Signal!
Kristen watched as he knelt on the bottom and started to dig. He scooped out some sand and dumped it aside, then swept the search coil back over the spot. Dave pointed, indicating that something metallic still occupied the hole he was digging. He continued his efforts with the sand scoop.
Then he reached a hand into the hole and made fanning motions, clearing away suspended sand. Kristen watched as he removed the detector’s headphones before ditching the machine altogether.
Looking over at her with the same gleaming eyes she’d seen yesterday at Duke’s, Dave extracted something from the seafloor.
…CGAC15TTAG...
Clinging to the anchor line in fifteen feet of water, Kristen thought she would die of impatience. She looked on as Dave checked his dive watch. He held up two fingers: two more minutes.
For the past three minutes they had hung here just beneath the boat. Decompressing to allow any nitrogen in their bloodstreams to dissolve back into solution before making their final ascent to the surface, there was not much else to do but stare at the object Dave had pulled from the seabed.
A box.
A rectangular, watertight box. Black, opaque plastic.
Whatever was inside must contain at least some metal, Kristen thought as her eyes scrutinized the box. But it’s not a ring that slipped off Johnson’s finger, that much is clear. She wished she had x-ray vision as she watched Dave turn the thing over in his hands. He was careful to avoid touching the hinged lid, lest the box open underwater.
Kristen looked down and saw her water sample bottle. She had been so absorbed in the dive that she hadn’t yet collected any microbes. She unscrewed the bottle’s lid, checked to see that its fine mesh filter was in place, and then held the bottle into the surging current. After a few seconds she screwed the lid back down.
Then Dave was signaling that it was time to go.
He tucked the box back into his vest. They made their way slowly up to the boat. Swam to the stern.
Dave boarded first. Then Kristen handed her fins up to him before ascending the swim ladder and joining him on the rental boat’s deck. She was not surprised to see Lance asleep in front of the radio console. Tara was there to grab gear handed up by Dave, and then Dave helped Kristen to remove hers.
“Any idea what that is?” Kristen said, pulling the mask off her head while pointing at Dave's vest pocket.
Dave removed the box, turning it over in his hands.
“Let’s dry it off,” he said, looking around for a towel. His was draped over Lance’s lap, covered in vomit. He grabbed his T-shirt and used that instead. Kristen and Tara gathered around Dave.
Lance stirred on his seat and yawned loudly. He opened his good eye and turned his impaired gaze to the box.
“What is that?” he croaked.
“Quiet. We’re about to find out,” Kristen said. She was surprised at her abruptness, but her brother had tried what little patience she had left.
Careful that his longish hair wouldn’t drip water into the box as he opened it, Dave unhinged the clasp and pulled back the lid.
… TTGC16GAAA...
9:30 A.M.
Lance managed to stumble down from his seat so that he could see what the box held. The four of them said nothing for a moment as they fixed their eyes on the open container. Kristen broke the silence, saying what they were all thinking.
“It’s a flash drive,” she declared, still staring at the inch-and-a-half long rectangle of silver metal, a computer connection on one end. A lead dive weight also occupied the box underneath the drive, clearly intended to make the container sink.
None of them paid any attention to the high-pitched whine of an outboard motor that was audible in the distance while Dave reached into the box and removed the data storage device.
He dangled it from an attached lanyard. It gleamed once in the brilliant sunlight.
“The cover’s missing,” Kristen observed. Usually the connector end of a flash-drive was protected by a plastic cap when not in use.
“Could mean whoever put it in here had to move in a hurry,” Dave said. Tara said nothing, merely watching the event unfold, monitoring the situation. She had studied all three of their faces closely, but none of them had showed any signs of recognition upon seeing the flash drive, not that she expected them to.
Kristen grabbed the weight and turned it over in her hands, looking for any identifying marks. There were none.
“Just a standard dive weight,” Dave said, reading her mind. “Could have come from anywhere.”
