Second Sunrise

By Robert Wernli

After his anger has festered for over five decades, a visionary creates a blueprint for retaliation against America that is worthy of the wait.

Such obsession forms the foundation of Second Sunrise. Readers who enjoy the swashbuckling storytelling of Clive Cussler, the technical education of Michael Crichton, and the character development of Ridley Pearsonwill enjoy Second Sunrise.

Second Sunrise is a novel of colliding passions. A Japanese billionaire's drive for revenge will sacrifice everything, including those closest to him, to wreak both financial and physical devastation on the country that stole his life. A U.S.Olympic athlete and ocean explorer, driven to perfection, will accept no less than 'taking the gold.' When their paths cross, only one can reach victory. From sumo matches in Japan,to earthquakes in California, to hidden terror in the depths of the Pacific Ocean, this international thriller takes the reader on a roller-coaster ride. The resolution, staged on and below the ocean, where the most technologically advanced systems meet in a final gambit of death, escalates to a cataclysmic finale below the coastal waters of the western United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 6, 2003
• ISBN: 9781414006116

Robert Wernli

Robert Wernli Sr. is an international expert in the technology that weaves throughout his first two novels, Second Sunrise and Sunrise Cartel; he has chaired eighteen international conferences in related technology in the United States, Canada, Scotland, Norway, Taiwan, China, and Japan. In Pop-Up, he spins off his investigative reporter in those two novels, Sam Brashly, for his own thriller along the US/Mexico border. He holds mechanical engineering degrees from the University of California, Santa Barbara, and San Diego State University. A former navy-qualified diver, he has spent his career developing unmanned underwater robotic vehicles and work systems. Recently retired from a navy research center in San Diego, California, he now works as a consultant in underwater robotics and technology as president of First Centurion Enterprises. He has coauthored two nonfiction works: a comprehensive book on CD-ROM on underwater vehicles, Operational Effectiveness of Unmanned Underwater Systems and the recently released second edition of The ROV Manual. He lives in San Diego, California, with his wife, Beverley.

Book preview

© 2003 by Robert Wemli. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4140-0611-X (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4140-0609-8 (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4140-0610-1 (Dust Jacket)

ISBN: 978-1-4140-0611-6 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2003097013

IstBooks-rev. 10/30/03

Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue June, 2004

Part I

1     Trials

2     The Pac Rim Explorer

3     The Survey

4     Dumb-Ass Producers

5     Beautiful Betty

6     The Samurai Room

7     Mokarimakka

8     The Hole Truth

9     Shval

10   The Information Highway

11   Emerald Towers

12   No Escape

13   Seismic Events

14   Dedications

15   Nuclear Quakes

16   Yokozuna

17   Introductions

18   Courvoisier

Part II

19   Wine And Dine

20   Cognac And Cigars

21   The Docks

22   Skull And Crossbones

23   Number One

24   The Yin And Yang

25   Inspector Clouseau

26   Social Engineering

27   Missing Pieces

28   Firewall

29   Sumo

30   Sushi And Beer

31   The Professional

32   The Agency

33   For The Love Of Debbie

34   Shinkansen

35   Yakuza

36   Increasing Pressure

37   Welcome To Osaka

38   Threats

39   Sayonara

40   Assassin

Part III

41   Tears

42   The Kuril Trench

43   Carpetbaggers

44   Countdown

45   Run Silent, Run Deep

46   Strings Of Pearls

47   Leviathan

48   Mayday

49   Captives

50   Beep

51   The Namazu Of Fukui

52   Behind Shut Eyes

Part IV

53   Forbidden Places

54   Fool’s Bait

55   The Zodiac

56   Ramming Speed!

57   Above And Below

58   The Way Of The Warrior

59   Firing Solutions

60   The Hitman

61   Final Voyage

Epilogue Athens, Greece-August 26, 2004

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and stories are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual business establishments, events, or to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author has strived to accurately reflect the geography, locals and customs described in the novel and to ensure that all technology, equipment and induced seismic activity described is based on sound engineering principles and either exists, can be developed, or is theoretically possible. Fictional liberties have been minimized and the author apologizes for any inaccuracies within the story, whether intentional or otherwise.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

When developing the plot for Second Sunrise, my goal was to build it around Japan, a beautiful country that I have visited many times. The question was how to do that. The answer was to create a Japanese antagonist that would provide the reasons to travel to and describe the Japanese culture. I hope I’ve succeeded in honoring the traditions, values and abject beauty of the country, even though the story’s catalyst is through a couple of dastardly Japanese characters. My thanks to Tamaki, Hisaaki and my many other Japanese friends who have introduced me to the many wondrous aspects of their culture; I’m sure they’ll understand that some country had to produce the bad guy, or there would be no novel.

