How far below sea level can I be?
She would have given up and returned to the surface if there was anything to return to, but the fact was the medieval masonry staircase, like something out of a fairytale which led deep into the Earth, was her only hope.
Amelia stepped around the next bend and her left hand came free of the cold stone wall. She stopped, blinked more than once, as if doing so would remove the haze of disbelief.
The stairwell ended on a giant rocky ledge that overlooked an underground prehistoric world to rival anything Jules Verne had imagined.
The ceiling in this new vault was so high that it could only be seen at the edges of the wall and not in the middle. A warm ray of sun shone down from above on the entire subterranean habitat, making her feel like she’d just stepped out into the great expanse of an ancient savannah. Giant trees and plants were covered with fruits she had never seen before, filling her nostrils with the scent of rich fragrances.
Her eyes swept the near-mythical environment with wonder. It was impossible to tell where the place began and where it finished. It might have been a small country in its own right. Thick rainforests, including giant gum trees, more than a hundred feet tall, filled the area. There were massive open plains of grass, and a freshwater river that split the ancient world in two, with multiple smaller tributaries and streams that ran off from it.
An 80-foot waterfall raged somewhere to the east, sending a fine mist down upon the valley. The sound of birds chirping echoed throughout. Ancient megafauna, oversized mammals, drank by the bank of the river.
To her left, a beam of light filtered through the subterranean vault above, shining light the hue of purple, and lighting up the image like an exhibit at a museum — on seven faces of what looked like ancient cavemen. Her eyes locked on the mysterious faces. They were almost human, yet nothing quite so advanced.
She picked up her Kodak 620 Duo camera, aimed its lens on the remarkable image, and snapped the shot.
Her lips curled into an impish smile.
Where in God’s name am I?
Within an hour of the Electra’s last confirmed radio transmission, the USCGC Itasca launched what would soon become the world’s largest and most expensive sea and air search operation in history. The Itasca undertook an ultimately unsuccessful search north and west of Howland Island based on initial assumptions about transmissions from the aircraft. The United States Navy soon joined the search and over a period of about three days sent available resources to the search area in the vicinity of Howland Island.
The initial search by the Itasca involved running up the 157/337 line of position to the north-northwest of Howland Island. The Itasca then searched the area to the immediate northeast of the island, wider than the area searched to the northwest. Based on bearings of several supposed Earhart radio transmissions, some of the search efforts were directed to a specific position on a line of 281 degrees from Howland Island without evidence of the flyers.
Four days after Earhart's last verified radio transmission, on July 6, 1937, the captain of the battleship USS Colorado received orders from the Commandant, Fourteenth Naval District to take over all naval and coast guard units to coordinate search efforts. Naval aircraft from the Colorado were directed to the Phoenix Islands seven days after Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan went missing. One of the Phoenix Islands, an uninhabited atoll that ran directly through the 157/337 sun line, named Gardner Island, showed signs of recent habitation. Yet despite repeated circling and low flying, pilots were unable to elicit a response from anyone on the island.
Despite an unprecedented, extensive search by the U.S. Navy — including the use of search aircraft from an aircraft carrier — and the U.S. Coast Guard, no traces of Earhart or Noonan, or their Electra, were ever found.
Until now…
Chapter One
The cabin of the Phoenix Airlines Flight 318 was uniquely silent. There was no talking, the entertainment consoles were switched off, and none of the flight crew were making their way through the aisles. The only noise that could be heard was the quiet drone of the A380’s four Rolls-Royce Trent 900 engines as the aircraft cruised at 38,000 feet.
Andrew Goddard stretched uncomfortably awake in his economy-class seat. At six feet seven inches, his protracted frame was far from what the designers of the Airbus A380 had in mind when they planned the economy-class seating for optimal passenger numbers. At sixty-one years of age and with his wealth, he thought he was beyond this sort of physical mistreatment.
Through a large inheritance, and success as a rare antiquities dealer, Goddard had obtained the sort of grandiose wealth that couldn’t be spent in a lifetime. Despite this, he could have passed as a monk. His long, wispy gray hair was tidily swept back and he wore a trim, almost white beard. He had an ascetic face, with bony features and a protracted jawline. His intelligent blue eyes were so pale they were nearly clear. Looking down his long nose, as he took in the aircraft cabin at a glance, trying to guess how much longer it would be before they landed.
Andrew blinked, trying to remove the haze so thoroughly embedded.
He had been sleeping fitfully over the last couple hours or so of the long-haul flight. Uncomfortable, and heavily sleep deprived, he’d taken a glass of cognac in the hope that it would give him the few hours rest he so desperately desired.
Instead, all it had done was fill his mind with vivid nightmares.
He hated to fly.
Fact was, if he’d been given more time, he would have caught a ship, as daft and old fashioned as that might seem. Not that it mattered. The point was moot. He’d found out less than fifteen hours ago about the auction.
It was the first time in his lifetime the item had come up. Almost certainly the last opportunity he might have to see the ancient relic.
No. He would gladly suffer the discomfort of modern flight to be there.
He checked his watch.
It read 10:30 a.m.
He’d left LaGuardia International in New York at 6:55 p.m. Andrew tried to make sense of the time differences. Italy was six hours ahead of New York. That meant they had been in the air for a total of nine hours and thirty-five minutes.
The flight was supposed to have taken just eight hours and fifteen minutes.
They should have landed at 9:05 a.m.
So what went wrong?
He was almost certain he’d calculated the time-zones wrong.
Do you turn your watch forward or backward, when traveling east? Venice was six hours ahead… or was that behind New York? Had his watch automatically updated, aligning itself with an incorrect time-zone?
He smiled, feeling the sudden staccato in his aging heart settle into something entirely more sustainable.
Andrew shook his head. It was nothing more than the combination of the cognac playing tricks with his head and his watch updating to the wrong time-zone. That should serve him right buying into the new digital watches.
He shifted. They would be on the ground soon.
Still, his back hurt.
Goddard distracted his mind with thoughts of Venice.
It was quite interesting this time of year. The celebration of Carnival of Venice had passed and the Catholic city would become hushed, almost dead silent. But soon Easter would occur and the metropolis would spring to life again, with crowds flocking to the churches to celebrate masses. Places with a strong religious tradition tended to have a more marked sense of the weightiness of the passage of time, as well as a calendar year broken up by at least one celebration a month, just to keep that weightiness from becoming too boring. But then the people had always needed their bread and circuses. A religion that didn’t understand that, wasn’t a religion or a culture, that endured.