Now the blackness beyond the porthole was absolute. He peered down into the inky depths below. Somewhere down there lay a beyond-state-of-the-art facility-along with something else, something unknown, waiting for him beneath the silt and sand of the ocean floor.

As if on cue, Richardson reached for something beside his seat and passed it over. "Dr. Asher asked me to give you this. Said it might give you a bit to think about on the ride down."

It was a large blue envelope, sealed in two places and stamped with numerous warnings: CLASSIFIED. EYES ONLY. PROPRIETARY AND HIGHLY SECRET. At one corner was a government seal and a lot of small print full of dire warnings to whoever dared violate its confidentiality pact.

Crane turned the envelope over in his hands. Now that the moment had finally come, he felt a perverse reluctance to open it. He hesitated another moment, then carefully broke the seals and upended the envelope.

A laminated sheet and a small pamphlet dropped onto his lap. He picked up the sheet and glanced at it curiously. It was a schematic diagram of what appeared to be a large military installation, or perhaps a vessel, with the legend DECK 10-PERSONNEL QUARTERS (LOWER). He looked it over a moment, then put it aside and reached for the pamphlet.

The title Code of Classified Naval Conduct was stamped onto its cover. He flipped the pages, scanning the numerous articles and lists, then closed it with a snap. What was this, Asher's idea of a joke? He picked up the envelope and peered inside, preparing to put it aside.

Then he noticed a single folded paper stuck within. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and began to read. As he did so, he felt a strange tingle start at his fingertips and travel quickly until it had consumed his entire frame:

EXTRACT FOLLOWS

Ref No. ERF-10230a

Abstract: Atlantis

i. First recorded description

ii. Precipitating events for submergence (conjecture)

iii. Date of submergence: 9500 B.C.

Source: Plato, Timaeus dialogue

History tells of a mighty power which made an expedition against the whole of Europe. This power came out of an island in the Atlantic Ocean; it was larger than Libya and Asia put together, and was the route to other islands, and from these you might pass to the opposite continent which surrounded the true ocean.

Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great empire which ruled over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent. But then there occurred violent earthquakes and floods, and in a single day and night of misfortune the island of Atlantis disappeared far into the depths of the sea…

END OF EXTRACT

This brief quotation from Plato was all the sheet contained. But it was enough.

Crane let the document fall to his lap, staring out the porthole without seeing. This was Asher's coy welcome aboard-his way of telegraphing precisely what was being excavated two miles below the ocean's surface.

Atlantis.

It seemed beyond belief. And yet all the pieces fit: the secrecy, the technology, even the expense. It was the world's greatest mystery: the flourishing civilization of Atlantis, cut short in its prime by a cataclysmic eruption. A city beneath the sea. Who were its inhabitants? What secrets did they possess?

He waited, motionless in his seat, for the tingle of excitement to recede. And yet it did not. Perhaps, he decided, this was all a dream. Perhaps the alarm would go off in a few minutes, he'd wake up, and it would be just another sweltering day in North Miami. All this would evaporate and he'd be back to the old grind, trying to decide on a new research position. That had to be the answer. Because it wasn't possible he was descending to an ancient, long-hidden city or that he was about to become a participant in the most complex and important archaeological excavation of all time.

"Dr. Crane?"

At the sound of Richardson's voice, Crane roused himself abruptly.

"We're nearing the Facility," Richardson said.

"Already?"

"Yes, sir."

Crane glanced quickly out the porthole. At two miles down, the ocean was an intense silty black the exterior lights could barely penetrate. And yet there was a strange, ethereal glow that came-against all logic-from below, rather than above. He leaned closer, glanced downward, and caught his breath.

There, perhaps a hundred feet below them, lay a huge metallic dome, its perimeter buried in the sea floor. About halfway down its side, an open, circular tunnel about six feet across led inward, like the mouth of a funnel; otherwise, the surface was smooth and without blemish. There were no markings or insignia of any kind. It looked exactly like the crown of a gigantic silver marble, peeping up from a bed of sand. A bathyscaphe identical to the one he was in sat tethered to an escape hatch on the far side. At the dome's summit, a small forest of sensors and communications gear sprouted around a bulky object shaped like an inverted teacup. From all over the dome's surface, a thousand tiny lights winked up at him like jewels, flickering in and out in the deep ocean currents.

Hidden beneath this protective dome was Deep Storm: a cutting-edge city of technological marvels. And somewhere beneath Deep Storm-as ancient as the recovery Facility was new-lay the unknown mystery and promise of Atlantis.

Staring, entranced, Crane realized he was grinning like an idiot. He glanced over at Richardson. The petty officer was watching him and grinning, too.

"Welcome to Deep Storm, sir," he said.

Kevin Lindengood had worked everything out with fanatical attention. He knew the game was potentially dangerous-maybe even very dangerous. But it was a game about preparation and control. He was well prepared, and he was in complete control. And that was why there was nothing to worry about.

He leaned over the hood of his beat-up Taurus, watching the Biscayne Boulevard traffic pass by. This gas station was on one of Miami 's busiest thoroughfares. You couldn't ask for a more public place. And a public place meant safety.

He loitered by the air pump, hose in hand, pretending to check the tires. It was a hot day, well over ninety, but Lindengood welcomed the heat. On the Storm King oil platform, he'd had enough ice and snow to last several lifetimes. Hicks and his damn iPod, Wherry and his swaggering…there was no way in hell he wanted to go back to that life. And if he played his cards right today, he wouldn't have to.

As he straightened up from the front passenger tire, a black sedan pulled into the station and parked in the service area, a dozen feet away. With a thrill that was half excitement and half fear, Lindengood saw his contact get out of the driver's seat. The man was wearing the clothes he had insisted on for the meeting: tank top and swimming trunks. No chance to conceal a weapon of any kind.

He glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock: the man had arrived precisely on time.

Preparation and control.

Now the man was walking toward him. In prior meetings, he'd said his name was Wallace, but had never volunteered a last name. Lindengood was fairly certain even Wallace was an alias. He was thin, with a swimmer's physique. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses and limped slightly as he walked, as if one leg was a bit shorter than the other. Lindengood had never seen the man in a tank top before, and he couldn't help but be amused at how pale his skin was. Clearly, this was a fellow who spent most of his time in front of a computer.

"You got my message," Lindengood said as the man approached.

"What's this about?"