Next, my thanks to the San Diego Public Library. I hope they don’t think less of me for checking out so many books on terrorism, computer hacking, submarines, nuclear weapons and other seditious topics.

To my many friends and colleagues who provided everything from ideas to manuscript review. I have attempted to use their insight and comments to help create a technically and scientifically correct story; other than fictional embellishment, I believe I’ve lived up to that goal. I am deeply indebted to them for their support. My thanks to the following: Neil Berkowitz, M.D., Dick Brown, Don Brown, Antoinette Corum, Barbara Fletcher, Kevin Hardy, Richard Johnson, Jon Losee, Ph.D., Bob Mathews, William Morris, Dave Norris, Lisa Reynolds, Robert Stangarone and Jim Walton; and to my copy editor, Bob Pacilio, who helped me polish the final draft.

A special thanks to my son, Robert Wernli Jr., Esq., for his reviews of my manuscript and for pointing out the cheesy parts.

And to my daughter, Kristen Wernli, whose insight into the book and the development of its characters made me grateful for encouraging her to obtain a degree in literature.

Most of all, my greatest appreciation, love and admiration is for my wonderful wife, Beverley, who challenged me a decade ago to Quit talking about writing a novel, just do it. The fact that we met as pen pals, when I was in the army in 1967, was the first indication that she liked my writing; may our 36 year honeymoon go on forever. Thanks for the countless manuscript reviews; now get ready for the sequel. Love ya!

DEDICATION

To the loving memory of my parents, Emil William Wernli and Naomi LoFern Wernli, who planted an early seed by surrounding me with books as a child. They would be proud.

In every fine society, there is an undercurrent of extremists driven by their desire to return to the glorious days of the past. One such far right personality was world-renowned author, poet and playwright Yukio Mishima, whose desire was to see Japan return to the imperialistic days of glory prior to World War II. His convictions led to his committing hara-kiri in 1970—a final exclamation point to his life story—protesting the spinelessness of Japan’s leaders, and demonstrating his personal pursuit of the traditions of the samurai.

He was not alone.

PROLOGUE

JUNE, 2004

YOKOHAMA, JAPAN

He died once. Tonight he would die again. Tonight he would excise the cancer of disgrace festering within his body.

He leaned forward. Beads of sweat dripped onto the polished blade of the sword and sprinkled onto the tatami mat below his knees. It’s a simple movement, he thought; his ghostly white fingers masked the blood red handle as the tip pierced his skin. A drop of blood appeared. Then another. Then the drops merged into a crimson trickle, embracing the blade that would free his soul from the past.

His tired eyes watched the room’s dim lights dancing eerily along the sword’s rapier edge. They watched his small wet hands tremble with fear. They squeezed shut. He took a long, deep breath as the muscles in his arms rebelled, but their natural instinct—to live—was overpowered by decades of torment.

The anticipated movement was swift, yet he gasped in surprise. An initial feeling of warmth flowed through him, then fire radiated from his abdomen as he thrust the blade further inward. He sliced the razored edge toward his side, then twisted the blade up. Lightning coursed along his spine, electrifying his face and paralyzing his arms; he embraced the sensation. His body sagged forward, and he watched with satisfaction as his life flowed into a widening puddle on the floor.

His grimace eased to a smile as the memory of her beauty filled him. He could sense her presence. The fragrant scent of cherry blossoms graced her laughter and lifted his head; her rosebud lips blossomed, and the breeze tousled her hair as she ran to him from the trees. Soon she would be his again—forever. A veil of light radiated from behind her as their hands reached out, seeking each other’s love. As their fingers neared, a brilliant halo erupted across the sky—he knew he was once again too late. Terror tore the beauty from her eyes and the horror of comprehension wailed past her ruby lips, then the blinding flash consumed her as the echo of her scream sliced his subconscious.

