EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  4

  Saturday, 16 May (2:02 a.m. EST – Washington)

  Daniel eyes were still wide open. All he could do was stare at the ceiling of his bedroom, dimly illuminated by the green lights of his digital clock. His wife snored lightly next to him.

  The captain of the German U-boat possessed files with letterhead containing the symbol of the Nazis’ Red Falcon project. Red Falcon and Tabarin were now connected. And the connection between Red Falcon and Red Wraith was already well established. A chill ran through his shoulders and neck inducing a single, spontaneous twitch. He didn’t yet understand the implications or connections, but his subconscious poked at parts of his mind. Something was there.

  The other thing that stole his sleep was the fact that the technology needed to construct the beacon did not exist. He did some research, and was aware of the amazing capabilities the oil companies had developed to access deep waters and drill into the seabed. There were also special research submarines capable of going to great depths. But this thing was different – it was enormous for something at that depth, and its base penetrated into the seabed. Adding to the mystery was that it was composed of an unknown, super-hard material. All of it was inexplicable.

  Was the idea of extraterrestrial technology such a leap? He didn’t think so; he’d come across evidence of such things in previous assignments – though nothing conclusive. But there were more drastic ideas swimming around in his head. What if it were even more bizarre than alien technology?

  He didn’t know why his mind asked him that question, but he’d done enough thinking for the night. His eyelids lowered, and his breathing deepened. It was time for dreams. Or nightmares.

  5

  Saturday, 16 May (9:50 a.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

  The Antarctic coast was no place for an attack submarine. Captain McHenry was aware of the dangers, but had his orders.

  With a carrier strike force securing the area, they could study the beacon without threat. Three other U.S. subs patrolled the waters like hungry sharks. This freed up the North Dakota to explore the ice shelves along the coast closest to the beacon. Treacherous circumpolar currents characterized the dark waters, and the surface was rife with ice flows. The southern winter was fast approaching.

  The waters were an acoustic wonderland. American teams had been mapping the ocean floor for days, and ships and submarines deployed active sonar on a regular basis. There was no attempt to keep their presence a secret – quite the opposite. It was made known to the world that the United States Navy was conducting war games in the Southern Ocean. For the sake of appearances, they periodically carried out mock maneuvers.

  Twice since dodging the torpedo attack, the North Dakota had chased away the same Chinese submarine. Another American sub discovered a Russian sub sleeping under a protrusion in an ice shelf 170 kilometers from the beacon. They’d pinged it with a sonar blast, sending it scurrying away. He wondered which one of the two foreign subs had launched a torpedo at them. He wouldn’t mind an opportunity to return the gesture.

  The North Dakota was currently exploring the Brunt Ice Shelf. A floating body of ice extending from the western coast into the Weddell Sea, the shelf covered over 100,000 square kilometers, and spanned the coast of Coats Land to Dronning Maud Land. It was a vast inverted vista, riddled with nooks and crannies that made good hiding places for submarines. But the North Dakota was not there to ferret out sleepers.

  He had to throw the self-preservation habits he’d developed as a sub commander to the wayside. The North Dakota was now playing the role of a science vessel – mapping the floor and currents beneath the shelf. Their pinging constantly broadcasted their position.

  The floor sloped upward as they approached the coast, slowly pinching them between the rocky bottom and a ceiling of thick ice. If they grounded, or had a malfunction that immobilized them, they’d be in trouble. They wouldn’t be able to break through the ice – it was over 100 meters thick.

  After the first 12 hours of exploration, McHenry went to the mess room to get some scrambled eggs and coffee. Diggs joined him, and they chatted about their mutual discomfort with the situation: noise was death.

  “We have other subs running silent,” McHenry confided quietly. “We’re in good hands.”

  Diggs nodded. “Mapping the floor like a science junket isn’t very interesting. What do they expect – we’ll find another beacon?”

  McHenry shrugged. “Don’t know.” A vibration tickled his right hip, and he pulled a communicator from his belt and put it up to his ear. “Go,” he said.

  “Captain, you’re needed at sonar,” the voice said. “Something you should look at.”

  “There in five,” he replied and set the communicator on the table.

  He took a bite of eggs. They could wait a few minutes while he finished eating. It was the fifth time he’d been called. He knew they were approaching the coast, so he suspected they were getting shallow again. They’d need his permission to turn and start mapping outward.

  They’d been scanning to and fro, toward the coast and out to sea, creating a full map of the sub-shelf floor. Rough maps already existed for the area, but it was clear that more detail was needed. And, as Diggs said, they were searching for abnormalities.

  He finished his breakfast, bussed his tray, and topped off his mug with coffee. A few minutes later he entered the sonar room and was surprised to see a half-dozen men crowded around a computer monitor. “What’s up?” he asked.

  The men parted, revealing Finley at a chair in front of the sonar computer.

  “Have a look at this,” Finley said with excitement.

  McHenry stepped closer, put on a pair of half-rimmed reading glasses, and studied the image. It took him a few seconds, but then he saw it clearly: it was a trench that led towards the coast. At the bottom of the trench, which gouged 50 meters into the seafloor, was a submarine. It was upside down, partially buried, and blended in well with the landscape, but he could still tell by its size and shape what it was: a World War II German U-boat.

