127
   The Triton fell...
   Michael Tolland staggered to his feet on the inclined deck and peered over the anchor spool at the frayed winch cable where the Triton used to hang. Wheeling toward the stern, he scanned the water. The Triton was just now emerging from under the Goya on the current. Relieved at least to see the sub intact, Tolland eyed the hatch, wanting nothing more than to see it open up and Rachel climb out unscathed. But the hatch remained closed. Tolland wondered if maybe she had been knocked out by the violent fall.
   Even from the deck, Tolland could see the Triton was riding exceptionally low in the water—far below its normal diving trim waterline. It’s sinking. Tolland could not imagine why, but the reason at the moment was immaterial.
   I have to get Rachel out. Now.
   As Tolland stood to dash for the edge of the deck, a shower of machine-gun fire exploded above him, sparking off the heavy anchor spool overhead. He dropped back to his knees. Shit! He peered around the spool only long enough to see Pickering on the upper deck, taking aim like a sniper. The Delta soldier had dropped his machine gun while climbing into the doomed helicopter and Pickering had apparently recovered it. Now the director had scrambled to the high ground.
   Trapped behind the spool, Tolland looked back toward the sinking Triton. Come on, Rachel! Get out! He waited for the hatch to open. Nothing.
   Looking back to the deck of the Goya, Tolland’s eyes measured the open area between his position and the stern railing. Twenty feet. A long way without any cover.
   Tolland took a deep breath and made up his mind. Ripping off his shirt, he hurled it to his right onto the open deck. While Pickering blew the shirt full of holes, Tolland dashed left, down the inclined deck, banking toward the stern. With a wild leap he launched himself over the railing, off the back of the ship. Arcing high in the air, Tolland heard the bullets whizzing all around him and knew a single graze would make him a shark feast the instant he hit the water.

* * *

   Rachel Sexton felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage. She had tried the hatch again and again with no luck. She could hear a tank somewhere beneath her filling with water, and she sensed the sub gaining weight. The darkness of the ocean was inching higher up the transparent dome, a black curtain rising in reverse.
   Through the lower half of the glass, Rachel could see the void of the ocean beckoning like a tomb. The empty vastness beneath threatened to swallow her whole. She grabbed the hatch mechanism and tried to twist it open one more time, but it wouldn’t budge. Her lungs strained now, the dank stench of excess carbon dioxide acrid in her nostrils. Through it all, one recurring thought haunted her.
   I’m going to die alone underwater.
   She scanned the Triton’s control panels and levers for something that could help, but all the indicators were black. No power. She was locked in a dead steel crypt sinking toward the bottom of the sea.
   The gurgling in the tanks seemed to be accelerating now, and the ocean rose to within a few feet of the top of the glass. In the distance, across the endless flat expanse, a band of crimson was inching across the horizon. Morning was on its way. Rachel feared it would be the last light she ever saw. Closing her eyes to block out her impending fate, Rachel felt the terrifying childhood images rushing into her mind.
   Falling through the ice. Sliding underwater.
   Breathless. Unable to lift herself. Sinking.
   Her mother calling for her. “Rachel! Rachel!”
   A pounding on the outside of the sub jolted Rachel out of the delirium. Her eyes snapped open.
   “Rachel!” The voice was muffled. A ghostly face appeared against the glass, upside down, dark hair swirling. She could barely make him out in the darkness.
   “Michael!”

* * *

   Tolland surfaced, exhaling in relief to see Rachel moving inside the sub. She’s alive. Tolland swam with powerful strokes to the rear of the Triton and climbed up onto the submerged engine platform. The ocean currents felt hot and leaden around him as he positioned himself to grab the circular portal screw, staying low and hoping he was out of range of Pickering’s gun.
   The Triton’s hull was almost entirely underwater now, and Tolland knew if he were going to open the hatch and pull Rachel out, he would have to hurry. He had a ten-inch draw that was diminishing fast. Once the hatch was submerged, opening it would send a torrent of seawater gushing into the Triton, trapping Rachel inside and sending the sub into a free fall to the bottom.
   “Now or never,” he gasped as he grabbed the hatch wheel and heaved it counterclockwise. Nothing happened. He tried again, throwing all of his force into it. Again, the hatch refused to turn.
   He could hear Rachel inside, on the other side of the portal. Her voice was stifled, but he sensed her terror. “I tried!” she shouted. “I couldn’t turn it!”
   The water was lapping across the portal lid now. “Turn together!” he shouted to her. “You’re clockwise in there!” He knew the dial was clearly marked. “Okay, now!”
   Tolland braced himself against the ballast air tanks and strained with all his energy. He could hear Rachel below him doing the same. The dial turned a half inch and ground to a dead stop.
   Now Tolland saw it. The portal lid was not set evenly in the aperture. Like the lid of a jar that had been placed on crooked and screwed down hard, it was stuck. Although the rubber seal was properly set, the hatch-dogs were bent, meaning the only way that door was opening was with a welding torch.
   As the top of the sub sank below the surface, Tolland was filled with a sudden, overwhelming dread. Rachel Sexton would not be escaping from the Triton.

* * *

   Two thousand feet below, the crumpled fuselage of the bomb-laden Kiowa chopper was sinking fast, a prisoner of gravity and the powerful drag of the deepwater vortex. Inside the cockpit, Delta-One’s lifeless body was no longer recognizable, disfigured by the crushing pressure of the deep.
   As the aircraft spiraled downward, its Hellfire missiles still attached, the glowing magma dome waited on the ocean floor like a red-hot landing pad. Beneath its three-meter-thick crust, a head of boiling lava simmered at a thousand degrees Celsius, a volcano waiting to explode.

