by Jon Land
“That doesn’t justify the way they handle things, or mishandle them.”
“I didn’t mean it to. Actions are their own justifications, Blainey. Do not search for that which does not exist because then you become no better than them.”
“That’s the point, Indian. I already am no better than the others because I’ve been a part of this too long. What I did needed to be done, right? My private justification.”
Wareagle touched his shoulder tenderly. “Blainey, you see others in the shadow of your own reflection, believe their concerns for completion to be the same as your own. You expect their manitous to reflect the same colors yours does, and now you find that many reflect nothing because they are black, colorless.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The universe exists in a delicate balance as much as each individual does. They cannot help what they are any more than you can help what you are. Each of you provides the other with balance, both needed to justify the actions of the other.”
“Then you’re saying I shouldn’t quit once we wrap this thing up, once it’s finished.”
“I’m saying that for you the finishing does not exist. Yes, maybe for this single affair but where this one leaves off another picks up. Extension follows extension, with the distinctions negligible.”
McCracken shook his head reflectively. “I got to Washington half-certain I was going to forget about my meeting with the President. I guess there is one last thing I’ve got to take care of.”
“At least,” said Wareagle.
“You’ll be happy to know the Farmer Boy business has been cleared up as well,” the President told Blaine as they sat at a wrought iron table in the Rose Garden with the Secret Service guards out of earshot. “George Kappel turned himself in when the outcome was final. Figured we might go easy on him that way.”
“And will you?”
“Not at all. My first inclination was to go public with everything, Kappel included. But I’m not certain the country can handle another travesty of government.”
“Might stop the next one from happening.”
“It hasn’t yet and won’t in the future. We hold our own, which is the best we can do because people are imperfect. This hasn’t been easy for me. George Kappel’s been my friend since I got elected to the House. He used me from the beginning. I guess that’s a microcosm of life.”
“Not life, Mr. President, just politics. But not mine, because I haven’t got any.” McCracken was silent for a while, then brought up the subject Lyman Scott was hesitant to broach. “I suppose you’re interested in the coordinates of the Atragon reserves I wasn’t able to bring up.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Perish it. I’m going to give you those coordinates, Mr. President, but not for the reasons you think.”
“What, then?”
Blaine told him, making it fast.
“That’s impossible!” the President roared when he had finished.
“Amazing the miracles the Oval Office can work, though.”
Lyman Scott swallowed hard. “Think of the risks if we carry this madness out.”
“Think of the risks if we don’t,” Blaine returned, his meaning clear.
“Mr. McCracken, with further stores of Atragon in our possession, we need never face a threat like this again. We should have learned that from these past two weeks, if nothing else.”
“What we should have learned is that there are things in this world that are better left alone. I don’t pretend to know where Atragon really comes from, but I do know plenty more innocent people will die if I let you salvage it.” Then, after a pause, “We’re not ready to control its power yet. I’m not sure we’ll ever be.”
Lyman Scott nodded to himself. “I came into office committed to peace at any cost. That much hasn’t changed. What you say makes sense, Mr. McCracken. Something like Atragon, well, I’m not sure we could allow the Soviets to possess it either. If I agree to carry out your request, you’ll agree to sit on everything you’ve got, correct?”
“Absolutely. So long as you get what I need to Miami within twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours? Impossi—”
“I’m feeling generous today. Make it twenty-five.”
The navy ship docked in Biscayne Bay at the Port of Miami at noon the next day. Blaine had spent most of the morning watching a few cruise liners come in and out, overcome by their size but equally impressed by the small tugs which nudged and maneuvered their vast bulks at will. He leaned over the railing to support his battered frame. The pain was bad today, and he did his best to hide his many bandages from passersby, just wanting to be left alone.
He looked up to find Natalya by his side, looking solemn and somber.
“They tell you what this was about?” Blaine asked her.
“They told me. And they must have told you about Zurich.”
“Yup.”
“Then you must believe in the myth when it comes to the origin of those crystals. How else can you account for what happened in Raskowski’s command vault?”
“I leave the accounting to the scientists.”
“And let them explain things for which there is no explanation? No, with what you’ve convinced your government to do, you must believe!”
“In Atlantis you mean? Haven’t really thought about it much. I only know that those crystals Vasquez discovered and Raskowski almost blew up the world with are better buried forever.”
“The same lesson the Lost Continent—and Raskowski—learned. Both too late.”
“Maybe so,” Blaine conceded. “And I’ve learned a few things lately as well, like how to see the truth. I’ve been at this for fifteen years, and all I’ve seen are the lies. They’re everywhere around me and for all that time I mistook plenty of them for the truth. I haven’t helped the world out of its hopeless lot; I’ve just added to it by accepting other people’s truths, their myths, so maybe I’m the wrong person to speak with on the subject.”
Natalya shrugged. “I think we have fooled ourselves more than we have allowed ourselves to be fooled. So full are we with ideals and beliefs that helped us accomplish the impossible. Our governments turned to us because we were more than good; we were willing. And when we aren’t willing anymore, they have come to know us so well that it is not hard for them to make us willing again. My father, your romantic nature—if not these, there would be others.”
