The Mariana Islands. Western Pacific.
Dark water. Open ocean at night. Skimming low over the surface — calm, black, endless. Small ripples catch the moonlight and release it.
A coastal hillside emerges from the darkness. Guam. The largest of the Mariana Islands, deep in the Western Pacific, three hundred kilometres from the deepest point on Earth.
A contemporary beach house sits perched on the cliffside, overlooking the darkness below, every light burning, an infinity pool glowing at its edge. Soft flamenco guitar drifts from inside. The doors and windows are thrown wide, white curtains lifting in the warm breeze.
On the open terrace beside the pool, a group is gathered around a long table. A summer night. Wine. Conversation.
Sam Jensen sits at the head of the table. At sixty-seven, he has the look of a man shaped by weather and patience — unhurried in his movements, deliberate in everything. To his left, Laurence, twenty-eight, with sand-coloured hair and the kind of quiet confidence that doesn't need to announce itself. To Sam's right, Gerard, the same age but nothing alike — dark-haired, restless, already leaning forward as if the conversation can't move fast enough. Across from them sits Stephanie, the youngest at twenty-four, beach blonde, both arms covered from shoulder to wrist in spiritual tattoos.
Behind them, whiteboards face the table, covered in sketches, pinned photos of submarines and deep-sea creatures, and pages of handwritten calculations.
This isn't a holiday.
It's the last night before they go down.