 128
   Tolland stood knee-deep in water on the engine box of the sinking Triton and searched his brain for some way to save Rachel.
   Don’t let the sub sink!
   He looked back toward the Goya, wondering if there were any way to get a winch connected to the Triton to keep it near the surface. Impossible. It was fifty yards away now, and Pickering was standing high on the bridge like a Roman emperor with a prime seat at some bloody Colosseum spectacle.
   Think! Tolland told himself. Why is the sub sinking?
   The mechanics of sub buoyancy were painfully simple: ballast tanks pumped full of either air or water adjusted the sub’s buoyancy to move it up or down in the water.
   Obviously, the ballast tanks were filling up.
   But they shouldn’t be!
   Every sub’s ballast tanks were equipped with holes both topside and underneath. The lower openings, called “flooding holes,” always remained open, while the holes on top, “vent valves,” could be opened and closed to let air escape so water would flood in.
   Maybe the Triton’s vent valves were open for some reason? Tolland could not imagine why. He floundered across the submerged engine platform, his hands groping one of the Triton’s ballast trim tanks. The vent valves were closed. But as he felt the valves, his fingers found something else.
   Bullet holes.
   Shit! The Triton had been riddled with bullets when Rachel jumped in. Tolland immediately dove down and swam beneath the sub, running his hand carefully across the Triton’s more important ballast tank—the negative tank. The Brits called this tank “the down express.” The Germans called it “putting on lead shoes.” Either way, the meaning was clear. The negative tank, when filled, took the sub down.
   As Tolland’s hand felt the sides of the tank, he encountered dozens of bullet holes. He could feel the water rushing in. The Triton was preparing to dive, whether Tolland liked it or not.
   The sub was now three feet beneath the surface. Moving to the bow, Tolland pressed his face against the glass and peered through the dome. Rachel was banging on the glass and shouting. The fear in her voice made him feel powerless. For an instant he was back in a cold hospital, watching the woman he loved die and knowing there was nothing he could do. Hovering underwater in front of the sinking sub, Tolland told himself he could not endure this again. You’re a survivor, Celia had told him, but Tolland did not want to survive alone... not again.
   Tolland’s lungs ached for air and yet he stayed right there with her. Every time Rachel pounded on the glass, Tolland heard air bubbles gurgling up and the sub sank deeper. Rachel was yelling something about water coming in around the window.
   The viewing window was leaking.
   A bullet hole in the window? It seemed doubtful. His lungs ready to burst, Tolland prepared to surface. As he palmed upward across the huge acrylic window, his fingers hit a piece of loose rubber caulking. A peripheral seal had apparently been jarred in the fall. This was the reason the cockpit was leaking. More bad news.
   Clambering to the surface, Tolland sucked in three deep breaths, trying to clear his thoughts. Water flowing into the cockpit would only accelerate the Triton’s descent. The sub was already five feet underwater, and Tolland could barely touch it with his feet. He could feel Rachel pounding desperately on the hull.
   Tolland could think of only one thing to do. If he dove down to the Triton’s engine box and located the high-pressure air cylinder, he could use it to blow the negative ballast tank. Although blowing the damaged tank would be an exercise in futility, it might keep the Triton near the surface for another minute or so before the perforated tanks flooded again.
   Then what?
   With no other immediate option, Tolland prepared to dive. Pulling in an exceptionally deep breath, he expanded his lungs well beyond their natural state, almost to the point of pain. More lung capacity. More oxygen. Longer dive. But as he felt his lungs expand, pressuring his rib cage, a strange thought hit him.
   What if he increased the pressure inside the sub? The viewing dome had a damaged seal. Maybe if Tolland could increase the pressure inside the cockpit, he could blow the entire viewing dome off the sub and get Rachel out.
   He exhaled his breath, treading water on the surface a moment, trying to picture the feasibility. It was perfectly logical, wasn’t it? After all, a submarine was built to be strong in only one direction. They had to withstand enormous pressure from the outside, but almost none from within.
   Moreover, the Triton used uniform regulator valves to decrease the number of spare parts the Goya had to carry. Tolland could simply unsnap the high pressure cylinder’s charging hose and reroute it into an emergency ventilation supply regulator on the port side of the sub! Pressurizing the cabin would cause Rachel substantial physical pain, but it might just give her a way out.
   Tolland inhaled and dove.
   The sub was a good eight feet down now, and the currents and darkness made orienting himself difficult. Once he found the pressurized tank, Tolland quickly rerouted the hose and prepared to pump air into the cockpit. As he gripped the stopcock, the reflective yellow paint on the side of the tank reminded him just how dangerous this maneuver was:

CAUTION:
Compressed Air—3,000 PSI

   Three thousand pounds per square inch, Tolland thought. The hope was that the Triton’s viewing dome would pop off the sub before the pressure in the cabin crushed Rachel’s lungs. Tolland was essentially sticking a high-powered fire hose into a water balloon and praying the balloon would break in a hurry.
   He grabbed the stopcock and made up his mind. Suspended there on the back of the sinking Triton, Tolland turned the stopcock, opening the valve. The hose went rigid immediately, and Tolland could hear the air flooding the cockpit with enormous force.

* * *

   Inside the Triton, Rachel felt a sudden searing pain slice into her head. She opened her mouth to scream, but the air forced itself into her lungs with such painful pressure that she thought her chest would explode. Her eyes felt like they were being rammed backward into her skull. A deafening rumble tore through her eardrums, pushing her toward unconsciousness. Instinctively, she clenched her eyes tight and pressed her hands over her ears. The pain was increasing now.
   Rachel heard a pounding directly in front of her. She forced her eyes open just long enough to see the watery silhouette of Michael Tolland in the darkness. His face was against the glass. He was motioning for her to do something.
   But what?
   She could barely see him in the darkness. Her vision was blurred, her eyeballs distorted from the pressure. Even so, she could tell the sub had sunk beyond the last flickering fingers of the Goya’s underwater lights. Around her was only an endless inky abyss.

* * *

   Tolland spread himself against the window of the Triton and kept banging. His chest burned for air, and he knew he would have to return to the surface in a matter of seconds.
   Push on the glass! he willed her. He could hear pressurized air escaping around the glass, bubbling up. Somewhere, the seal was loose. Tolland’s hands groped for an edge, something to get his fingers under. Nothing.
   As his oxygen ran out, tunnel vision closed in, and he banged on the glass one last time. He could not even see her anymore. It was too dark. With the last of the air in his lungs, he yelled out underwater.
   “Rachel... push... on... the... glass!”
   His words came out as a bubbling, muted garble.

