“You sneaking FBI bitch,” Celine said. “I’ll cut your goddamn heart out.”
“Put the knife down, Celine. Do it now,” Braewyn said.
Celine kicked off her flip-flops and began circling Braewyn.
“I knew I shouldn’t have cut your hands free,” Celine said. “How’d you do the legs?”
“Put down the goddamned knife.”
“What? Gonna shoot me with that big ole gun, Special Agent Joyce?”
Braewyn countered Celine’s moves with her own, always keeping out of range of the knife’s ever-moving blade. Celine grabbed a flotation cushion and hurled it at Braewyn who ducked, but lost her balance on the dew-covered deck. Celine leaped at her fallen adversary, the knife raised high, and swung it downward at Braewyn’s neck. Braewyn blocked the wrist below the hand wielding the knife with her left forearm, and pulled the trigger of the Glock aimed at Celine’s midsection. The gun was silent as the knife flew from Celine’s hand and skittered across the deck.
Celine dashed for the knife and picked it up at the base of the transom. Braewyn struggled to her feet and cycled the slide on the Glock, chambering a round. Celine took a low, defensive stance brandishing the shiny blade back and forth in front of her body.
“Drop the knife, Celine,” Braewyn said. “There’s a live round in the chamber now.”
“You won’t shoot, you FBI pussy,” Celine said and charged at Braewyn, slashing at her wildly.
A shot boomed and broke the morning quiet of the marina. Celine clutched her chest and staggered backward until her thighs slammed into the transom. The momentum carried her overboard, her feet flipping skyward, their white bottoms lit briefly by the sun.
Braewyn reached the transom in time to see Celine’s head suspended by the stern mooring line beneath her shoulders. The line dipped downward momentarily from her weight and held her upper body out of the water. The heavy boat then pulled back on the line, returning it to its original tautness, sliding Celine’s body free and into the dark water. Braewyn stared down at Celine’s blank gaze as she sank slowly into the darkness beneath the boat and out of sight.
Braewyn waited for several minutes and searched the water behind and around the stern looking for any sign of Celine, but she never surfaced. She returned to the galley to get Celine’s cell phone. She keyed in a number and waited. Braewyn tugged off the pieces of severed duct tape clinging to her legs that she’d cut through with the sharp edges of her barrette before going above.
“Hello, Jack, it’s Braewyn. I’m at the Oceanside Marina,” she said into the voicemail inbox. “I’m okay. I’m coming to the North Miami office. Get the people together. We need to find a Russian submarine.”
Chapter 55
Braewyn had the North Miami FBI office buzzing with the account of her recent ordeal in Miami Beach. Jack Ortiz, the special agent in charge, moderated a meeting with Tom Gardner and several other agents in a glassed-in conference room. Ortiz, a man in his forties, handed out photos of Cezar Nicolai and Vlad Torok from the cell phone shots Braewyn got at the church.
Braewyn stepped out of the conference room and made a call at one of the desk phones in the outer office.
“Sheriff Brand, this is Braewyn Joyce. Do you remember me?”
“I most certainly do,” Roland said on the speakerphone.
“I called because Frank’s in a lot of trouble…because of me. Cezar Nicolai has somehow got him trapped on a submerged submarine off your coast.”
“What?”
“I know. It’s bizarre, but I believe it’s true. I got it from a reliable source.”
“You have your source with you there?”
“She’s dead.”
“This keeps getting better.”
“I need you to gather whatever resources you have to help us find that sub. It’s in about 180 feet of water off Stuart, so I’d start there. I’ve called the Coast Guard and the navy, and they’re on their way, but we may need some locals. Pro divers with dive boats equipped with deep water radar and we need them now.”
“I’ll muster who I can right away.”
“If you know Alasdair MacGowan’s number, call him. He’s a diver and may still be in Vero Beach.”
“Frank gave me his cell number. Anything else before I start this rolling?”
“Get a helicopter searching the area, and take Frank to a hospital if they can get him to the surface.”
“I’m on it.”
Braewyn ended the call and stepped back into the conference room and stood across the room from the Jack Ortiz.
“That’s the deal, folks,” Ortiz said. “Let’s go out there and save a man and put a couple of bad guys away.”
The room came alive with four men and six women agents erupting noisily from their chairs and bustling out the door. Ortiz waited until everyone but Braewyn was gone and moved close to her.
“I want you to take a few days leave, Agent Joyce,” Ortiz said. “Catch your breath from all you’ve been through this past week.”
“I’m fine, Jack. I want in on this one.”
“I know you do and you’ve worked hard to get these guys set up for arrest, but I know when someone’s over-extending themselves.”
“How long?”
