Deep Star

by Jerry Ahern

  Natalia smiled. “Please feel free to take advantage of our spa, particularly the hot tub. I find it most relaxing and it does wonders for muscle aches and soreness.” The Keeper pledged he would and thanked Natalia.

  Returning to his room, he found his single travel bag had been placed on the luggage rack next to the bed. In the bathroom, he found and donned a swim suit, then a luxurious long white bathrobe with the Presidential Seal on the left breast. Cushioned slippers completed his ensemble and shortly there was a knock at his door.

  “Mr. President,” The Keeper said when he opened the door. “I see you plan to join me in this wondrous contraption your wife offered. What did she call it again... oh, yes, a hot tub.”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “As a matter of fact, I have found it helps my focus during long and difficult times. I have adjusted my schedule to allow for twenty minutes or so each day.” Together they walked down the hall to the elevator that carried them downstairs to the gym and spa. Michael opened the door and pointed, “It is best, I have found, to start with a nice shower, it washes the grime of travel off and allows the hot tub to have more effect.”

  The Keeper nodded. “Thank you, I believe I shall.”

  When he exited the shower some twelve minutes later, Shaw ran a detection device over his head and body. “He’s clean, no bugs here. If he had any on him they went down the drain with the water. My techs are checking his clothes and bag. They have already swept this area, you can talk safely.”

  The Keeper took the offered chair and Michael sat next to him. “It is good to see you again, it has been too long,” Michael said.

  “Things beyond my control have kept me away; has there been any word on your father?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, but we are still investigating. It has been a most... difficult time for us.”

  The Keeper nodded. “And for the KI. Much has changed since our first meetings. Please convey my sympathies to your mother and family over the loss of President Mann. Yes, yes... these are difficult times for all of our peoples.”

  “Keeper, do you have any more information or insight into the relationship that has been built between the KI and some Russians.”

  “Some,” he said. “I can confirm there is a relationship. I suspect it may be more complex than I initially thought.”

  “How so?”

  “My sources have told me there are actually two separate factions within the Russians. One you know about and one I think is more secretive,” The Keeper said. “There have been several communications and even flights between our fleet and the surface. We even have some Russian advisors on board our main ship.”

  Michael nodded. “We are aware of the advisors. What do you know about the communications or who they are from?”

  “Very little,” The Keeper said. “I haven’t seen any of them, but there has been communications. I believe they are housed in some sort of hidden facility, possibly much like your Mid-Wake City.”

  “We think...” Michael began but stopped and looked at Shaw.

  Shaw nodded and said, “Go ahead.”

  “We think we know where that second faction is and it is possible it’s where my father is being held.”

  “I think that is not a good thing,” The Keeper said with a frown. “I assume you are looking at some sort of rescue attempt?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “But we need to know what to expect from the KI.”

  “As your father suggested, I have been observing,” The Keeper said. “I have confirmed that the forces loyal to the Captain have been communicating with the Russians. There is an alliance there.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Michael Rourke, alone in his bedroom struggled; he had struggled with his decision since his father’s disappearance. He was stuck on what his father had called, “the Horns of a Dilemma.” He opened a drawer on the dark oaken dresser and removed a box; inside, a gift for his father. As long as he remembered, John had carried the A.G. Russell Black Chrome Sting 1A.

  Lancer Corporation had crafted a new Sting especially for his father’s upcoming birthday. The same double edge spear-point blade, but with green Micarta handle slabs, one side emblazoned with the JTR brand that matched the one on John’s battered Zippo lighter and his fighting bowie knife. The words “The Survivalist,” engraved on one cutting edge. The sheath was brown leather and also carried the brand and a spring belt clip.

  Michael rolled the boot knife around in his hand, wondering, Will I ever get to give this to you, Dad? Sadly, he replaced the knife in its box, and the box in the drawer. I will give it to you, Dad. One day.

