But best of all . . .

  They kept my name for the vessel.

  She took it as a testament to her achievement. The two-person sphere was surrounded by a matte-black outer shell shaped like an elongated teardrop with a glass scallop protruding out its front.

  The Qianliyan had been primarily engineered as a surveillance-and-reconnaissance vessel. But it could also serve a role in anti-submarine warfare. To that end, four Dú-yá torpedoes were being loaded under it. The weapons’ name meant venomous fangs, which they definitely were. Their sleek shapes and piston-driven engines, fueled by a solid-fuel rocket propellant, were built to withstand extreme pressures. The weapons were slow at maximum depth, but they were deadly and dogged in their pursuit once a target was locked.

  A grunt overhead announced the arrival of her co-pilot, Lieutenant Yang Háo. He dropped through the exit trunk and down into the sphere. He secured the hatch behind him and squeezed his large bulk into the neighboring seat. His torn knuckles had been treated and stained with an iodine solution. As her second-in-command, he had proven his skill aboard the yacht, and he would do so again below the seas.

  Together, they silently performed a system check.

  Once done, he turned to her. “Captain Tse, I’m trained in operating the Qianliyan. I would be proud to pilot her myself. There is no need for you to travel down into the trench.”

  She scowled back at him.

  There were plenty of reasons.

  First and foremost, this vehicle was her design. She would allow no one else to pilot it on its first true mission. She had spent most of her career—except for a brief stint as a navigator aboard an aircraft carrier—in research and development. She knew intellectual prowess alone would not gain her the rank of admiral. She needed to hone her combat credentials, to whet her sword with the blood of China’s enemies.

  Plus, her goal in these seas was to show proof-of-concept for all her autonomous designs. By leaving control of the surface to the militarized clone of her AI-driven ship, it showed her level of confidence in her work. If the systems required supervision and babysitting, what would be the point of her design?

  Diving in the Qianliyan further emphasized her self-assurance. It demonstrated that she was willing to put her life behind her research.

  Still, there remained a final reason.

  Before leaving Cambodia, she had been given orders to destroy the wreckage of the Changzheng 24. They dared not leave anything behind for a foreign power to salvage and gain knowledge of their naval advancements.

  But more importantly, Choi Aigua had wanted to repeat his prior experiment. Upon Tse’s word, he would send another ELF pulse to this trench—as proof-of-concept for his own endeavor. It could be the first step in the advent of a new weapons system, one that could shake the foundations of the world.

  To that end, someone needed to observe the effect down there—and survive it.

  The Qianliyan was both smaller and more heavily shielded than the submarine that sank. It was a fortress built to withstand extreme pressures. Even its electronics were locked in a Faraday cage to protect against any EM blast. She felt confident the Qianliyan could be safely present to witness Aigua’s repeat firing of the ELF signal.

  Her act in doing so, especially if such a formidable weapon could be secured, would assure her position as a future admiral of the Chinese fleet.

  But before all that, she had another objective to address first: to destroy the other deep-sea submersible. It was unarmed and unaware. The Qianliyan was far heavier, especially with its load of torpedoes. It would make the descent in half the time. She planned to quickly dive into the trench, hunt the other submersible down, and destroy it, adding more blood to her sword.

  Satisfied with her plan, she radioed for the Qianliyan to be lowered into the sea. She then turned her hard gaze upon Lieutenant Yang and finally answered his question.

  “This is my mission,” she declared emphatically. “I will allow no one to cast a shadow over my glory.”

  33

  January 24, 9:32 A.M. WITA

  Thirty miles off the coast of Bali

  Four hours after leaving the Jakarta History Museum, Gray stood at the bow of a fast-interceptor boat as it raced away from the Bali coastline. Seichan kept next to him. For the moment, they had this spot to themselves.

  “I don’t trust any of them,” she said, glowering past her shoulder to the pilothouse.

  “We don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  A loud boom emphasized this.

