A hand shook his leg and Donovan opened his eyes. Montero was looking at him, speaking into her microphone, but Donovan had no idea what she was saying. He found the knob and turned up the volume on his headset.
“We’re almost to the ship,” Montero repeated.
Donovan leaned to his left so he could see out the front of the helicopter. The Atlantic Titan was far from sleek, but she more than made up for it with her functionality. At 285 feet in length, with a beam of 55 feet, she stood tall and proud in the water. Her helicopter pad was set forward of the bridge, which cleared the stern for the heavy lift cranes used to deploy the deep submersibles. Her true beauty lay within; she could cruise for nearly a month carrying a total of twenty officers and crew, as well as up to thirty scientists who enjoyed over four thousand square feet of laboratory space. She was easily one of the most well-equipped research ships afloat and her hull bore the same blue-and-gold paint as the Eco-Watch aircraft.
Eric approached the Atlantic Titan at a ninety-degree angle and slowed gradually as he neared the forward superstructure. Michael had handpicked Eric from a small group of former navy helicopter pilots. Michael had maintained that living on a ship was a special skill, and if they didn’t hire an ex-navy pilot, they’d have turnover problems. Michael had been right. Eric had been with them for years, and was very good at what he did.
Donovan’s muscles tensed as Eric swung abeam and brought the helicopter into a hover. With thousands of hours logged in airplanes, Donovan fought the unnatural sensation of flying without actually moving. As they descended, Eric matched the ship’s forward speed with a perfect sideways nudge and gradually closed the distance. On the pad, a deckhand issued precise hand signals to assist Eric in touching down in the exact center of the circle. Eric made it look easy as the skids nestled onto the platform and he let the engine fall to idle.
The second the all-clear signal was given, Donovan opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. The first thing that caught his attention was the smell of raw kerosene. The second was the unsettling motion of the ship gently rolling beneath his feet.
From a hatchway, Donovan heard someone call his name. He looked and found Captain Pittman striding in his direction. Pittman was in his early fifties, fit and trim, and still moved with the determination of the college running back he once was. Eco-Watch Marine was run out of the Norfolk, Virginia, office but the two men had met many times. Donovan smiled at the captain and they shook hands in earnest. Donovan, in turn, introduced Montero before the three of them moved inside to escape the noise from the helicopter.
“That’s better,” Captain Pittman said as he turned down the volume on his handheld radio. “Eric is refueling and going back out.”
“Where are we in the search for the black boxes?” Donovan asked.
“Let’s head up to the bridge. We’ve got everything plotted on the charts.”
Donovan fell in behind Pittman and Montero as the three of them wound through the ship’s superstructure, climbing up several stairwells until they emerged on the bridge. As expected, everything was organized and professional. Donovan and Montero were introduced to the chief mate as well as two other crewmen. Pittman motioned them toward a chart table. Donovan found a handrail and then took in his surroundings. They were standing at least four stories above the water, and he couldn’t help but be impressed by the nearly three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Forward, he could see that the helicopter had lifted off from the pad and was speeding away from the ship. Aft, the deck was busy with crew as well as science staff. Several cables were stretched from the ship and vanished into the ocean off the stern.
“We deployed the Atlantic Titan’s acoustic equipment and have located the pinging from the flight data recorder and the cockpit voice recorder. Once we had a rough idea of where the wreckage might be, we dropped the side-scan sonar array and have a rudimentary picture of the debris field on the ocean floor, or at least part of it.” Pittman pointed to a spot on the chart. “We’re here, and the debris field is outlined in red. Each yellow mark is where we’ve found floating debris.”
“What are the other colors for?” Montero asked.
“The black marks are where we found bodies. The orange notations are body parts.”
“What’s next?” Donovan said.
“We’re preparing ROMEO to go down and give us a look at the sonar findings. Once we all concur on a deployment point, we’ll send him down.”
“Who’s ROMEO?” Montero asked.
“It’s an acronym for our Remotely Operated Marine Exploration and Observation system,” Pittman said. “We’re near the Morant Trough, the depths in this part of the ocean range anywhere from three to five thousand feet. It’s an inhospitable world down there, far too deep for divers, but with ROMEO we have an array of lights and sensors with both video and still cameras. It’s also equipped with powerful manipulator arms that can be fitted with different tools. ROMEO’s state-of-the-art technology will allow us to get a close-up look at whatever wreckage we find.”
“How soon will that happen?” Donovan asked.
“For that I’m going to turn you over to Dr. Crawford. She’s our expert.”
Donovan turned to find Dr. Mary Crawford standing behind him. She was a mere wisp of a woman who didn’t top five feet and probably weighed less than ninety pounds, but she was pure energy. In her late fifties now, she’d made a considerable name for herself in the field of marine biology. She’d grown up in London and her scientific résumé was expansive, as was her politics. Donovan loved her relentless attacks on the fishing industry and the worldwide pressure she continued to bring to bear on the few rogue states who still hunted whales. It was one of the many reasons he and Eco-Watch had heavily recruited her years ago. He and Mary went way back, and, in a small way, Dr. Crawford reminded him a little bit of Meredith.