“My laptop’s in the cabin,” Kristen said, reaching out to take the flash drive from Dave. Tara knew that she had brought her computer along because it held an assortment of material she had collected with regard to her father’s search: GPS coordinates of his yacht’s known course, transcripts of his last radio communications, his most recent blogs, copies of various scientific permits he’d applied for prior to embarking, family photographs in case she needed to show his picture to anyone...
Normally in an FBI investigation, any kind of data equipment would be turned over to computer forensics experts to examine, but since she was here officially on the William Archer missing person case, and not the Dave Turner boating murder case, Tara allowed Dave to hand Kristen the drive.
“Yeah, let’s see what’s on this thing,” Dave said.
Kristen was saying something about hoping there wasn't a virus on the drive when Tara announced, “We’ve got company.” She pointed off their port side, out to sea.
The whine of the motor was fast becoming a roar. They all looked up in time to see a black Rigid-hull Inflatable Boat (RIB) coming at them under the full power of its twin 175-horsepower engines.
The craft decelerated as it neared the rental boat. That was when Tara spotted a man bracing himself against the RIB’s tubular console frame, a pistol in one hand.
Pointed their way.
“Dave, get the boat ready to leave, but don’t move us until I say ‘Go,’” Tara ordered.
Dave jumped to their boat’s console and started the engine.
“Anchor—Kristen, get the anchor,” he shouted. Kristen dropped the flash drive’s lanyard around her neck while running to the bow on the side of the boat that faced away from the gunman.
Tara, for her part, was eyeballing the vessel for any kind of law enforcement logo—Coast Guard, police, city lifeguards—anything to possibly explain the legitimate presence of a firearm at sea. There was a logo of some kind painted on one of the pontoons, but she knew it did not represent a law enforcement agency. She found herself reaching for the FBI issue 9mm Glock holstered in plain view at her waist, fingers unsnapping the catch with practiced ease. She still didn't expect to have make use of the weapon, but years of accumulated instinct told her to have it ready.
Tara removed a small pair of field binoculars from a pocket and trained them on the boat’s logo: A red fish with large eyes and oversized scales.
Where have I seen that?
And then it hit her, hard, as her mind’s eye pictured the lapel pin of the Chinese man who’d jumped from the high-rise the day before.
The detective made a mental note to look into the meaning and prevalence of this fish when she returned to the office.The dragonfish! The woman in the condo had said they were a common Chinese good luck symbol. But Tara hadn’t seen any of them in her first year in Hawaii, and now she’d seen two in the same number of days.
The RIB’s blasting loud-hailer cut into her thoughts as the black boat slowed, approaching the dive boat.
“Aloha! Give us what you found down there and we won’t hurt you,” a male voice called. He and his cohort were both Asian, although their features were largely concealed behind oversize sunglasses and hats, a look that was not out of place on the water.
“Anchor, Kristen—now!” Dave called as he revved the motor in neutral, priming it. His hands scrambled across a console shelf, tossing items aside. He found a fish filet knife an
d gave it to Lance, who was sitting low on the floor of the boat.
“Lance, take this to Kristen. Cut the anchor line. Go!”
Lance turned his good eye toward the approaching RIB, clearly frightened, but he ran forward in a low crouch that soon took him to the bow, where Kristen was struggling with the anchor chain.
“Give me the radio,” Tara said to Dave. She would identify herself, put a stop to this now. Dave handed her the transmitter. She held down the switch and addressed the boat on a common marine channel. “Black inflatable, this is Special Agent Tara Shores, FBI. Check your weapons and state your intentions immediately!”
The RIB cut power, now coasting toward them.
On the bow, Lance handed Kristen the sharp knife. He held the anchor line taut for her to cut. Then the anchor chain was sliding over the bow rail with a strident grating noise, and Tara was yelling at Dave, “Go, go!”