  Michael knew he had difficult choices to make; either would be irrevocable, he would not be able to “half-step” this one. He remembered what his father had said once, a long time ago when he awoke Michael from the first sleep to train him and his sister, Annie.

  “Son, when you are facing a dilemma, it is not important what you decide. The only thing that matters is what you decide about what you decided.” His father had explained it this way, “Decision making is often difficult. Oh, it is not that bad when the options are vastly different. Do I accept a job that is everything I want, the money is good, the hours are short and I don’t have to learn anything new? Or do I stay where I am, unhappy, underpaid, working long hours with no appreciation? Simple choice, right?

  “In life I have learned about three decision-making processes. The first means that both alternatives are attractive to you, or you can deal realistically with your options head on. I have two choices, either of which is acceptable. This can also be called win/win. The second means both alternatives are bad and you probably shouldn’t do either. Or do the one that creates the least trouble.

  “The last is the one we most often deal with, both alternatives are attractive to you or that you can deal realistically with your options head on. I have two choices, either of which COULD be acceptable. But both call for doing something extremely difficult. The greatest difficulties are in the scenario that decisions have elements of BOTH winning and losing.

  “In the end, one might be ahead of the other in tangible elements such as money or fringe benefits. But the other is ahead in intangibles, such as perceived honor, less stress, etc. These types of decisions form what have been called ‘The Horns of a Dilemma.’ Both decisions could be good. Both decisions could be bad. The end result is mostly left up to you and how you feel about the decision. That’s why I say, ‘When faced with difficult decisions remember this: It is not important what you decide, it is only important what you decide about what you decided. ’”

  Michael closed his thoughts. “Then I will make that decision,” he said to himself. “If better or worse truly is my decision, I will decide that I will do the right thing.” He walked to the closet and Michael Rourke, President of the United States, pulled out a large plastic container from the back of the closet. He dragged it over to an easy chair by the window and using a small pen knife, sliced away at the dark green “100 mile-an-hour” tape that ran around the corners of the top.

  Lost in thought, he pulled out a pair of worn black pants. These he had worn bloused over the tops of shiny black combat boots. There was a black knit shirt that opened at the throat and a jacket of the same material as the pants. Next came a wide black leather belt, then a matching belt, with a gleaming black leather full flap holster. This is what he had carried his .44 Magnum revolver in, slung on his right hip.

  This had been his “uniform” more than once in the “old days”; the days before he had accepted the presidency and forever changed his life. He thought, Now, my uniform is usually a dark suit, and he sighed. At the bottom of the box were several wooden cases; he pulled one and flipped the little brass latch with his thumbnail and opened the lid.

  Inside was one of his two big .44 magnum Ruger Super Black Hawk revolvers. This, unlike its big brother, which had an eight and three-eight inch barrel and a scope, had no scope and a barrel length of only four and five-eighths inc
hes. He thought about an old western song by Marty Robbins he had listened to as a child. It was called “Mr. Shorty.” Aloud, Michael said, “... the .44 spoke and it said lead and smoke... and seventeen inches of flame.” He smiled to himself.

  He took the revolver from its fitted case, opened the side loading gate, pulled the hammer to half cock and spun the cylinder slowly with his trigger finger. Click, click, click, click, click, click... empty. He closed the loading gate, dropped the hammer and spun the big gun on his trigger finger as his father had taught him; slowly at first, then faster and faster. Forward roll, backward spin, road agent spin... he still remembered.

  He pulled the hammer back to full cock, pointed the gun out the window and sighted down the barrel aiming at a small branch. Holding the hammer with his thumb, he squeezed gently on the trigger, riding the hammer down. The action was still buttery smooth but, as always, his father had been correct. The single action simply was not as good a choice for the way they lived.

  He reached down again and pulled out the case with his Smith and Wesson Model 629s. Except for the barrel lengths—one six inch, the other four—the guns were identical. Each carried six shots of either .44 Magnum or .44 Special, both had a red ramp front sight and white outlined adjustable rear sight, both had large exposed hammers and satin stainless finish and black synthetic grips.

