The Menagerie 2 (Eden) by Rick Jones Page A

hell.
     

 
     
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    “Problems?” McCord’s image on the monitor was snowy and gray, the reception growing poorer by the moment.
    “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
    “Expound.”
    “O’Connell apparently intuited the hidden agenda from something you or I said. He went to Savage and Moore and tried to get her to destroy the data before the agenda got under way.”
    McCord leaned forward, his face barely perceptible. His voice, however, remained very clear. “Data? Did Ms. Moore discover the key? Was she able to interpret the glyphs and symbols?”
    “She believes that she discovered the key to open the ship’s archives. Once we’re inside, then we can download and record all the data. We’re setting up as we speak.”
    “And O’Connell?”
    “Let’s just say that the hidden agenda began earlier than I would have liked.” 
    “He’s been dispatched?”
    “Let’s say that he’s at least on his way.”
    “He was a good man.”
    “They’re always good until the moment of their death. We all serve a purpose. He served his.” There was absolutely no compassion when he spoke.
    “And what about Ms. Moore and John Savage?”
    “For the moment they’re serving their purpose. But when that purpose ends—” he cut himself short, the answer apparent.
    “How long will it take to download the data?”
    On screen Whitaker shrugged. “It could take anywhere from two hours to two days, who knows.”
    “It appears that we have another situation brewing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Russian and Chinese subs are closing in on your location, claiming off-shore maneuvers. Obviously that’s not the case.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” said Whitaker. “They cannot enter Mexico’s maritime border unless Mexico grants them permission, which they won’t.”
    “My point is that we’re either getting surveyed by foreign powers, or they’re closing in to intercept data from a covert source on board that ship. Either way this will be our final communication in fear of misappropriation.”
    “Understood. Anything else?”
    “Yeah. We’re receiving reports that the area is becoming increasingly unstable. Land-based aftershocks ranging from two-point-seven to three-point-four just struck a point approximately 940 kilometers southwest of your location. The seismic waves will weaken somewhat by the time they reach your position in a few moments. But we’ve been receiving reports from the platform operators that there’re signs of stress forming along the marine terrace. They believe it’ll eventually give. And if that happens, Whitaker, that ship will become your tomb.”
    “How weak is the terrace?”
    “There’s no way to determine that at this time. But if I was you I’d get that data, complete the agenda, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
    “You need to get that sub down here ASAP,” he told him. “Have it waiting at the sub bay just in case my team and I need to be out of here pronto.”
    “Already done. Once we break contact, then we go dark until you’re topside. No more communication.”
    “Understood.”
    “Good luck, then.”
    The connection was severed, the light of the monitor growing to a point, then gone.
    Whitaker fell back in his chair, grabbed a flash drive, and toyed with it between his fingers. Time was now of the essence. More so, and coming at him at the rate of seven kilometers per second from the southwest, seismic waves were about to shake his world.
    And shake it did.
    #
     
    A tremor measuring 2.7 jarred the area, the bowl-shaped wall of the crater shaking, trembling, sending tons of loose rock and debris cascading downward, hitting the ship, the terrace. Other pieces simply rode the wall to the crater’s bottom, nearly six miles below.
    Along the surface of the marine terrace a deep, running fissure moved beneath the Umbilical tube that stretched between the undersea platform and the ship, weakening the terrace, the landing beginning to pull away from