Текст книги "Deep Fathom"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Jack touched his throat mike. “Say again.”

He received just static and garble.

Frowning, he eased off the thruster pedals, meaning to retreat clear of the hold’s walls. Then his eyes caught a bright glint from deeper in the hold. He glided the craft gently forward, nose down. His lamps now splayed the floor.

Amid the crates, against the far wall, was a sight that drew a sharp whistle from him. The swipe of the orefish’s tail as it lunged from its nest had brushed free a few bricks, black with algae, from the top of an impressive pile. The exposed section revealed the bricks deeper in the pile.

Gold, shining brighter than a Caribbean sun in the reflection of the xenon lamps.

Jack inched closer, not believing his luck. Once in range, he settled his hands on the controls to the external hydraulic manipulator arms. Having practiced at length, he was familiar with their use. Manning the controls, he extended the left arm’s pincers to their full length of fifteen feet. He gripped one of the black bricks, bringing it up to the light. With the other arm, he carefully scraped the surface.

“Gold.” There was no doubt. He grinned widely and used the other arm to grab another brick, then tapped his throat mike. He had to tell topside. Static squelched sharply. He had forgotten about the interference by the hull. He backed the sub slowly, careful not to get hung up on the debris, meanwhile running through several different salvage scenarios. Float bags wouldn’t work. They’d have to hook a dredge to the sub and make a few hauls.

The sub finally cleared the hold and reentered open water. He was instantly assaulted by someone yelling in his ear. “Get out of there, mon! Now! Jack, get your ass away from there!” It was Charlie. Panicked.

“What is it?” Jack yelled back. He glanced at the external temperature reading. It had climbed almost fifty degrees. In the fever of discovering the gold, he had failed to notice the rising temperature. “Oh shit!”

“The seismic readings are spiking, Jack. Radiating out from your location. Haul ass! You’re sitting on the goddamn epicenter!”

Jack’s Navy training kicked in. He knew when to obey orders. He swung the submersible up and away, chasing after cooler waters, pushing the Nautilusto its maximum speed of four knots. Jack craned his neck around. “Damn.”

The forward section of the Kochi Maruhad melted halfway into the magma pool. The crisscrossing of magma cracks had widened. But the most ominous sight was how the seabed now bulged, like a bubble about to burst.

Jack had both pedals to the floor, jerking the nose of the submersible toward the distant surface. He blew all his ballast. The thruster motors whined as he pushed them to the extreme.

“Damn, damn, damn…” he swore in a continuous litany.

“Jack, something’s happening. The readings are—”

He heard it before he felt it. A monstrous roaring from the hydrophones, like thunder rolling through hills. Then the sub caught the shockwave’s edge, tumbling end over end.

Jack’s head struck the optical acrylic dome. As he spun he caught fleeting glimpses of the seabed.

A flaming wound gaped below him. Magma blew forth, spattering upward. A volcano had opened directly under him. As he flew upward, spinning without control, the seas around him began to boil. Bubbles as big as his sub bombarded his ship, striking like fists.

He fought the thrusters to maintain some semblance of direction, but was shaken and jarred about. He tasted blood on his tongue. He tried to raise the Deep Fathom, yelling. But static was his only response.

For what seemed an endless time he rode the chain of bubbles toward the surface, fighting for control of the sub. He had to get clear of the volcanic stream. As his ship tumbled, an idea came to him. To survive a riptide a swimmer had to stop fighting it.

He lifted his foot off the right pedal and tapped only the left thrusters. Instead of trying to stop his spin, he made the vehicle spin faster. He was soon pinned to the port side of the sub by the centrifugal forces. Still, he kept engaging just the left thrusters. “C’mon…c’mon…”

Then one of the monster bubbles struck the undercarriage of the submersible. The spinning sub tilted nose-up. The sudden shift pitched the craft end over. Like a skipping stone, the Nautilusshot free of the bubble stream.

As the sub’s tumble slowed, Jack pulled himself back into his seat. His feet worked the pedals and halted the spin. Sighing in relief, he aimed for the surface, noting that the midnight waters had already lightened to a weak twilight. Craning his neck upward, he saw the vague glow of the distant sun.

The static in his ear cleared. “Jack…answer us…can you hear us?”

Jack replaced the throat mike. The adhesive had torn away during his assault. “All clear here,” he said harshly.

“Jack!” The relief in Lisa’s voice was like a cool spray of water. “Where are you?”