  Behind them, a peak atop the island of Bali—Mount Batar—fountained fire into the sky. Ahead, the dark seas rolled under black clouds, chained through with lightning. Their boat skimmed at sixty miles an hour across waters choked with ash. Floating rocks of pumice rattled off the fiberglass hull. The breeze smelled of sulfur from the eruptions and woodsmoke from the burning forests.

  Earlier, with time running out, their group had to risk flying through the ash-choked skies. Their small transport—a Chinese Harbin Y-12 turboprop—was the same aircraft that Major Xue’s forces had flown aboard to reach Jakarta. The plane had taken off from a deserted airstrip and hopped over to the city of Denpasar in neighboring Bali.

  While flying here, they had all borne silent witness to the destruction below them. Mountain after mountain had gushed with smoke, adding weight to the skies. Around them, huge bombs burst from flaming calderas. Rivers of lava circumscribed the landscape. Where those fiery streams flowed into the sea, the water boiled up into wide chimneys of steam. The flight had been turbulent. The aircraft’s twin props hummed raggedly through the falling ash. By the time they reached Bali, the engines had started faltering. Their descent to the dark airport had been more of a freefall than a controlled approach.

  The island city had fared worse. It lay in flames, bombarded by fiery rocks from the eruption of Mount Batar. The forests along the peak’s flanks had been set afire by pyroclastic flows. The only saving grace was that the city’s bay was well protected and had been sheltered from the worst of the tsunamis. Once there, bribes and threats had gained them possession of the marine interceptor. The boat was a patrol craft used to fight pirates and intercede in drug smuggling. It was now their means of transportation to the seas mentioned in Stoepker’s account, where the Tenebrae had sunk two centuries before.

  Still, by the time they boarded the boat, they had all recognized the importance—and likely futility—of their efforts. But there was nothing else to do but try.

  Gray checked his watch. It would still take them another forty minutes to reach those waters. “Let’s head below,” he said. “There are some final details I’d like to settle.”

  Seichan stopped him with a hand on his arm. He turned and saw the worry in her eyes. He pulled her closer. He tried to squeeze with as much reassurance as he could. She seldom showed any hesitation or apprehension. Those stoic walls rarely lowered. It was an aloofness born of necessity, instilled into her after decades of hardship and brutality.

  “We’ll get back home,” he promised her. “We still have Jack’s true birthday to celebrate.”

  He felt her smile more than saw it. She relaxed just a fraction. “That’s today,” she mumbled. “I had nearly forgotten.”

  “Actually, since we’re on this side of the international date line—”

  “Shut up,” she told his chest. “Just hold me.”

  He obeyed her.

  “And make sure Kowalski doesn’t bring another grenade,” she mumbled.

  He sighed. “I wish I could.”

  He held her until the muscles of her back and shoulders hardened. Her legs pushed straighter, girding herself for the dangers ahead. He held her a moment longer—not because she needed it, because he did.

  He finally let go, and they headed back across the bow. Still, he kept a grip on her hand, but as they passed the wheelhouse, they were slowly drawn apart by the forces ahead of them.

  The stern deck and wheelhouse were crowded with twenty men. Half the group were from Gray’s contingent. The remaining forces were those of Xue and Wen. The small Harbin transport plane could hold no more. Both sides had to leave some of their men behind. At Gray’s request, those left back at Jakarta would continue to protect the museum.

  It was the only way he could thank its director, Kadir Numberi, for agreeing to accompany them on this dangerous outing. Much of the story they were following was tied to the secret history of the Aboriginal people, and Gray had wanted the director’s continuing expertise. He still had many questions and hoped for some answers before they reached the waters where the Tenebrae sank.

  To that end, Gray waved to Xue and Heng as he entered the wheelhouse. “Could you bring Stamford’s steel box down to the galley? I’ve had some further thoughts that I’d like to discuss with Dr. Numberi.”

  “Certainly,” Xue said.

  The pair followed him to the steps leading below deck.

