Ocean of Storms

by Christopher Mari

  Soong was silent for a moment. “So where does that leave us, Bruce?”

  He laughed again. “I don’t know. Probably exactly where we were before we learned of all these things, searching for the meaning of existence.”

  “But don’t we know the meaning of human existence, Bruce? It was all a tragic accident.”

  “That’s an interpretation of an event. And the time paradox isn’t the meaning of existence—it’s simply how humanity began, not life itself.”

  Soong reflected on that for a time in silence. “Five minutes before you called, I was comforting myself with the idea that life was what we make of it. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why? Because I’ve challenged a—forgive me—pat conclusion? Here’s a cliché, Yang Zi: Life is a journey. We have to make the most of it.”

  Soong smiled. “How are you going to make the most of it, Bruce?”

  He laughed. “Do more research into what we’ve learned. Love my wife. Love the children we’ll have. Learn to play the drums. And you?”

  “Me?” Soong replied, curling the wire around her arm. “I’m going to take a risk.”

  October 7

  Watergate Hotel

  Room 304

  Washington, DC

  10:17 p.m.

  It had been more than a week since the meeting with the President, and none of them had heard back about anything. Instead, day after day had passed of giving sworn testimony and telling and retelling their side of the story. As time wore on, they were all beginning to believe that they might never hear any news and spend the rest of their lives raising their right hands and speaking into recorders.

  Thankfully, Donovan and Zell had been released from their duties that morning. Both of them were eager to get out of the Watergate Hotel and back to work. Donovan was poring over maps and schematics from Tanzania while Zell bustled about the suite straightening up when the knock came.

  “Who could that be at this hour?” Donovan asked.

  “Probably the concierge to talk about the liquor bill,” said Zell as he opened the door.

  “Good evening, Dr. Zell,” said John Dieckman as he strode into the room. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t think this could wait until morning.”

  “Well, come in then,” Zell said, gesturing with his hand. “There’s scotch behind the bar. Help yourself.”

  Dieckman came in and poured himself two fingers. Donovan walked over to him.

  “Good to see you, Deke,” he said, shaking his hand. “But I’ve got the feeling you’re not here for the scotch.”

  “No,” he admitted. “The Justice Department’s asked for a court order for TGI. They’re required to relinquish all their files and provide full disclosure of their activities during the past sixteen months.”

  “You’re not saying that like it’s a good thing,” Donovan said.

  “Their lawyers have tangled up the process in red tape,” said Dieckman. “It’ll be years before they turn up anything of note.”

  “What about Cal Walker?” Zell asked.

  “I had a feeling you were going to ask about him.”

  Zell rubbed his beard. “That doesn’t sound good either. Where is he?”

  “Gone,” Dieckman replied. “His office in New York’s been vacated, and all his numbers disconnected. He’s vanished like smoke.”

  “That’s it, then,” said Zell, tossing ice into his glass with a clink. “The story ends.”

  “Not necessarily,” Dieckman said. “Colonel Wilson’s been released from the hospital. He’ll probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life, but he’s itching to get back into the action. The President has asked him to head up a task force with the sole mandate of trying to track down Walker and his cohorts. It might be like trying to track down Nazi war criminals, but you know Wilson. The definition of tenacity has his picture next to it.”

  “Well, that’s some good news, at least,” Donovan admitted. “Wilson will get them, if anybody can. Got any other good news?”

  Dieckman grinned. “I’m sure you know about my . . . promotion by now.”

  “Yes,” Donovan said, shaking his hand. “I forgot. Congratulations. So they’ve gone and made you NASA’s chief.”

  “We’re heading up the Mars mission as we speak. We should make a landing there in four years or so. And while my mandate expressly forbids any touchdown on the Moon”—he paused for a sly smile—“they never said anything about satellite flybys.”

  “Spy satellites?” Donovan asked.

  “We’ve got Skystalkers on the way already,” said Dieckman. “It could be a while before we find anything interesting. But I promise you’ll be the first to know when I do.”

  Dieckman drained his glass, then set it on the bar. He headed toward the door and put his hand on the knob. As he opened the door, he turned back to face them.

  “For what it’s worth,” he said, “you’ve always got a friend at the agency.”

  “And you at the institute,” said Zell, raising his glass. “If the face on Mars turns out to be a Mayan artifact, I trust you’ll know who to call?”

