The third thief stepped into the hall from the stairwell, a rifle at his shoulder. Clearly their lookout.
The man fired, the blast deafening.
But Karen and Miyuki were no longer there. Both women had leaped through the door into the office. The wooden door frame burst into shards behind them.
Inside, one of the men lunged for the fallen pistol. Karen fired. The man’s hand blew back in a spray of blood. Moaning, he rolled away from the discarded weapon, his bloody fist clutched to his chest.
Karen darted farther into the room, giving her space to cover both men and the doorway.
The last man kept his hands raised, unmoving. It was not fear that kept him steady. Karen saw it in his eyes. His calmness was almost unnerving. He backed a step, then sidled along the wall, clearly offering no threat. He kicked his wounded companion and barked something in his foreign tongue. The bloodied man crawled across the floor, in the direction of the door.
Karen’s pistol followed them. She did not shoot. Not in cold blood. If they were leaving, then let them. Hopefully, university security would capture them on the way out. But the reason for her restraint was not solely because the others were unarmed. The first man’s eyes did not leave hers. In his gaze, she continued to see a calmness that belied their situation.
Then the rifleman appeared in the doorway. Before he could swing on them, the first man knocked his companion’s gun barrel aside. He eyed Karen and Miyuki, and spoke rapidly in Japanese, his accent thick. Then the trio left, the un-injured two helping their wounded companion.
Karen did not lower her pistol, even after their footsteps faded away. “What did he say?” Karen asked Miyuki.
“H-He said that we do not know what we have discovered. It was never supposed to be unearthed.” Miyuki glanced at the hidden wall safe, then back at Karen. “It is a curse upon us all.”
10:34 P.M., USS Gibraltar, Central Pacific
David Spangler led his team across the wet deck, sticking to shadows. The storms had grown worse by nightfall. Thunder boomed like distant mortar fire, while spats of lightning turned night to day for flickering seconds. Nearby, waves smashed against the flanks of the carrier, washing as high as the deck itself.
After the evening meal, the NTSB investigators had retreated to their own bunks, many seasick, abandoning the wreckage until the storm abated. Additionally, David had declared the hangar deck to be unsafe for personnel with the ship heaving to and fro, especially with all the loose pieces of wreckage. He had ordered the hangar deserted until the storm died down. Green-faced and holding their stomachs, none of the NTSB personnel had argued. Afterward, David assigned his men to guard the abandoned hangar’s entry points.
With the night complete and the storm in full rage, David had chosen this moment to proceed with their plan. Sheltering for a moment in the lee of the giant superstructure, he spotted the two men guarding the entrance to the hangar ramp tunnel. One of the pair lifted a flashlight high, signaling it was all clear, then doused the light.
Diving into the sweeps of rain, David hurried forward, shielding a thick case against his chest. Behind him the other three men, laden with their own satchels, kept pace, moving with confident skill across the pitching deck.
David slid into the tunnel entrance and crouched beside the pair of guards. “All clear?”
“Yes, sir,” his second-in-command reported. “The last of them left half an hour ago.”
David nodded, satisfied. He turned to the others. “You know your duties. Keep up your guard. Handel and Rolfe with me.”
The two men collected the equipment satchels. David kept his own case. He led them into the tunnel entrance.
It grew darker as they proceeded down. At the bottom there were no lights. Pausing, David slipped on his night vision goggles and switched on his UV lantern. The stacks of wreckage appeared out of the gloom, limned in dark purple and white. He waved the others to follow.
Striding briskly, he moved down the central corridor of the makeshift warehouse. No one spoke. David flashed his ultraviolet light along the numbered side aisles. At last he found number 22. Pausing, he cast his light around. There was no sign of anyone else here, but the boom of thunder and the rattle of rain muffled even their own footsteps. It set David’s teeth on edge. When he worked, he depended on the full use of all his senses.
He searched for a full minute more, then lowered the UV light. He stood beside one of the jet’s hulking General Electric engines. Except for impact damage, it was intact. He now knew where he was, and led the way to the side. His goal appeared out of the darkness: a crate marked with the designation 1-A on its side. It contained the first bit of wreckage raised to the surface.
He nodded to his men.
The pair donned surgical gloves, intending to leave no fingerprints. They worked efficiently, with minimal wasted movement. Rolfe pulled a small crowbar from his bag and loosened the crate’s nails. Gregor Handel slid to his knees and primed the bomb’s electronics with four cubes of C-4, enough to blow away several yards of wreckage around it.
