“It’s pointing dead aft, right at that tower of rock. This is some kind of high-intensity magnetic field,” Joe said.
At any other time, Kurt would have found that interesting, but ahead of him, lit up by the blazing yellow-green lights, he gazed upon a sight he found hard to believe.
The mast of a great ship sprouted from the ocean floor like a single limbless tree. Beyond it lay a smaller fishing vessel, and just to the left of that was what might have once been the hull of a tramp steamer.
“Joe, do you see this?” he asked.
As Joe angled for a better view, Kurt took the Barracuda right over the three vessels. As he did, they spotted several more. Cargo vessels that looked like the old Liberty ships, rusting hulks covered in a thin layer of algae and sediment. All around them, boxy containers lay strewn about as if they’d been dumped over the side of some ship at random.
He saw the wing of a small aircraft, and four or five more unrecognizable objects that appeared to be man-made.
“What is this place?” Kurt wondered aloud.
“It’s like some kind of ship graveyard,” Joe said.
“What are they all doing here?”
Joe shook his head. “I have no idea.”
They passed over the wrecks, and the ocean bottom slowly returned to normal, mostly sediment and silt, with plant life and bits of coral here and there.
Wanting to go back but realizing they had a more important rendezvous with the surface, Kurt put the Barracuda into a nose-up climb once again. Slowly, the seafloor began to recede.
Then, just before their lights lost contact, Kurt saw something else: the fuselage of a large aircraft, half buried in the silt. Its long, narrow cabin swooped back in graceful flowing lines until it ended in a distinctive triple tail.
Kurt knew that plane. When he was younger, he and his father had built a model of it, which Kurt and a friend had blown to pieces with fireworks they’d found.
The aircraft with the sweeping lines and the triple tail was unique. It was the beautiful Lockheed Constellation.
13
New York City, June 19
THE NEW YORK OFFICES of the Shokara Shipping Company occupied several floors of a modern glass-and-steel structure in midtown Manhattan. An international operator of a hundred seventeen merchant vessels, Shokara kept track of its ships from a control room on the forty-sixth floor, wined and dined potential clients on the forty-seventh, and handled its accounting on the forty-eighth. The forty-ninth floor was reserved for VIPs and corporate executives, and was usually empty except for the cleaning crews, who kept the feng shui–designed space immaculate.
This week, however, was vastly different. Shokara’s president and CEO, Haruto Takagawa, was in residence. As a result, both the level of activity and the level of security had increased many times over.
Takagawa had originally planned to spend a month in New York, enjoying Broadway, the nightlife, and the marvelous museums of the city. At the same time, he would meet with various stockbrokers and members of the Securities and Exchange Commission. By the end of the month he hoped to be announcing Shokara’s listing on the New York Stock Exchange, a private offering to raise more capital and a new subsidiary, Shokara New York, which would begin to handle shipping from the U.S. to Europe and back.
And while those tasks still loomed on his schedule, Takagawa had spent most of the past week dealing with the aftermath of a pirate attack and the sinking of one of his ships, the Kinjara Maru.
The situation was doubly tricky for Takagawa, first because it came at a terrible time, right before the planned corporate moves, and second because the ship itself had been listed as operating out of Singapore for Australia, not out of Africa headed for Hong Kong. That fact had the insurance company claiming the policy was void, as ships off the African coast were hijacked far more often than ships traveling from Asia to Perth or Sydney.
And while those two thorns irritated his side, they would be inconsequential in the long run. A deal would be struck with the insurance company, once they’d weaseled a percent or two off the price, and in a few days no one in New York would care about his sunken ship any more intensely than they cared about a truck that had a flat tire. These things happened.
What did matter was the demands from the buyer in China that they be reimbursed for the cargo that was lost. This was tricky for many reasons, but mostly because of the nature of the cargo itself.
As a Japanese conglomerate, Shokara operated under Japanese law, but in trying to open a U.S.-based subsidiary, Takagawa was expected to comply with American rules. Those rules prohibited the transfer of certain technologies to other countries, and some of the materials on board the Kinjara Maru might well fit that category.
At this particular moment in time, he couldn’t afford for that information to come out. If it did, or if the right people caught wind of the truth and got angry, Takagawa’s time in New York might add up to nothing more than an expensive vacation.
Just when things seemed to be settling down, his intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Takagawa,” his secretary announced. “There are two men in the ground-floor lobby who would like to meet with you.”
Takagawa didn’t bother asking if they had an appointment, they would have been allowed up if that were the case.
“Who are they?”
“Their credentials indicate they are on staff with an American organization known as the National Underwater Maritime Agency,” she said. “They want to talk to you about the Kinjara Maru.”
NUMA. Takagawa knew the Agency well, and not just because chance had allowed some of its agents to spot the piracy on one of his ships and attempt to intervene. He knew all about NUMA from an incident that had occurred more than a decade ago.
Unlike others in the Japanese shipping world, he had a great fondness for the men and women of NUMA. It made his answer that much harder.
“Tell them I cannot speak on this subject,” he said.