“Hello, Mr. Nash.” Mary smiled.
Donovan leaned down and gave her a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too. I trust you have pictures of your daughter.”
“Of course,” Donovan turned to Montero. “Mary, I’d like to introduce FBI Special Agent Montero. She’s watching over us on this one.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mary shook Montero’s hand. “We can use all the help we can find. Before we get all bogged down with science, let me show you to your quarters, and then we’ll go on a brief tour of the ship. The rest of crew would like a chance to meet you both before dinner.”
Donovan smiled, allowing Dr. Crawford and Montero to lead the way while he lagged behind out of sight and tried to get a full breath. There was a distinctive smell that he associated with ships that made him uncomfortable. A tour and meet-and-greet sounded like a nightmare, as did food. He was acutely aware of his racing pulse and the nervous perspiration collecting down his spine. He questioned his own sanity for coming up with this plan. He tried to focus on the most important aspect of being on this ship. The fact remained, that no matter how difficult this was, at least while they were on board, no one would be trying to kill them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lauren was busy loading the dishwasher after dinner. Trying to help, Abigail held a paper towel in her small fist and trundled across the floor to hand it to her mother.
When Lauren turned, her elbow caught a drinking glass and knocked it off the counter. It shattered on contact with the tile floor, shards of glass skittering in every direction. When Lauren yelled for Abigail to stand still, the little girl scrunched up her face, her lower lip jutting out, a sign that she was about to cry.
Lauren bent down, picked up her daughter, trying to prevent her daughter’s tears. “It’s okay, honey. That wasn’t your fault, Mommy has butterfingers.” Abigail’s pink lips turned upward into the promise of a smile as the fear left her eyes.
“Down, get down!” Andy, gun drawn, charged into the kitchen. He raced to where Lauren stood holding Abigail and thrust his body between them and the window, forcing them
both down below the level of the kitchen counters. He yelled into his radio for others to clear the area surrounding the rear of the house.
Abigail’s shrieks knifed through Lauren as she pulled her frightened child close. Lauren felt her own tears push to the surface as tiny arms clutched her neck in a panic.
“Stop it!” Lauren yelled. “Get off of us. All I did was break a glass!”
“Stay down!”
“No! Listen to me! I broke a glass. There’s nothing happening!”
Andy rose up and carefully examined the window, pulling back the curtains, cautiously looking for the bullet hole he’d imagined.
“Stand down. All units stand down.” Andy holstered his gun, and offered his hand to help her to her feet. “I’m sorry, Dr. McKenna. We’re just doing our job.”
Lauren ignored his assistance as well as his apology. She said nothing out of fear of what might come out of her mouth. Instead, she spun and carried her screaming daughter upstairs.
In Abigail’s room, Lauren gently rocked her daughter until she quieted down. Lauren had tried to explain that the men downstairs were their friends and that they weren’t going to hurt them. Lauren allowed her daughter to drift off to sleep. She’d pay for it later, but she thought a nap would help Abigail separate herself from the trauma of being pinned to the floor by an armed man. Instead of putting her into her bed, Lauren kept rocking back and forth. She didn’t want to leave the room; she didn’t want to face the reality of soldiers living under her roof. It took a while, but she managed to calm herself. Then she began to think rationally, and as she always did, she began to organize each and every thing she needed to do. First thing was to get everyone out of her house. She wasn’t going to have Abigail traumatized by armed strangers.
A small, nearly inaudible knock came from the door. Lauren ignored it, not wanting to get up or even call out to whoever was there and disturb Abigail. It could only be Buck or Andy, and she most certainly didn’t want to talk either one of them right now.
The knock sounded again, this time slightly louder, followed by the door opening gently. Buck stuck his head in the room. “Dr. McKenna, can I have a minute?”
Lauren nodded reluctantly, and Buck’s expression seemed to soften. He hesitated, waiting until they made eye contact.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“I’m sorry about what just happened.” Buck spoke quietly. “We’ve been concerned about the wooded area behind the house, which is why we wanted you to keep all the curtains closed. So when Andy heard glass shattering he rushed in, expecting the worse, and reacted exactly as he should have.”
“Is that all you came to say? You certainly don’t need my blessing or forgiveness.”
“I’ve been around long enough to know that war is oftentimes hardest on those left waiting at home.”
“This isn’t a war.” Lauren said the words far louder than she’d intended.
“Tell that to the guys with guns trying to kill you.” Buck waited for a response, but got none. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Sure, why not?” Lauren braced herself for what she was sure was some sort of military pep talk.
“How long since you’ve had any quality sleep?”
Lauren blinked in surprise. The question was direct, but heart-felt.
“Prolonged stress is a warrior’s biggest enemy,” Buck said. “I know quite a bit about you from your work at the DIA, as well as the intel I’ve gathered in the last twenty-four hours. You’re an exceptionally bright and talented woman, and, given the situation, you’re holding up pretty well—on the outside. But the cracks are starting to show. I’m not your commanding officer, but if I were, I’d order you to stand down and get some sleep. Take a pill, close your eyes, and trust the rest of us to do our jobs.”
