PROLOGUE

For a pre-Fourth of July weekend, the command center at the Los Angeles Federal Emergency Management Administration office couldn’t have been busier. Almost every department had been called back into work, and personnel were either on their phones or in some type of discussion around someone’s desk. Just then, a short, stodgy-looking man in his early sixties with thinning grey hair, wearing a pair of tan khaki trousers, a bright yellow Callaway® golf shirt and carrying a black leather briefcase walked through the on-duty supervisor’s door. The laminated picture clip-on ID badge attached to his brown leather belt simply read, Michael Wardlow, Deputy Director.

“I’m so sorry, sir, that we had to get you in here on a Sunday, but, as you know, our director and the Homeland Security director are both still in Washington,” Bethany said, and then returned to scribbling some notes with a grease pencil on the three-by-four-foot Plexiglas protective shield covering the surface of the map of the Southern California coastline.

“That’s all right, Ms. Hawkins. I really didn’t want to play golf today, anyway. You know, it’s hard to believe that after all these years, I think I’ve finally come to the startling realization that the only reason I get invited to those scratch golf tournaments is because I’m such a willing prey. It’s sad to finally admit to yourself that you’ve become nothing more to your friends than easy money,” remarked Mr. Wardlow as he laid his briefcase on the chair behind the shift supervisor’s desk. “Okay, so why don’t you bring me up to speed on what’s happened so far on this alleged aircraft crash?”

“Well, the initial word we got was that at about 1:00 this morning, the LAPD received an anonymous cellular phone call reporting a downed aircraft at coordinates 33º 37’ 14.10” North and 118º 25’ 27.03” West, or about twenty-three miles west of San Pedro. We were notified a couple of hours later.”

“And what’s been done so far?”

“Ever since that initial notification, we’ve contacted every airfield, civilian and military, within a five hundred mile radius. I’m talking about everything from major airports to private landing strips—even those terminals supporting seaplane traffic, and, so far, everyone has reported that no flights, scheduled or otherwise, were supposed to be in that particular area at that time.”

“What about radar contacts or distress calls?”

“Air traffic controllers and Radar Approach Control operators from three major airports were questioned on that very subject, and they’ve all confirmed that not one single aircraft was detected in the area and time reported by the caller. There were also no reports of any radio communications, not even on the GUARD frequency, from any aircraft reporting mechanical problems or requesting help. I should also mention that we’re not picking up any unexplained radio signals or beacons from anywhere near that area.”

“This is starting to sound more and more like a wild goose chase to me. Has anyone been out to the scene yet?”

“A Coast Guard helicopter was dispatched to the reported accident scene shortly after we received the first call, but due to the vastness of the area and poor visibility at that time in the morning, they were unable to find any signs of wreckage. They just returned about ninety minutes ago.”

“And that’s it?” replied Wardlow.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.”

“So, right now, we don’t even know if there really was an accident,” said the assistant director with a look of disbelief. “Did they happen to mention anything about the caller?”

After a couple of seconds of fishing around in her in-basket, she retrieved the single sheet of paper that she was looking for and began to read, “Well, according to their fax, the call came in at exactly 1:00 a.m., Sunday, July 1, 2007, and the entire conversation lasted less than two minutes. Our alleged witness was described as being a male who spoke colloquial American English and is probably from somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line. He appeared to be sober and under no duress. He spoke calmly and slowly in a monotone. When they attempted to question him about what he had observed, he refused to respond; he just kept saying that he had seen an aircraft crash and repeated those coordinates I mentioned earlier.” Once she had completed reading the facsimile, she offered it to Wardlow, who just stood there, politely smiled, and shook his head.

“Well, that’s just great. I also don’t suppose they have any idea where he was calling from?”

“Not really. I called the operator back after I received his fax and he said that, due to the short duration, they didn’t have enough time to initiate a trace or attempt to locate the origin of the call through triangulation. When he didn’t mention anything about the Caller ID function, I decided to ask him about it myself, but all he would say is that they were having some kind of issues with the system . . ., and he wouldn’t elaborate. I’ll do a follow-up if you think it’s worth pursuing.”

“Yes, let’s definitely stay on top on that. What about background noises? They must’ve heard something that would’ve given them a clue as to the caller’s whereabouts.”