 129
   Inside the Triton, Rachel’s head felt like it was being compressed in some kind of medieval torture vise. Half-standing, stooped beside the cockpit chair, she could feel death closing in around her. Directly in front of her, the hemispherical viewing dome was empty. Dark. The banging had stopped.
   Tolland was gone. He had left her.
   The hiss of pressurized air blasting in overhead reminded her of the deafening katabatic wind on Milne. The floor of the sub had a foot of water on it now. Let me out! Thousands of thoughts and memories began streaming through her mind like flashes of violet light.
   In the darkness, the sub began to list, and Rachel staggered, losing her balance. Stumbling over the seat, she fell forward, colliding hard with the inside of the hemispherical dome. A sharp pain erupted in her shoulder. She landed in a heap against the window, and as she did, she felt an unexpected sensation—a sudden decrease in the pressure inside the sub. The tightened drum of Rachel’s ears loosened perceptibly, and she actually heard a gurgle of air escape the sub.
   It took her an instant to realize what had just happened. When she’d fallen against the dome, her weight had somehow forced the bulbous sheet outward enough for some of the internal pressure to be released around a seal. Obviously, the dome glass was loose! Rachel suddenly realized what Tolland had been trying to do by increasing the pressure inside.
   He’s trying to blow out the window!
   Overhead, the Triton’s pressure cylinder continued to pump. Even as she lay there, she felt the pressure increasing again. This time she almost welcomed it, although she felt the suffocating grip pushing her dangerously close to unconsciousness. Scrambling to her feet, Rachel pressed outward with all her force on the inside of the glass.
   This time, there was no gurgle. The glass barely moved.
   She threw her weight against the window again. Nothing. Her shoulder wound ached, and she looked down at it. The blood was dry. She prepared to try again, but she did not have time. Without warning, the crippled sub began to tip—backward. As its heavy engine box overcame the flooded trim tanks, the Triton rolled onto its back, sinking rear-first now.
   Rachel fell onto her back against the cockpit’s rear wall. Half submerged in sloshing water, she stared straight up at the leaking dome, hovering over her like a giant skylight.
   Outside was only night... and thousands of tons of ocean pressing down.
   Rachel willed herself to get up, but her body felt dead and heavy. Again her mind reeled backward in time to the icy grip of a frozen river.
   “Fight, Rachel!” her mother was shouting, reaching down to pull her out of the water. “Grab on!”
   Rachel closed her eyes. I’m sinking. Her skates felt like lead weights, dragging her down. She could see her mother lying spread-eagle on the ice to disperse her own weight, reaching out.
   “Kick, Rachel! Kick with your feet!”
   Rachel kicked as best as she could. Her body rose slightly in the icy hole. A spark of hope. Her mother grabbed on.
   “Yes!” her mother shouted. “Help me lift you! Kick with your feet!”
   With her mother pulling from above, Rachel used the last of her energy to kick with her skates. It was just enough, and her mother dragged Rachel up to safety. She dragged the soaking Rachel all the way to the snowy bank before collapsing in tears.
   Now, inside the growing humidity and heat of the sub, Rachel opened her eyes to the blackness around her. She heard her mother whispering from the grave, her voice clear even here in the sinking Triton.
   Kick with your feet.
   Rachel looked up at the dome overhead. Mustering the last of her courage, Rachel clambered up onto the cockpit chair, which was oriented almost horizontally now, like a dental chair. Lying on her back, Rachel bent her knees, pulled her legs back as far as she could, aimed her feet upward, and exploded forward. With a wild scream of desperation and force, she drove her feet into the center of the acrylic dome. Spikes of pain shot into her shins, sending her brain reeling. Her ears thundered suddenly, and she felt the pressure equalize with a violent rush. The seal on the left side of the dome gave way, and the huge lens partially dislodged, swinging open like a barn door.
   A torrent of water crashed into the sub and drove Rachel back into her chair. The ocean thundered in around her, swirling up under her back, lifting her now off the chair, tossing her upside down like a sock in a washing machine. Rachel groped blindly for something to hold on to, but she was spinning wildly. As the cockpit filled, she could feel the sub begin a rapid free fall for the bottom. Her body rammed upward in the cockpit, and she felt herself pinned. A rush of bubbles erupted around her, twisting her, dragging her to the left and upward. A flap of hard acrylic smashed into her hip.
   All at once she was free.
   Twisting and tumbling into the endless warmth and watery blackness, Rachel felt her lungs already aching for air. Get to the surface! She looked for light but saw nothing. Her world looked the same in all directions. Blackness. No gravity. No sense of up or down.
   In that terrifying instant, Rachel realized she had no idea which way to swim.

* * *

   Thousands of feet beneath her, the sinking Kiowa chopper crumpled beneath the relentlessly increasing pressure. The fifteen high-explosive, antitank AGM-114 Hellfire missiles still aboard strained against the compression, their copper liner cones and spring-detonation heads inching perilously inward.
   A hundred feet above the ocean floor, the powerful shaft of the megaplume grabbed the remains of the chopper and sucked it downward, hurling it against the red-hot crust of the magma dome. Like a box of matches igniting in series, the Hellfire missiles exploded, tearing a gaping hole through the top of the magma dome.

* * *

   Having surfaced for air, and then dove again in desperation, Michael Tolland was suspended fifteen feet underwater scanning the blackness when the Hellfire missiles exploded. The white flash billowed upward, illuminating an astonishing image—a freeze-frame he would remember forever.
   Rachel Sexton hung ten feet below him like a tangled marionette in the water. Beneath her, the Triton sub fell away fast, its dome hanging loose. The sharks in the area scattered for the open sea, clearly sensing the danger this area was about to unleash.
   Tolland’s exhilaration at seeing Rachel out of the sub was instantly vanquished by the realization of what was about to follow. Memorizing her position as the light disappeared, Tolland dove hard, clawing his way toward her.