Dave shoved the engine into forward with all seventy-five horses the rental boat’s outboard had to offer. He saw Kristen and Lance go tumbling toward the stern as the boat started up. Probably a good thing, Dave thought—they’re safer down low on deck. He hunched beneath the steering console, stretching an arm up to grip the wheel. Tara kneeled on deck, one hand on her Glock, the other steadying herself on the rail.
Aware they were hopelessly outclassed by the RIB’s superior horsepower, Dave pointed their craft toward the island, using the dash mounted compass to verify that they were heading toward shore. Dave knew that with every boat length closer to land he brought them, the more witnesses there would be in the form of other boats, canoes, kayakers and paddlers.
Then Dave heard Tara shout, “Gun!” but it was too late.
He felt a stinging sensation on the pinky finger of the hand holding the wheel. A thin trickle of blood flowed from the top of the finger, but the digit was still in one piece. It had been grazed by a bullet.
I’ve been shot! The phrase echoed around his head like a racquetball on a court, until the boat’s unruly motion told him that they were now off course. Quickly he put his hand in jeopardy again to correct their heading according to the compass.
Tara fired two shots at the RIB, causing the vessel to drop back. Still, the black boat continued to follow them.
Knowing that the shooter would try to repeat the success of his last shot, Dave again went shopping around underneath the console while Tara knelt by the rail, Glock ready to spit fire again. Dave found what he needed in the form of a length of manila line. He looped one end of the rope through the steering wheel and pulled it tight to lock the wheel onto the needed compass heading. Then he tied it off around the base of his seat.
Freed from his immediate piloting chores, and with Tara maintaining an armed defense, Dave looked around for Lance and Kristen. No longer on the open deck, he could see that they had sought the shelter of the boat’s small cuddy cabin. Lance cowered in the forward-most compartment, hands over his head.
Kristen was kneeling on the floor with her laptop open. She looked up and locked eyes with Dave, jiggling the flash-drive on its lanyard.
“I’ll copy whatever’s on it,” she yelled, glancing down at the machine as she waited for it to boot up. Her words were barely audible over the din of their own engine at full throttle along with that of the RIB. The black boat was now almost up to them again after Dave’s rapid start and Tara's return fire had momentarily caught them off guard.
Dave saw Kristen saying something else, but he could no longer hear her as the RIB drew near. He wanted to join them in the cabin, but first he needed to make sure the boat was under control. The compass heading was good. His steering wheel rig had worked. But how close to shore were they now? Tara was relying on Dave to navigate, focusing her attention completely on their pursuers.
Dave knew that many of the boats closer to shore would be lying at anchor, not expecting a speedboat to plow through their midst without slowing. Also, he knew that there was a cut in the reef that was the only path in. He had to find it, otherwise their craft would be shattered across the shallow coral shelf. He considered having a look over the rail, but thought better of it when a bullet ricocheted off the console somewhere above him. He heard Tara return fire. Then an idea came to him.
A mirror...
With a jolt, Dave thought of the small signal mirror he carried in his scuba vest pocket. It was a simple emergency signal tool in case he was ever stranded at sea. Realizing he could use it now to save his life in a way that was never intended, he belly-crawled over to his scuba gear which lie in a heap on deck.
Glancing up, he saw that the men on the RIB could see him due to their close proximity to his boat and the fact that their vessel rode high on a plane through the water. The craft bounced off their wake at this speed, though, and Dave could see that the shooter was having a difficult time steadying his firearm while having to duck behind the console to avoid being hit by Tara's fire. Dave was grateful for the agent's presence. He doubted they would have survived this long without her. He was impressed by her calm demeanor in the face of danger.
He shot a hand into his vest pocket and retrieved the mirror. Then he crab-walked past the console, grabbing a pair of vice-grips as he passed, making sure the steering station blocked him from view.
Dave gripped the mirror with the vice-grips, raising it above the rail so he could see over the side.
It worked.
The mirror showed him that they were much closer to shore now. He could also make out a gaggle of pleasure craft not far ahead, with a long docking pier beyond that in the distance.