There was a pause when both of them turned their attention to the speedboats splashing through Biscayne Bay.
“What will you do now?” Blaine asked finally.
“Finally I have enough on them to get my father out,” she replied. “Only I will have to accept the fact that I too will never be able to return.”
“Does that bother you?”
“All my work these long years would be futile if it didn’t.” The pain was evident in her voice. “And what about you, Blaine McCracken?”
“I’m thinking about finding an island where no one else has ever been and staking a claim for a while.”
“Could be dangerous,” Natalya told him. “Much safer to explore in pairs.”
“That sounds like the truth to me,” Blaine smiled.
Epilogue
THE BOMB WAS SMALL enough to be easily maneuverable underwater. The only problem arose when the navy ship proved too large to tempt the reefs, and the cylindrical device had to be loaded onto a motorboat and transported the last half mile to the coast of the nameless Bimini island. Another boat was required to get all the necessary equipment and personnel to the site. A third went along just in case either of these failed at some point during the journey.
The placing of the nuclear charge was totally according to McCracken’s specifications. He had drawn them a detailed map of the ocean floor and was careful to include all the wrecks he could recall from his dive. They had made good time from Miami, and the weather had cooperated brilliantly.
Blaine stood by Natalya on the
deck, both of them watching the motorboats negotiate the reefs and reach their destination safely. It was up to the divers now, who surfaced forty minutes later flashing the thumbs-up sign. They returned to the ship at top speed, the weather still good and nothing to impede their dash for safety. The timing device had been set for six hours—more man enough time to be far out of range of the blast’s effects. The coming nuclear explosion would be extremely minor, but the consequences to immediate and surrounding waters nonetheless promised to be severe.
As it turned out, six hours later their ship was too far away from what Blaine had termed “Water Zero” to feel anything at all. No one, in fact, would know if they had been successful until divers returned to check the area several months later, when the radioactivity had dissipated entirely.
They could not see, then, the huge swell of water which blasted into the air and totally drenched the lost island of the Biminis, submerging a great portion of it. Some of this water was superheated and a steam cloud rose into the air, looking like a fog bank in search of a ship to strand on the now-ruptured reef.
It was near the ocean floor itself, though, where the greatest effects were felt. The explosion created a fissure in the very top layer of the Earth, which opened to swallow the graveyard of ships above it and seal the secrets of the sea forever.
A Biography of Jon Land
Since his first book was published in 1983, Jon Land has written twenty-eight novels, seventeen of which have appeared on national bestseller lists. He wrote techno thrillers before Tom Clancy put them in vogue, and his strong prose, easy characterization, and commitment to technical accuracy have made him a pillar of the genre.
Land spent his college years at Brown University, where he convinced the faculty to let him attempt writing a thriller as his senior honors thesis. Four years later, his first novel, The Doomsday Spiral, appeared in print. In the last years of the Cold War, he found a place writing chilling portrayals of threats to the United States, and of the men and women who operated undercover and outside the law to maintain our security. His most successful of those novels were the nine starring Blaine McCracken, a rogue CIA agent and former Green Beret with the skills of James Bond but none of the Englishman’s tact.
In 1998 Land published the first novel in his Ben and Danielle series, comprised of fast-paced thrillers whose heroes, a Detroit cop and an Israeli detective, work together to protect the Holy Land, falling in love in the process. He has written seven of these so far. The most recent, The Last Prophecy, was released in 2004.
Recently, RT Book Reviews gave Land a special prize for pioneering genre fiction, and his short story “Killing Time” was shortlisted for the 2010 Dagger Award for best short fiction. Land is currently writing his fourth novel to feature Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong—a female hero in a genre which, Land has said, has too few of them. The first three books in the series—Strong Enough to Die (2009), Strong Justice (2010), and Strong at the Break (2011)—have all garnered critical praise with Strong Justice being named a Top Thriller of the Year by Library Journal and runner-up for Best Novel of the Year by the New England Book Festival. His first nonfiction book, Betrayal, tells the story of a deputy FBI chief attempting to bring down Boston crime lord Whitey Bulger, and will be released in 2011.
Land currently lives in Providence, not far from his alma mater.
Land (left) interviewing then–teen idol Leif Garrett (center) in April of 1978 at the dawn of Land’s writing career.
Land (second from left) at Maine’s Ogunquit Beach during the summer of 1984, while he was a counselor at Camp Samoset II. He spent a total of twenty-six summers at the camp.
Land with street kids in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, which he visited in 1987 as part of his research for The Omicron Legion (1991).
Land on the beach in Matunuck, Rhode Island, in 2003.
In front of the “process trailer” on the set of Dirty Deeds, the first movie that he scripted, which was released in 2005. The film starred Milo Ventimiglia and Lacey Chabert.
Land pictured in 2007 with Fabrizio Boccardi, the Italian investor and entrepreneur who was the inspiration for his book The Seven Sins, which was published in 2008.