“The only thing the operator mentioned was that it sounded like the caller was telephoning from inside some kind of empty enclosure because he thought he detected a slight echo when he spoke.”

“That’s certainly noteworthy, but it doesn’t tell me a hell of a lot. Are we talking about someone telephoning from inside a vacant warehouse in Riverside or the cargo hold area on board some ship at sea?”

“I guess I don’t understand. Why is it so important that we know the exact location of the caller at the time of the notification?”

“Well, I think I’d feel a lot more confident about pursuing this matter if I could be reasonably sure that he made that call from a location at least somewhere near those grid coordinates he gave.”

“I see what you mean. I suppose, like you suggested, he could’ve been calling from inside an empty room on some seagoing vessel that just happened to be in the same area where this plane supposedly crashed. But, if he was on a ship, it must’ve been the only one in that area.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, if there had been other vessels in the area, we should have received more than one report of a crash. I’ll go ahead and instruct my people to start checking on all shipping traffic, commercial and private, that could have been at that particular location at that exact time.”

As Wardlow stood there staring at one of the maps on the wall, he began thinking out loud. “So, the operator said that the caller sounded calm, with no sense of urgency in his voice. That’s not what one would expect from a person who’d just witnessed an aircraft crash. On the other hand, I suppose he could have been in shock.”

“Look, I know we still have to treat this situation as a bona fide emergency, but if you ask me, I think we’re going to end up being the butt of someone’s idea of a joke,” Bethany said, as she closed her checklist and laid it on her desk.

Smiling softly, the assistant director replied, “Maybe so, but what makes me so incredulous about all this is the fact that we’re not receiving any type of radio beacon or signal. Now, either this is, as you suggested, just someone’s idea of a joke at the taxpayers’ expense, or our mystery plane’s transponder was disabled prior to take off. If it’s the latter, then it’s almost certain that they didn’t want anyone to know they were coming,” Wardlow continued, as he finished packing the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “In fact, I’ll go one step further and say that if there really was an aircraft crash, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it was done intentionally.”

“But why would someone slam their plane into the ocean in the middle of the night on purpose?”

“Well, it’s possible that this was just another failed attempt to smuggle drugs into the country and they had to ditch their aircraft. Maybe it developed engine problems or it was running low on fuel. And, since they never filed a flight plan, no legitimate entity would be out looking for them because they’re late. Felons are notorious for trying anything, even something that could eventually prove fatal, just to avoid getting arrested and having their illegal cargo confiscated. This is hardly something new; I get these reports across my desk all the time, except they usually happen somewhere out in the middle of the desert. The usual scenario is that they take off from some remote, abandoned airstrip, cloaked in darkness, and then plot a course and a heading that allows them to fly just low enough to avoid radar detection. It also increases their odds of survival if they do have to crash-land their aircraft . . . at least theoretically.”

Nodding her head, she replied, “That sounds like a very plausible scenario.”

Wardlow walked over to the map, pointed at the accident crash site and continued, “The real fact of the matter is that we’ll probably never know the whole truth about what actually happened out there. If there really was a crash and there was some criminal element associated with it, it will be up to the law enforcement officials, not us, to flesh it out. Speaking of which, we should at least make a courtesy call to the local Drug Enforcement Agency chief to give him a heads-up.”

Bethany picked up her note pad and added this notification to all the rest. “Not to change the subject, but I also left a message with the Environmental Protection Agency’s on-duty supervisor just on the off-chance this plane had any hazardous materials or fluids on board. Of course, the Federal Aviation Administration is already monitoring everything that’s going on.”

The assistant director pulled his lighter from his pants pocket, opened the lid, and quickly pulled down on the little black wheel, producing a spark and a one-inch flame. He started puffing on the worn plastic stem of his pipe as he angled the bowl to receive the fire from the lighter. Soon the sweet smell of the burning pipe tobacco filled the room. He removed the pipe from between his clenched teeth and held it in his left hand as he stood in front of the map and concentrated on the red “X” that marked the spot where this mystery aircraft supposedly hit the water. “Okay, let’s get back on track here and start planning some kind of organized response. Where is the nearest Coast Guard cutter to the scene of the crash?”