Lauren honestly couldn’t remember when she’d had more than a quick catnap—it seemed like days.
“I’ve known grown men who’d still be in shock after what happened last night at the hospital. But we all have limits.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think these people will go after my husband?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Buck said without hesitation. “And to be honest, I’m not entirely clear on his current mission or why he felt compelled to stay in Florida.”
“He’s assisting the FBI.”
“I know that’s the story, but it doesn’t make any sense. After last night, every level of federal law enforcement is on the trail of these people, and while your husband is clever and resourceful, I sincerely doubt he can do more than the government at this point.”
Lauren shrugged, but inside, alarms were going off.
“I also have no idea why there’s a chartered jet on twenty-four-hour standby to take you and Abigail to London. I can promise you the FBI is wondering the same thing.”
Lauren tried to hide her shock at how quickly this conversation had become dangerous. Buck was thorough, and he’d put a few things together that she couldn’t readily explain. “William arranged the plane in case he thought we should leave.”
“My job is to protect the people in this house. I was hired by your husband to do just that—and I will. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s another threat I’m not aware of.”
“Another threat?”
“Is your husband being blackmailed?”
Lauren felt the blood drain from face and her mouth dropped open. “I… I can’t imagine.”
“To be honest, I can’t either,” Buck said. “He doesn’t fit the profile of the usual blackmail target. He’s not rich. He’s not gambling, or in debt beyond what you owe on your house. He works for a nonprofit organization—it doesn’t fit. I’ve looked at this from a hundred different angles and I can’t figure it out. If anyone in the family was a candidate for blackmail, it would be you. With your security clearance at the DIA, you could possibly be a target. Is that what’s happening? Say the word and I can help you.”
“I’m not being blackmailed, and if I were, there are strict protocols in place at the DIA to deal with external threats.” Lauren felt the weight in her chest let up just enough for her to take a breath. Buck had done some digging into their shared financial history and found what he was supposed to find. All he was doing now was fishing.
“I do know that his behavior isn’t making sense, and I’m paid to worry about the unknown, especially when it involves your safety.”
“It’s none of those things,” Lauren lowered her head as if she were preparing some monumental admission. She had to give Buck something to chew on or he was going to keep chipping away at the façade until it crumbled. She took a deep breath. “My husband and I are having marital problems. It’s why he’s not here. Everything’s up in the air right now. We haven’t really told anyone, so I ask you to please not say a word.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Buck nodded and tried to give her an understanding smile. “I promise it won’t leave this room.”
“I appreciate that.” Lauren reached out and affectionately squeezed Buck’s hand. “I really do.”
“Dr. McKenna, please try and get some sleep tonight. If you’d like, I can get you something to take, nothing too strong, but you’ll rest.”
“I’ll let you know,” Lauren whispered as he let himself out.
Lauren thought about what she’d just said to Buck. She’d purposely lied to him. As she rocked back and forth, she wondered about the other lies, the lies she’d told to Michael, Susan, even Calvin. They would all come to an abrupt halt if Montero leaked what she knew. The other reality was that the fabrications would never stop—they would pile up until something gave way, and the entire charade would implode.
She got up and gently placed Abigail in her crib. She grabbed the baby monitor and went down the steps into the study. The more she thought about what she’d told Buck the more she thought about Meredith. There was something in that DVD that had been bothering her, s
omething her subconscious had been grinding on and now she thought she knew what it was. Relieved she didn’t run into Buck or Andy, she closed the door, sat at the desk, and clicked on the computer.
Out of habit she logged on to check her e-mail and found one from Donovan, she opened it and began to read.
Dear Lauren—
With everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, the phone hasn’t really been the best way for us to talk. I’m in the back of the da Vinci headed to Kingston in what I hope is one of the last legs of this journey. Under the banner of overseeing the salvage of the crashed Pan Avia flight, I’ve taken Montero off the front lines and stranded her at sea. I’ve gotten a feel for the situation, and from experience I don’t think she can sustain her rage much longer. When her bubble bursts, I think I’ll be able to help her move on—hopefully without any repercussions for us.
If this were any other situation, I would be there with you, I know I have much to explain. I hid some things from you because my past has come back to haunt me in ways I didn’t think were possible, and for that I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure how to explain certain things to you when I couldn’t readily explain them to myself. As for our conversation last night, all I can say is I’m sorry.
If I don’t think I can fix this current problem, I’ll come home and we’ll face the future together and deal with whatever comes. Give Abigail a hug from me, and I’ll talk to you soon.
Love,
Donovan
Lauren knew about the plane crash and knew what Donovan was trying to do, but it felt open ended—as did everything right now. She read the letter again and then deleted it. She retrieved the DVD from the book where her husband had hidden it and slipped the disk into the computer, positioning the screen so that if Buck or Andy came in they wouldn’t see what she was watching.
The main menu materialized and Lauren clicked on the icon that would give her the individual chapter segments. She knew exactly what she wanted to see, it had been troubling her since she’d seen it the first time, and she quickly found the place. The movie played for a moment and then she gently touched the pause button. She inched it along frame by frame and then stopped on the precise image she was after. It was a close-up of Meredith and Robert.
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