  The next wooden case he pulled was even longer but not as heavy. Opening it, he pulled the handmade copy of Jack Crain’s Life Support 1. He remembered the Icelander that had made it for him... Jon, he never could pronounce Jon’s last name; he could see the man swim up out of the swarm of memories. He remembered the day Jon had given this knife to him. It was the day Michael buried his first wife, Madison, and their unborn child.

  He unsnapped the retaining strap and pulled the knife out. He checked the nine inch blade edge in several places; still sharp and nonreflective due to its sand blasted finish. He checked the leather and the wrapping around the handle. He unscrewed the pummel cap and checked inside. The small plastic tube still held his emergency “essentials,” the compass in the pummel cap... not a problem there. The whet rock was still in the sheath pouch; one side fine, the other coarse. He slid the blade back into the leather sheath and laid it on the floor.

  Everything was still the same as it had always been... everything except, he realized... him. Again, through tears, he said aloud, “My father is missing and may be dead. My step-father has been murdered and his government all but wiped out. And here I sit; here I sit reading reports, watching the news...” He had made his decision; he reached back and picked up the case with his Smith .44s and pulled the shorter one out, pushed the thumb release and swung out the cylinder. Picking up one of the speedloaders, he dropped the shells into the chamber and closed and locked the cylinder. “No more...” he said to the room. “No more...” he shouted to the universe.” Then he picked up the phone.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Dr. Fred Williams, head of the Mid-Wake Research Institute, rolled out of bed and grabbed the phone before it woke his wife.

  “Dr. Williams, this is Michael Rourke.”

  Williams, not usually rattled, was. “Yes Sir, Mr. President. How can I be of service?”

  Michael said, “First of all I apologize for the lateness of this call. I would not have interrupted your family celebration. Second, congratulations on your anniversary, it is convenient for me you decided to celebrate it in Honolulu.”

  “No problem, Mr. President,” Williams said, as he found his glasses and put them on with his other hand. “I assume this is of the utmost importance, how can I help?”

  “I’m sending a car to your hotel, Dr. Williams. It will bring you to the White House; I need you to meet with me. You were the first to speculate on the location of the unknown Russian base, you gave that information to my father before the Kamchatka operation. Can you bring your data and show it to me?”

  “Ah, yes Sir, absolutely... give me a minute, please.” Williams shook his wife awake, “Honey, I have an emergency call. I need you to get that old leather valise of mine out of the room safe.”

  “Excuse me Mr. President. I have that data here and I’ll get dressed and be ready.”

  By the time the car arrived, Williams was standing on his stoop. In one hand, he held the valise; the other held a stainless two-foot square equipment case. Coat and tie were in place, but one shirt tail wasn’t tucked in all of the way. His hair was askew. The driver parked next to the curb and opened the right front passenger door from inside; Williams climbed in after putting the valise and case in the backseat.

  “Dr. Williams, my name is Tim Shaw; I’m with the Secret Service. First of all, the President sincerely appreciates the inconvenience. Secondly, for right now, this meeting is strictly confidential. You may want to underscore that with you wife.”

  Williams nodded, pulled out his cell phone and called his wife. “Honey, this is one of ‘those’ situations. That’s right, no one but you and I know about it and it has to stay that way.”

  Williams broke the connection, and nodded at Shaw. “It’s handled.” There wasn’t another word spoken on the drive.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Shaw pulled into the private entrance of the White House; Michael was waiting for them.

  “Dr. Williams, I appreciate this more than I can tell you. Did Mr. Shaw explain our need for secrecy?”

  Williams gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “He told me it was a secret situation, no further explanation was or is necessary, Mr. President.”

