Deep Time

by Rob Sangster

  “Yes, sir.”

  She had been spooked by a master. “Tell Mr. LeMoyne to check his weapons at your desk. He won’t do it, but send him in anyway. After that, go to our bar and bring in a bottle of rum.”

  “But it’s only 10:00 a.m.”

  “Mei.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gano would have been in the air almost the whole time since he cranked the Cessna and left Mexico. He must be nearly out on his feet. Nevertheless, he wanted Gano to stroll in with a big smile and good news about Aleutian. Or, worst case, something about the lifeboats. Anything hopeful. But that wasn’t going to happen. If Gano had good news, he would have called immediately. He’d come in person to deliver very bad news.

  Jack had gotten the first jolt when Frank Williams had reported that GeoEye had found nothing. Hoping Gano would call with something better, he hadn’t passed that on to Debra or Hank. That hope was about to crash.

  His office door opened. Gano’s black cowboy hat was oversized in the Mexican style. His mustache, almost obscuring his nostrils, was as dense as the business end of a tar brush. He wore Western-cut tailored denims, a green-and-red striped shirt, and a calfskin vest. Jack knew the vest concealed a handgun, maybe two. Overall, he looked like a caricature of Hunter S. Thompson, the Gonzo journalist.

  Wiry and no more than five feet ten, his size wouldn’t intimidate anyone, but his self-possessed manner and keen eyes radiated danger. Even in the office of a friend, he seemed watchful and moved as though ready to defend himself.

  They clasped hands and exchanged shoulder slaps.

  Mei came in with a tray holding a bottle of rum, ice, and lemon. She set it on the desk, keeping wary eyes on Gano.

  “What kind of rotgut you got here, Jacko? Hmmm. Twelve-year-old Cuban.” He poured a glassful and took a long drink. “Not bad. I stayed dry during that whole damn flight. Well, not from Mexico to Seattle but all the time I was searching at sea.” He took another long drink. “Even I couldn’t stand the way I smelled after all those hours in the cockpit, so I checked into the Hyatt Regency down the road for a hot shower. They’ll send you the bill.”

  Jack grimaced. No matter the situation, Gano always passed him the check. Then something unusual caught his eye. “You weren’t wearing that wristband last time I saw you. I’ve never seen one like it. Must be three inches wide, no decoration. Where did you buy it?”

  Gano didn’t even glance at his right wrist. “Made to my specs by an old Mexican shaman who died the day after he handed it to me.”

  Jack looked more closely. “There’s no clasp, not even a seam. How do you get it off?”

  “When it comes off, that will mean I’m dead.”

  Jack didn’t want to go there. “Looks like silver, only brighter.”

  “It’s made of mithril. I paid twenty thousand an ounce.” Gano took a drink and looked away.

  There was a story behind that wristband, but Gano wasn’t going to tell it. This was not something to pry into. Besides, there was something much more urgent to talk about.

  Gano set his glass down, cleared his throat, and looked straight at Jack. “Arghhh, matey, I flew every search and rescue pattern in the Coast Guard play book, crisscrossed the whole area. Used my best Bausch & Lomb long glasses. Semper paratus, you know. Aleutian is not there. Not even a life jacket. I’m sorry, man.”

  He’d known that was coming, but it still hit hard. He had no words.

  “There was a moment, about two hours in,” Gano said, “when I thought I spotted the crew in the water. Turned out to be about a dozen dolphins floating close together—dead.”

  Jovial shouts from deliverymen working on the wharf suddenly seemed loud and annoying.

  “It was weird about those dolphins, you know. There was no slick, so it wasn’t oil that killed them. And even the slowest dolphin can avoid getting hit by a ship. They’ll be in sharks’ bellies long before anyone can get out there for an autopsy. Another mystery.”

  Jack had hoped Gano would come through, that there would be a happy ending for Aleutian and Katie. But now . . . he swallowed hard and said, “Aleutian on the bottom. I can’t get used to that.”