Referring to her checklist again, Bethany flipped through a couple of pages. “The USS Defiance is about two hours away on routine patrol duties. The captain assured me that if they’re needed sooner, they could respond in about an hour and a half if they proceed at flank speed.”

Wardlow removed his pipe from his mouth and looked at Bethany. “Who’s the skipper on that ship?”

“According to my records, that would be Lt. Commander Ryan Spenser.”

“You mentioned earlier that one helicopter had already surveyed the area. Is that the only one?”

“Well, since it’s Sunday, we only have two nearby. One’s in maintenance, and the one that was out earlier searching the crash scene is waiting to be refueled. The oncoming flight crew is getting briefed even as we speak. I checked on them just before you arrived.”

Mr. Wardlow let out another large sigh and said, “Don’t we have anything else available now that could respond to the site any quicker? Someone or something we haven’t thought of?”

“Actually, there’s one other possibility I was a little hesitant to mention. One of those half-day charter fishing boats, the Vortex, is right there on the scene standing by. We sent out a request for assistance call about an hour ago, and the captain of this boat—his last name is Kirby—answered back. In fact, one of his five crewmembers is a licensed scuba diver and he’s volunteered to help us if we need him. I’ve been told that he can be ready on a moment’s notice to enter the water and take a look around. Evidently, he keeps his gear on board in case engine problems develop or one of the fishermen gets a hook caught on something and they don’t want to lose their fish.”

“Do we know anything about this captain?”

“Kirby? Not much, other than he’s prior Navy and in debt up to his eyeballs. Seems he quit his previous job in the construction business and decided to try out this new venture. He’s only been in the sport fishing business for a few months.”

“But is he trustworthy?”

“Sir?”

“I mean, can we rely on him to do what we ask? We don’t need someone out there trying to exploit this situation for his own personal financial gain. Do you see what I mean?”

“I have no reason to believe that we can’t trust him. He knows we’re in a spot. I honestly think he’s just trying to play the part of a good citizen. And besides, he’s already there, and he said he’s anxious to help.”

“Well, something is always better than nothing. Right now, I’m only looking for some kind of verification that an aircraft is even down there. So, let’s go ahead and contact the captain of that ship and ask him to have his man proceed with a cursory search of the immediate area. But we need to make sure his diver doesn’t approach the aircraft under any circumstances. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, and I don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

Bethany was trying to listen to her boss at the same time she was getting a call over her wireless headset. “We may have just caught another break, sir. One of those traffic helicopters for a local TV station was just dispatched to the scene.”

“Shit! How the hell did they hear about this? You know we’re supposed discreet about these matters.”

“Yes, sir, we have, but this television station has probably been monitoring all the traffic over the airwaves, and decided to take it upon themselves to send one of their choppers out to take a look. And you’d have to admit that this would give us a better vantage point to monitor the situation as it unfolds. We can watch the whole thing on our television monitors in the command center.”

“Well, I’m not exactly crazy about the idea, but what choice do we have? In fact, when you make contact with the captain of that fishing boat, I’d like to speak to him personally on the speakerphone. Better yet, why don’t we transfer the call to the command center?” Wardlow said as he extinguished the burning embers in his pipe and propped it up in an ashtray.

The group reconvened in the command center, which was only a short walk down the hallway from the supervisor’s office. It looked pretty much like any other command center. There were four television monitors suspended from the ceiling and about twenty telephones that were being manned by FEMA personnel. Of course, there were plenty of maps of the entire Pacific Rim, as well as enough books, binders, and folders to fill a small library.

When Wardlow and Bethany arrived in the center, the captain of the Vortex had already been contacted and was waiting to be briefed. “He’s on the speakerphone, sir,” said Bethany.

“Captain Kirby, this is Michael Wardlow. Look, I appreciate your doing this for us on such short notice, but I can’t stress enough the need for your diver not to approach the crash site. I don’t want anyone putting his life in jeopardy and I don’t want anything down there to be disturbed. We’re already under a lot of scrutiny as it is. And the last thing I need to happen is to get my ass chewed by the National Traffic Safety Board because someone compromised their accident scene. Are we clear on this?”