He checked the depth gauge. Two hundred twenty feet. He couldn’t believe his rate of ascent. It was lucky his sub was a sealed one-atmosphere vehicle, maintaining a constant internal pressure. If not, he would have died of the bends before now. “I’ll be surfacing in about three minutes.”

Glancing at his compass, Jack frowned. The needle spun around as if still dizzy from the tumble. He tapped at it, but the needle continued to spin. He gave up and touched his mike. “Compass is fried. Not sure how far off I am, but once up, I’ll hit the GPS beacon so you can track me.”

“And what about you? Are you okay?”

“Just bruised and battered.”

Charlie came on the line. “For someone who just survived a volcanic eruption under the seat of his pants, you are damn lucky, mon. I wish I could’ve seen it.”

Jack grinned. The birth of an undersea volcano was surely a geologist’s wet dream. Jack fingered the hard knot atop his head, wincing. “Believe me, Charlie, I wish you had been here instead of me, too.”

Around Jack, the waters grew from a deep purple to a lighter aquamarine. “Coming up,” he said.

“What about the Kochi Maru?” a new voice asked, hopeful. Jack was surprised to hear from Professor George Klein, the ship’s historian and cartographer. The professor seldom left the Deep Fathom’s extensive library.

Jack suppressed a groan. “Sorry, Doc. She’s gone…so is the gold.”

With disappointment, George finally responded, “Well, we can’t even be certain the Kochi Maru’s manifests were accurate. During the war, the Japanese often falsified records to mask their gold shipments.”

Jack pictured the tall pile of bricks. “It was accurate,” he said gloomily.

Charlie came back on the line. “Hey, Jack, it seems you were not the only one shaken up. Reports are coming in from all over. Earthquakes and eruptions have been rattling the entire Pacific, coast-to-coast.”

Jack frowned. What did he care? Since leaving the world behind twelve years ago, he had little interest in the rest of the planet. All that mattered was this single eruption. It had cost him not only a huge fortune, but possibly even his ship. “Signing off,” he said with a long sigh. “Be topside in one minute.”

He watched the water grow lighter. Soon the bubble of his dome broke the surface. The brightness of the afternoon sun stung. He shaded his eyes. Off to the west, the seas burbled with steaming bubbles, marking the site of the undersea volcano. But off to the southeast, he spotted a dark blip. The Deep Fathom.

He hit the distress beacon, activating the GPS locator, then leaned back to wait. As he stared out over the water, a glint caught his eye. Curious, he sat up straighter. He reached and fingered the RMS controls to lift the two external arms. As they were raised, seawater dripped from the titanium limbs.

Jack sat straighter, bumping his head again. “It can’t be….”

Sunlight shone brightly off two large bricks, one clamped in each pincer. He’d forgotten about grabbing them before fleeing the hold of the Kochi Maru. The gold bars had been scrubbed clean by the rough flight to the surface, but luckily, they had remained clamped in the hydraulic grips.

He whistled appreciatively. “Things are suddenly looking brighter.”

George’s voice came on the line again. “Jack, we’ve got your GPS signal.”

“That’s great!” Jack said, jubilant, barely hearing the words. “And make sure you have the champagne chilled!”

George’s response was clearly puzzled. “Oh…okay…but I thought you should know we just received a call on the Globalstar.”

Jack sobered, sensing an undercurrent of tension. “Who’s calling?”

A long pause. “Admiral Mark Houston.”

Jack felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach. His former naval commander. “Wh-What? Why?” He had hoped never to hear that name again. He had put that life behind him.

“He’s ordered us to a set of coordinates. About four hundred nautical miles from here, and—”

Jack clenched his fists, interrupting. “Ordered us? Tell him to take his order and shove it up—”

Now George interrupted. “There’s been a plane crash. A rescue operation is being gathered.”

Jack bit his lip. It was the Navy’s right to ask for his aid. The Deep Fathomwas a registered salvage ship. Still, Jack found his hands trembling.

Old memories and emotions flared brighter. He remembered his awe at seeing the shuttle Atlantisshining brightly in the Florida sunshine, and the pride he felt upon learning he would be the first Navy SEAL to fly in that bird. But shadowing these pleasant memories were darker ones: flames, searing pain…a gloved hand reaching for him, voices screaming…slipping, tumbling…an endless fall.

Seated in the Nautilus, Jack felt as if he were still falling.

“Did you hear me, Jack?”

Shaking, he could not breathe, let alone answer.

“Jack, the plane that crashed…it’s Air Force One.”

2
Dragons of Okinawa

July 25, 6:30 A.M.

