by Bobby Akart
Once inside the belly of the sunken beast, his bright lights lit up the interior. Evidence of the violent passage to the bottom of the ocean and the resulting crash were everywhere. Cables and wires floated in the water like string spaghetti floating in a pot. Broken pipes and hunks of steel jutted out from the walls of the submarine as he carefully moved through the passageways.
He braved the tight surroundings, not thinking of the potentially claustrophobic conditions. He did, however, continuously check his oxygen levels. He’d been cautioned that once he’d approached the end of his fresh air supply, the exosuit would begin an air-recycle process that would be more taxing on his batteries.
He moved toward the bridge located at the center of the submarine within the conning tower. Evidence of death was everywhere. Bones and flesh had been consumed by the sea decades ago. Pieces of fabric remained, as did some of the seamen’s medals and insignia indicating their ranks.
The U-boat shuddered, startling Ballard. The current was strong enough to give the decaying giant a bit of a nudge. It forced him to reconsider his exploration of the wreckage. But his curiosity couldn’t be contained. He wanted to go deeper into the wreckage to inspect the cargo hold.
He didn’t know much about Nazi submarines and the intricate details of World War II battles. However, he’d read about stories of stolen gold and precious metals that were never recovered. Over the years, his online news sources had been filled with stories of treasure hunters finding hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of long-lost gold bullion. He wondered if he could locate a little some-somethin’ that might be of value. He instinctively worked his mechanical claws attached to the exosuit. He nodded and made his way deeper into the ship.
What he found was not stacks of gold bars or bags of silver. Instead, it was row after row of shiny silver canisters. Confused, Ballard made his way through the stacks of canisters. Seeing the entire ship’s hold was filled with the twenty-inch-long tubes, he retrieved one off the rack by unlatching a steel strap holding it in place. After a moment of study, he figured out how to open one with his unusual exosuit hands.
He attempted to twist off the cap of the canister, but it appeared to be stuck. As if he were at home attempting to gain access to a hard-to-open jar of pickles, he tapped the canister against the solid steel rack. He tried to twist again but was unable to do so. He gripped the canister with both arms, raised it over his head, and swung downward with all the speed the water would allow.
The canister ruptured, leaving a gaping crack in the side. Air bubbles began to find their way out before the canister slipped out of Ballard’s grip and started to float toward the gaping hole in the stern.
Frustrated, he checked his air levels again and confirmed he was approaching the window to return to the HOV. He’d have to walk up a slope and against the current to get there, so he decided to call it a day. Before he left, he secured two of the canisters under his arms and began to make his way back to the DSC-7, anxious to share what he’d discovered with his crewmates.
Ballard exited the stern and came face-to-face with several of the dark, large-lipped fish he’d noticed while inside the HOV. Before, they’d barely given the submersible a second look as they went by. Now something was off about them. Their movements were all wrong. The ocean currents were pushing them around in the water, turning them over on their sides until they righted themselves. The mouth of the closest fish to him was working overtime, feeding hungrily on tiny specks of plankton or dust particles.
Seconds later, more of the fish appeared behaving in a similar, odd manner. They surrounded Ballard and his pulse began to race. Reddish brown flakes were all around him, and the fish were devouring it like it was their last meal.
It was.
Ballard overcame his fear and moved quickly toward the submersible that hovered less than a hundred feet away thanks to the thoughtfulness of Masterson. Within seconds, the fish stopped feeding. They stopped fighting the current. They all died. Belly up, eyes bugged out, floating aimlessly with the current.
As the oscars or the groupers, or whatever they were, succumbed to the deadly fish food, Ballard began to panic. What if there was something wrong with the water? What if the hydrothermal vent had ejected a deadly gas that was toxic?
He wasted no time returning to the DSC-7. Once he was in the transition hold and the bulk of the water was removed from the contained space, he frantically climbed out of the exosuit until he was left alone in his Speedo swimsuit, breathing heavily. He’d become uncharacteristically anxious, causing his chest to tighten and his breathing to become fast and shallow.
Koslov was the first to greet him as she opened the secured door leading to the transition hold. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked. “What was going on with those fish that spooked you like that?”
Ballard tried to calm his nerves. He shrugged and muttered, “I dunno.” Then he pointed toward the canisters.
Koslov picked one up. “This is amazing. It must be titanium. It’s the only possible alloy ingredient that could survive the corrosive impact of the sea.”
Masterson arrived at the opening. “Come on, Walt. Let’s get you dried off and settled. I wanna hear all about it.”
Ballard, who’d recovered from the underwater ordeal, picked up the other canister and handed it to Masterson. “If it’s all the same, let’s head back to the ship. It was a little spooky in there. On the way up, we’ll open these up and see what we can find inside.”
“How many were inside the sub?” asked Koslov.
“A metric shit ton,” replied Ballard.
