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but we’ve run into some unexpected turbulence. We…we may be in for a rough ride. Please secure your seat belts.”
    Jeffrey heard the false cheer in the pilot’s voice. Worry rang behind his words. The President, whose eyes were narrowed, glanced at Tom.
    â€œI’ll check on it.” Tom began to unbuckle his seat belt.
    The President put a hand on Tom’s injured arm, restraining him. He turned instead to Jeffrey and motioned to a member of his security team. “You boys have better legs than us old men.”
    Jeffrey unsnapped his seat buckle. “Of course.” He stood and joined the blue-suited Secret Service agent at the door.
    Together they left the conference room and worked their way forward, past the President’s suite of private rooms and toward the cockpit of the Boeing 747. As they neared the cockpit door, Jeffrey caught a flash of brilliance from out one of the side windows.
    â€œWhat was—” he started to ask when the plane tilted savagely.
    Jeffrey struck the port bulkhead and crashed to the floor. He felt his eardrums pop. Through the door to the cockpit, he heard frantic yells from among the flight crew, screamed orders, panic.
    He pulled himself up, his face pressed to the porthole window. “Oh my God…”
11:18 P.M. PST (2:18 A.M. Local Time)
Air Mobility Command, Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland
    Tech Sergeant Mitch Clemens grabbed the red phone above his bank of radar screens. He keyed in for the hard-link scrambled and coded to the base commander. With Andrews on full alert, the phone was answered immediately.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œSir, we have a problem.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    Sweating, Mitch Clemens stared at his monitor, at the aircraft designation VC-25A. Normally it glowed a bright yellow on the screen. It now blinked. Red.
    The tech sergeant’s voice trembled. “We’ve lost Air Force One.”

1
Nautilus
    July 24, 3:35 P.M.
75 miles SW of Wake Island, Central Pacific
    Jack Kirkland had missed the eclipse.
    Where he glided, there was no sun, only the perpetual darkness of the ocean’s abysmal deep. The sole illumination came from a pair of xenon lamps set in the nose of his one-man submersible. His new toy, the Nautilus 2000 , was out on its first deep-dive test. The eight-foot titanium minisub was shaped like a fat torpedo topped by an acrylic plastic dome. Attached to its underside was a stainless steel frame that mounted the battery pods, thruster assembly, electrical can, and lights.
    Ahead, the brilliance of the twin lamps drilled a cone of visibility that extended a hundred feet in front of him. He fingered the controls, sweeping the arc back and forth, searching. Out the corner of his eye he checked the analog depth gauge. Approaching fifteen hundred feet. The bottom of the trench must be close. His sonar reading on the computer screen confirmed his assessment. No more than two fathoms. The pings of the sonar grew closer and closer.
    Seated, Jack’s head and shoulders protruded into the acrylic plastic dome of the hull, giving him a panoramic view of his surroundings. While the cabin was spacious for most men, it was a tight fit for Jack’s six-foot-plus frame. It’s like driving an MG convertible, he thought, except you steer with your toes.
    The two foot pedals in the main hull controlled not only acceleration, but also maneuvered the four one-horsepower thrusters. With practiced skill Jack eased the right pedal while depressing the toe of the left pedal. The craft dove smoothly to the left. Lights swept forward. Ahead, the seabed came into view, appearing out of the endless gloom.
    Jack slowed his vehicle to a gentle glide as he entered a natural wonderland, a deep ocean oasis.
    Under him, fields of tubeworms lay spread across the valley floor of the mid-Pacific mountain range. Riftia pachyptila . The clusters of six-foot-long tubes with their bloodred worms were like an otherworldly