  6

  Saturday, 16 May (12:22 p.m. EST – Washington)

  Daniel sat with the others in Room 713. Sylvia sat to his left on the couch, and Horace and Thackett sat in the chairs across the table to complete the square.

  Thackett filled them in on the current status of the beacon, a few close calls between American and both Chinese and Russian submarines, and the securing of the area by a U.S. carrier group. From the ensuing silence it was clear that the update provided them with nothing new.

  After an awkward lull, Thackett’s face flushed and he cleared his throat. “We’re at a standstill,” he admitted. “I’m under some pressure to get answers.”

  Daniel knew where Thackett wanted to go with the conversation, but didn’t help the man.

  Thackett continued, “I don’t want to put too much pressure on you two, but –”

  “– but we have no choice,” Horace cut in. “Have you discovered anything?”

  Sylvia answered first. “Incremental advances. Nothing significant.”

  “Like what, exactly?” Thackett asked, eagerly, not rudely.

  “The so-called sightings of strange aircraft in Argentina have been definitively discredited,” she explained. “I’ve found the sources of rumors – one was an author who had propagated false information to get notoriety for a book he was writing. I’ve found no connections to the beacon.”

  “That’s fine, Sylvia,” Horace said and looked to Daniel. “And you?”

  Daniel shifted in his seat and set his cup on the table. “I’ve recently found something,” he replied. He walked to his office and returned with some photos and a magnifying glass. He handed the magnifying glass and a photo and to Horace. “I don’t know how I managed to notice this – it’s small and blurred.”

  “What am I looking for?” Horace asked as he examined the picture.

  “The emblems on the files,” Daniel replied and pointed out the general area on the
photo. It was the picture of Otto Wermuth in his quarters on U-530.

  It took Horace about ten seconds, and then his face took on a sickly expression.

  “Now this one,” Daniel said and handed him another photo.

  He seemed to go back and forth between two points on the photograph, the same two, Daniel presumed, that he’d toggled between hours earlier.

  “Extraordinary,” Horace gasped.

  “What is it?” Thackett asked.

  “Have a look for yourself,” Horace replied and handed the pictures and magnifying glass to Thackett. Horace sat up straighter and addressed Daniel. “I’m not sure what this means.” Daniel detected a subtle trembling in Horace’s voice, and then in his hands.

  Horace continued, “The second picture was taken before the war – it’s of the Schwabenland during its exploratory mission to Antarctica?”

  “Yes,” Daniel replied. “I thought it might have been doctored, but I found an independent photo in which the aircraft is missing. The crate and the emblem are still there.”

  “Someone please explain to me what I’m looking for,” Thackett said. He was studying the Schwabenland photo.

  “The emblems,” Horace said. “They’re a little hard to see, but definitely there – one the plane’s fuselage and another on a crate on the deck.”

  It was Sylvia’s turn to express frustration. “Could someone please fill me in?”

  “It’s from my previous assignment,” Daniel replied. “The Red Wraith project.”

  “I think I see it now,” Thackett interrupted, still leaning over the table with the magnifying glass. “It looks like a complicated swastika.”

  “That’s it,” Horace confirmed.

  “It’s the same as the one on the plane, except the one on the crate is being carried by an eagle,” Thackett said.

  “It’s a falcon,” Horace corrected.

  “A leftward facing falcon,” Daniel added. “The direction means something.”

  “Yes, a leftward-facing bird of prey is a Nazi symbol of aggression,” Horace explained. “We don’t know the full meaning of the emblem, but it represents the Red Falcon project.”

  Thackett leaned forward and handed the pictures to Sylvia.

  Horace continued. “Until now, it had been assumed that Red Falcon had begun after World War II had started.”

  “But these photos of the Schwabenland suggest it started before the war,” Daniel explained, “and that the Schwabenland’s mission might have been connected to Red Falcon.”

  “Well,” Horace spoke in conclusive tone, “I think you’d better revive your research on Red Wraith and Red Falcon.”

  “We’re missing a lot of information about Red Wraith,” Daniel said to Thackett.

  “How can that be?” Thackett asked.

  “Red Wraith was a black project – perhaps the blackest of the all,” Horace explained. “The government entities that ran it were considered rogue. The information might be hard to come by.”

  “It’s hard to imagine that Red Wraith had been kept secret all this time,” Daniel added. “It was a huge money sink, and active since the end of the war up to a few months ago.”

  “Where can we find this missing information?” Thackett asked.

  “It was a lawyer in Chicago who’d exposed the Compressed Punishment program,” Daniel explained. “But it was the FBI that finally brought it down – stormed the two CP facilities, and confiscated evidence. They’d also raided DARPA facilities.” It was the information from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency that Daniel coveted. He’d requested information from them just before his Red Wraith research was put on hold, but it had never been delivered.

  Thackett rubbed his forehead with a flat palm, and then ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “So the FBI has it,” he said and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Horace and Thackett left. Daniel and Sylvia remained seated.