Then a bullet shattered the mirror, disintegrating his view. Tara's hand shot out over the rail once more, her head below the cover of the rail. She fired two more shots blindly in the direction of the RIB. She made sure she angled the shots low, so that if she missed the RIB the bullets would splash harmlessly into the ocean and not hit a boater further out to sea.
Dave dropped the grips and scrambled into the cramped cabin, pulling its hatch cover shut after him. The ride was bone-jarringly bumpy up here, and he already felt the onset of seasickness.
Kristen was still hunched over her laptop. Dave saw the flash-drive sticking out of it.
“Lance, how could you do this?” she was yelling, clearly upset. “I told you not to use all my batteries on the plane!”
“There’s a little left. And I thought you would charge it in the room last night,” he said.
“I told you, the power cord is missing,” she said.
“You forgot to pack it?”
“I know I packed it, damn it! Somehow it got lost. Maybe on the plane.”
Then Lance’s face took on an uncertain look, and he vomited again.
“It’s transferring,” she said to Dave without taking her eyes off the screen.
“What’s on it?” Dave asked.
“Just a single document—a Word file,” she said, before adding, “but the computer’s giving me shutdown warnings.”
“Listen, we’re gonna be in to shore pretty quick. Let me tell you what I think we should do,” Dave said. They heard Tara fire another shot.
“Got it!” Kristen announced. “I have the file on my laptop!” She ripped the flash-drive out of her computer and gave it to Dave. He put it in his pocket.
“I think we should split up when we get to the docking pier,” Dave said, speaking rapidly. “There are a lot of boats. They won’t be able to shoot at us without being noticed by everybody. I’ll slow the boat down and bring it up to the pier. Then you and Lance jump off, and I'll see what the agent wants to do.”
“Why don’t we just drive right up onto the beach?” Kristen wanted to know.
“Water’s too shallow. They blasted a cut through the coral for pier access, but we’d run aground if we tried to get to the beach. Not to mention that even if we could, we’d have to be going so fast to make it that we’d probably plow into a dozen people.”
Kristen gazed into his sea green eyes. For some reason she wan
ted to kiss him, but now was not the time.
“Okay,” she heard herself saying. Lance’s only response was a disturbing retching noise.
They heard the RIB pull back as its operator negotiated the coral channel. Tara shouted for Dave to take the wheel. Dave told Lance and Kristen to be ready to jump out of the boat when he gave the word. Then he ran from the cabin for the console.
With nothing else to do while they waited for Dave’s command, Kristen’s eyes gravitated to the single icon now occupying her laptop screen.
She opened the file.
…TTCC17TTAT...
At first glance, Kristen was disappointed. She was looking at a jumble of random characters, as if the computer file had become corrupted or was opened with an incompatible program. But as she eyed the alphabet soup, despite being bounced around in the speeding boat’s cabin, the microbiologist began to discern a semblance of order.
The document consisted of only one page. Some kind of cryptic data, Kristen thought, consisting of two main sections. She highlighted the top section and concentrated on that:
0000-AA-0001-CA-0010-GA-1101-TA
1111-AT 0011-CC 0110-TT 0100-AC
0111-CG 1010-CT 0101-GC 1001-TG
1110-GT 1011-TC 0010-GA 1100-GG
Staring at the matrix of characters, Kristen noticed that the only letters were A, C, G, and T, while the only numbers were 0 and 1. The entire document seemed to consist of nothing but seven characters in total: the four letters, the two numbers, and a dash symbol, all grouped in seemingly endless combinations.
Any biologist would know the significance of those four letters, and Kristen was no exception. The amino acid base-pairs, or nucleotides, of DNA: Adenosine, Cytosine, Guanine, and Thymine...
“What?” Lance said.
Kristen looked up from the laptop with a start, unaware that she’d been reciting the names of the biochemical building blocks aloud.
“This file, it’s full of A’s, C’s, Gs, and T’s.”
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