Silence returned for a moment, and Takagawa reached over to one side. He flipped on a monitor and pressed a button that allowed him to see the front desk in the lobby.
Two young men in suits stood there, appearing bright-eyed and eager. They looked more like Ivy League lawyers or accountants than the intrepid men he’d once dealt with. Then again, there could be only one reason they wanted to talk to him about the Kinjara Maru. So why not send lawyers?
The secretary’s voice returned. “They say they’re willing to wait all day if they have to, but they must speak with you.”
“They can wait until the end of time,” he said, “but I will not talk to them. Have security escort them out of the building.”
He switched off the video monitor and went back to his work. NUMA could be a problem for him. Takagawa had found they could be a problem for anyone if they wanted to be.
14
Eastern Atlantic, June 20
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AFTER THE DISCOVERY of the marine graveyard, Kurt Austin stood by the Argo’s port railing. The ship was holding station near the subsurface caldera that had nearly swallowed the XP-4, along with Kurt, Joe, and the Barracuda.
As Kurt stared out across the water, the midafternoon sun was starting to fall. It gave the light a warm bronze hue as the shadows stretched out and the air grew more humid. Beneath this pleasant light, the sea appeared calm and glassy, almost oily in complexion, as if the warm sun had lulled it to sleep like a tiger on the African savanna.
Standing there, Kurt reflected on the strange turn of events. Upon reporting the discovery, Kurt and Joe had been publicly thanked by the Portuguese authorities. And then, in private, they’d been scolded, and immediately ordered not to disturb or take anything from the site or even return to it, as if they were vandals or thieves of some kind.
All kinds of orders came down. Officially, the Portuguese insisted these precautions were for safety reasons. In a way, Kurt could understand that. The fluctuating magnetic properties around the rock formations made su
bsurface navigation difficult. At times, when the magnetic field was peaking, steel-hulled submersibles, including the Barracuda, were literally drawn toward it as if being reeled in by a cable. Fighting that pull became harder the closer one got to the tower.
On one run, Kurt had found himself in a position where the current and the magnetic pull were acting in the same direction. God help him if he bumped it, he’d thought.
Shortly after Kurt’s experience, a second sub reported electrical problems. And even days after their exposure, the driver and navigator from the XP-4 continued to complain of headaches and strange issues with their vision. All of which added to the mystery of the place and the conspiracy theories already swirling.
As for the Portuguese government, it had no reason to quash the stories. They might even lead to a bonanza in tourist dollars, something every small island could use.
In some ways, that influx was already beginning. The morning after the discovery, only the Argo had been present. Today, three other tenders had joined it, and if the scuttlebutt was to be believed, there would be ten ships out here the next day, all of them filled with tourists waiting to get a look at the now infamous “Underwater Graveyard.”
Tours of the site were being touted, with press releases going out, and a grainy YouTube video already capturing over a million hits.
In a few days, Kurt guessed he’d be looking at a free-for-all, something like trying to snorkel with a thousand other tourists, with their bright bathing suits and Styrofoam noodles, and yet imagining you were getting a “real life” aquatic experience.
As he pondered this, footsteps approached him from behind. Kurt turned to see Joe Zavala, carrying a frosty tall-necked bottle of beer in each hand.
“Bohemia,” Joe said, handing him one. “Best beer in Mexico.”
Kurt took the bottle and tipped it back, savoring the icy taste on such a hot, humid day.
“Where’d you scrounge this up?” Kurt asked.
“From the captain’s private stock,” Joe said. “Supposed to be for our victory celebration.”
“And the captain let you get your paws on it early?” Kurt asked.
Joe nodded.
“That’s a bad sign,” Kurt replied. “Are we to be shot at sundown?”
“Nah,” Joe said. “But we have now been officially kicked out of the competition.”
Kurt had to laugh. Rules were rules, but stopping to rescue a competitor seemed like a good reason to make an exception.
“So how’s it feel to lose ten million dollars?” Joe asked.
Kurt thought about that. Their chances of winning had been excellent. He took another swig from the bottle and leaned back against the rail. “Suddenly,” he said, “I’m very happy that NUMA would have gotten the money anyway.”
Joe laughed, and both men turned at the sound of a helicopter approaching. They watched a gray Mk 95 Super Lynx cruise in from the east, taking a straight line toward the Argo. As it drew closer, the red-and-green insignia of the Portuguese Navy could be clearly seen on its flank.
It slowed to a hover above the fantail and then began to descend toward the helipad.
A crewman popped out of a hatch near where Kurt and Joe stood just as the helicopter was touching down.
“Cap’n wants you guys in his ready room,” the crewman said.
The timing seemed suspicious.
“Did he say why?” Kurt asked.
The crewman hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “Something to do with our new arrivals, sir.”
The crewman held the door for them, apparently unable or unwilling to say any more.
Joe looked at Kurt. “Now you’ve done it.”
Kurt’s eyebrows went up. “What makes you think this is my fault?”
“Because it always is,” Joe said.
The crewman shifted his weight nervously, then mumbled, “The cap’n said don’t be late.”
Kurt nodded and began moving forward. “I told you the cold beer was a bad sign.”
