Shadow Of The Abyss

by Edward J. McFadden III

  SHADOW OF THE ABYSS

  Edward J. McFadden III

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2019 by Edward J. McFadden III

  Too long on foaming billows cast,

  The battles fury bray’d;

  And still unsullied on thy mast

  The starry banner wav’d;

  Unconquer’d will Columbia be

  While she can boast of sons like thee.

  -Captain of The USS Wasp, Johnston Blakeley

  Prologue

  Mid-Atlantic rift valley, October 11th, 1814

  The sloop’s bow sliced through the turbulent sea, sending spray across the surface of the blown-out Atlantic Ocean. Captain Johnston Blakeley stood on the main deck of the USS Wasp, staring at a line of dark clouds that marched across the horizon to the west. The wooden boat creaked and moaned, and canvas flapped as it drove through the waves.

  “Tighten that jib, Mr. Cercut,” Blakeley said.

  “Aye, cap’n.”

  The Wasp was fresh off its battle with the Atalanta, and the crew was tired, hungry and depressed. It had been days since they’d seen the sun, and the inky ocean and the whistling wind had become constant companions. The Wasp’s crew had spent the last two days knotting and splicing the rigging and mending the courses and topsails. The biggest project had been the removal of four thirty-two-pound round shots from the hull and repairing the holes.

  Something glinted on the ocean’s surface and Blakeley pressed his spyglass to his left eye. A large white form slipped beneath the waves. Or had he been staring at the ocean too long?

  “Cap’n, did you see that, sir?” Cercut said.

  “I saw nothing. Tend to your duties.” The sea writhed, pushing around the 117-foot, five-hundred-ton sloop like it was a toy in a bathtub. A huge wave broke across the bow, and the Wasp dipped beneath the ocean. Whitewater frothed over the gunnel, knocking over three sailors and washing them down the deck.

  Blakeley shouted, “Helm, ready about.” The wind howled and shifted, but he was trying to keep the Wasp moving forward. He looked through his eye scope again and saw a slick white shape rise from the sea to port. A whale? A huge shark? No, there was no dorsal fin.

  “Mr. Kric,” the captain said.

  Rory Kric, the Wasp’s second in command, stepped closer to his captain so he didn’t have to yell above the howling wind.

  “Ready for battle,” Blakeley said.

  “Sir?”

  “Do it! Now!”

  “Aye, cap’n,” Kric said. He scrambled below deck.

  The Wasp was a flush-decked, ship-rigged vessel that carried two twelve-pound long guns and twenty thirty-two-pound carronades. The crew of young Americans stood at 173, but many of them weren’t yet experienced sailors or sea fighters. The Wasp was fast, big enough to engage large war vessels, durable, and had enough storage to carry provisions for long campaigns. Its current mission was to inflict maximum damage on the British merchant marine while making it difficult for the pursuing Royal Navy to determine the Wasp’s position.

  Blakeley said, “Mr. Carr, are we on course?”

  The sailing master shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. This wind and rough sea have moved us west.”

  “Get us back on course, Mr. Carr.”

  “Aye, sir, should—”

  The Wasp shuddered as if it had run aground. Blakeley gripped a handrail, but several crew members, including Sail Master Carr, slid across the deck and nearly tumbled into the sea.

  “Helm, come about!” Blakeley yelled.

  The helmsman barked orders and the crew scrambled. The rudder arced as the ship’s thick boom swung across the deck. The mainsail flapped and cracked, then caught air and the vessel surged to port.

  “Trim the topsail, Mr. Cercut,” Blakeley said. Sailing Master Carr was back at the captain’s side. “What have we hit, Mr. Carr? Find out if the lookout has spotted any—”

  The Wasp was struck again and this time the sound of breaking wood and screaming sailors rose above the roar of the wind. With her canvas wings unfurled in the thick northwest breeze, the Wasp stood out toward the darkening west with nothing before it.

  “Captain!” yelled a lookout from above.

  “Aye,” Blakeley said.

  “To stern, sir. To stern!”

  Through the fog and haze a leviathan rose from the depths, its caudal fin snaking through the rough sea toward the stern of the Wasp.