David knelt and set down his own thick case, snapping the bindings loose.
“I’m ready, sir,” Gregor said beside him.
David nodded and opened his case. It held the mission’s true prize. Resting on the felt interior was a jade sculpture—the bust of a Chinese warrior.
Even through the night vision goggles, he recognized the fine work. He smiled with pride. This aspect of the plan was pure brilliance on his part. He had ordered the bust fabricated after the first day’s dive on the wreck. It was an exact duplicate of the bust Jack Kirkland had rescued from the seabed. The handsome object was a fragment of the Chinese Premier’s original gift, a jade replica of an ancient warrior seated on his horse. When David had first seen the fragment, he quickly modified his original strategy. It occurred to him now that he should thank Kirkland for this opportune turn of events.
He unscrewed the bust’s ear, revealing a hidden compartment in the jade. He passed the bit of sculpture to his electronics expert. Working deftly, Gregor slid the bomb in place and checked all the wires and transmitters.
Nearby, Rolfe extracted the original bust from the crate’s bubble packing and settled it within their own case.
David glanced at his watch. Only a minute had passed.
“I need some real light,” Gregor hissed, bent over the false bust. He pulled back his night vision goggles. “This Chink electronics is crap. I need to double-check the connections.”
David nodded to Rolfe. The man knelt and shone a small flashlight toward the chunk of jade. David pushed aside his own night vision goggles.
Gregor tilted his head, fingers working over the explosive unit. The timers and detonators had been stolen last week from a Chinese black market dealer; perfect to lay a false trail.
Gregor sighed in relief and held the bust toward David. “All set.”
David accepted it and screwed the jade ear in place. “Let’s get going,” he said, standing up.
As he stepped toward the crate, a call echoed across the dark tent. “Who’s out there!”
David and the others froze. Rolfe flicked off his flashlight. The men returned to night vision. Deeper in the tent, a new light bloomed. It lay over by the electronics bay.
“Show yourself, or I’ll call Security!”
David thought quickly. He now recognized the voice. It was Edwin Weintraub, the NTSB lead investigator. He bit back a curse. The hangar was supposed to be empty. David leaned over to Rolfe. “Shut him down. Minimal harm.”
Rolfe nodded and backed swiftly away, disappearing into the darkness.
Quickly, David adjusted his plans. It was what made him such a successful field commander. In the real world, few plans proceeded as planned. For a mission to succeed, a plan had to be liquid, capable of changing at a moment’s notice. Like now…
David stood, shouting, “Quiet down, Weintraub! It’s just me!”
“Commander Spangler?” The edge of panic in the man’s voice died down.
“I’m just checking to make sure everything is secure before retiring. What are you doing here?”
“I was taking a nap on my cot in the back. My computer is compiling data. I’m waiting for it to finish.”
“You shouldn’t be out in this storm.”
“Everything’s insulated and surge-protected. There’s no danger.”
That’s what you think. David knew that Rolfe should almost be in position. He raised his voice, keeping Weintraub’s attention on him. “Fine! If you’ve got everything in hand, I’m heading out. The guards will be outside all night if you have any problems.”
“Thanks! But I’ll be all—Hey, who are—”
David heard a loud crash. He frowned. Rolfe was better than that. Sloppy work.
“All clear!” Rolfe called out.
“I’m sending Handel over to help you. Bring that slimy sack of shit over here.”
Gregor straightened, a look of inquiry on his face, but the man knew better than to question an order. David waved him forward. Gregor quickly vanished.
As he waited, David lowered the bust to the deck and collected their tools. This unfortunate blunder could be turned to their advantage. His original plan was to set off the explosive device during the workday tomorrow. A few men would probably die, but it was a small price to pay. But now he recalibrated his plans.
Beyond the rumble of the storm, he heard the scrape of boot on deck. He turned in time to see his two men edge into aisle 22, Weintraub’s slack form slung between them. His wrists and ankles were lashed with plastic straps, his mouth sealed with duct tape. The large man moaned and struggled feebly, clearly dazed by the attack.
“Bring him here and dump him.”
The pair lowered their captive to the deck. “I’m sorry, sir,” Rolfe apologized. “I slipped on some grease. He saw me before I could silence him.”
“Poor work all around,” David said harshly. “Weintraub shouldn’t even be here.”
“His cot was hidden behind a wall of wreckage. His computer’s monitor was switched off. In the dark—”