He stepped inside.
Joe followed. “At least we’re on our own ship,” he said. “They can’t make us walk the plank on our own ship . . . right?”
The door closed behind them, and Kurt guessed they were about to find out.
MINUTES LATER, Kurt, Joe, and Captain Haynes satin chairs around a small conference table. Like everything else on a ship the size of the Argo, this ready room was compact and efficient. But with seven men piled inside, including two high-ranking representatives of the Portuguese Navy and the governor of the Azores Islands chain, it felt a little claustrophobic.
Captain Haynes turned their way.
“Gentlemen, this is Rear Admiral Alexandre Sienna of the Portuguese Navy. He’s been put in charge of this discovery.”
Hands were shook, pleasantries exchanged, and then Admiral Sienna got down to it.
“My government believes you men have found something of great scientific importance,” the admiral began. “For this, Portugal thanks you.”
Reversal number three, Kurt thought. And probably all for nothing.
“Without samples, we don’t know what’s been found,” Kurt began. “But it’s probably just a massive chunk of magnetized iron alloy. I’ll admit, it’s a lot of specialized rock in one place, but this is an old volcano. It might be unusual, but—”
“I promise you, Señor Austin, this is more than unusual,” the admiral said. “Perhaps you have seen the aircraft flying overhead, several times a day?”
Kurt recalled the flybys; Portuguese P-3 Orions. He’d assumed they were keeping an eye on the Argo and the other vessels, as if a few naval personnel from the Forte de São Brás coming on board hadn’t been enough.
The admiral continued. “We have been using sophisticated instruments to study the magnetism. What we have learned so far will astound you. The magnetic force in this area is in constant flux. At one point, it would be enough to lift several hundred tons; an hour later, it’s barely stronger than the standard background level of the earth’s magnetism. And yet several hours further on, the field is more powerful than ever.”
That did astound Kurt, and perhaps it explained why maneuvering around the tower of volcanic rock was so tricky. And yet, from what he knew, ferrous, or iron-based, magnetism did not fluctuate much. That was why stones could be mined, put to use as magnets, and allowed to sit. Some magnets risked demagnetization, but certainly nothing like what the admiral was describing.
“What are you suggesting?” Kurt asked.
“We will have to study the properties to be sure,” the admiral said. “But my scientists tell me you may have discovered a naturally occurring ”—he paused as if looking for the right word—“conductive material. And that under specific geological conditions, perhaps related to underground magma movements or even fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field, this tower of rock and metal becomes vigorously charged. As such, it exerts incredible magnetic force on objects around it.”
“Vigorous,” Joe added. “I like that. It all but pulled us in during one of those vigorous fluctuations.”
“Yes,” the admiral said. “That seems to be what it does. The experts we have spoken with think this magnetic structure may have pulled in all the ships and other objects you see resting in that caldera.”
Kurt’s eyes went wide. He felt as if they were rapidly entering UFO and Amelia Earhart territory.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “We made it out of there towing the XP-4 along with us. I saw cargo ships down there, and at least two aircraft. You’re telling me you think this thing drew them in like some kind of siren from Greek mythology?”
The admiral looked shocked by Kurt’s boldness. Captain Haynes looked just as appalled.
Joe leaned over. “Remember the plank,” he whispered. “Walking it. Swimming with los tiburones.”
Kurt took a breath. “My apologies, Admiral. It’s just that this is something of great scientific interest, and, from the looks of things, it’s being turne
d into an amusement park. We should research it. At least, someone should, even if it’s not us. But it gets a lot harder to do any real science when the claims get so astronomical.”
“Yes,” the admiral said, looking disappointed. “Perhaps you are right, but, I assure you, the electromagnetic forces we have already measured are, in fact . . . astronomical.”
Kurt felt as if the admiral was waiting for him, maybe even baiting him, but he couldn’t help but bite. “What are you getting at?”
“Do you know what a superconductor is?”
“The basics,” Kurt said, not actually sure that he knew the basics. “They’re materials that conduct electricity without any resistance. I always hear that they’re going to end up being used in magnetically levitated trains and things like that someday.”
Captain Haynes took over for the moment, and Kurt got the distinct feeling the two men had already discussed the subject, perhaps not alone.
“Superconductors do all that and more,” Haynes began. “Their properties make them perfect for any electronic application. From operating a computer to powering a magnetically levitated train to electrical motors for cars that get the equivalent of five hundred miles per gallon. According to one study, replacing the U.S. electrical grid with superconducting wires would reduce the amount of power needed to light the country by forty percent. You could immediately shut down five hundred coal-burning power plants at least.”
“Didn’t know you were such an expert, Captain.”
“I wasn’t three hours ago,” the captain replied. “Been talking with the admiral here and the folks back at NUMA all day.”
“I see,” Kurt said. “So these superconductors might do something for global warming. Especially if extrapolated to the rest of the world. What’s the holdup?”
“Most superconductors only work at incredibly low temperatures,” the captain explained. “Usually one has to chill them with liquid nitrogen or something similar to create the superconducting effect.”