* * *

   Thousands of feet down, the shattered crust of the magma dome exploded apart, and the underwater volcano erupted, spewing twelve-hundred-degree-Celsius magma up into the sea. The scorching lava vaporized all the water it touched, sending a massive pillar of steam rocketing toward the surface up the central axis of the megaplume. Driven by the same kinematic properties of fluid dynamics that powered tornadoes, the steam’s vertical transfer of energy was counterbalanced by an anticyclonic vorticity spiral that circled the shaft, carrying energy in the opposite direction.
   Spiraling around this column of rising gas, the ocean currents started intensifying, twisting downward. The fleeing steam created an enormous vacuum that sucked millions of gallons of seawater downward into contact with the magma. As the new water hit bottom, it too turned into steam and needed a way to escape, joining the growing column of exhaust steam and shooting upward, pulling more water in beneath it. As more water rushed in to take its place, the vortex intensified. The hydrothermal plume elongated, and the towering whirlpool grew stronger with every passing second, its upper rim moving steadily toward the surface.
   An oceanic black hole had just been born.

* * *

   Rachel felt like a child in a womb. Hot, wet darkness all engulfing her. Her thoughts were muddled in the inky warmth. Breathe. She fought the reflex. The flash of light she had seen could only have come from the surface, and yet it seemed so far away. An illusion. Get to the surface. Weakly, Rachel began swimming in the direction where she had seen the light. She saw more light now... an eerie red glow in the distance. Daylight? She swam harder.
   A hand caught her by the ankle.
   Rachel half-screamed underwater, almost exhaling the last of her air.
   The hand pulled her backward, twisting her, pointing her back in the opposite direction. Rachel felt a familiar hand grasp hers. Michael Tolland was there, pulling her along with him the other way.
   Rachel’s mind said he was taking her down. Her heart said he knew what he was doing.
   Kick with your feet, her mother’s voice whispered.
   Rachel kicked as hard as she could.

 130
   Even as Tolland and Rachel broke the surface, he knew it was over. The magma dome erupted. As soon as the top of the vortex reached the surface, the giant underwater tornado would begin pulling everything down. Strangely, the world above the surface was not the quiet dawn he had left only moments ago. The noise was deafening. Wind slashed at him as if some kind of storm had hit while he was underwater.
   Tolland felt delirious from lack of oxygen. He tried to support Rachel in the water, but she was being pulled from his arms. The current! Tolland tried to hold on, but the invisible force pulled harder, threatening to tear her from him. Suddenly, his grip slipped, and Rachel’s body slid through his arms—but upward.
   Bewildered, Tolland watched Rachel’s body rise out of the water.

* * *

   Overhead, the Coast Guard Osprey tilt-rotor airplane hovered and winched Rachel in. Twenty minutes ago, the Coast Guard had gotten a report of an explosion out at sea. Having lost track of the Dolphin helicopter that was supposed to be in the area, they feared an accident. They typed the chopper’s last known coordinates into their navigation system and hoped for the best.
   About a half mile from the illuminated Goya, they saw a field of burning wreckage drifting on the current. It looked like a speedboat. Nearby, a man was in the water, waving his arms wildly. They winched him in. He was stark naked—all except for one leg, which was covered with duct tape.
   Exhausted, Tolland looked up at the underbelly of the thundering tilt-rotor airplane. Deafening gusts pounded down off its horizontal propellers. As Rachel rose on a cable, numerous sets of hands pulled her into the fuselage. As Tolland watched her dragged to safety, his eyes spotted a familiar man crouched half-naked in the doorway.
   Corky? Tolland’s heart soared. You’re alive!
   Immediately, the harness fell from the sky again. It landed ten feet away. Tolland wanted to swim for it, but he could already feel the sucking sensation of the plume. The relentless grip of the sea wrapped around him, refusing to let go.
   The current pulled him under. He fought toward the surface, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. You’re a survivor, someone was saying. He kicked his legs, clawing toward the surface. When he broke through into the pounding wind, the harness was still out of reach. The current strained to drag him under. Looking up into the torrent of swirling wind and noise, Tolland saw Rachel. She was staring down, her eyes willing him up toward her.
   It took Tolland four powerful strokes to reach the harness. With his last ounce of strength, he slid his arm and head up into the loop and collapsed.
   All at once the ocean was falling away beneath him.
   Tolland looked down just as the gaping vortex opened. The megaplume had finally reached the surface.

* * *

   William Pickering stood on the bridge of the Goya and watched in dumbstruck awe as the spectacle unfolded all around him. Off the starboard of the Goya’s stern, a huge basinlike depression was forming on the surface of the sea. The whirlpool was hundreds of yards across and expanding fast. The ocean spiraled into it, racing with an eerie smoothness over the lip. All around him now, a guttural moan reverberated out of the depths. Pickering’s mind was blank as he watched the hole expanding toward him like the gaping mouth of some epic god hungry for sacrifice.
   I’m dreaming, Pickering thought.
   Suddenly, with an explosive hiss that shattered the windows of the Goya’s bridge, a towering plume of steam erupted skyward out of the vortex. A colossal geyser climbed overhead, thundering, its apex disappearing into the darkened sky.
   Instantly, the funnel walls steepened, the perimeter expanding faster now, chewing across the ocean toward him. The stern of the Goya swung hard toward the expanding cavity. Pickering lost his balance and fell to his knees. Like a child before God, he gazed downward into the growing abyss.
   His final thoughts were for his daughter, Diana. He prayed she had not known fear like this when she died.

* * *

   The concussion wave from the escaping steam hurled the Osprey sideways. Tolland and Rachel held each other as the pilots recovered, banking low over the doomed Goya. Looking out, they could see William Pickering—the Quaker—kneeling in his black coat and tie at the upper railing of the doomed ship.
   As the stern fishtailed out over the brink of the massive twister, the anchor cable finally snapped. With its bow proudly in the air, the Goya slipped backward over the watery ledge, sucked down the steep spiraling wall of water. Her lights were still glowing as she disappeared beneath the sea.