  “Look, I’ll turn around and go right back out there.”

  “No point. Air-Sea Rescue has flown its own patterns. And my friend at Google Maps said its satellite struck out too. No ship, no lifeboats, no debris. No one could survive in that water for three hours, let alone days. I’ll let Hank Thompson at Greenpeace know.”

  Gano sat quietly, eyes averted. When he looked back, he said, “Is there any chance Aleutian was up to something Greenpeace didn’t tell you about?”

  “No. Katie was on that ship. Hank would have told me anything that might help find her. The mystery is what made it disappear without calling for help. But you sound like you think there’s something more to it.”

  “Don’t see any connection, but a helicopter staked me out the entire time I was on the western side of the search area. It stayed out near the horizon but didn’t try to hide. That pilot wanted me to know he was there. I tried to hail him on the Homeland Security channels. No joy. I don’t like being messed with, so I was tempted to go bump up against the bozo. Then I figured that wasn’t why I was there, so I headed back.” He reached toward his glass and then let his hand fall away.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t find her, Jack.”

  “MEI, PLEASE GET Hank Thompson on the line.”

  When Hank came on, Jack said, “I don’t have good news. The GeoEye looked at the whole area and came up empty. Not even a ‘maybe.’”

  “And your pilot friend?”

  “He crisscrossed the search area, first at high altitude to pick up a wake or reflections of sunlight, then at three hundred feet off the deck looking for . . . small things. He spotted nothing.”

  “Air-Sea Rescue just notified me they’ve called off the search.” Hank’s voice was solemn. “It’s like our ship dropped into a hole in the ocean and,” his voice choked, “took Katie with it. I’m so torn up I can’t think straight. If I’d thought she—”

  “Working on Aleutian was her dream job, doing what she believed in. Like you do every day. Like I do. I’ll come up to Seattle if you—”

  “Thanks, but I have to notify the other families. They’ll be devastated, and not knowing what happened and why makes it even worse. Right now, we need some time alone.”

  After he hung up, Jack pulled a thick legal memo out of his in-box—something a young associate had probably worked on most of the night to impress his boss. He scanned three pages of analysis of complex laws on insider trading but couldn’t concentrate.

  He tossed the memo back on top of the stack, leaned his elbows on his desk, rested his chin on interlaced fingers, and tried to let some of the tension drain away. His heart ached over the fact he’d never see Katie again. His relationship with her had been a rebirth for him of a long-lost emotion. Even though he had been only a godfather, he’d felt parental love.

  He thought his own mother might have loved him, probably did. He didn’t know. She had been a striking, silent figure who wilted in the shade of her domineering husband. After she died, Jack had thought of her as a photo in a frame more than as a flesh-and-blood mother.

  He had no doubt about his father’s love for him. There had been none. His father’s single-minded goal had been to extend his own persona through his son Jack. He’d groomed his only offspring like a thoroughbred racehorse. Nothing but the best of everything: schools, tutors, coaches—everything except even one shred of love. His price for that had been total control of all of Jack’s behavior, every decision that might affect his future.

  When an algebra teacher had praised Jack to Peck, his father had just nodded, accepting the compliment for himself. When Jack had looked up at his father and put his hand on his shoulder, Peck had
stepped away. Remembering those days made his throat tighten. He reached for water and drank deeply.

  He’d never been allowed to take a risk or make a single mistake that might deflect him from serving on the U.S. Supreme Court. His father, as a prominent lawyer, prosperous businessman, and then judge on the influential Circuit Court of Appeals, had come close to getting that appointment for himself. After he fell short, he announced to his peers that, “By God, a Strider will sit on that bench. Bet on it.”

  Some kids got very little of their father’s attention. He’d gotten way too much, and, as soon as he understood what was going on, it hurt him to the core. To his father, he was just a project under construction. The problem had been the non-stop, never-spoken message that his father didn’t trust his son’s ability to manage his own life.