  “That was quite a discovery,” she said.

  “I just noticed the crate and plane this morning,” he replied, detecting disappointment in her voice. He didn’t mean to leave her out of the loop. “I hadn’t appreciated the ramifications until now.”

  “You couldn’t get the Red Wraith documents? I thought we had access to everything.”

  “Just when my investigation started to pick up, information got increasingly difficult to acquire,” Daniel explained. “Sometimes I got messages saying that the files had been destroyed. Other times there was no response at all. The FBI obstructed almost every request.”

  “Strange,” she said.

  “There’s mistrust between the agencies,” he said. “Red Wraith was the CIA’s baby, and they were highly protective of it. The CIA had even ordered hits on FBI agents investigating the project – they’d killed at least 20 over the years.”

  Her mouth opened and her eyes turned blank. “What could be that important?”

  “I never had the chance to find out,” he answered and shrugged. “It haunts me.”

  “So what if we can’t get the information we need? What if Thackett fails?” she asked. She laced her fingers together and squeezed until marbled red-white patterns formed on her knuckles.

  Daniel had come up with a possible solution to the problem. “As Omnis, we gather written documents and read them. Based on what we learn, we gather more documents and read them. This iterative process repeats until we have exhausted the topic we are researching, and we write the final monograph based entirely on written sources.”

  Sylvia shrugged. “So?”

  “Have you ever used a human source?”

  “You mean bring someone in and interview them?” she said shaking her head strongly. “It would be a security risk.”

  “The urgency of our situation warrants it,” he argued. “Besides, we wouldn’t bring anyone here.”

  Her head tilted to the side. “You mean go and talk to someone – on the outside?”

  He saw genuine fear in her face.

  “Daniel, we’re not operatives.”

  “You’re just like me,” he said, although 20 years ago he’d been on the outside and dealt with human resources first as a CIA case officer, and then as a reports officer.

  “Just like you?”

  “We’ve become so reclusive that we fear anyone even seeing our faces.”

  “It’s the nature of our work,” she said in a defensive tone.

  “It has become the nature of ourselves,” he argued.

  After a few seconds of reflective silence, she said, “You’ll have to get permission from Thackett.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Who do you want to interview?” she asked.

  “The man who brought down the Compressed Punishment program,” Daniel answered. “The lawyer from Chicago – one Jonathan McDougal.”

  7

  Saturday, 16 May (1:31 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

  “Is it clear enough for video?” McHenry asked. He wanted enough data to at least document the find.

  “We’ll need the lights,” Finley answered.

  McHenry was intrigued enough to send out the Little Dakota, but she was somewhere at the bottom of the Weddell Sea, and they wouldn’t get a replacement anytime soon. They’d have to settle for the snake, which was just camera on the end of a long, flexible appendage. The snake was about 15 meters long and designed to inspect the outer hull for damage.

  Being close to the coast, they were in relatively shallow water – 150 meters. The pilot lowered the North Dakota to within 40 meters of the U-boat and illuminated it with bright floodlights. It was a color camera, but the video still looked as if it were taken in black and white.

  McHenry instructed Finley to maneuver the snake until he found what he sought: a gaping hole in the side of the sub.

  Finley gasped. “Looks like they took a hit.”

  “Find the markings,” McHenry ordered. “They’ll want to ID this thing.”

  After a half-hour of probing they’d on
ly found faint, eroded markings. There might have been more on the bottom and the buried parts, but he figured they had enough high-resolution video for the naval forensic experts. They’d do a sophisticated image analysis, and might be able to ID the vessel even without markings.

  His attention turned to the trench. The sunken U-boat was not far from its starting point, less than two kilometers from shore. He wanted to see how far it went, and what else they might find in it. He ordered the pilot to position the North Dakota just above the trench, and to proceed slowly towards the continent.

  The gouge became deeper as the sea floor rose towards the coast. It seemed as if it maintained a constant depth, but the walls to either side grew as it proceeded towards the continent, where the ocean floor would eventually merge with land. After more than an hour of careful navigation, it started to get tight.

  “How would you like to proceed, Cap’n,” the pilot asked.

  McHenry knew the question was whether or not to descend into the trench. “Do we have room to turn around in there, Finley?”

  “No,” Finley replied as he pointed to the sonar image on a computer monitor. “For now we can still rise above it to make the turn – that is, until we get to the coast. Otherwise, we’ll have to back out. What if it goes inland?”

  “That’s what we we’re going to find out,” McHenry said. “Let’s stay just above it for as long as we can, and keep an eye on the ceiling as we go. Notify me when we get close to the coast.”

  McHenry headed to the conn. He needed to discuss the situation with his first officer. What would he do if the trench penetrated inland?

  8

  Saturday, 16 May (10:11 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

  Will was ready to go within minutes of getting Jennings’ call. An hour later, he was in the back seat of a car and heading to Syncorp. They were getting him inside.

  Natalie Tate sat to Will’s left, and Jennings was in the passenger seat. Jake Adler was behind the wheel. He was a former Syncorp engineer who had moved up the ranks to Vice President – one of about 100.