Naha City, Island of Okinawa, Japan

Crouching behind an alley trash bin, Karen Grace tried her best to avoid the military patrol. As she hid, two armed servicemen sauntered into view, flashlights in hand. One of them stopped to light a cigarette. Holding her breath, Karen prayed for them to pass. In the light of the match, she noticed the insignia on a sleeve. U.S. NAVY.

After yesterday’s earthquakes, a state of martial law had been declared throughout the prefectures of Japan, including the southern island chain of Okinawa. Looters had been plaguing the city and outlying areas. The island leaders, overwhelmed by the level of destruction and chaos, had requested support from the local American military bases, to aid in clean-up, rescue, and protection of the damaged city.

The city’s leaders had set a curfew for Naha from dusk to dawn, and Karen was breaking that new law. The sun was still a half hour from rising.

Move…keep walking, she silently urged them.

As if hearing her, one of the men raised his flashlight and shone it down the alley. Karen froze, closing her eyes, afraid any movement would draw his attention. She wore an embroidered dark jacket and black slacks, but she wished she had thought to cover her blond hair. She felt exposed, sure the two servicemen would spot her. At last the light vanished.

Karen opened her eyes. A mumble followed by a bark of laughter echoed back to her. A crude joke. The pair continued on their patrol. Relieved, she sagged against the metal Dumpster.

From deeper in the shadows a voice whispered at her, “Are they gone?”

Karen pushed up from her knees. “Yeah, but that was too close.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” her accomplice hissed, climbing out of the shadows.

Karen helped Miyuki Nakano up. Her friend swore under her breath, convincingly, considering English was Miyuki’s second language. On leave from her Japanese university professorship, Miyuki had worked for two years at a Palo Alto Internet firm and had grown fluent in English. But the petite teacher was clearly out of place here as she crawled from under a pile of old newspapers and rotted vegetables. Miyuki seldom left her pristine computer lab at Ryukyu University, and was rarely spotted without her starched and pressed lab coat.

But not this morning.

Miyuki wore a dark red blouse and black jeans, both now prominently stained. Her ebony hair was tied back into a conservative ponytail. She plucked a spinach leaf from her blouse and flung it away in disgust. “If you weren’t my best friend—”

“I know…and I apologize for the hundredth time.” Karen turned away. “But, Miyuki, you didn’t have to come along.”

“And leave you to venture through Naha alone, meeting with who knows what manner of scoundrel? It’s just not safe.”

Karen nodded. At least this last statement was true. Sirens echoed throughout the ravaged city. Searchlights from temporary camps cast beacons into the night skies. Though the curfew had been ordered, shouts and gunfire could be heard all around. Karen had not expected to find the city in such chaos.

Miyuki continued to complain about their predicament. “Who knows what type of men will be waiting for us? White slavers? Drug smugglers?”

“It’s only one of the local fishermen. Samo vouched for the man.”

“And you trust a senile janitor’s word?”

Karen rolled her eyes. Miyuki could worry a hole through tempered steel. “Samo is anything but senile. If he says this fisherman can take us to see the Dragons, then I trust him.” She lifted the edge of her jacket to reveal a black leather shoulder harness. “And besides, I have this.” The.38 automatic fit snugly under her arm.

Miyuki’s eyes widened. Her skin lost a touch of its rich complexion. “Carrying a gun is against Japanese law. Where did you—”

“At times like this, a girl needs a little extra protection.” Karen crept to the alley’s entrance. She glanced down the street. “It’s all clear.”

Miyuki slid beside her, hiding in her shadow.

“C’mon.” Karen led the way, excited and anxious at the same time. She glanced to the skies. True dawn was still about an hour away. Time was running short. Curfew or not, she was determined not to miss the rendezvous. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Three years ago she had traveled all the way from British Columbia to study at Ryukyu University and complete her doctoral thesis on Micronesian cultures, searching for clues to the origins and migration patterns of the early Polynesians. While studying here, Karen heard tales of the Dragons of Okinawa, a pair of submerged pyramids discovered in 1991 off the island’s coast by a geology professor at Ryukyu, Kimura Masaaki. He had compared the pyramids to those found at ancient Mayan sites in Central America.

Karen had been skeptical – until she saw the photographs: two stepped pyramids with terraced tops rising twenty meters from the sandy sea floor. She was instantly captivated. Was there some ancient connection between the Mayans and the Polynesians? Throughout the last decade new, submerged structures continued to be discovered in the waters off neighboring islands, trailing as far south as Taiwan. Soon it became hard to separate fact from fiction, natural topography from man-made structure.