“Crystal clear,” answered Captain Kirby. “The safety of my crew and passengers is my main concern, too. My diver was already told to just give the area the once over and see if there is any recent wreckage to report.”

“Excellent. Oh, and one more thing, Captain. Just in case there are any incendiary devices in the area, please make sure your diver doesn’t have any kind of radio or electronic gear on him. Electronic emissions, transmitted or received, have been known to trigger an explosion if they’re in close enough proximity. I’m not as concerned about anything above the surface, because, according to my charts, the water is deep enough in that area to provide a suitable buffer, if you will, if any electronic waves are detected.”

“I’m way ahead of you. I was assigned to an explosive ordinance disposal unit while I was in the Navy, and I know it doesn’t take a lot to set one of those things off. So that’s why I’ve told him to surface first and just yell out if he finds anything.”

“I think that covers all the bases. You can go ahead and tell your man to proceed. Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell him to get started. He’ll be entering the water on the starboard side of the ship.”
Even though the group in the command center couldn’t see anything, their eyes were fixated on the speaker box sitting on the desk. A few minutes later, someone in the room announced that one of the TV stations was going to begin their live broadcast at the crash scene in about a dozen minutes. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes shifted from the speaker box to one of the television monitors.

After about ten very uncomfortable minutes of silence, Wardlow decided to speak. “Anything to report yet, Captain?”

“Nothing yet. We’ve been following his air bubbles on the surface, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary to report.”

“What do your passengers think about all this?”

“Well, as you can probably imagine, they’re pretty pissed off at me for suspending their fishing, but I’m sure they’ll get over it when I tell them that they’ll get a forty percent discount on their next trip.”
“I’m just curious, Captain . . .when you first arrived at that location, did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary that would even suggest that something had gone down there? I mean, did you see anything that looked like oil just lying on the surface of the water, or could you smell aviation gasoline? How about any floating debris?”

Over the speakerphone, he heard, “Like seat cushions, dead bodies, parts of an aircraft . . . that kind of stuff?”

“Exactly,” answered Wardlow.

“Not a thing. It all seemed pretty normal to me. I even fired up my brand new $2,000.00 fish-finder, but the only things it picked up were schools and schools of mackerel, bonito, and all kinds of other fish that we should be catching right now.”

Just then, the TV monitor showed an aerial view of the fishing boat. The pilot announced that he was going to circle around and see if he could zoom in where everyone was looking. The picture on the screen showed about eighteen people, thirteen with fishing poles pointing toward the sky, standing on the right side of the Vortex.

“Captain, you’ll have to excuse my ignorance about your line of work, but I thought most of the sport fishing was done closer to the Channel Islands. I’m surprised to see you out in the open water,” said Wardlow as he continued to watch the monitor.

“It’s funny that you should mention that, because this is first time we’ve ever fished in this particular spot. If you’ve got a couple of seconds, I’ll tell how we learned about it, because it’s actually quite amusing. I’m sitting in my office one night when my man staggers in. He’s three sheets to the wind and he’s boasting about this fishing spot that’s evidently been one of the best-kept secrets in this industry for the past five or six years. It seems he took upon himself to go drinking with an employee of one of our competitors to try and find out where they fish. According to my man, it took a lot of patience, some gentle prodding, and a copious amount of alcohol to get this guy to shoot his mouth off about this secret location where he guaranteed we’d catch a shitload of fish. The rest, as they say, is history. And the only reason we’re here now and they’re not is because it’s Sunday and I need the money. It seems my competition doesn’t work on the Sabbath.”

Everyone in the command center laughed at the captain’s comments.

“And I have to admit that I’ve never seen this many fish in one area in my life. There must be one hell of a feeding ground down there.”

Although they couldn’t see the captain’s face, it was safe to assume that he was sporting a big grin.
“Well, I apologize for inconveniencing you and your crew and passengers, but if it’s any consolation to you, my friend, you’re getting a lot a free advertising right now, thanks to that traffic helicopter circling over your head. He’s been telling everyone who you are, the name of your ship, and where you’re home-based. The only thing he’s not giving out is your telephone number and your rates.”

“Goddamn it, I knew I should’ve brought along my new sign. Hey, do you suppose if I yelled loud enough they could hear me telling them if they book a party of twenty, it would cost about seventy-five dollars a person? And that includes bait, tackle . . .”

