bottom, which reminded him of his lost meal in Chile. He engaged the thrusters and propelled the submersible forward. They traveled only a short distance before a large white object appeared to their left. Pitt swung the submersible to port and closed on the sunken boat.

In its underwater world, the Cuttlefish appeared like a lost alien. Still pristine and gleaming under the submersible’s lights, it appeared in stark contrast to the dark, lifeless bottom. Pitt brought the submersible in tight, slowly circling the boat’s perimeter. Sitting perfectly upright, she showed no signs of major damage.

“I think she might be breached underneath,” Pitt said, noticing a hairline crack in the hull.

“We’ll see when we raise her,” Giordino replied. “Looks like there’ll be no problem sliding under a pair of slings fore and aft. We should be able to get her up in a jiffy.”

Pitt guided the submersible to the Cuttlefish’s stern, then ascended to peer over the side.

Ann gasped. Wedged against the transom was the body of a man. His pale skin was bloated and shredded in spots where sea creatures had fed on the flesh. A small school of rockfish floated above his face, nibbling at his features.

“Joe Eberson?” Pitt asked in a low tone.

Ann nodded, then averted her eyes.

Pitt took a closer look. Monofilament line was tangled around Eberson’s feet and ankles. The line had looped around a deck cleat, securing the body to the boat when it sank. No wounds or burn marks were readily apparent on the DARPA scientist, but then Pitt saw Eberson’s hands.

They were bloated to nearly double their normal size, the skin discolored with charcoal blotches. It was just as Pitt had seen in Chile.

Like the dead crewman on the Tasmanian Star, Joe Eberson had died a horrific and unexplained death.

12

IT TOOK TWO MORE DIVES FOR THE SUBMERSIBLE TO remove Eberson’s body. A large canvas tarp, hastily sewn into an oversized body bag, was carried to the sunken boat. Using a pair of articulated arms that protruded from the base of the submersible, Pitt slid the bag over Eberson’s head and torso. The monofilament line was cut and the bag brought gently to the surface. Ann insisted on remaining aboard the submersible during the gruesome business of removing and transporting Eberson to the Drake. Once back on deck, Pitt and Giordino set about laying out the slings they would use to raise the Cuttlefish. Soon a decrepit-looking barge with a massive crane arrived at the worksite. Gunn had found the barge in San Diego Harbor, where it was used to support municipal dredging operations. Pitt returned the wave of a friendly-faced man with a gray beard, who was steering the powered barge from a small pilothouse.

Ann joined the two men on deck after she and Gunn briefly examined the body.

“Is that your man?” Giordino asked.

Ann nodded. “We found a waterlogged wallet in his pocket that confirmed as much. We’ll have to leave it to the coroner for a definitive ID and cause of death.”

“A week underwater won’t make that an easy job,” Pitt said.

“At least it appears that his death was accidental. Perhaps they had trouble with the boat and simply drowned.”

Pitt kept silent about Eberson’s hands as he locked one of the slings into the submersible’s steel claws.

Ann observed his work. “Is there much danger of damaging the boat when it’s lifted?”

“We can’t really tell the extent of any structural damage, so the answer is yes. There’s a chance she could collapse on us—but I suspect she’ll pop up without a hitch.”

“Just in case,” Ann said, “I’d like to examine the deck and interior before you make the attempt.”

“We’re about set to make the next dive, so hop aboard.”