  At the helm, Captain Wen stood next to the boat’s pilot. He glanced back, but he made no effort to accompany them. He’d clearly had enough of their historical discussions.

  Gray remembered Seichan’s warning about not trusting anyone.

  That certainly applies to Wen.

  Seichan stayed in the wheelhouse, stepping over to Yeung, who carried weapons over both shoulders. She intended to keep close watch on the others.

  With his back guarded, Gray descended into the galley. Guan-yin and Zhuang sat at a small table. Across from them, Kadir was reading through Stamford’s account with a furrowed brow.

  Gray crossed to the table. “Dr. Numberi, I was wondering if I could pick your brain about your great-grandfather’s people.”

  Kadir pushed the pages aside. “Of course.”

  “We’re placing all our hopes on this lost Aboriginal history. But there’s one aspect I was hoping you could shed further light on.”

  Kadir shifted to face him. “Concerning what?”

  Gray remembered back at the museum how Kadir had responded strangely to a part of their discussion. He had looked as if he had wanted to say something but had been reluctant to speak.

  Gray raised that topic again. “In Stamford’s records, he mentions a span of time that he called the Dark Dreaming. It seemed important, but he never elaborated further. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Maybe.” Kadir sat straighter. “The Aboriginal concept of Dreamtime or simply the Dreaming is difficult to put into words. It encompasses their origin stories, a time of gods and heroes, but it also includes the past and present. It’s a merging of time into one single continuum. Sometimes referred to as Everywhen. Truthfully, I was surprised to see it mentioned in Sir Raffles’s account.”

  “Why is that?” Gray asked.

  “During Stamford’s lifetime, the terms Dreaming or Dreamtime were never mentioned. They only appeared in more common usage decades after his death. So his mention of the Dreaming is odd. As is his use of the word dark to describe it.”

  “What do you think Raffles was referring to?”

  “I can only guess, but it must tie to the earliest history of the First Nations peoples.” Kadir looked contemplative for a moment before continuing. “The typical date that most archaeologists assign to the populating of Australia is around sixty thousand years ago. That’s been accepted for some time. But as further studies have been done—something that’s been sorely neglected until very recently—anomalies surrounding that date have come to light. The examination of an Aboriginal fishing site in Warrnambool, Victoria, was recently dated to 120,000 years ago. Another ten locations have similarly shown to be far older than the accepted 60,000 years. Some critics have questioned those numbers, but the initial research was done by respected academics.”

  Xue frowned. “Regardless, what does the date have to do with a time called the Dark Dreaming?”

  Kadir turned to him. “Many of the earliest stories of Dreamtime are apocalyptic. They speak of a giant wave sweeping far inland and killing almost everyone. And of fiery gods warring in the earth and bursting forth or raining down fire, killing thousands.”

  “That does sound dark,” Xue admitted.

  “And very much like now,” Gray added.

  Kadir nodded. “Which made me wonder. There was a volcanic event a thousandfold worse than when Tambora exploded. It happened 74,000 years ago. With eruption of the supervolcano Toba in northern Sumatra. It laid waste to hundreds of miles in all directions, and its volcanic winter lasted decades, driving humanity to a scant few in number.”

  Gray began to understand. “You think Stamford’s Dark Dreaming is an account of that time, buried in legends and myths.”

  “If that eruption was witnessed by the Aborigine people living here at the time, then the apocalyptic description makes sense. The fires, the tidal waves, all of it. I’ve wondered for a while if that event might have been what finally drove the Aboriginal people to the Australian continent.”

  “If so,” Xue said, “it would support that they’ve lived in this region for a far longer time. Maybe it was such a prolonged history that eventually led them to understand the source of the volcanism in this region—or at least some part of it.”

  Xue stared over at the box in Heng’s hands, likely picturing the bullroarer inside it and the promise it held.

  Gray kept his focus on Kadir. The man’s lips had firmed into harder lines, his eyes had turned downcast, as if he was afraid of broaching something.