  “Dear god,” Blakeley said.

  The thirty-foot creature sported a crocodilian jaw, stacked with ten-inch knife-sharp teeth. The beast’s flat head made up a third of its length, and it sat atop a short neck at the end of an elongated torso, which tapered back to a thick tail with a caudal fin at its tip. It snaked through the water propelled by two flipper-legs.

  “Ready rear long gun,” Blakeley said. Whatever this thing was, he’d send it to the bottom like every opponent he’d ever faced. “Fire when ready, gunner.”

  A few tense moments passed as the giant sea creature knifed through the ocean, a mound of water surging before it.

  The long gun boomed, and the shriek of the cannonball ended with a splash.

  “We missed it, sir,” said Mr. Carr.

  “Again,” Blakeley said, but it was too late. The beast had disappeared below the sea.

  The Wasp’s main bell chimed twice. Night was coming on.

  “Helm, hard alee,” Blakeley yelled.

  The maneuver went awry, and the ship bucked as the creature breached on the Wasp’s port side. Carronades erupted and poured shot into the beast at point-blank range. The creature wailed, swam around the Wasp’s stern and commenced an attack on the starboard broadside.

  Great jaws snapped and grabbed at the vessel as it was tossed on the roiling sea. Men screamed and fled, and Blakeley watched in horror as his officers tried to gain control of the crew and keep them on post.

  The Wasp unleashed a round of shots, but the creature had submerged. A sucking sound rose above the gale, and to Blakeley it sounded as though the beast was screaming.

  The ship lurched and rose from the ocean, the deck tilting at a thirty-degree angle. Men slipped into the sea as the Wasp plunged back into the ocean with a crash. Water surged over the gunnels as Blakeley fell, his spyglass falling from his hand and breaking on the deck. In the chaos he watched his father’s gift roll down the deck and bounce off a coil of rope into the sea.

  The creature missiled from the ocean, jaws open, glassy gray eyes rolling, flippers driving its weight. Jaws clamped on the starboard gunnel, tearing a chunk off the side of the boat. Seawater poured through the rent and the ship listed. The mainmast crashed over the side as it snapped, and the ship’s hold filled with rising water.

  The captain couldn’t bring himself to abandon ship. They were victorious. They’d vanquished their enemies. Why had God sent this titan to destroy them? Blakeley got to his feet, searching for the creature as it came about and prepared for another attack run.

  Seeing the beast’s open jaws coming at them snapped Blakeley from his paralysis. “Abandon ship! Get those lifeboats in the water. Mr. Carr, bring us—”

  The beast rammed the Wasp, its jaws taking another bite of the sloop. Wood cracked and splintered, and the creature’s massive torso pushed over the sinking Wasp and disappeared into the sea on the opposite side, leaving the boat in two pieces.

  Nails popped as the foremast came down and the carnage on the forward deck was obscured in dirty white sails. Panicked sailors jumped into the sea, lifeboats forgotten. How that it should end this way, Blakeley thought.

  “Sir! Sir, let’s go!” A sailor Blakeley didn’t know stood beside him, yelling, but the captain didn’t respond. He was in a fog.
“Sir!” The man grabbed him by the shoulders. Then the deck split, and the sailor fell away into the sea.

  There would be no abandoning the Wasp for Blakeley. He was captain, and that meant he would go down with his ship. He thought of his wife, his children, and for the briefest instant, sorrow washed through him. He prayed, then stopped, asking himself again why God had treated him so. Was he not a good servant? Had he not done all his Lord commanded?

  The wind gusted, then calmed, and for a heartbeat the sea fell flat. A ray of sunlight peeked through the clouds.

  The creature breached, landing atop Blakeley and driving what was left of the Wasp beneath the waves. He yelled, “From the rocks and sands and enemy’s hands, God save the Wasp!”

  Blakeley slipped beneath the deep and dark blue ocean, lost at sea without a grave, unheralded, unconffin’d, and unknown.