Bolting upright, he clutched his stomach, trying to squeeze the waves of scorching pain from his body. He rocked up and down as sweat soaked covers tried to cool the searing pain, but his futile efforts did little to appease the convulsions as bile rose in his throat.

How many times had the demon nightmare returned? How many more till it would end? He rocked until his head cleared, and he could focus on the digital clock near his bed. Four-thirty. Sweat slid into the corners of a growing smile.

Soon. It would begin soon. Then he would sleep again. Revenge is a powerful sedative.

NORTHWEST PACIFIC OCEAN

Captain Yakota stood on the bridge of the Mitaka Maru, scanning the horizon through high power binoculars; after thirty years at sea, they seemed a mere extension of his hands. Long lines of graceful swells rolled toward his ship, massaging his vision, but subconsciously he saw the shores of Japan with his wife and family waving to him in the distance. His chest heaved in anticipation.

Sumimasen.

The captain lowered his binoculars and turned to see his first mate’s apologetic smile hover above a large mug of steaming liquid.

Your coffee, Yakota-san, he said. I had Yoshi make a fresh pot. It is a new blend.

Arigato gozaimasu, he said, thanking his old friend as he took the cup. I can use something strong to keep me alert. My body believes it should be lying on the beach, sleeping in the sunshine. He lifted the cup to his nose and inhaled.

Ah, I hope Yoshi’s latest creation tastes as good as it smells.

You will be pleased, the mate said, turning toward the chart table.

Keep us on course, my friend. Two weeks of holiday to restore our souls awaits over the horizon. He turned, sipped the coffee and scanned the long ship that pointed toward home.

The Mitaka Maru was simplistically beautiful. Her sweeping black hull was topped near the stern by the towering white superstructure that supported her bridge. Her cargo reached into the distance; a multicolored array of four thousand, forty-foot long containers, tightly stacked within her eight hundred foot long hull.

Satisfied with the majesty before him, he set the cup aside, stretched his arms high over his head, and smiled. A perfect day. His body savored the power of the ship that surged through the deck, up his legs and into his stiff back. The vibration of the vessel’s twenty-six thousand horsepower engines, which allowed it to grace the waves comfortably at twenty-one knots, made him proud. The sea was his life. There were no politicians or pompous ceremonies at sea. No trade agreements. No problems. Just the waves and him.

He retrieved the coffee mug and turned to the mate, who was marking the last leg of the voyage on the chart, when the first explosion hit.

Yakota’s body jerked to attention, his coffee sloshing from the cup and across the charts. ‘What was that!"

The mate turned and stared back at him through confused eyes.

Quickly! the captain shouted. I need an answer.

The first mate snapped back and responded with a sharp Hai over his shoulder as he rushed out the hatchway to his left. He took two strides, then a tremendous blast sent him pinwheeling backwards. His head hit the side of the hatch squarely, and he collapsed in an unconscious heap.

Silence. The captain stood, stunned for a moment, then rushed to aid his friend. The mate was breathing steadily, and the gash on his head, though bleeding freely, did not appear life threatening. He began to open his mouth to issue orders when two more explosions shattered the windows behind him. He leaned over the mate as debris stung his body, then he took control again.

All stop! the captain yelled to the navigator on the other side of the bridge. Get the first aid kit and assist him.

The navigator relayed the message as the captain stood and left the bridge; he stepped onto the bridge wing and stopped. Perplexed, he looked up and stared at the life support capsule suspended before him. A gigantic hole yawned from the side of the craft’s orange body.

He looked beyond the cargo toward the bow and watched crewmembers scampering onto the deck. He turned and ran back through the bridge, jumped over the first mate, and nearly knocked over the navigator assisting him. Panic flowed through his body. Why would someone destroy our lifeboats? As he exited the opposite side of the bridge, the scene of destruction repeated itself. A black hole at least a meter in diameter stared at him from the nearest capsule.