Masterson helped Ballard inside, and the three members of the DSC-7 crew began their fifty-minute ascent to the surface, where they’d reunite with the Sea Searcher I.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aboard the Sea Searcher I
One Hundred Seventy Miles North of Puerto Rico
North Atlantic Ocean
Captain Tobias ten Brink had not become concerned about the three-person team manning the DSC-7 until the deck crew frantically called him to the bridge of the Sea Searcher I. The submersible was returning to the surface at a controlled ascent. It was ahead of schedule, but that was to be expected. This was an extraordinary set of circumstances, and it would be normal for the crew to not want to push the envelope on their time below the surface. What did concern Captain Toby was the lack of communication. During the forty-minute window during which text messaging was available, or as they approached the surface when VHF marine radio was accessible, they hadn’t reached out to the ship.
The crew worked diligently to hoist the DSC-7 out of the ocean. Word spread amongst the crew and the three onboard journalists of the sub’s arrival near the surface. Once secured on deck, Captain Toby personally opened the hatch to welcome his submersible team back to the Sea Searcher I.
He entered the HOV, and a fierce wave of nausea immediately overcame his body. He instinctively recoiled, falling backwards onto the deck, where he vomited repeatedly. Frightened crew members came to his aid and attempted to calm him. Others covered their mouths and entered the submersible. They, too, were repulsed by what they found.
“Get them out!” shouted one of the crew members.
“Maybe they need air!” yelled another.
Two men pushed their way past the crowd that had gathered around the DSC-7, as nobody was willing to take the initiative. They entered the sub and began to drag the three bodies out. Masterson’s body was the first to be retrieved, followed by Koslov.
The crew members were sobbing over the dead. The corpses’ faces were grotesquely contorted, and their eyes bulged. Across the ship’s deck, shouts for the medical team filled the air.
As Ballard was dragged out, one of the open canisters rolled onto the deck. The British reporter picked it up and examined it before handing it over to the woman from the New York Times.
“Look at all of these sponges!” shouted a voice from inside the HOV. He began kicking them out onto the deck of the
ship, where onlookers picked them up to get a closer look.
“That’s odd,” commented one. “They don’t smell like seawater, nor are they even wet. Could they have dried off that quickly?”
“What the hell happened to them?” asked another crew member through her wails of agony.
“Did they lose their oxygen?”
“Was the HOV breached somehow?”
“Maybe decompression sickness?”
There were lots of questions, but no answers. When the last member of the crew who’d assisted with removing the bodies emerged with the tops of the two canisters, he held them up for his crewmates to see. His hands were covered with white powder.
Some of his friends rushed to his side as tears streamed down his face. They took the shiny canister tops away and tried to console him. Captain Toby had finally recovered and crawled next to the three dead bodies. He openly prayed for them and grieved.
In a show of solidarity and respect, everyone on board the ship huddled around the dead, kneeling and praying for their souls. Others offered comfort to their mates. It was an emotional display during which everyone on the ship shared in the grieving for the loss of life.
While they mourned the terrible loss, the ruptured, empty canisters rolled around the ship’s deck at their feet as the warm ocean winds blew across them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gunner’s House
Tangier Island, Virginia
Gunner and Howard waited at the end of his dock. The aging basset hound was about to turn eleven, but it seemed he hadn’t gotten the memo. He had been Gunner’s bestest pal since Heather’s death years ago. They would frequently have long talks on the couch, staring mindlessly out the window as if they were waiting for her to come. Howard’s long body and large round head didn’t make him much of a cuddler. His slightly heavy sixty-five pounds pushed him out of the lapdog weight class. But Gunner couldn’t have asked for a sweeter, gentler, and more affectionate pup than Howard.
Except for his insubordination. Howard was demanding. Sassy. A bed hog. And his frequent flatulence was capable of driving Gunner out of the house. He’d tried changing his diet. He continued the Nummy Tum that Gunner’s father, Pop, insisted was good for his digestive health. Gunner personally felt his digestive health was functioning just fine, but his gassy nature needed to be dealt with.
While Gunner would miss his old house on Dog Island, his new home had many advantages. For one, it had a direct westerly view from the back deck. Gunner was a sunset kinda guy. Not the “walk the beach and pick up shells” type. Those days had left him when Heather died. For Gunner, there was something about kickin’ back in one of his Adirondack chairs on the deck, a cold beer in hand, with Howard by his side as the sun dropped over the horizon, that cleared his head and relaxed him.
He was looking forward to this weekend. The Gray Fox team had saved a lot of lives the other day. Like all of their missions, nothing was routine. They were risky and physically demanding. What Gunner, Cam and Bear liked the most were the challenges they presented.
Each of them had their own level of expertise in addition to their Air Forces Special Operations training. Gunner frequently used his college degrees as an earth scientist to benefit Gray Fox during an op. It had served him well when he attacked the asteroid, and it certainly hadn’t hurt as he was almost sucked up into the eye wall of a hurricane the other day.
The three of them had earned some time off, and spending their first weekend together on Tangier Island was just what the doctor ordered. Even Gunner’s psychiatrist at Eglin Air Force Base, Dr. Brian Dowling, would approve. Despite the fact that Gunner and the team were technically retired from the Air Force, he was still seeing Dr. Dowling on an informal basis. Logistics was an issue, so frequently they conversed by telephone. Their relationship had become more of a friendship than doctor-patient.