 131
   The Washington morning was clear and crisp.
   A breeze sent eddies of leaves skittering around the base of the Washington Monument. The world’s largest obelisk usually awoke to its own peaceful image in the reflecting pool, but today the morning brought with it a chaos of jostling reporters, all crowding around the monument’s base in anticipation.
   Senator Sedgewick Sexton felt larger than Washington itself as he stepped from his limousine and strode like a lion toward the press area awaiting him at the base of the monument. He had invited the nation’s ten largest media networks here and promised them the scandal of the decade.
   Nothing brings out the vultures like the smell of death, Sexton thought.
   In his hand, Sexton clutched the stack of white linen envelopes, each elegantly wax-embossed with his monogrammed seal. If information was power, then Sexton was carrying a nuclear warhead.
   He felt intoxicated as he approached the podium, pleased to see his improvised stage included two “fameframes”—large, free-standing partitions that flanked his podium like navy-blue curtains—an old Ronald Reagan trick to ensure he stood out against any backdrop.
   Sexton entered stage right, striding out from behind the partition like an actor out of the wings. The reporters quickly took their seats in the several rows of folding chairs facing his podium. To the east, the sun was just breaking over the Capitol dome, shooting rays of pink and gold down on Sexton like rays from heaven.
   A perfect day to become the most powerful man in the world.
   “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Sexton said, laying the envelopes on the lectern before him. “I will make this as short and painless as possible. The information I am about to share with you is, frankly, quite disturbing. These envelopes contain proof of a deceit at the highest levels of government. I am ashamed to say that the President called me half an hour ago and begged me—yes, begged me—not to go public with this evidence.” He shook his head with dismay. “And yet, I am a man who believes in the truth. No matter how painful.”
   Sexton paused, holding up the envelopes, tempting the seated crowd. The reporters’ eyes followed the envelopes back and forth, a pack of dogs salivating over some unknown delicacy.
   The President had called Sexton a half hour ago and explained everything. Herney had talked to Rachel, who was safely aboard a plane somewhere. Incredibly, it seemed the White House and NASA were innocent bystanders in this fiasco, a plot masterminded by William Pickering.
   Not that it matters, Sexton thought. Zach Herney is still going down hard.
   Sexton wished he could be a fly on the wall of the White House right now to see the President’s face when he realized Sexton was going public. Sexton had agreed to meet Herney at the White House right now to discuss how best to tell the nation the truth about the meteorite. Herney was probably standing in front of a television at this very moment in dumbfounded shock, realizing that there was nothing the White House could do to stop the hand of fate.
   “My friends,” Sexton said, letting his eyes connect with the crowd. “I have weighed this heavily. I have considered honoring the President’s desire to keep this data secret, but I must do what is in my heart.” Sexton sighed, hanging his head like a man trapped by history. “The truth is the truth. I will not presume to color your interpretation of these facts in any way. I will simply give you the data at face value.”
   In the distance, Sexton heard the beating of huge helicopter rotors. For a moment, he wondered if maybe the President were flying over from the White House in a panic, hoping to halt the press conference. That would be the icing on the cake, Sexton thought mirthfully. How guilty would Herney appear THEN?
   “I do not take pleasure in doing this,” Sexton continued, sensing his timing was perfect. “But I feel it is my duty to let the American people know they have been lied to.”
   The aircraft thundered in, touching down on the esplanade to their right. When Sexton glanced over, he was surprised to see it was not the presidential helicopter after all, but rather a large Osprey tilt-rotor airplane.
   The fuselage read:

United States Coast Guard

   Baffled, Sexton watched as the cabin door opened and a woman emerged. She wore an orange Coast Guard parka and looked disheveled, like she’d been through a war. She strode toward the press area. For a moment, Sexton didn’t recognize her. Then it hit him.
   Rachel? He gaped in shock. What the hell is SHE doing here?
   A murmur of confusion went through the crowd.
   Pasting a broad smile on his face, Sexton turned back to the press and raised an apologetic finger. “If you could give me just one minute? I’m terribly sorry.” He heaved the weary, good-natured sigh. “Family first.”
   A few of the reporters laughed.
   With his daughter bearing down fast from his right, Sexton had no doubt this father-daughter reunion would best be held in private. Unfortunately, privacy was scarce at the moment. Sexton’s eyes darted to the large partition on his right.
   Still smiling calmly, Sexton waved to his daughter and stepped away from the microphone. Moving toward her at an angle, he maneuvered such that Rachel had to pass behind the partition to get to him. Sexton met her halfway, hidden from the eyes and ears of the press.
   “Honey?” he said, smiling and opening his arms as Rachel came toward him. “What a surprise!”
   Rachel walked up and slapped his face.