  1

  Sailfish Haven, east coast of Florida, present day

  Splinter sat with his back to a palm tree, gazing out at the Atlantic Ocean. The tide was going out, and the white froth of the retreating sea crept further from him with each set of waves. Clouds of surfers sat in the consistent breaks like algae blooms, swaying and undulating with the roll of the ocean. Seagulls screeched, and the scent of rotten fish and bad eggs baking in the sun hung in the air like smoke. Thin cirrus clouds fleeted across a clear blue sky, the white streaks left behind by planes creating a lopsided checkerboard.

  Sailfish Haven public beach was crowded for a Tuesday, and the concrete walkway that ran along the sand had steady foot traffic, the palm trees along its edge providing the only shade. Teenagers yelled and wailed as they played volleyball, children laughed, and waves pounded the shore.

  A woman wearing a long turquoise sundress and a blue sunhat the size of a sombrero fumbled with her phone as she tugged at her son’s hand. The boy was no more than two, his blonde hair matted to his head with sweat, lollypop residue around the edges of his mouth. The boy and his mom walked on the beach, and she tapped at her phone, dropped it in her purse, and jerked the boy to a stop as she fished the phone out and resumed pecking at it.

  The child stared at Splinter as he walked by, and Splinter crossed his eyes. The child giggled, watching him, and tripped, the kid’s face headed for rocks and sand.

  Splinter’s hand shot out, grabbing the boy and stopping his fall. The boy’s mother jerked her head downward, radar engaging, but Splinter’s hand was already back on his knee and he stared up into the woman’s wide blue eyes with the innocence of a newborn puppy.

  The child smiled at Splinter, and he winked. The mother gave Splinter a withering look and dragged the child away.

  Splinter watched the lady stop up the beach and catch the attention of a police officer. She pointed his way. He couldn’t really blame the woman. He looked like a bum. Greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, unruly beard, and the red line of his scar, which ran up the right side of his face and around his eye like a hook. The scar was sunburned more than the rest of his face and looked fresh. And he probably smelled.

  The cop’s head turned. Splinter reached for his backpack, but decided to stay. He’d earned that right at least. The right to sit on a public beach in his own country.

  The cop inched his way down the walkway, and Splinter waved. The officer sauntered up, hand on sidearm, eyes on everything but Splinter’s face. The cop’s life was so much easier if he didn’t have to see Splinter as a person. “That lady said you looked at her funny,” the officer said.

  Splinter said nothing.

  “What’s your name?” the officer asked.

  A large set of waves rolled in, crashing like thunder.

  The cop said, “I asked you a question.”

  Again Splinter didn’t respond. Years of experience had taught him silence was golden. Even a benign or innocent response could be unclear, misinterpreted or misheard. Best to say nothing.

  The cop took a deep breath and looked to the sky, hoping God or Buddha or something would provide him patience. The officer sighed. Splinter said nothing. Hot currents of air baked off the concrete walkway, and the cop finished his visual search.

  “Mind if I look through your backpack? If there’s no drugs in there, you’ll have my thanks and money for a cup of joe. Deal?” the officer said. He didn’t meet Splinter’s eye.

  Splinter shrugged.

  The flatfoot unzipped the big pouch of Splinter’s dirty and road-beaten pink Dora the Explorer backpack and pulled out clothes. A sweatshirt with an eagle carrying an anchor on the breast, four black plastic garbage bags, a pair of gym shorts, two plain dark blue t-shirts, and some underwear. The cop held up the book on how to make weapons in survivalist situations. “You into this stuff?”

  Splinter said nothing.

  “Not a good sign.” The officer pulled all the pack’s smaller pockets inside-out, spilling Splinter’s life on the walkway.

  Finding nothing of interest, the cop said, “That your cane?”

  Splinter’s walking stick was propped against the palm tree.

  “You hurt? A Navy boy?” the cop asked. “What’s your name and where do you live? Why no ID in here?”

  “Name’s Matthew Woods, friends call me Splinter. You can call me sir, or Captain Woods. I live in southern Florida.” His expired military ID and current bank card were hidden in the backpack’s lining.

  “What is your address?”

  “Don’t have one,” Splinter said.

  “You’re a vagrant?”

  “I’m on permanent leave.”

  “No job?”

  “Not interested.”

  “So you’re, what, a bum of leisure?”