And now the newest rumor floating among the fisher folk of the Ryukyu island chain: the Dragons had risen from the sea!

Whether this was true or not, Karen could not pass up the opportunity to explore the pyramids firsthand. A local fisherman, scheduled to transport medical supplies and other aid to outlying islands, had offered to take her to see the structures. But he planned on sailing at dawn, with or without her. Hence, the early morning bike ride from the university to the outskirts of Naha, then the game of cat and mouse with police and patrols.

Karen continued along the street. It felt good to be moving again. The morning sea breeze tousled her loose blond hair as she walked swiftly. Using her fingers, she combed the stray locks from her face. If the two women were caught, both risked expulsion from the university. Well, maybe not Miyuki, Karen thought. Her friend was one of the most published and awarded professors on the campus. She had accolades from around the world, and was the first woman nominated for the Nobel Prize in computer science. So Karen had not argued against Miyuki coming along. If the pair were caught, Miyuki’s notoriety on the island might soften any legal repercussions for her as well.

Or so she hoped.

Karen checked her watch. It would be close. At least the roads through here were relatively clear. This section of the city had survived the quakes mostly unscathed: broken windows, cracked foundations, and a few scorched buildings. Meager damage when compared to other districts, which had been leveled to brick foundations and twisted metal.

“We’ll never make it in time,” Miyuki said, cinching her photo bag higher up her shoulder. Though Karen had pocketed a disposable Kodak camera in her jacket, Miyuki had insisted on bringing full gear: digital and Polaroid cameras, video equipment, even a Palm handheld computer. All stuffed into a promotional bag stenciled with the logo from Timemagazine.

Karen took the bag from her friend and slung it over her own shoulder. “Yes, we will.” She increased the pace.

Miyuki, a head smaller, had to jog to keep up.

They hurried to the end of the street. Naha Bay was only a hundred yards down the next avenue. Karen peeked around the corner. The street lay empty. She continued with Miyuki trailing. The smell of the sea grew stronger: salt and algae. Soon she saw lights shining off the bay. Encouraged, Karen continued at a half run.

As she neared the end of the street a harsh command startled her. “ Yobitomeru!Halt!” She froze as the bright beam of a flashlight blinded her.

A dark figure stepped forth from the shadows between two buildings. The light lowered enough for Karen to recognize the uniform of a United States sailor. He cast the beam briefly at Miyuki, then searched up and down the street. A second and third sailor stepped from their shelter in a building entryway. The group was clearly one of the American wandering patrols.

The first sailor stepped nearer. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes,” Karen answered.

He relaxed slightly, flashlight now pointing toward the street. “American?”

Karen frowned. She was used to this response. “Canadian.”

The sailor nodded. “Same thing,” he muttered, and gestured his companions to continue down the street. “I’m heading back to base,” he said to them. “I’ve got this covered.”

Rifles were returned to shoulders, and the other two strode past, but not before glancing up and down the two women’s figures. One of the men mumbled something, eliciting a laugh and a final salacious glance toward Miyuki.

Karen ground her teeth. Though not native to this soil, the Navy’s casual assumption of control here rankled.

“Ladies, don’t you know about the curfew?” the sailor asked them.

Karen feigned confusion. “What curfew?”

The sailor sighed. “It’s not safe for two women to be out here alone. I’ll walk you back. Where are you staying?”

Karen crinkled her brow, trying to think of an answer. Time to improvise. She unslung Miyuki’s camera bag and pointed to the large insignia for Timeon its side. “We’re working freelance for the magazine,” she said. She pulled out her Ryukyu University identification card and flashed it at the man. It looked official, and the Japanese lettering was clearly unreadable. “Our press credentials have been approved by the local government.”

The sailor leaned closer, comparing Karen’s face to the card’s picture. He nodded as if satisfied, too macho to admit he could not read the Japanese script.

Karen pocketed her card, maintaining an officious attitude. She introduced Miyuki. “This is my local public relation’s liaison and photographer. We’re gathering pictures throughout the Japanese islands. Our ship leaves at dawn for the outer islands, on its way to Taiwan. We really must hurry.”

The sailor still wore a suspicious look. He was close to buying the story, but not completely convinced.

Before Karen could press on, Miyuki reached over and unzipped the bag. She pulled out the digital camera. “Actually, it’s somewhat fortunate we ran into you,” she said in crisp English. “Ms. Grace was just mentioning how she wanted to try and capture a few of the servicemen on film. Showing how the United States is helping to maintain order in this time of chaos.” Miyuki turned to Karen, nodding back at the sailor. “What do you think?”