The ship slowed as Yakota stared at the damage, trying to comprehend what had happened—and why. At least the engine room is responding as ordered.

Tanachi, he shouted to the navigator, leave him and go to the communications room. Send a message to Tokyo that someone has sabotaged our life boats…Now!

The crewman laid the injured first mate gently on the deck and disappeared through a door behind the helm.

As the captain turned toward the bridge a fifth, larger explosion rocked the ship, throwing him across the bridge wing into the railing. The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and he slid to the deck.

Yakota crawled to his knees, took two deep breaths, and looked up. He watched as several crewmen, scattered about the forecastle, tried to get back on their feet. One of them had been thrown overboard, and he watched helplessly as the man floated past, away from the ship, and became an orange speck in the distance. Poor soul. He won’t last long in these waters. A trail of orange smoke began to drift in the breeze, trailing away from a distress signal activated by the unfortunate crewman. A lot of good that will do you. He stood, regained his balance and looked at the sabotage. We can’t save you without a lifeboat.

The railing provided a steadying hand as he leaned over it. Cool air refilled his lungs as he breathed deeply, preparing to shout orders to the crew—then the next explosion occurred.

Yakota watched as his entire ship rose into the air as if lifted by Neptune himself. But as the ship settled back, he still hung in the air. Confusion engulfed him as he floated, rotating slowly, until the ship appeared to be upside down. The decks were passing him. The orange bottom of the life support capsule stared at him as it receded into the blue sky above. The hull passed as he descended. Then black engulfed him.

The cold that shocked his body forced realization. He too had been thrown overboard by an explosion. and he was under the water. The air, knocked from his lungs for a second time, was not within reach. Instinct drove him to the beckoning daylight. An eternity passed before his head pierced the surface, and he fought to refill his lungs.

He gulped several breaths, then stared through stinging eyes as the listing Mitaka Maru lumbered past. He watched as the crewmen ran about the decks, panicking, unaware of his fate. He watched the navigator look about and shout from the bridge, apparently looking for him, then disappear back inside.

Yakota’s body began to accept the chill, going into survival mode, shutting down noncritical functions, rerouting others. But what chilled most was the fear of death; his destiny became clear as he bobbed in the frigid water.

It took about three minutes for the ship to slow to a stop, he calculated, but by then its bow was nearly submerged. Who would do such a thing? There’s no war. Who will take my grandsons to the baseball games? And usher my wife into golden retirement. I was almost home. Why? His questions went unanswered as the final cry of his dying ship cut the air. He tried to look away but he couldn’t.

Like the sounding of a great whale, the ship reared its tail and sliced below the surface, shooting a geyser of water and debris into the air. Then it was gone. Several crewmen floated on the surface. Some had donned their orange survival suits, but that would only delay the inevitable—a slow death—unless help arrived soon.

Am I going to die? The water didn’t seem so cold, now. Actually, it was beginning to warm up nicely, like his own bed at home when his wife slid in next to him. He inhaled deeply, her fragrance was so sweet.

As delirium comforted him, he examined the smoke from a flare held by the first man overboard as it trailed off in the slight breeze—a red snake in the sky. The eerie sight mesmerized him, and he began to relax. He watched the snake swim through the blue sky as a giant whale appeared on the surface below it. Then there were men on the whale’s back; they took the man that held the snake’s tail and they all disappeared. Did the whale eat them?

Look, my dear, he said to his wife as he pointed toward the whale. His mouth filled with water, and he choked before continuing. It’s like in the movie— As he tried to remember, the whale began moving then turned toward him before sounding.

Moments later, both Captain Yakota and the whale slid in silence to the depths.

PART I

1

TRIALS

CONCORD, CALIFORNIA-JULY 10

As the ground accelerated toward Chad Donegan’s sweat covered face, his green eyes opened wide for a second, then slammed shut. The collision of human flesh and an immovable object is ugly at best, and this was no exception. The thirty-eight year old wrestler grimaced, waiting for the impact.

There was nothing he could do about the mistake now, or the promise he had made. The power of the man who had just turned him into a human projectile at the U.S. Olympic Team Trials surprised even Chad. God, maybe they were right, the heavy underdog thought, as he awaited the inevitable, which came an instant later.