  “OK, look, I don’t work because I don’t want to. When the measly pension the Navy gave me runs out maybe I’ll work, but now I don’t want to. That alright with you?” Splinter’s cheeks burned, and his neck throbbed with pain, but he wasn’t done. “I don’t have an address because I don’t live anywhere. I move around, and last time I checked that wasn’t a crime in the country I fought for.” That was the most Splinter had said in months, but he felt the anger coming on.

  “Where’d you fight?”

  Splinter flipped the lapel on the army jacket he wore, revealing a short stack of ribbons: Silver Star, Meritorious Service honors, two Purple Hearts, and Afghanistan and Iraq Campaign medals. Splinter’s heart raced. Breathe. These flatfoots who’d never fired their weapons really pissed him off sometimes. “I’ll make you a deal, Officer—” Splinter leaned in to read the cop’s nameplate. “Officer Peterson. When I do have an address, I’ll invite you to the house warming party.”

  “Funny.” The cop walked away, leaving Splinter’s belongings in the sand. No money for that cup of joe.

  Splinter’s nerves tensed and pain shot down his spine. He rolled his shoulders and tried to crack his neck and back. No luck. He stuffed his belongings back in his backpack.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  The wind picked up, and sand bit his face like tiny daggers. A gale tore across the beach, ripping at palm fronds and scattering beach toys.

  The wind stopped, like the end of a great exhalation.

  Splinter’s anger blossomed, his vision blurring, panic filling him with fear.

  An intense sucking sound rose above the yelling of panicked people. The massive pucker got deeper and louder as the ocean receded as if the laws of physics were reversed. People ran past him, dragging children and gear. The sea floor was exposed, revealing rocks, seaweed, and flopping fish.

  A white line crossed the eastern horizon and grew like a nightmare.

  The battle-fog took him, and Splinter vaulted to his feet and drew his speargun from inside his jacket. He grabbed his cane and screwed its end into the pistol’s modified handle, turning the 1960 vintage CO2 Sea Hunter spear pistol into a rifle. Splinter put the stock to his shoulder and trained the gun on the receding sea, fanning it back and forth as if he expected an enemy to emerge from where the ocean had been.

&n
bsp; The white line on the horizon came on, growing as the seafloor rose.

  Splinter picked up his pack and ran. The wind kicked up and the ground trembled. He bolted across the walkway, people moving out of his way, fear in their eyes. He slipped the speargun beneath his coat, holding it tight against his side as he ran. He crossed a thin patch of weeds into the parking lot. Screaming filled his mind. Children crying. People ran in every direction.

  Splinter raced across the public parking lot toward A1A. Cars stood still on the road, drivers and passengers staring east. He looked over his shoulder, arms and legs pumping.

  A massive wave towered on the eastern horizon, and was almost to the shore.

  Splinter made for the Comfort by the Sea hotel, which sat along the calm waters of the inner bay, Indian River. It was four stories tall and made of cinderblocks. Getting to its roof was the only thing he could think to do. He dodged through the throng of people packing into cars and trucks that would become their watery coffins. The tsunami would hit at any moment, and there was no car fast enough to escape it. The exits and entrance were already blocked with traffic. He threaded his way over A1A, running full speed, cutting and juking.

  The emergency siren at the fire station pierced the day, its shrill cry late in coming.

  People packed the entrance to the hotel, so Splinter ran through the fountain and headed for the rear of the building. Panicked people stacked ten rows deep blocked the back entrance. Splinter changed course, picked-up a stone from the edge of a decorative pond, and hurled the rock through the plate-glass window next to the rear entrance.

  Louder screeching and cries as a deafening rumble blocked-out the sound of the siren. Wind tore through the broken window as Splinter jumped through. Glass shattered and wood cracked, the world spinning like a tornado. He crossed the lobby, threw open the door to the emergency stairwell, and took the steps up two at a time, chest heaving, pain stabbing his back.

  The building shook, and Splinter fell. He landed hard on the metal stair treads, and blood dripped down his leg. Water shot up the stairwell like a giant firehose, and Splinter was driven upward like a cork on a rising sea. He sucked in air as the water consumed him, and he stroked up as the pressure eased, and the sea receded, pulling him back.