“We’re already working on it.” Dodds motions to where a dozen workers are busy rigging lengths of steel pipe to the derrick above. “We’re going to lower the drill string right into the hole. Sensors will be hooked up within the first length of pipe.”

Rig Captain Andy Furman joins them. “We’ve got a situation, gentlemen. The Coast Guard reports two people aboard a trawler just launched a minisub two miles east of the Scylla. Sonar shows them heading for the object.”

Dodds looks alarmed. “Spies?”

“More like civilians. The trawler’s registered to an American salvage company licensed out of Sanibel Island.”

McKana appears unconcerned. “Let them look. When they surface, have the Coast Guard arrest them.”

Aboard the Barnacle

Mick and Dominique press their faces to the viewports’ reinforced LEXAN glass as the minisub approaches the eerie beacon of light, the beam blasting upward from the seafloor like a 168-foot-wide spotlight.

“What the hell could be down there?” Dominique asks. “Mick, you okay?”

Mick’s eyes are closed, his breathing erratic.

“Mick?”

“I can feel the presence. Dom, we shouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t come all this way just to turn back.” A red light flashes above her head. “The sub’s sensors are going crazy. There’s massive amounts of electromagnetic energy rising out of the hole. Maybe that’s what you’re feeling?”

“Don’t pass through that beacon or you’ll short-circuit every system on board.”

“Okay, maybe there’s another way in. I’ll circle the area while you complete a sensor sweep.”

Mick opens his eyes, scanning the stacks of computer consoles lining the cabin. “What do you want me to do?”

She points. “Activate the gradiometer, it’s an electromechanical gravity sensor rigged beneath the Barnacle. Rex used it to detect gravity gradients beneath the seafloor.”

Mick boots the system’s monitor, which reveals a tapestry of orange and reds, the brighter colors indicating high levels of electromagnetic energy. The hole itself blazes a brilliant, almost blinding white. Mick pulls back on the gradiometer’s joystick, widening the field to examine the rest of the seafloor’s topography.

The intense glow shrinks to a white dot. Hues of green and blue create a circular border around the reds and orange. “Wait a second—I think I found something.”

Encircling the crater-shaped area are a series of dark spots set in a precise, equidistant circular pattern along the mile-diameter perimeter.

Mick counts the holes. He feels his gut tightening, a cold sweat breaking out across his body. He grabs his father’s journal, leafing through the parched pages until he locates the June 14, 1997, entry.