Chad felt his head wrench one way and his shoulder the other, followed by the mass of his body pile driving into the floor between them. The air, forced from his lungs by the crippling impact, carried a dampened exclamation of pain.

Everything had seemed so positive only minutes earlier when the announcer, hyping the crowd into a frenzy, introduced a tired Chad Donegan and his younger, well-rested opponent. At the referee’s signal to shake hands before beginning his third and final match, he had been filled with confidence. He knew he could win. Amazing how fast things could change. A minute ago he was winning, now he was lying motionless on the edge of the mat.

Time, shouted the referee, announcing the end of the five-minute regulation period. The three-minute overtime would start immediately.

Chad didn’t move. Instead, he stared up at the scoreboard. Red—8. Blue—8. He ignored the pain in his shoulder as realization began to sink in. A second later, his concerned assistant was kneeling at his side.

You okay? Denton Selmark asked.

Hell, no, Chad said, gasping for air. Dumb-ass move. He took several deep breaths, then panted as he attempted to talk. How on God’s good earth… A ‘flying mare’… dad taught me… his favorite move… and mine… Sucker move for a pusher …Five seconds left…I had it won …Now I can’t move.

What! Denton said, his face sagging.

My shoulder. It’s dislocated again.

Let’s go gentlemen. We’ve got to start the overtime period, the referee said, looking down at them. He began to walk away, then returned, leaned forward and with a tilt of the head asked, You okay, Chad?

Start my injury time, Chad replied. I’ll be ready in a minute.

The referee nodded and walked over to the scorer’s table to reset the clock and prepare for the beginning of the overtime period.

Chad looked up at his best friend. He had to be ready to wrestle within two minutes. One second longer and he would lose.

Let me get the doctor, Denton said.

No time, man…no doctor…you pop it…now! Chad directed, his lungs pumping for air.

That didn’t work the last time we tried it. You couldn’t move your arm for a week.

Chad read Denton’s eyes. Don’t worry, he said, recalling the arthroscopic surgery that followed his training accident. There had been enough time for his shoulder to heal, but the doctor had warned Chad that the procedure only repaired the damage to his rotator cuff; it was not a cure.

No choice. I’m not going to forfeit. Last time around for me. now do it. I’m not asking you, Chad said, as his heavy breathing powered streams of sweat toward the mat. He would finish the match—with one arm or two.

Denton shook his head in dejection. All right. Brace yourself, he said, kicking off his shoes. He sat on the mat perpendicular to Chad and grasped his friend’s injured right arm by the wrist with both hands, then braced one foot against Chad’s armpit and the other against his muscular neck. You ready? he asked, as the crowd looked on in silence. Even the media circus of the ESPN camera crews sat like paper cutouts around the mat…waiting.

Yeah, was the strained reply as the blood filled muscles in Chad’s neck tightened.

Here goes, he said as he began to pull steadily on the injured arm.

Harder, Chad said.

Denton increased the tension.

Harder, he repeated, through clenched teeth.

Denton obeyed as pain etched Chad’s face.

Okay, let go. Chad moved his hand, forearm, then upper arm before the pain shot back through his body. He recoiled, then slammed his left arm against the mat.

Thirty seconds, Chad, announced the referee who looked on, still concerned.

Again. This time pop it hard, Chad ordered.

Denton did not question him again. Without warning, his lanky friend arched backward and jerked the arm with all his strength. The crowd’s gasp sucked the humid air from the arena.

Damn! Chad shouted, more from shock than anger. Thanks for the warning.

Sorry, ol’ buddy, but it’s the only chance I had against that muscle bound extremity you call an arm. Had to catch you more relaxed. Any change? he asked, letting go of Chad’s wrist.

Chad moved his fingers, forearm, then upper arm. He grimaced again but not as much. Without warning he jumped to his feet and pulled his friend up with his good left arm, a smile replacing the mask of determination that preceded it.

Close enough, he replied, windmilling his right arm around slowly while flexing his hand. Thanks.