  Dieckman smiled and nodded, tossing them a salute as he cleared the doorframe.

  The next morning Zell was enjoying the hotel’s lavish buffet breakfast in the dining room when someone slapped a newspaper down on his table. Zell looked up to see Anthony Benevisto grinning at him.

  “See anything you like?” he asked, gesturing at the headline.

  Zell looked down to see the words staring back at him: “TGI Funding Bill Denied.” His eyes widened at the headline, but it was the next line that really got his attention.

  “Senator George Dieckman casts deciding vote,” Zell read. “Well, well, well—I guess it does help to have friends in high places.”

  “It sure does,” said Benny, taking a seat and helping himself to some coffee. “How else could a naval officer go AWOL, trade fire with Special Forces, and still end up with an honorable discharge?”

  Zell cocked an eyebrow. “Discharge?” he asked. “So you’re a free man. What are your plans?”

  Benny paused. “Well, I’m going to Kansas. I owe it to Moose.”

  “Sure you don’t want to change your mind? We could use a man like you in the institute.”

  Benny laughed. “I’m sure, Doc. I think I’ve had enough relic hunting to see me through the next few lifetimes.” He paused, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve got a promise to keep.”

  “Fair enough,” said Zell as he raised his mimosa. “But don’t be too certain about that relic hunting being out of your life. This racket has a funny way of drawing you back in.”

  “I can imagine,” Benny said with a nod. “So what about you, Doc? What’s next?”

  “Me? Well, it’s back to the institute for old Elias. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “What kind of work?”

  Zell topped off his drink and settled into his chair. “It seems that, given the rather . . . unusual circumstances surrounding our voyage dans la lune, the Zell Institute has begun to draw a slightly different clientele. To put it bluntly, every crackpot who’s seen a UFO, were-yeti, or the Virgin Mary on a Triscuit has got an assignment for me. Most of them are barking mad, but a few are . . . worth following up.”

  “Paranormal archeology,” Benny mused, smiling. “Sounds like it’s right up your alley. I suppose Donovan’s going along for the ride?”

  “Alan?” said Zell. “No, Alan’s heading back to Africa. He and Badru are going to squeeze every contact they’ve got in the region for more info on the Eos, TGI, the works.” Zell looked back at the paper, studying the headline a moment. “He’s just not ready to let it all go.”

  “I can understand, I guess,” Benny said. “After all . . . we were close to something, weren’t we?”

  Zell gave a bemused chuckle. “In this game, Benny, you’re always close to something.” He sipped his mimosa quietly and looked out at the passersby. “Sometimes close
enough to get burned.”

  “Another one, buddy?”

  Donovan looked up from his drink at the bartender, then back at his rye and water.

  “Nah,” he grunted, slurring it a bit. “I think I’ve caught my limit.”

  “Sure, Mac,” said the bartender, turning away. Before he did, he looked at Donovan, his eyes squinting with faint recognition. “Say, don’t I know you from TV or something?”

  Donovan threw back the rest of his drink, grimacing at the taste. “Yep,” he said. “Reality TV.”

  Donovan tossed a fifty down on the bar and headed out into the night air. The cold breeze off the Potomac was like a splash of water to the face. Summer’s come to an end. Not that it really mattered. He had a flight out tomorrow morning back to Tanzania. Whatever secrets the Eos had left behind, neither TGI nor the US government could bury them completely. If the ship’s passengers had, through their deaths, set in motion the events leading to man’s evolution, then Ngorongoro was only ground zero. The evidence would spread out from there.

  He strolled along the banks of the river, lost in thought. When his cell phone rang, Donovan jumped about three feet. “Hello?”

  “Ni hao,” came Soong’s voice from the other end.

  “Howdy, yourself,” Donovan replied. “I guess you heard the news about TGI, huh?”

  “Yes,” Soong said. “So it looks as if the future’s changing already. Everything we did wasn’t in vain.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You sound . . . unconvinced.”

  “There’s a lot of money to be made in genetics. TGI’s just one company. Who’s to say stopping them alone prevents that future?” Donovan was quiet for a moment. “Still, I’m glad you called, Yang Zi. I didn’t think I’d get a chance to say good-bye.”

  “Well, I must be honest, Alan. I want to shake your hand and apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For being wrong about you. For ever doubting that you are an honorable man.”

