Captain Miller stared at the radar screen on the bridge of the USS Independence.
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A massive, solid object was resting 200 feet below the surface. According to the charts, there should be nothing but sand.
“Bring the crane ship,” Miller barked. “I want to see what’s down there.”
The cables groaned as they descended into the abyss. After hours of silence, the murky Pacific gave up its secret.
A passenger jet, encrusted in white barnacles and dripping with green algae, broke the surface.
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The serial number on the tail flickered under the searchlights: N-1970.
The cabin door was fused shut by rust. But as the crew approached, they heard a sound that made their blood run cold.
A faint, rhythmic tapping was coming from inside the cockpit.
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