  “What is it?” Gray pressed him. “What are you holding back?”

  “It may be nothing,” he said, but the shine in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I read a paper a few years back. It challenged the accepted Out-of-Africa model for the origin of humanity. One of the foundational papers supporting that claim was written by two biologists—Wilson and Cann—back in 1987. They tested and studied mitochondrial DNA and were able to trace our human origins to a single female.”

  “Mitochondrial Eve,” Heng said with a nod. “I remember that from my premed biology courses.”

  “A woman whom the biologists stated probably came from Africa.”

  “That’s what I was taught,” Heng confirmed.

  “But that’s not where the story ends.” Kadir glanced around at those gathered in the galley. “Years later, both Wilson and Cann refuted their arguments. This happened after they came to Australia and studied the mitochondrial DNA from hundreds of First Nations people. The results astounded them, so much so that they recanted the central tenet of their prior paper. They concluded emphatically that Homo sapiens originated in Australia, not Africa. To paraphrase Cann’s admission, mitochondrial DNA puts the origin of humankind much further back and indicates that the Australian Aborigines arose 400,000 years ago.”

  Kadir let that sink in.

  “Why have we not heard any of this?” Heng finally asked.

  Kadir shrugged. “Since then—and all the way to today—there’s been evidence of genetic anomalies and archaeological dating that makes no sense. It all further refutes the accepted story of our origin. Even that first paper by Wilson and Cann clearly states that Africa was probably the origin of Mitochondrial Eve. It was never a certainty. But once that theory was set in stone, it has become unmovable. Even when those same biologists later refuted it, they were ignored.”

  “If those scientists were right,” Gray said, “then maybe we should consider the myths of the Rainbow Serpent in a new light, especially as their god is intimately tied to their origin stories.”

  Kadir nodded. “We should. While reading through these old papers, I’ve noted many similarities between events related by Sir Raffles and the myths of the Rainbow Serpent.”

  “How so?” Xue asked.

  “According to legend, the Rainbow Serpent could appear in many forms and in many places, often at the same time.”

  “So it wasn’t a single entity,” Gray said, “but a legion. Possibly a new species.”

  “Yes, but despite all the variations in these stories, there is a common thread. The insistence of a single huge snake that slumbers deep beneath the earth and whose Dreaming shakes the world.”

  Gray turned to Xue. “That almost sounds like a description of the pieces of Theia buried in Earth’s upper mantle.”

  “And when that huge snake truly rages, it brings fire and flooding.” Kadir cast his gaze upward to the world burning outside. “You’ve already mentioned how the Rainbow Serpent—or at least, its smaller multitudes—were said to be capable of traveling from waterhole to waterhole beneath the earth, from one thin spot to another, bringing destruction or salvation. Digging deeper into those same stories, you can find its actions more specifically described.”

  “Like what?” Gray asked.

  Kadir faced him. “When a Serpent punishes someone, it swallows them whole, digesting away their bones and regurgitating them out as stone.”

  Xue’s brows pinched. “That sounds exactly like the petrifying toxin.”

  “In this process,” Kadir continued, “it plants tiny seeds of itself into a body. Little rainbows, they’re called, that can grow in that stone and be reborn anew, carrying the soul of the afflicted back to the sleeping giant under the earth, where it joins the Dreaming and lives again forever.”

  Gray pictured the video he had been shown from the morgue in Cambodia. Heng and Xue shared a look, likely making the same correlation. Had they all witnessed one of those rebirths? Was that what had happened to Matthew?

  “But according to those same legends,” Kadir said, “the Serpent can also stop this process if caught in time. It could burn away the poison and make one whole again.”

  “Like what caused those welts on Stoepker,” Heng said, looking around the group.

  Kadir sighed. “Clearly, the early Aboriginal people—whether they traced back to the Toba eruption or to the dawn of humankind—they experienced something that they could only describe in mythological terms, an ongoing understanding between two species, maybe one that traced back to a distant common origin.”