Bear honked the horn of his newly acquired Baja Outlaw powerboat as he caught a glimpse of Gunner and Howard on the dock. Howard jumped to his feet, arched his back, and let out a series of howls. Gunner shook his head and laughed. Those two were meant for one another. Of all the people on this planet, Bear was the only other human being Howard would sleep with. That suited Gunner just fine. It would be nice to have the bed to himself for a couple of nights.
Bear eased up to the south side of the dock opposite Gunner’s own fast boat, the Donzi. If a casual passerby didn’t know better, they’d think the group was reenacting a scene from the eighties television series Miami Vice, with Rico and Tubbs getting together to take down the bad guys. Or the neighbors, if there were any, might think a drug runner had moved in next door.
Cam gave Gunner a cross look as she scrambled to the bow of the Baja to toss the dock line to Gunner. Bear moved to the stern and wrapped the line around the piling securing the floating dock.
“What?” Gunner mouthed the words, thinking that Cam wanted to whisper something to him. Instead, she blurted it out.
“I’ll never ride with this idiot again!”
Gunner scowled. The three of them had just finished cruising for hours together across the Gulf of Mexico and she didn’t complain. “Why?”
She let it out. Her tone of voice was filled with sarcasm. “Hey, Cam. You want me to open her up? No, I’d say. He’d do it anyway. Hold on, Cam, he’d say. Don’t bounce me out of the boat, I’d respond. Can you feel the power? he’d ask. You wanna feel my fist break your jaw? I’d respond. That’s the way it was all the way from my place.”
Cam made her way back to the entrance to the bow and entered the sleeping quarters below. She started tossing duffle bags on the dock.
“You can’t not ride with him,” countered Gunner.
“Yes, I can. I mean, wait. No. How the hell am I supposed to respond to a double negative? I’m not riding with him again. Period. You can take me back on Sunday.”
Bear interrupted her rant. “Come on, Cam. It wasn’t so bad. I’ll go slow next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, hot rod. Gunner’s gonna take me back.”
Bear began to plead with her. “But how ya gonna get back and forth next time?”
“I’ll get my own damn boat!”
Cam climbed out of the Baja and stood defiantly with her hands on her hips. “Come here, Howard, I need a hug.” The basset waddled over to her and immediately covered her in several wet, sloppy kisses. She grabbed her duffle and led Howard up to the house.
Gunner reached out and grabbed Bear’s hand to hoist him up and over the edge of the boat onto the dock. Bear almost pulled too hard, causing Gunner to lose his balance slightly. He had a powerful grip and biceps that could easily curl eighty-pound dumbbells.
Gunner glanced to make sure Cam was out of earshot before he turned back to Bear. “It’s a great ride, isn’t it?”
“Oh, hell yeah! Once you get past Quantico and hit that S-bend in the river, you feel like you’re at Watkins Glen but in a boat. After you clear Piney Point, you can really open her up.”
Gunner started laughing. “Wide damn open!” He and Bear exchanged high fives.
“I guess hittin’ the coastline at oh-dark-thirty is out of the question.”
“Why?” asked Gunner. “Cam always sleeps in when we get together. You and I’ll slip out. I’ve already got a race course to run. South past Newport News, out into the Atlantic at Virginia Beach, and down to Kill Devil Hills in Carolina. Then back again.”
“What’s the winner get?” asked Bear.
Gunner hadn’t thought of that. “You know, we need a trophy of some kind. Bragging rights are good, but we need something to hoist in the air.”
Bear liked it. “Yeah, a gold cup or a bottle of milk like at the Indy 500.”
“Beer, maybe.”
“Works for me,” Bear readily agreed. He grabbed his gear, and the two men, boys for the weekend, strutted up the dock to the house, excited about their time together.
Once inside, Gunner took Cam and Bear on a tour of his house n
ow that everything was unpacked and he’d done a little decorating. The home was simple in design and much smaller than his place on Dog Island. The number of listed properties for sale on Tangier Island were few, but as the Realtor put it, everything has a price. She knew of an older couple who’d lived on the island for nearly forty years, but their health dictated they be closer to a hospital. Or at least have access to one that didn’t require a boat or LifeFlight to get to. They’d agreed to sell, and Gunner had purchased the perfect spot.
His primary requirements were one story, three bedrooms with three baths, one for him and each of his best friends, and a large open space combining living area with the kitchen. Of course, the westerly view and a dock were bonuses. This property fit the bill, and he was already feeling like it was home.
The guys spent the day talking about the drug cartel pirates. During the post-op briefing, they’d learned more about Abduwali Ali and how he’d come to work for the Los Zetas. The DEA was very appreciative of the Gray Fox team’s efforts. This had struck a major blow to the cartel’s cash flow and led to valuable intel about their organization. They’d even agreed to look the other way concerning Bear’s boat acquisition.
Gunner had received an email directly from the congressman and his wife, thanking him for saving their daughter, his sister, and his niece. Over the years, Gunner had earned the respect of pro-military political leaders on Capitol Hill. While their operations were off the books, their funding had to be maintained by Congress. Saving Jenna Larkin was a win in many ways.
“Who’s hungry?” asked Gunner.