* * *

   Alone with her father now, ensconced behind the partition, Rachel glared with loathing. She had slapped him hard, but he barely flinched. With chilling control, his phony smile melted away, mutating into an admonishing glower.
   His voice turned to a demonic whisper. “You should not be here.”
   Rachel saw wrath in his eyes and for the first time in her life felt unafraid. “I turned to you for help, and you sold me out! I was almost killed!”
   “You’re obviously fine.” His tone was almost disappointed.
   “NASA is innocent!” she said. “The President told you that! What are you doing here?” Rachel’s short flight to Washington aboard the Coast Guard Osprey had been punctuated by a flurry of phone calls between herself, the White House, her father, and even a distraught Gabrielle Ashe. “You promised Zach Herney you were going to the White House!”
   “I am.” He smirked. “On election day.”
   Rachel felt sickened to think this man was her father. “What you’re about to do is madness.”
   “Oh?” Sexton chuckled. He turned and motioned behind him to the podium, which was visible at the end of the partition. On the podium, a stack of white envelopes sat waiting. “Those envelopes contain information you sent me, Rachel. You. The President’s blood is on your hands.”
   “I faxed you that information when I needed your help! When I thought the President and NASA were guilty!”
   “Considering the evidence, NASA certainly appears guilty.”
   “But they are not! They deserve a chance to admit their own mistakes. You’ve already won this election. Zach Herney is finished! You know that. Let the man retain some dignity.”
   Sexton groaned. “So naпve. It’s not about winning the election, Rachel, it’s about power. It’s about decisive victory, acts of greatness, crushing opposition, and con-trolling the forces in Washington so you can get something done.”
   “At what cost?”
   “Don’t be so self-righteous. I’m simply presenting the evidence. The people can draw their own conclusions as to who is guilty.”
   “You know how this will look.”
   He shrugged. “Maybe NASA’s time has come.”
   Senator Sexton sensed the press was getting restless beyond the partition, and he had no intention of standing here all morning and being lectured by his daughter. His moment of glory was waiting.
   “We’re through here,” he said. “I have a press conference to give.”
   “I’m asking you as your daughter,” Rachel pleaded. “Don’t do this. Think about what you’re about to do. There’s a better way.”
   “Not for me.”
   A howl of feedback echoed out of the PA system behind him, and Sexton wheeled to see a late-arriving female reporter, huddled over his podium, attempting to attach a network microphone to one of the goose-neck clips.
   Why can’t these idiots arrive on time? Sexton fumed.
   In her haste, the reporter knocked Sexton’s stack of envelopes to the ground.
   Goddamn it! Sexton marched over, cursing his daughter for distracting him. When he arrived, the woman was on her hands and knees, collecting the envelopes off the ground. Sexton couldn’t see her face, but she was obviously “network”—wearing a full-length cashmere coat, matching scarf, and low-slung mohair beret with an ABC press pass clipped to it.
   Stupid bitch, Sexton thought. “I’ll take those,” he snapped, holding out his hand for the envelopes.
   The woman scraped up the last of the envelopes and handed them up to Sexton without looking up. “Sorry....” she muttered, obviously embarrassed. Hunkering low in shame, she scurried off into the crowd.
   Sexton quickly counted the envelopes. Ten. Good. Nobody was going to steal his thunder today. Regrouping, he adjusted the microphones and gave a joking smile to the crowd. “I guess I’d better hand these out before someone gets hurt!”
   The crowd laughed, looking eager.
   Sexton sensed his daughter nearby, standing just off-stage behind the partition.
   “Don’t do this,” Rachel said to him. “You’ll regret it.”
   Sexton ignored her.
   “I’m asking you to trust me,” Rachel said, her voice growing louder. “It’s a mistake.”
   Sexton picked up his envelopes, straightening the edges.
   “Dad,” Rachel said, intense and pleading now. “This is your last chance to do what’s right.”
   Do what’s right? Sexton covered the microphone and turned as if clearing his throat. He glanced discreetly over at his daughter. “You’re just like your mother—idealistic and small. Women simply do not understand the true nature of power.”
   Sedgewick Sexton had already forgotten his daughter by the time he turned back toward the jostling media. Head held high, he walked around the podium and handed the stack of envelopes into the hands of the waiting press. He watched the envelopes disseminate rapidly through the crowd. He could hear the seals being broken, the envelopes being torn apart like Christmas presents.
   A sudden hush came over the crowd.
   In the silence, Sexton could hear the defining moment of his career.
   The meteorite is a fraud. And I am the man who revealed it.
   Sexton knew it would take the press a moment to understand the true implications of what they were looking at: GPR images of an insertion shaft in the ice; a living ocean species almost identical to the NASA fossils; evidence of chondrules that formed on earth. It all led to one shocking conclusion.
   “Sir?” one reporter stammered, sounding stunned as he looked in his envelope. “Is this for real?”
   Sexton gave a somber sigh. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s very real indeed.”
   Murmurs of confusion now spread through the crowd.
   “I’ll give everyone a moment to look through these pages,” Sexton said, “and then I’ll take questions and attempt to shed some light on what you’re looking at.”
   “Senator?” another reporter asked, sounding utterly bewildered. “Are these images authentic?... Unretouched?”
   “One hundred percent,” Sexton said, speaking more firmly now. “I would not present the evidence to you otherwise.”
   The confusion in the crowd seemed to deepen, and Sexton thought he even heard some laughter—not at all the reaction he had expected. He was starting to fear he had overestimated the media’s ability to connect the obvious dots.
   “Um, senator?” someone said, sounding oddly amused. “For the record, you stand behind the authenticity of these images?”
   Sexton was getting frustrated. “My friends, I will say this one last time, the evidence in your hands is one-hundred-percent accurate. And if anyone can prove otherwise, I’ll eat my hat!”
   Sexton waited for the laugh, but it never came.
   Dead silence. Blank stares.
   The reporter who had just spoken walked toward Sexton, shuffling through his photocopies as he came forward. “You’re right, senator. This is scandalous data.” The reporter paused, scratching his head. “So I guess we’re puzzled as to why you’ve decided to share it with us like this, especially after denying it so vehemently earlier.”
   Sexton had no idea what the man was talking about. The reporter handed him the photocopies. Sexton looked at the pages—and for a moment, his mind went totally blank.
   No words came.
   He was staring at unfamiliar photographs. Black-and-white images. Two people. Naked. Arms and legs intertwined. For an instant, Sexton had no idea what he was looking at. Then it registered. A cannonball to the gut.
   In horror, Sexton’s head snapped up to the crowd. They were laughing now. Half of them were already phoning in the story to their news desks.
   Sexton felt a tap on his shoulder.
   In a daze, he wheeled.
   Rachel was standing there. “We tried to stop you,” she said. “We gave you every chance.” A woman stood beside her.
   Sexton was trembling as his eyes moved to the woman at Rachel’s side. She was the reporter in the cashmere coat and mohair beret—the woman who had knocked over his envelopes. Sexton saw her face, and his blood turned to ice.
   Gabrielle’s dark eyes seemed to bore right through him as she reached down and opened her coat to reveal a stack of white envelopes tucked neatly beneath her arm.

