## Chapter 2: Surface Tension
David spent the next morning in the university library's maritime section, surrounded by stacks of old shipping records and marine survey reports. His father's notebook lay open beside his laptop, its pages filled with coordinates that matched a specific region of the Atlantic, roughly 200 miles off the Massachusetts coast.
The area itself wasn't remarkable – standard shipping lanes, average depth of about 2000 meters, no unusual geological features noted in any official surveys. But cross-referencing his father's notes with news archives revealed a pattern: over the past five years, three research vessels had reported equipment malfunctions in that exact location. Two fishing boats had changed their regular routes to avoid the area, citing "unreliable sonar readings."
"You're here early," a voice said, making him jump. Professor Miranda Hayes, his thesis advisor, stood between the bookshelves, her grey hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. "I thought you'd given up on the deep-sea research after the board's decision."
David closed his father's notebook carefully. "Just trying to understand something."
She studied him for a moment, then sat down across from him. "David, I know these past few weeks have been difficult. But pursuing conspiracy theories won't bring your father back."
"They're not theories," he said, keeping his voice low. "Dad was investigating something specific. Something real."
"James was a brilliant surgeon, but he was also..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "passionate about his hobbies. Sometimes passion can make us see patterns that aren't there."
David thought about the coordinates, the equipment failures, the mysterious phone call. "What if they are there, and we're just not looking hard enough?"
Professor Hayes sighed. "The board might reconsider your thesis if you focused on something more conventional. Your grades are excellent. You could have a real future in marine biology."
"I appreciate the concern," David said, starting to pack up his things. "But I need to figure this out."
As he left the library, his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Verify meeting location. Send 'yes' if still pier 17." He typed back a quick confirmation, trying to ignore the uncertainty gnawing at his stomach.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent hours going through his father's computer files, most of which were password-protected. The few he could access contained research papers on deep-sea sonar technology and something called "acoustic shadowing" – areas where sound waves behaved unexpectedly underwater.
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At 11:30 PM, David parked his car two blocks from Pier 17. The industrial port area was deserted, the only sounds coming from the gentle lapping of waves against the dock and the distant hum of cargo ships. Security cameras mounted on warehouses swept back and forth, their red lights blinking steadily.
He checked his phone – no service. Odd for this area. The air felt heavy with salt and diesel fumes as he walked toward the meeting point, staying in the shadows of shipping containers. His father's notebook was secure in his inner jacket pocket, along with a small digital recorder. Whatever Marcus had to say, David wanted it documented.
A figure stood at the end of the pier, silhouetted against the dim harbor lights. As David approached, he could make out more details: tall, broad-shouldered, military posture. The man turned, revealing a weathered face with a jagged scar running from his left temple to his jaw.
"David Chen," Marcus said. It wasn't a question. "You look like your father."
"You said you knew what he found," David replied, staying a few feet away.
Marcus glanced around before speaking. "Your father contacted me six months ago. He'd discovered something during one of his sailing trips – abnormal sonar readings, equipment failing in specific patterns. At first, he thought it was just equipment malfunction, but—"
A sharp crack echoed across the water. Marcus's eyes widened, and he stumbled forward. David caught him reflexively, feeling something warm and wet on his hands. Blood.
"Run," Marcus gasped. "Trust no one. The drive... in my pocket..."
More shots rang out. David dropped to the ground, heart pounding. Through the gap between shipping containers, he saw figures moving in the darkness, approaching quickly.
He had to make a choice: stay with the dying man or run. The answer was made for him as bullets pinged off the metal containers near his head. David scrambled to his feet, grabbed the small USB drive from Marcus's jacket pocket, and ran.
Behind him, voices shouted commands. Footsteps pounded on the wooden pier. David darted between containers, his tennis shoes slipping on the wet concrete. He'd spent summers working at the port during high school – he knew these docks better than most.
A bullet whizzed past his ear as he vaulted over a low wall. The sharp impact of feet hitting concrete echoed off metal walls. How many were chasing him? Two? Three? He couldn't risk looking back.
David spotted a gap between two warehouses – a shortcut to the secondary parking lot. He squeezed through, hearing fabric tear as his jacket caught on something. The voices were getting closer.
His lungs burned as he ran, but adrenaline kept him moving. Finally, he reached his car. His hands shook so badly he almost dropped the keys, but somehow he managed to get the door open and the engine started.
As he peeled out of the parking lot, his rearview mirror showed two black SUVs emerging from the dock area. The same type he'd seen at the cliff.
What had his father discovered that was worth killing for?
The USB drive felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket as he drove through the dark streets, taking random turns to shake any tail. His phone was still showing no service. They must be jamming signals in the area.
When he finally pulled into his driveway at 2 AM, his mother's car was gone – another late-night surgery. David's hands were still shaking as he unlocked the door. Blood stained his jacket and hands – Marcus's blood.
He went straight to his room, powered up his old laptop (the one not connected to any networks), and plugged in the drive. A single encrypted file. The filename: "Project Echo."