  After leaving home for university, he’d taken stubborn pride in keeping his low self-esteem secret from the wider world. People saw him as a scholar, a member of an Olympic crew, and a professor at a top law school. They sought his opinions and friendship. For quite a while, his life and career had kept speeding along on the track laid down by his father.

  All that had ended after six girls died in the hold of an old freighter and ownership had been traced to his father. It was soon discovered that the dishonorable Judge H. Peckford Strider had been buying Mexican girls, many barely in their teens, and shipping them to Northern California in that freighter to work as prostitutes. Rather than face disgrace and prison, Peck had blown his brains out in front of Jack. That horror would always be seared in his emotions. Later, Jack had been shown grisly photographs of girls who had died because of his father and mug shots of those who had lived. He’d never forget either. Since then, he’d felt driven to make up to society for what his father had done. One way to prove he was not his father’s son was to stop what was being done to kids at Armstrong.

  He’d kept his deep-rooted feeling of unworthiness secret from Debra—or hoped he had. But he couldn’t shake his skepticism that someone as talented, beautiful, and centered as she was could really love him. When women had said they loved him in the past, he hadn’t known how to respond. It had felt dangerous, because he didn’t want to let himself depend on anyone ever again. He had secrets to keep.

  Because they had been powerful women, each had, in her own best interests, moved on. That had underscored his feeling of being unworthy. And maybe it explained why he hadn’t moved forward with Debra to marriage.

  The phone buzzed. He glanced at his watch. Thinking back to his conversation with Hank, he wondered whether he’d been wrong not to tell him what he planned to do next.

  Chapter 6

  July 10

  11:15 a.m.

  San Francisco

  CAPTAIN TURNER hadn’t been able to save Aleutian. Attempts to rescue the crew had failed. All Jack could do now for Katie and the grieving families was find out what had happened. The best way to do that was to inspect the ship where she lay on the bottom.

  His research had convinced him that the person most able to locate Aleutian was Dr. Stephen Drake, renowned for his explorations of the deep sea, who was based at Scripps Institution of Oceanography near San Diego. His research vessel, Challenger, was temporarily tied up at a berth in Alameda, just across the Bay from Jack’s office. Drake’s underwater robot, cameras, and other search gear would be aboard.

  The problem was: why would Drake agree to try? There were no survivors to rescue, no treasure to claim. Aleutian had no historic merit, and her salvage value wasn’t enough to make her worth bringing up. Jack had to find a way to talk him into it.

  He called Drake, did his best to sound legit and, talking fast, related the facts about Aleutian.

  Drake listened without interrupting and then said, “I donate to Greenpeace every year. I support what they do, but I just can’t fit this in.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d spent too many hours shouting into the sea wind. “Maybe you could try—”

  “Dr. Drake, this disappearance is a huge mystery, maybe tougher than finding Titanic.” He intended the reference to Robert Ballard’s famous discovery to stir Drake’s competitive juices. “You’re the only person who can solve it. The area you’ll be searching is just off the Oregon coast, not far from where Challenger is right now. Here’s the thing: You’d be doing a huge service for a lot of good people.”

  He’d appealed to ego and guilt. What was left? He racked his brain. He had to make this sale.

  “People call me Steve,” Drake said. “How far off the Oregon coast?”

  “Hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred miles.”

  Jack heard what sounded like Drake leafing through papers. “Give me the exact coordinates of Aleutian’s last known position again and the heading she was on to Seattle.”

  Jack checked his notes and told him.

  After a long silence Drake said, “Repeat those coordinates.”

  Puzzled, he read off the numbers again.

  Drake said, “I’ll have to shuffle my schedule, but I’ll take the job.”

  Drake was in. “That’s great. What kind of search equipment will you use?”

  “Same as usual, calculations based on information, sensors, and, near the bottom, a very advanced robot. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering whether you ever use a submarine. I remember reading that the Russians have developed a small titanium sub. They’re using it in the Arctic Ocean trying to prove that an underwater ridge is part of the Russian land mass. If they can prove that, they’ll claim the whole Siberian Sea area for themselves when the continental shelf up there is divided by the UN Law of the Sea treaty.”