Before Denton could reply, Chad sprang back to the center of the mat and began psyching himself up. Bouncing on his tiptoes with his arms pumping at his sides, he appeared as lose as a marionette’s puppet. The small, one-piece blue wrestling singlet accentuated his sinewy physique; tanned and toned from years of dedicated training, his muscles flexed in rhythmic anticipation. Then he stopped; his stare locked onto his opponent. The mask was back. The focus. He paced the mat on cat’s feet, rocking back and forth—a panther poised to bring down its prey.

His equally confident 180 pound opponent wore red and stalked opposite him in a crazed fashion, slapping his face, sides and thighs as if forcing himself to a higher state of madness.

Denton paced beside the mat as the overtime period began. The tentative movement of Chad’s injured arm said that he was not one hundred percent as the two grapplers circled each other, waiting for an opening to end the match. Next point wins. Next mistake loses.

Chad kept his injured arm closer to his side than usual as his stare pierced his opponent’s eyes. He probed deeper. Chad moved with caution until the eyes gave it away. Watch the eyes, his father had always said; this time he remembered.

The other wrestler didn’t have a chance. It was over in a blurring flash. Chad grabbed his rival’s left arm with his good arm and turned into him, driving his shoulder into his competitor’s armpit, before dropping to his knees. The young national champion from Iowa State somersaulted through the air and slammed onto his back. Chad ignored the pain and drove his bad shoulder into him. The tournament favorite flailed in panic as Chad demonstrated his own version of a textbook flying mare. Touché!

A moment later, the stadium exploded with cheers as the referee released Chad’s raised hand.

Awesome! Absolutely, unmistakably, awesome! Denton shouted. I’ve seen some incredible moves before, but that one was just awesome. Where the hell did you get that move?

Chad’s wry smile told it all as he looked toward the heavens. Pack your bags, turkey, we’re going to Athens, he said, showing no ill effects as an ESPN reporter, her outstretched arm waving a microphone, tried to catch up with the adrenaline filled athlete.

Well, maybe not directly, Denton said.

What do you mean…not directly?

I’ll fill you in after the award ceremony. Now isn’t the time to talk shop. Now is the time to bask in the glory.

Works for me, Chad said. As he strode toward the press corps, the over-the-hill wrestler’s feet never touched the ground.

After a hot shower, the application of a considerable amount of liniment, and the award ceremony, Denton and Chad drove from the gymnasium.

Chad relaxed in the passenger seat and stared at his friend. Denton A. Selmark III—top of his class at Harvard. A sheep in lion’s clothing. Why his timid friend ever wanted to become a lawyer was beyond Chad’s wildest imagination. He could have picked nearly any firm, but instead, he chose a simpler life. One close to the ocean. His family fortune was a pacifier for him; he would not get rich working as Vice President, Manager, and Corporate Attorney for Chad’s Westar Rovotics firm. The challenge offered

Denton enjoyment—not money. And paying the company’s bills on time was definitely a challenge.

Okay, Denton, what’s going on? Chad said, combing his damp sand-colored hair with his fingers. His face still glistened from the heat of battle.

"Well, let’s start with the good news. Remember the Mitaka Maru that sunk last month?"

I should, Chad said. Our ship is searching for it.

Well, we’ve located the wreck.

Great. So what’s the bad news? We lose another engine on the boat?

Not quite that simple, Denton said, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out two airline tickets and tossed them onto Chad’s lap. The bad news is we’re about to catch a plane. Time to put on your corporate hat. We need to join up with the ship.

We?

Yeah… we. Because the wreck was located so quickly, the insurance company’s lawyers have demanded that nothing further be done until the two of us are there.

Damn! Chad said, Isn’t this just a bunch of legalese? Can’t you handle it? I’ve got a tournament to train for and this is my last shot. I’ll be too old for the next Olympics.

Hell, you’re too old this time, Denton said with a chuckle. And, no, I can’t handle it myself. You’re the President of Westar Rovotics, and the lawyers want you…and me.

Chad folded his arms and sagged into his seat.

They’re concerned about the sensitivity of the evidence we may find, and want to invoke some additional legal and security considerations—in writing and signed by both of us. Besides, it could be worse. They’re paying us big bucks for the search. Could have taken months. The incentive clause to find the wreck this fast will pay off nicely. And, with a little luck, you might get a shot at the Mariana Trench on the way back.