 132
   The Oval Office was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the brass lamp on President Herney’s desk. Gabrielle Ashe held her chin high as she stood before the President. Outside the window behind him, dusk was gathering on the west lawn.
   “I hear you’re leaving us,” Herney said, sounding disappointed.
   Gabrielle nodded. Although the President had graciously offered her indefinite sanctuary inside the White House away from the press, Gabrielle preferred not to ride out this particular storm by hiding out in the eye. She wanted to be as far away as possible. At least for a while.
   Herney gazed across his desk at her, looking impressed. “The choice you made this morning, Gabrielle...” He paused, as if at a loss for words. His eyes were simple and clear—nothing compared to the deep, enigmatic pools that had once drawn Gabrielle to Sedgewick Sexton. And yet, even in the backdrop of this powerful place, Gabrielle saw true kindness in his gaze, an honor and dignity she would not soon forget.
   “I did it for me, too,” Gabrielle finally said.
   Herney nodded. “I owe you my thanks all the same.” He stood, motioning for her to follow him into the hall. “I was actually hoping you’d stick around long enough that I could offer you a post on my budgeting staff.”
   Gabrielle gave him a dubious look. “Stop spending and start mending?”
   He chuckled. “Something like that.”
   “I think we both know, sir, that I’m more of a liability to you at the moment than an asset.”
   Herney shrugged. “Give it a few months. It will all blow over. Plenty of great men and women have endured similar situations and gone on to greatness.” He winked. “A few of them were even U.S. presidents.”
   Gabrielle knew he was right. Unemployed for only hours, Gabrielle had already turned down two other job offers today—one from Yolanda Cole at ABC, and the other from St. Martin’s Press, who had offered her an obscene advance if she would publish a tell-all biography. No thanks.
   As Gabrielle and the President moved down the hallway, Gabrielle thought of the pictures of herself that were now being splashed across televisions.
   The damage to the country could have been worse, she told herself. Much worse.
   Gabrielle, after going to ABC to retrieve the photos and borrow Yolanda Cole’s press pass, had snuck back to Sexton’s office to assemble the duplicate envelopes. While inside, she had also printed copies of the donation checks in Sexton’s computer. After the confrontation at the Washington Monument, Gabrielle had handed copies of the checks to the dumbstruck Senator Sexton and made her demands. Give the President a chance to announce his meteorite mistake, or the rest of this data goes public too. Senator Sexton took one look at the stack of financial evidence, locked himself in his limousine, and drove off. He had not been heard from since.
   Now, as the President and Gabrielle arrived at the backstage door of the Briefing Room, Gabrielle could hear the waiting throngs beyond. For the second time in twenty-four hours, the world was assembled to hear a special presidential broadcast.
   “What are you going to tell them?” Gabrielle asked.
   Herney sighed, his expression remarkably calm. “Over the years, I’ve learned one thing over and over...” He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled. “There’s just no substitute for the truth.”
   Gabrielle was filled with an unexpected pride as she watched him stride toward the stage. Zach Herney was on his way to admit the biggest mistake of his life, and oddly, he had never looked more presidential.

 133
   When Rachel awoke, the room was dark.
   A clock glowed 10:14 p.m. The bed was not her own. For several moments, she lay motionless, wondering where she was. Slowly, it all started coming back... the megaplume... this morning at the Washington Monument... the President’s invitation to stay at the White House.
   I’m at the White House, Rachel realized. I slept here all day.
   The Coast Guard chopper, at the President’s command, had transported an exhausted Michael Tolland, Corky Marlinson, and Rachel Sexton from the Washington Monument to the White House, where they had been fed a sumptuous breakfast, been seen to by doctors, and been offered any of the building’s fourteen bedrooms in which to recuperate.
   All of them had accepted.
   Rachel could not believe she had slept this long. Turning on the television, she was stunned to see that President Herney had already completed his press conference. Rachel and the others had offered to stand beside him when he announced the meteorite disappointment to the world. We all made the mistake together. But Herney had insisted on shouldering the burden alone.
   “Sadly,” one political analyst on TV was saying, “it seems NASA has discovered no signs of life from space after all. This marks the second time this decade that NASA has incorrectly classified a meteorite as showing signs of extraterrestrial life. This time, however, a number of highly respected civilians were also among those fooled.”
   “Normally,” a second analyst chimed in, “I would have to say that a deception of the magnitude the President described this evening would be devastating for his career... and yet, considering the developments this morning at the Washington Monument, I would have to say Zach Herney’s chances of taking the presidency look better than ever.”
   The first analyst nodded. “So, no life in space, but no life in Senator Sexton’s campaign either. And now, as new information surfaces suggesting deep financial troubles plaguing the senator—”
   A knock on the door drew Rachel’s attention.
   Michael, she hoped, quickly turning off the television. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast. On their arrival at the White House, Rachel had wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms. Although she could tell Michael felt the same, Corky had intervened, parking himself on Tolland’s bed and exuberantly telling and retelling his story about urinating on himself and saving the day. Finally, utterly exhausted, Rachel and Tolland had given up, heading for separate bedrooms to sleep.
   Now, walking toward the door, Rachel checked herself in the mirror, amused to see how ridiculously she was dressed. All she had found to wear to bed was an old Penn State football jersey in the dresser. It draped down to her knees like a nightshirt.
   The knocking continued.
   Rachel opened the door, disappointed to see a female U.S. Secret Service agent. She was fit and cute, wearing a blue blazer. “Ms. Sexton, the gentleman in the Lincoln Bedroom heard your television. He asked me to tell you that as long as you’re already awake...” She paused, arching her eyebrows, clearly no stranger to night games on the upper floors of the White House.
   Rachel blushed, her skin tingling. “Thanks.”
   The agent led Rachel down the impeccably appointed hallway to a plain-looking doorway nearby.
   “The Lincoln Bedroom,” the agent said. “And as I am always supposed to say outside this door, ‘Sleep well, and beware of ghosts.’“
   Rachel nodded. The legends of ghosts in the Lincoln Bedroom were as old as the White House itself. It was said that Winston Churchill had seen Lincoln’s ghost here, as had countless others, including Eleanor Roosevelt, Amy Carter, actor Richard Dreyfuss, and decades of maids and butlers. President Reagan’s dog was said to bark outside this door for hours at a time.
   The thoughts of historical spirits suddenly made Rachel realize what a sacred place this room was. She felt suddenly embarrassed, standing there in her long football jersey, bare-legged, like some college coed sneaking into a boy’s room. “Is this kosher?” she whispered to the agent. “I mean this is the Lincoln Bedroom.”
   The agent winked. “Our policy on this floor is ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’“
   Rachel smiled. “Thanks.” She reached for the door-knob, already feeling the anticipation of what lay beyond.
   “Rachel!” The nasal voice carried down the hallway like a buzz saw.
   Rachel and the agent turned. Corky Marlinson was hobbling toward them on crutches, his leg now professionally bandaged. “I couldn’t sleep either!”
   Rachel slumped, sensing her romantic tryst about to disintegrate.
   Corky’s eyes inspected the cute Secret Service agent. He flashed her a broad smile. “I love women in uniform.”
   The agent pulled aside her blazer to reveal a lethal-looking sidearm.
   Corky backed off. “Point taken.” He turned to Rachel. “Is Mike awake, too? You going in?” Corky looked eager to join the party.
   Rachel groaned. “Actually, Corky...”
   “Dr. Marlinson,” the Secret Service agent intervened, pulling a note from her blazer. “According to this note, which was given to me by Mr. Tolland, I have explicit orders to escort you down to the kitchen, have our chef make you anything you want, and ask you to explain to me in vivid detail how you saved yourself from certain death by...” the agent hesitated, grimacing as she read the note again. “... by urinating on yourself?”
   Apparently, the agent had said the magic words. Corky dropped his crutches on the spot and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders for support, and said, “To the kitchen, love!”
   As the indisposed agent helped Corky hobble off down the hall, Rachel had no doubt Corky Marlinson was in heaven. “The urine is the key,” she heard him saying, “because those damned telencephalon olfactory lobes can smell everything!”