  “I have my own eighteen-foot, two-man sub that’s better than theirs,” Drake growled. “It has—” He cut himself off. “Doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  Jack didn’t actually care what equipment Drake might use. He was stalling for time to figure out how to ask how much Drake would charge. “Maybe we should talk about your fee.”

  “My fee is $25,000.”

  “That’s a lot, but this is so important they’ll find a way to pay it.”

  “You understand that’s $25,000 per day.”

  Jack’s heart sank. No way Greenpeace could pay that.

  “But in this case I’ll make the search if Greenpeace will cover my out-of-pocket expenses up to $50,000.”

  “That’s very fair.”

  “We need to be clear on one thing: I’m in command. Not Greenpeace and not you.”

  “Agreed. What’s your timing?”

  “I’ll fly up to SFO this afternoon.”

  “I’m in the city. I could pick you up or—”

  “My people will do that. Just courier $25,000 to get this rodeo started.”

  He wanted to meet Drake but knew a brush-off when he heard one. “Let me know if there’s anything you need,” he said, but there was no longer anyone on the other end of the line. He wondered what caused Drake to reverse his decision. Tax deduction? Publicity? He’d asked twice about the coordinates. Was it something about the location that made him willing to shuffle his schedule? Or maybe he saw potential for a documentary.

  He called Greenpeace.

  “Hank, we have a chance to find out why Aleutian sank. I need that closure. Do you and the others at Greenpeace feel the same?”

  “Every one of us. But I don’t know how—”

  “I just talked with Steve Drake down at Scripps. He’s agreed to search for Aleutian for reimbursement of expenses up to $50,000. Will Greenpeace pay for that?”

  “For someone with Steve Drake’s reputation, of course we’ll come up with the money.” He was silent for a few seconds. “It means admitting no one survived.”

  “We can still hope someone made it, but we know the ship is gone. Drake will start his search as soon as he can get here.”


  “I’ll fly down to meet him, so we can set up a search plan.”

  “He made it clear he works solo. If you even offer to give him a tide chart, he will probably bail. I think he’s interested in finding Aleutian, but I suspect he has his own agenda as well. I’ll keep you posted.” He hung up.

  Glancing at his calendar, he realized that he’d never told Debra about the call from Petros Barbas. That meeting was scheduled for tomorrow morning. He walked to Debra’s office to tell her about the upcoming meeting and to see if she knew why Barbas wanted her present.

  “I’ll be darned,” she said. “About a week ago, I was a volunteer at the McLaughlin Gallery art auction for Doctors Without Borders. I was recording purchases when a handsome man wearing a silk suit came to my table. There was a beautiful, much younger woman trailing along behind him, her hair piled up like a golden helmet. She stayed several feet away while he started chatting with me about the gallery, then about a particular piece of sculpture, and then—”

  “Yeah, I know all about that kind of ‘chat.’ And then he asked you for your name and phone number, right?”

  “No. He handed me his card and said, ‘Call and I’ll take you for a sail. I’ll be in town for a week or so.’ It was Petros Barbas. He walked away, then came back. That’s when he asked for my name and phone number.”

  “So you . . .”

  “So I what?” She raised her eyebrows. “Of course I told him my name, but I gave him our firm name and number rather than my home. I mean, he does have quite a reputation with the ladies. I read somewhere that he often runs his conglomerate from his yacht.”

  “That was all?”

  “Not quite. After he looked at the card, he said, ‘Would that be Jack Strider who taught at Stanford?’ After I said ‘yes’, he smiled and said, ‘I’ll be seeing you again.’ He left a while later, blond in tow. A few minutes after that, another volunteer brought a check to me to record. Barbas had bought a small Beniamino Bufano sculpture of a polar bear for $30,000.”

  “Doctors without Borders should send you a thank-you note. So I guess you’re free for the meeting tomorrow morning.”