That caught Chad’s attention. He sat up and adjusted the elastic bandage holding an icepack on his injured shoulder. I got enough equipment on board to stay in shape. It might work.

And if we can’t work in the Mariana Ops, Denton added, I’ll get you off to Athens with a first class ticket so you can train at some luscious resort on the Med. Fair enough?

Chad fidgeted, stared ahead in silence, then locked eyes with Denton. I made a promise, he said.

I know. You’ll keep it.

And a shot at the Mariana record before the Olympics?

Maybe.

When do we leave?

‘We’ll be through airport security before the roosters crow tomorrow."

Chad’s face cringed as he sat back in silence, evaluating his limited options. Seconds later the decision was made.

2

THE PAC RIM EXPLORER

NORTHWEST PACIFIC OCEAN-JULY 13

Chad massaged his temples but the effort was useless. The ear protectors failed to keep the monotonous whumping of the long-range helicopter’s engines from fueling his headache. He fished into his pocket for the ever-present aspirin, popped two into his mouth and washed them down with his diet soda.

How can Denton sleep like that? Chad thought, watching the man’s string bean form flaked across the seats. Regardless of the conveyance, or the roughness of the ride, it seemed that the drone of a motor was a sedative for his intelligent friend. As if on cue, Denton rolled to his other side, fidgeted, and returned to a sound sleep, oblivious to the drone of the helo’s motor.

Chad believed that opportunity would knock, but never beat the door down, and he counted his blessings regarding his chance meeting of Denton. Besides being an able manager, lover of the sea, and good friend, he provided an asset that in today’s litigious climate was proving to be financially rewarding; Denton was an honest lawyer. And now the legal system was bringing them some work. Not necessarily because of the capability of the legal system, but because the technology was catching up with the not so bright ideas of past swindlers and crooks. How many of the ships that had sunk around the world, with huge insurance payoffs, had actually been sabotaged? Probably more than one would imagine.

It had always been assumed that if something was dumped into the ocean, it was gone forever, but Chad and his team were disproving such archaic philosophy. And the Mitaka Maru was about to become another data point that refuted the old thesis.

Excuse me, announced the pilot. ‘We’re approaching the vessel. Please prepare to land."

Hey, Rip Van Winkle, time to end your nap, Chad chided, as he shook Denton’s shoulder.

Oh, my aching back Denton said, sliding his feet to the floor and his hands to the small of his back. I believe the engineers who design aircraft are a bunch of sadists.

Chad smiled, nodded agreeably to Denton, and looked out the window. He could see the Pac Rim Explorer off the starboard side of the chopper. The downturn in the oil business several years earlier allowed Chad to pick the ship up for a ridiculously low price. Reconfigured to support undersea vehicle operations, it was 250 feet long with a wide 52-foot beam. The centrally located hexagonal landing pad’s orange marking flared in the morning sun, providing a perfect target against the wavelet laced sea. The landing pad was mounted on top of the maintenance bay, between the bridge and the thirty-foot-high red A-frame on the stern of the ship.

As the helo passed off the port side, Chad could see Bill and Susan, his crack operations team, making their way to the upper deck, waving as the helo approached. The mate stood at the front of the pad providing landing directions to the pilot, and within a minute the helicopter was secured onboard. As the whine of the engines died away, the brilliant red aircraft’s side door slid open.

About time, Bill shouted, his bearded face poking into the opening. Thought I’d have to do the whole damn job myself.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. Happy as usual, I see, Chad said. He smiled as Bill’s massive paw smothered his hand as they shook. Easy now. I need two good hands for Athens.

For Bill, big was monstrous, heavy was at least a ton, something requiring care was treacherous and everything that got done on board was performed by him personally, and usually twice, to ensure it was done right. Nothing was mundane to Chad’s burly Head of Operations, or to anyone within hailing distance of his booming voice. Contrasting his personality were the screaming colors of his ever-present Hawaiian shirt that topped his frayed shorts and well-worn work boots.

Yeah, congratulations on your win! Bill said, his six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten pound frame shading Chad from the sun. I’ll buy you a beer when you’re finished with training.