“Take a couple of weeks. Go to the beach. Play in the sun.”
“We don’t have a couple of weeks,” Braewyn said. “Let me put that vacation on hold for now.”
“You’re sure you’re all right? A hundred percent?”
“I am.”
“All right, but I’ve got a doctor coming over to check you out. He says you’re okay, I’m good with you staying on.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“And you get some rest today. We’ll catch up with these guys,” Ortiz said. ”Don’t you worry about that.”
Braewyn said, “Right now, I’m only worried about catching up with one guy,”
* * * * *
Frank’s question as to where he was no longer posed a mystery. The air in the submarine was thickening and becoming harder to breath. The water level in the compartment had risen another foot and kept coming. The humid darkness was maddening. Frank slid off the torpedo and down to the deck and sank into the cool water. He took a few moments to compose himself and think how he could survive his steel prison.
He struggled to his feet and felt his way to the blocked hatchway on wobbly legs. He gripped one of the knobs on the hatch and stooped his shoulder beneath his hands to bring his legs into the effort. He hoped he was attempting to move the massive locking device in the correct direction. He would only have the mojo for maybe a single attempt. It would be just his luck for the mechanism to open clockwise instead of the opposite way. He decided on counterclockwise anyway. Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty.
He sucked in one big breath and he pushed upward on the knob with both hands. The quadriceps in his thighs ached. He felt the strain in his core as he put all his force upward. His legs started to cramp. He was about to concede failure when the knob moved from three o’clock to two, then to one, and then spun freely all the way around. A pull on the handle and the heavy door swung open revealing three amazing serendipities: a lighted compartment, fresher air, and cans of beer lying on the slatted deck.
Frank sloshed into the next compartment, dripping water that trickled gently back toward the torpedo room. Even though it was humid as a steam room, he was literally dying of thirst, so he bent down and grabbed one of the cans of beer and checked the label. The only two words he could read were Boktok and beer, but that was enough for him to pop the top and slug about half the can down. It wasn’t water, and it was warm, but it was wet and strong. He felt the energy and mental boost it gave him surge through his body.
Moving forward, Frank passed through a section with a line of valves and gauges that extended to another hatch at its forward end.
The adjoining compartment was lit by dim overhead bulbs in protective cages and contained a long center passageway that contained the sub’s
engines. Frank trudged to another opening several feet farther away. He plodded through the hatchway and saw banks of long levers coming up from the floor, and farther on, he entered the control room of the sub. Frank took a long look at the numerous gauges, switches and what appeared to be two large steering wheels. The thought of knowing how to use even a small part of what he saw was overwhelming. He equated his situation with dropping a cab driver into the cockpit of a 747 at 35,000 feet, where the pilots were slumped over dead.
Frank studied the numerous dials in front of him. The labels of the indicators were written in Cyrillic, but the numbers were in Arabic. One dial had its pointer stopped at 55 meters, which he translated to be nearly 180 feet. He was pretty sure it was a depth gauge, although the assurance of that offered him little comfort.
Frank returned to the room with the banks of levers; They were next to one bulkhead and were all in the same position. Frank figured, with his vast knowledge of outdated submarine operation, which was restricted to John Wayne and Burt Lancaster movies, that they had something to do with buoyancy. What the hell, try something. It’s not like you’re going to sink the sonofbitch. He switched the position on two of the levers and waited. Loud, gurgling noises came from a forward part of the boat forward of the control room. A moment later he felt the deck beneath his feet begin to pitch upward at a steep enough angle to reel him backward. He grabbed onto a railing enclosing the levers to steady himself. The noises and the boat’s upward movement stopped. A gauge with a bubble level attached indicated the boat’s upward angle to be at 15 degrees.
Frank crab-walked over to other levers and pulled two more near the first two he’d already thrown. The gurgling sounds this time were fainter and seemed to come from farther away toward the bow. This time the boat pitched upward at a much steeper angle and dumped him on his rump on the deck. His body slid backward and his head slammed into the compartment’s aft bulkhead.
Frank’s eyes went dim and he rolled over in a heap unable to move.
* * * * *
One eyelid slowly opened on the left side of Frank’s face. The room began to come into focus, but it seemed to be swaying as Frank’s body gently rolled from side to side. He snapped himself awake and struggled to sit up, gave up, and flopped onto his back. His upper body was toward the boat’s stern, his head rested below his shoes by more than two feet. Frank scrambled to move forward and get his head toward the bow. He clambered up a nest of pipes and petcocks to stand on his feet, but to stay upright, his stance was severely pitched toward the bow. Holding his position was uncomfortable and slippery. Gravity was trying to force him toward the stern. Frank made a impulsive decision. He yanked all the remaining levers to match the four he’d pulled. Loud noises belched and gurgled beneath his feet. The sub rumbled and began to level.