Suddenly, everyone in the command center heard shouting in the background over the speakerphone. “Just a minute, there’s some commotion up on deck.”

The FEMA command post suddenly came to a complete standstill as they watched the monitor. The camera from the helicopter zoomed in again on the bubbles from the diver, Steve Morris. Something was apparently wrong, because the bubbles making it to the surface had doubled. They could still hear the captain talking to his crew.

“Has he come to the surface yet?”

“No, sir, not yet. He’s been underwater the whole time.”

“Well, try and move the boat a little closer to where he is, but be careful.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain returned to the phone and reported, “I don’t know what’s going on, but there must be something the matter. The problem is we only have one set of scuba gear and one diver.”

Just then, one of the other crew members called for the captain to come up on the deck immediately.
“Sir, Morris just surfaced, and he’s yelling something.”

“Can you tell what he’s saying?” yelled the captain.

“Not really, but he’s in some kind of trouble. It looks likes he’s freaked out about something and he’s beginning to hyperventilate.”

“Mr. Wardlow, I’ve got to get back out there to help; I don’t want to lose this kid. I’ll leave the phone off the hook so you can hear what’s going on.”

The people in the command center listened intently to the agitated voices of the crew and watched it in real time on the TV monitor. They heard the captain’s on voice on deck asking, “Can anybody hear what he’s saying? What was he yelling about? Wait a minute—did he just say something about . . . bodies?”

“That’s what it sounded like, but I’m not sure. All I know is that if we don’t get him out of the water soon, he’s going to drown.”

On the TV monitor, they could see that the diver was about fifteen feet from the boat and struggling in the water. Suddenly, a life preserver was thrown into the water by one of the crew members, but it landed about five feet behind the diver. Then the captain screamed, “He can’t grab the goddamned thing if he can’t see it! We’re going to have swim out to him and bring him in! Well, don’t just stand there! (Silence) Fuck it, I’ll do it myself!”

The TV camera did a wide shot to catch both the excitement on the boat and in the ocean. Suddenly, out of the crowd of people just standing there, a man could be seen removing his hat, diving into the water, and swimming toward the struggling crew member. At first, it appeared that the diver was panicking and beginning to struggle with the rescuer. Then, the situation became dire because instead of one man fighting for his life, there now appeared to be two victims. And just when it seemed hopeless, three more men dove into the water to help. It took all four crew members to keep the diver afloat and bring him back to the boat.

“Bethany, check on the status of that Coast Guard helicopter. Tell him he’s needed at the scene now because we may have an injured diver who could possibly require medical attention. Instruct Commander Spenser to get under way and proceed to that location as fast as he can. You’d better notify the LAPD or whoever has jurisdiction in this area, as well as the FBI. I don’t have a clue what’s going on out there, but if there are bodies down there, we need to get on top of this situation before it gets out of hand.”

Wardlow continued to stare at the red “X” on one of the maps in the command center, and then shifted his eyes to the TV monitor. As he watched the diver being pulled on board the fishing boat, he began to wonder if this could really be something as simple as a routine aircraft accident, if there was such a thing. But what if this wasn’t a plane crash? Then where did those bodies come from?

Suddenly, Wardlow was filled with this overwhelming sense of dread. And this was out of character for someone with his background. After all, he was certainly no stranger to contingency situations, and it was hardly the first time he’d seen the loss of human life. In fact, he had been part of the investigative team sent to Jonestown, in the tiny South American country of Guyana, to investigate a little-known religious cult made up of mostly U.S. citizens. Little did he suspect that he’d be an eyewitness to the aftermath of probably the most horrendous murder-suicide massacre in American history.

Although that happened nearly three decades ago and had absolutely nothing to do with what was going on now, Wardlow hoped and prayed that he wasn’t about to face the same carnage under all that water that he had faced in South America. Little did he suspect that this was going to be one of those “good news—bad news” scenarios. The good news was that his instincts about confronting another Jim Jones couldn’t be more incorrect. The bad news was that the entity responsible for what they were about to discover under all that water would be a hell of a lot deadlier, and infinitely more terrifying than anything any one of them could have imagined.
 

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