* * *

   The Lincoln Bedroom was dark when Rachel entered. She was surprised to see the bed empty and untouched. Michael Tolland was nowhere to be seen.
   An antique oil lamp burned near the bed, and in the soft radiance, she could barely make out the Brussels carpet... the famous carved rosewood bed... the portrait of Lincoln’s wife, Mary Todd... even the desk where Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.
   As Rachel closed the door behind her, she felt a clammy draft on her bare legs. Where is he? Across the room, a window was open, the white organza curtains billowing. She walked over to close the window, and an eerie whisper murmured from the closet.
   “Maaaarrrrrrrry...”
   Rachel wheeled.
   “Maaaaaarrrrrrrry?” the voice whispered again. “Is that you?... Mary Todd Liiiiiincoln?”
   Rachel quickly closed the window and turned back toward the closet. Her heart was racing, although she knew it was foolish. “Mike, I know that’s you.”
   “Noooooo...” the voice continued. “I am not Mike... I am... Aaaaabe.”
   Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? Honest Abe?”
   A muffled laugh. “Moderately honest Abe... yes.”
   Rachel was laughing now too.
   “Be afraaaaaaid,” the voice from the closet moaned. “Be veeeeeery afraid.”
   “I’m not afraid.”
   “Please be afraid...” the voice moaned. “In the human species, the emotions of fear and sexual arousal are closely linked.”
   Rachel burst out laughing. “Is this your idea of a turn-on?”
   “Forgiiiive me...” the voice moaned. “It’s been yeeeeeeears since I’ve been with a woman.”
   “Evidently,” Rachel said, yanking the door open.
   Michael Tolland stood before her with his roguish, lopsided grin. He looked irresistible wearing a pair of navy blue satin pajamas. Rachel did a double take when she saw the presidential seal emblazoned on his chest.
   “Presidential pajamas?”
   He shrugged. “They were in the drawer.”
   “And all I had was this football jersey?”
   “You should have chosen the Lincoln Bedroom.”
   “You should have offered!”
   “I heard the mattress was bad. Antique horsehair.” Tolland winked, motioning to a gift-wrapped package on a marble-topped table. “This’ll make it up to you.”
   Rachel was touched. “For me?”
   “I had one of the presidential aides go out and find this for you. Just arrived. Don’t shake it.”
   She carefully opened the package, extracting the heavy contents. Inside was a large crystal bowl in which were swimming two ugly orange goldfish. Rachel stared in confused disappointment. “You’re joking, right?”
   “Helostoma temmincki,” Tolland said proudly.
   “You bought me fish?”
   “Rare Chinese kissing fish. Very romantic.”
   “Fish are not romantic, Mike.”
   “Tell that to these guys. They’ll kiss for hours.”
   “Is this supposed to be another turn-on?”
   “I’m rusty on the romance. Can you grade me on effort?”
   “For future reference, Mike, fish are definitely not a turn-on. Try flowers.”
   Tolland pulled a bouquet of white lilies from behind his back. “I tried for red roses,” he said, “but I almost got shot sneaking into the Rose Garden.”

* * *

   As Tolland pulled Rachel’s body against his and inhaled the soft fragrance of her hair, he felt years of quiet isolation dissolving inside him. He kissed her deeply, feeling her body rise against him. The white lilies fell to their feet, and barriers Tolland had never known he’d built were suddenly melting away.
   The ghosts are gone.
   He felt Rachel inching him toward the bed now, her whisper soft in his ear. “You don’t really think fish are romantic, do you?”
   “I do,” he said, kissing her again. “You should see the jellyfish mating ritual. Incredibly erotic.”
   Rachel maneuvered him onto his back on the horsehair mattress, easing her slender body down on top of his.
   “And seahorses....” Tolland said, breathless as he savored her touch through the thin satin of his pajamas. “Seahorses perform... an unbelievably sensual dance of love.”
   “Enough fish talk,” she whispered, unbuttoning his pajamas. “What can you tell me about the mating rituals of advanced primates?”
   Tolland sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t really do primates.”
   Rachel shed her football jersey. “Well, nature boy, I suggest you learn fast.”

Epilogue
   The NASA transport jet banked high over the Atlantic.
   Onboard, Administrator Lawrence Ekstrom took a last look at the huge charred rock in the cargo hold. Back to the sea, he thought. Where they found you.
   On Ekstrom’s command, the pilot opened the cargo doors and released the rock. They watched as the mammoth stone plummeted downward behind the plane, arcing across the sunlit ocean sky and disappearing beneath the waves in a pillar of silver spray.
   The giant stone sank fast.
   Underwater, at three hundred feet, barely enough light remained to reveal its tumbling silhouette. Passing five hundred feet, the rock plunged into total darkness.
   Racing down.
   Deeper.
   It fell for almost twelve minutes.
   Then, like a meteorite striking the dark side of the moon, the rock crashed into a vast plain of mud on the ocean floor, kicking up a cloud of silt. As the dust settled, one of the ocean’s thousands of unknown species swam over to inspect the odd newcomer.
   Unimpressed, the creature moved on.