Land emceeing the Brunch and Bullets Luncheon to benefit Reading Is Fundamental at the Renaissance Hollywood Hotel in the spring of 2007.
Land and his classmates and fraternity brothers celebrating their thirtieth class reunion during Brown University’s Commencement Weekend in 2009. He was a member of the Delta Phi fraternity.
In the fall of 2010, Land attended the first ever Brown University night football game, which he coordinated in his position as Vice President of the Brown Football Association. Brown beat rival Harvard 29-14.
Land’s most recent publicity shot, taken in late 2010, when he was having, he says, a good hair day.
Acknowledgments
WITH ALL MY BOOKS, the list of those deserving mention and thanks would make up a book of its own, so just a small sampling will have to suffice.
First and foremost, I am blessed with a truly supportive team at Fawcett headed by Leona Nevler.
Daniel Zitin is an editor in every sense of the word, bringing a compassion and objectivity that has often been thought missing from the contemporary publishing industry.
The wondrous Toni Mendez and Ann Maurer complete a team which sweats over every page and detail and forces me to reach higher with each effort.
My deepest appreciation to the McGreeveys for help with the Colorado landscape and to Shihan John Saviano, as always, for aiding in the choreography of the many fight scenes.
Finally, my thanks to Paul Hargraves for unlocking the mysteries of the deep, and to Gene Carpenter for the seed from which this book was born.
A Sneak Peek at Strong at the Break
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Jon Land’s new book Strong at the Break, coming in 2011
Chapter 1
Quebec; the present
FROM THE STREET THE house looked like any other nestled around it in the suburban neighborhood dominated by snow cover that had at last started to melt. A McMansion with gables, faux brick and lots of fancy windows that could have been lifted up and dropped just about anywhere. The leaves had long deserted the tree branches, eliminating any privacy for each two-acre spread had the typical neighbors been around to notice. Problem was the neighborhood, part of a new plot of palatial-style homes, had been erected at the peak of a housing boom now gone bust, so less than a third were occupied.
Caitlin Strong and a Royal Canadian Mountie named Pierre Beauchamp were part of a six-person squad rotating shifts in teams of two inside an unsold home diagonally across from the designated 18 Specter, the marijuana grow house they’d been eyeballing for three weeks now. She’d come up here after being selected for a joint U.S. and Canadian Drug Task Force looking into the ever-increasing rash of drug smuggling across a fifteen-mile stretch of St. Regis Mohawk Indian Reservation land that straddled the border.
Beauchamp lowered his binoculars and made some notes on his pad, while Caitlin looked at him instead of raising hers back up.
“Something wrong, Ranger?”
“Not unless you count the fact I got no idea what we’re trying to accomplish here.”
“Get the lay of the land. Isn’t that it?”
“Seems to me,” Caitlin told the Mountie, “that the DEA got that in hand already. You boys too.”
“It’s Task Force business now. We need to build a case for a full-on strike.”
“You telling me the Mounties couldn’t have done that already, on their own?”
“Not without alerting parties on the other side of border who’d respond by dropping their game off the radar, eh? When we hit them, the effort’s got to be coordinated and sudden. That doesn’t mean two law enforcement bodies working in tandem, it means two countries. And that, Ranger Strong, is never a simple prospect.”
“So we’ve got to tell both sides what they know already.”
Beauc
hamp shrugged. “Put simply, yes.”
“I guess I’m just not cut out for this sort of game,” Caitlin said and sighed.
The thunk of car doors slamming froze Beauchamp’s response before he could utter it. Both he and Caitlin had their binoculars pressed back against their eyes in the next instant, watching five big men in black tops, black fatigue pants and army boots approach the grow house from a dark SUV lugging assault rifles and what looked like gasoline cans.
“Uh-oh,” said Beauchamp.
“Hells Angels?” asked Caitlin, following a bald pair of black-garbed figures who looked like twins.
“Yup.”
“What exactly they doing here now, while there’s people and drugs still inside?”
The Mountie moved his gaze back to her, his expression flatter than she’d seen in the three weeks they’d been working together. “Only one thing I can think of.”
Chapter 2
Mohawk Indian Reservation; three weeks earlier
THE DEA’S LEAD AGENT, Frank Gage, drove Caitlin out to the St. Regis Mohawk Indian Reservation first thing when she reached St. Lawrence County in upstate New York, her unpacked bags stowed in her motel room. They turned off Route 37 down a bumpy road formed of cracked pavement lost to the snow the further they drew into the woods. March was the absolute dead of winter in these parts, and Caitlin had never seen so much snow and ice in her entire life, enough of it to make the trees sag under its weight.
“Peak of the season, this road’s got more snow than you can imagine,” he said, finally snailing his car to a halt in a clearing that opened into a picturesque, white-encrusted scene of a frozen river that somewhere contained the border between the United States and Canada.
Caitlin followed Gage out of the car and down a slight embankment atop snow that crunched underfoot before hardening into ice. Her boots had the wrong tread for this kind of ground and she found herself slipping, unsure exactly of where the land ended and frozen water began beneath them.