  “You don’t owe me an apology, Yang Zi,” Donovan laughed. “But I would like to see you again, to part as friends, though I suppose that’s out of the question.”

  “Really?” said Soong from behind him.

  Donovan whirled around to see her sitting on a park bench. Donovan shook his head, laughing.

  “‘Wherever you go,’” Soong said.

  “‘There you are,’” Donovan finished.

  He walked over to where she was sitting and looked at her. She stood and extended her hand. He ignored it and hugged her for a long moment, and she hugged him back before letting him go. They walked for a time without speaking. After strolling for a bit, they stopped at a bridge overlooking the Potomac. Donovan tilted his head up, gazing at the Moon above them.

  “They’re still up there,” he said with a sigh. “They came all this way just to . . . We owed them more.” He shook his head again. “I’m finding it hard not to be angry, not to believe that we’re just sitting on our hands as the politicians promise to make things right. We owed those people way more than we’re doing now.”

  “There’s still time to make up that debt,” Soong replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  Soong picked up a stone and tossed it into the water, watching the ripples move out into the current. “By ensuring that the future they came from never happens.”

  “How?” Donovan asked. “There’s no way we can be certain anything we do now will ensure that.”

  “I don’t know about that. TGI is just one step.” She took another stone and tossed it near the first, altering the movement of the ripples ever so slightly. “Things are already changing. We are already living in a different time.” Soong turned to Donovan with a smile. “The future will take care of itself, Alan. But only if we make use of the lessons of the past, each one of us, in our own way.”

  They walked on a little longer. Donovan stopped and took one last look at the Moon.

  “What are you thinking about?” Soong asked.

  Donovan was quiet. “The future,” he said. “The past. I want you to be right, that it all starts right here. With all of us. I so want you to be right.”

  Soong smiled at him and offered her arm. “Come, my friend,” she said, “let’s find out together.”

  They walked on, arm in arm. Over their heads, the Moon hung silent and stoic before passing behind a cloud and disappearing from sight.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHRISTOPHER MARI wishes to thank the following people for helping to make this novel possible: Jennifer Lyons, dauntless agent; Jason Kirk, risk-taking editor; Clarence Haynes, gentle master of the red pen.

  Also and most especially: Ana Maria Estela, long-suffering beloved wife; Juliana, Olivia, and Luke Mari, trifecta of awesome kids; Kevin Mari, great brother and better friend; Chris, Andrew, and Jess Dieckman, Mike Mongillo, Meg Mullin, Dann Russo, always-got-your-back buddies; José, Rose Marie, and Joseph Estela, favorite in-laws.

  And finally: Frances Benevisto and Regina Mari, late grandmother and mother but ever-present inspirations. Never give up.

  JEREMY K. BROWN would like to thank Alli for being my audience of one and my tireless cheerleader. My boys, William and James, for teaching me every day how to be a better man. Jennifer Lyons for taking a chance on me, Jason Kirk at 47North for seeing in this book things even Chris and I didn’t see, and Clarence Haynes, a true archeologist who helped us unearth the hidden story buried beneath our words. And thank you always to my whole family: my mom, Marilyn Brown; mother-in-law, Maureen Vincent; and to Allison, Phil, Peter, Maury, Kerby, Catharine, Sefita, Andy, Jack, and all my awesome nieces and nephews. Each and every one of you inspires me every day. And to my father and father-in-law, Kendall Brown and Peter Vincent. I hope they have hammocks in heaven and that you find a sunny spot to enjoy this story. Love you and miss you both.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Photo © 2016 Ana Maria Estela

  CHRISTOPHER MARI was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, and educated at Fordham University. He has edited books on a wide variety of topics, including three on space exploration. His writing has appeared in such magazines as America, Current Biography, Issues and Controversies, and U.S. Catholic. His next novel, The Beachhead, will be published by 47North in 2017. He lives with his family in Queens, New York.

  Photo © 2016 Alli Brown

  JEREMY K. BROWN has authored several biographies for young readers, including books on Stevie Wonder and Ursula K. Le Guin. He has also contributed articles to numerous magazines and newspapers, including special issues for TV Guide and the Discovery Channel, and recently edited a collector’s issue on Pink Floyd for Newsweek. Jeremy published his first novel, Calling Off Christmas, in 2011 and is currently at work on another novel. He lives in New York with his wife and sons.