  Michael nodded and placing his arm around Williams’ shoulder said, “Follow me.” Moments later, they were in the private conference room. At the table sat Paul and Annie Rubenstein and Natalia Rourke. From the manner of their dress, Williams assumed he wasn’t the only one rousted from a sound sleep. Tim Shaw poured two cups of coffee, offered one to Williams and sat down with his.

  Michael said, “Doctor, I need you to go over the briefing you gave my father. The one about the secret Russian base, or what may be a secret Russian base. How did you find it, anyway?”

  Williams said, “May I set up some equipment here?”

  Rourke nodded and Paul stood up to help. “Do you need an extension cord?”

  “I might, where’s the nearest outlet?” Paul dropped down on one knee and flipped a cover on an outlet partially concealed in the carpet. “Excellent, no... this will do nicely.” He opened the silver case, pulled out a larger than normal laptop computer and plugged the machine into the outlet. Turning, he opened the valise, pulled out several reports and a handful of computer disks. Turning, he asked the President, “Where do you want me to start?”

  Michael said, “At the beginning, how did you make this discovery?”

  “Honestly Sir, it was by accident. We were studying some interesting areas within Paleoarchaeology, specifically Paleomagnetic changes. While using a very complicated paleomagnetic model, which develops a record of past configurations of the geomagnetic field of the planet, I discovered an anomaly.”

  Paul raised his hand. “I don’t think I’m following you.”

  Williams nodded and began again, “By using the paleomagnetic model, we can extrapolate spatial variations of the present geomagnetic field over the globe and time variations of the recent geomagnetic field. By those extrapolations we can find anomalies.”

  Shaw said, “I’m sorry Doc, but I don’t understand a damn thing you just said.”

  Williams grinned. “Dr. Rourke said the same thing; let me explain. We look for fluctuations in the magnetic field over centuries, something that should not be there but the fluctuations say it is. The anomaly in question is located here in the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench beneath the Arctic Ice Cap.”

  Williams activated the large laptop and an image appeared on the screen. He turned around so the others could see and said, “It’s right here. The trench extends for 3,400 kilometers from a triple junction in the west with the Ulakhan Fault and the nor
thern end of the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench, to a junction with the northern end of the Queen Charlotte Fault system in the east. The Aleutian Trench is a convergent plate boundary. The trench forms part of the boundary between two tectonic plates.

  “Right here,” he said as he highlighted a point on the map. “Right here is what we believe to be your target. I believe we have discovered the location of a second and unknown Mid-Wake type facility they built back before the Night of the War. If I’m accurate, it could very well mean this is a secret base we’ve never known of. That could mean the Russian threat is back; and I think, based on what your father intimated to me, things could well be complicated by a direct involvement with the KI.”

  Annie spoke up, “How big an area is this trench and how big do you think the secret base, if that is what it is, could be?”

  Williams changed slides. “Here, the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench is over 34,000 feet deep and lies off the southeast coast of the Russian Kamchatka Peninsula. It runs parallel to the Kuril Island chain and meets the Japan Trench east of Hokkaido. It extends from a triple junction with the Ulakhan Fault and the Aleutian Trench near the Commander Islands, Russia, in the northeast, to the intersection with the Japan Trench in the southwest; an area of intense volcanism. How big? You can see this is a pretty large expanse of the Northwest Pacific Ocean.”

  Paul said, “How big do you think the secret base could be?”

  Williams shook his head. “I can’t say exactly but we know it is about twice the size of Mid-Wake.” Shaw whistled quietly under his breath.

  “Can you pinpoint the exact size and location for us?” Michael asked.

  “If you can give me twenty-four hours and some dedicated computer and satellite time, yes Sir.”

  Michael sat silent for several minutes before he spoke. “Dr. Williams,” he finally said. “Thank you for your time tonight, especially under the circumstances. Please convey my apologies again to your wife. Mr. Shaw will carry you home and on the way, I want the two of you to establish a checklist of what you are going to need. I promise, whatever it is, you will have.