Karen was shocked by the sudden brazenness of the tiny computer teacher. She cleared her throat, thinking fast. “Uh…yes, for the sidebar on the American peacekeepers.” Karen tilted her head at the man, her expression thoughtful. “He does have that all-American look we were searching for.”

Miyuki lifted the camera and pointed it at the sailor. “How would you like to have your picture in magazines across the country?”

By now the sailor’s eyes had grown large. “Really?”

Karen hid a smile. She did not know a single American who was not enthralled with the mystique of celebrity. And for the opportunity to join such ranks, common sense was often cast aside.

Miyuki stepped around the sailor, eyeing him from several angles. “I can’t make any guarantees. It’ll be up to the editors at Time.”

“We’ll take a few pictures,” Karen said. “One of them will surely pass muster.” She framed the man between her fingers, sizing up a shot. “ ‘American peacekeeper’…I think this really will work.”

Miyuki began to take a few pictures, ordering the sailor into several poses. Once done, she bagged up her camera and collected the serviceman’s name and number. “We’ll fax you a photo release form. But Harry, we’ll need it returned to New York before the end of the week.”

The man nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

Karen glanced to the brightening skies. “Miyuki, we really must be going. The press ship is scheduled to leave any minute.”

“I can take you to the marina. I’m heading toward the bay anyway.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Miyuki said. “If you can take us as far as Pier Four, that would be wonderful.” She smiled brightly at him, then turned to Karen, rolling her eyes. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late.”

Led by the sailor, they hurried to the bay. The gray dawn cast the waters in dull silver. Gulls dove and screeched among the piers’ pilings and boats. Throughout the bay, wrecks dotted the water, ships and boats that had scuttled against the docks and reefs during the quakes. Already, cranes and heavy equipment had been moved into position. The bay was the lifeline of the island and had to be cleared as quickly as possible.

As the sun crested the eastern sky, they reached the entrance to the marina. Miyuki and Karen again thanked Harry and said their good-byes. Once the sailor left, the two hurried down the long planks.

Karen glanced over her shoulder to make sure the sailor had truly gone. There was no sign of him. She relaxed and turned to Miyuki, who was cinching the camera bag higher on her shoulder. “I can’t believe you.”

Miyuki smiled, her face flushed. “That was fun. It’s lucky I got that free tote bag with my subscription to Time.”

Both women started laughing, tears at the corners of their eyes.

Karen led the way to berth twelve. Ahead, she spotted a small fishing boat still docked at the berth. The twenty-meter wooden craft was piled high with boxes displaying prominent red crosses. A pair of men were already loosening ropes in preparation for leaving. Karen hurried forward, waving an arm. “Ueito!”Wait!

One of the workers glanced their way and yelled to another on the boat. A grizzled Japanese man left the wheel and met them near the ship’s stern. He was dressed in Levi’s and a green slicker. Offering his hand, he helped them on board.

“S-Samo sent us,” Karen said in broken Japanese.

“I know,” the old man answered in English. “The American.”

“Actually, I’m Canadian,” she corrected him.

“Same thing. I must get the ship going. I wait too long already.”

Karen nodded and unslung her bag. She and Miyuki were guided to a stained wooden bench beside a folded mat of net. The reek of fish entrails and blood from the wooden planks of the boat almost overpowered her.

Around her, the two-man crew had freed the ropes from the dock and jumped on board. At the wheelhouse, the ship’s captain barked orders. The motor roared. Water began to churn, and the boat slowly edged forward. The crewmen took up posts near the bow, one on the starboard, one on the port side, watching the waters ahead. Sunken debris made the bay treacherous.

It was clear why the captain insisted on leaving with the dawn. As the morning tide receded, these waters would become even more treacherous.

Past the pier’s end, they sailed toward the center channel of the bay and slowly edged by a pole sticking crookedly up from the water, a flag flapping at its tip. Karen glanced over the rail and realized it was the mast tip from a submerged sailboat. The fishing boat with its shallow draft cut around and over the debris.

Across the bay, the United States military base lay burning. Fires still glowed from the refinery blaze, set off during the quakes as underground tanks had been ripped open. A smudge of oily smoke climbed high into the morning sky. Helicopters circled the area, hauling dredges of seawater and sand in an attempt to stanch the fires. So far with little luck.

A thick-bellied transport plane, military gray, passed low over them, its engine roaring. The fishing boat’s captain shook a fist at it. The United States presence here, especially this base, still rankled the locals. Back in 1974 it had been agreed that the land would be returned to the islanders, but that transition had yet to be realized.