One beer isn’t going to do it. When I come back with the gold, I’ll expect a case of Corona, Chad added with a laugh, and a pepperoni pizza.

Denton stepped from the passenger compartment looking like he was ready for the office, dressed in tan Dockers, a light blue Oxford shirt and navy blue blazer. He stretched his six-foot frame, then pivoted his back and hips in sweeping circles. Ah, he sighed, to actually stand up straight again. I was beginning to feel like an aircraft seat.

Morning, Denton, Susan said, her trim, five-foot frame peeking around Bill’s bulk.

Oh…uh…hi, Susan, he replied.

Chad watched as Denton, eyes riveted on Susan, lost his balance in mid-swivel and teetered toward the edge of the pad. Chad took a step in his direction but was cut off as Bill’s massive arm caught Denton in mid flight. Although fluid motion while sailing a boat, Denton was awkward and clumsy when walking on one, especially in the presence of Susan.

Air, land, sea! Hell, my body doesn’t know how to act anymore, Denton explained, blushing, as he regained his balance with Bill’s help. He straightened his jacket, tried to regain his composure and said, Well…uh…how’s the operation going, Bill?

It’s going nowhere fast. We’ve painted the ship three times since the insurance company reps put the whole damn operation on hold. They’re waiting in the lounge. Hope we can wrap this up fast. I want to get the equipment back into the water. Bill turned and left; the others followed in his wake.

The lounge was located next to the galley, almost in the center of the ship between the helo pad and the bridge, where the ship’s motion was at a minimum. As Chad entered, he noticed his two guests from Lloyds of London seated across the room.

Good morning, gentlemen, Chad said as he approached the anxious passengers, his right hand proffered. I’m Chad Donegan.

The men slid from the booth. Good day, Mr. Donegan. I’m Sir Reginald Blakely, and this is my associate, Mr. Godfrey Smith, the first man said with a nod toward his shorter friend. I trust your trip was pleasant, he added, his hand disappearing in Chad’s grasp.

Successful, he replied, as the other agent mirrored Sir Reginald’s actions. It’s always a good trip when you arrive at your next destination in one piece. I believe you both know Denton Selmark.

Oh, most definitely, said the gentleman. Sir Reginald’s lean six-foot-three frame was snow topped with moguls of silver hair and his upper lip sported a silvery thin mustache. With his wire rim glasses and double-breasted nautical suit, he looked as if he could have walked off a multi-million dollar yacht. We worked together in London setting up the contract. How are you Mr. Selmark?

Quite fine, thank you, Denton said. I understand the search has gone well?

Better than my stomach, interjected Sir Reginald’s stocky associate, whose dark greasy hair and ramshackle appearance gave a night-versus-day contrast to that of his impeccable companion. The ocean and I seem to have a difference of opinion on several topics.

Sir Reginald gave Godfrey a tight look, then cleared his throat and said, The quick acquisition of the lost ship by your new equipment was astonishing. Most extraordinary vehicles I’ve ever seen.

You haven’t seen anything yet, Chad said. I’ll give you an update on our full capability later. First, let’s get some fresh coffee, then down to business?

Splendid, replied Sir Reginald. He looked at Godfrey. Please give Mr. Donegan and Mr. Selmark the results of our investigation, and I’ll get us a pot of coffee.

It’s Chad and Denton, Chad said. And don’t be so formal in the middle of the ocean. Relax. The chief cook and bottle washer is on his way with a fresh pot now.

Chad smiled and reached out to greet his friend. Howdy, Tom. I trust all goes well in the land of pots and pans?

Couldn’t be better, boss, the rangy cook said. His thin face was topped with waves of dirty blond hair, and he spoke with a nasal twang: the result of his Southern upbringing and a crooked nose, broken years earlier in a bar fight. Seems that young Tom, just out of boot camp, didn’t take kindly to a couple of patron’s negative comments about his new Marine uniform. Before the ambulances arrived to remove Tom’s unconscious hecklers, he disappeared into the crowd, holding a bloody bar towel under his newly configured badge of courage.

Tom swept his arm toward a pot covered stove. "Got all the fixin’s we need right here, and