Finally, the fishing boat sailed free of the bay and headed toward open water. Clear of the smoke, the breeze freshened. With the open sea all around them, the captain nodded for his first mate to take the wheel, then sauntered over to them. “My name is Oshi,” he said. “I take you to Dragons. Then we come back before sun go down.”

Karen nodded. “Perfect.”

He held out his hand, awaiting payment.

Karen stood and pulled a wad of bills from her jacket’s inside pocket. She noticed the fisherman eye her holstered gun. Good. Just so things were clear. She counted out the appropriate number of bills, half the prearranged fee, then returned the rest to her pocket. “The other half when we return to Naha.”

The man’s face remained hard for a heartbeat, then flashed a quick scowl. He mumbled something in Japanese and shoved the bills into his jeans.

Karen sat back down as he left. “What did he say?”

Miyuki wore a grin. “He says you Americans are all alike. Never stick to your own agreements, so you don’t trust anyone else.”

“I’m not American,” she said in an exasperated voice.

Miyuki patted her knee. “If you speak English, have blond hair, and carelessly throw that much cash around, you’re American to him.”

Karen tried her best to sulk, but she was too excited. “C’mon. If this American is paying for this excursion, I want better seats.”

She stood and led Miyuki toward the bow. They crossed to the forward rail as the boat rounded the southern tip of Okinawa and passed the tiny island of Tokashiki Shima. The Ryukyu chain of islands spread south in an arc almost stretching to Taiwan. The Dragons were located near the island of Yonaguni, an hour’s journey but still within Okinawa’s prefecture.

One of the sailors bowed his way into their presence. He placed two small porcelain glasses of green tea and a small plate of cakes on a nearby bench.

“Domo arigato,”Karen said. She took the tea and let the hot cup warm her hands. Miyuki joined her, nibbling on the edge of a cake. They stared in silence as green islands drifted slowly past. The coral reefs colored the nearby shoals in shades of aquamarine, rose, and emerald.

After a time Miyuki spoke, “What do you really hope to find out there?”

“Answers.” Karen leaned on the rail. “You read Professor Masaaki’s thesis.”

Miyuki nodded. “That once these islands were part of some lost continent, now sunk under the waves. Pretty wild conjecture.”

“Not necessarily. During the Holocene era, some ten thousand years ago, the ocean levels were three hundred feet shallower.” Karen waved an arm. “If so, many of these separate islands would have been joined.”

“Still, you know from your own research that the islands of the South Pacific were populated only a couple thousand years ago. Not ten thousand.”

“I know. I’m not saying you’re wrong, Miyuki. I just want to see these pyramids for myself.” Karen gripped the ship’s rail tighter. “But what if I can find proof to support Professor Masaaki’s claim? Could you imagine what this revelation would mean? It would change the entire historical paradigm for this region. It would unite so many disparate theories—” She hesitated, then continued. “—even explain the mystery of the lost continent of Mu.”

Miyuki crinkled her nose. “Mu?”

Karen nodded. “Back in the early 1900s Colonel James Churchward claimed he had stumbled upon a set of Mayan tablets that spoke of a lost continent, similar to Atlantis, but in the central Pacific. He named this sunken continent Mu. He wrote a whole series of books and essays about the place…until he was discredited.”

“Discredited?”

Karen shrugged. “No one believed my great-grandfather.”

Miyuki’s brows rose, her voice shocked. “Your great-grandfather!”

Karen felt a blush blooming. She had never explained this to anyone. She spoke softly, embarrassed. “Colonel Churchward was my great-grandfather on my mother’s side. When I was a child, my mother used to tell me stories of our infamous ancestor…even read sections from his diaries to me at bedtime. His stories first drew me to the South Pacific.”

“And you think the Dragons might prove your relative’s wild claim?”

Karen shrugged. “Who knows?”

“I still say this is all a wild goose chase.”

Karen shrugged. Wild goose chases? They ran in her family, she thought sourly. Twenty years ago her father had left his wife and baby girls to chase the dream of oil and wealth in Alaska, never to be heard from again – except for a sheaf of divorce papers arriving in the mail a year later. After his disappearance, hardships drained the life from the remaining household. Her mother, abandoned with her two young daughters, had no more time for dreams and worked herself into a dull job at a secretarial pool and an even duller second marriage. Karen’s older sister, Emily, had moved to the small town of Moose Jaw after graduating from high school, her belly full of twin boys.