Frank made his way to the control room on more even footing, although the boat was still angled slightly up at the bow. The depth gauge showed the needle moving to lower numbers. It showed 40 meters and moving steadily toward 35. The sub was heading for the surface and its lone occupant’s heart was doing an Irish jig.
Moments passed as Frank eyed the depth gauge intently. As the needle hit 15 meters the sub bounced gently, the depth gauge froze, and Frank’s ecstasy waned. What the hell? Why aren’t we on the surface? Why is the boat still at an up angle?
Frank found the control for the periscope and activated it. The periscope viewer slid up into its overhead sheath and Frank pulled down the folded-up handles and pressed his eyes to the ocular cups.
The view in the scope was of clouds.
Chapter 56
Frank made his way back to the compartment where he’d found the beer. Seawater now filled the room to a foot deep. Cans of beer jostled below the surface. Frank scooped one from the water and returned forward. He sank to the deck of the control room, pulled the beer’s zip tab, and sipped the tepid brew. His thoughts of almost escaping his iron maiden depressed him. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the bulkhead.
Soon Frank was stalking bears in the woods of Maryland with Erich, his faithful German shepherd. A trusty BB gun, cocked and at the ready, filled his young boy’s hands.
* * * * *
Frank kept hearing banging and scraping on the outer hull, but couldn’t seem to muster the energy to get up and see what was causing it. The banging stopped and was replaced with other metallic noises coming from a distance forward and above him, then he heard water pouring into the boat’s interior and splashing in a forward compartment. He figured the old tub had sprung a major leak and was filling with water.
Who would’ve ever guessed. I’m going to drown on a submarine that’s right at the surface pointing at the sky.
More clanking noises came from the adjoining passageway and then a dark presence filled the doorway, obscured by the brightness of a powerful light aimed directly at Frank.
“Still alive, detective?” a vaguely familiar voice said.
Frank lay on his side. Blurry eyes saw a black and yellow alien move to him and try to roll him onto his back. He was helpless to fight him off, although he managed to summon a couple of weak thrusts at him with a free fist. Exhausted and half-conscious, he surrendered to the big man’s strength and let him position him face-up. The intruder removed a diver’s mask and leaned over Frank, inches from his face. Frank recognized the man above him. It was the smiling mug of Alasdair MacGowan.
“Are you able to talk?” Alasdair said.
“Yeah, …I can talk,” Frank said, reality returning.
“How the hell did this sub get to the surface?”
“I pulled the levers over there. Lots of ‘em. Then all kinds of shit happened.”
“You blew the ballast tanks. Good, but she’s down at the stern. You must’ve opened the valves aft. You muck with the torpedo tubes?”
“All you ever do is bitch.”
“Sit tight I want to check out the situation astern.”
Frank watched Alasdair clamber down the tilted passageway toward the aft compartment and watched the light of his lantern until it disappeared into the engine room. A minute later, Alasdair returned.
“Throwing those other levers may not have done you much good in the long haul,” Alasdair said. “She’s taking on water like the Titanic back there. Listen to me carefully. This sub’s bow is above the surface, but her stern, 200 feet aft, is down over 20 meters and sinking. This boat is hovering above a ledge that drops off to more than 3,000 feet, where the pressure can crush this old hull like a soda can. She’s waving in the currents like an underwater weathervane. We get a strong gush of current, and she dives into the abyss, there’s no ascending to the top. We have to get out of here now.”
“How?”
“Navy guys are outside and topside. I asked them to let me take the lead on this.”
“So they’re sending down a rescue vehicle?”
“I brought gear for you.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“We’re going to go surfacing, not diving, so get your ass up so I can get you rigged out.”
Frank managed to pull himself to his feet and hold onto Alasdair’s waist belt as they scaled the steep deck to the forward escape trunk and hatch that opened to the sea outside. Steadying himself against the bulkhead, Alasdair continued to talk as Frank removed his shoes and socks and stood in his briefs and tee shirt. Alasdair helped Frank put on his scuba tanks, mask and fins, adjusted his regulator and made sure he was breathing a proper flow of air from his tanks.
“Look, follow me in everything I do at the escape hatch. Outside we’re going to latch on to the anchor line from the dive boat that runs near the sub and use it to get to the surface, about 40 feet above us. It’ll feel a little cool to you out there at first, but you’ll be able to take it. It’s almost noon up there and we’ll be in warm sunlight soon enough. You hang onto me. And take those shoes. You’ll need them on the dive boat.”
Frank tied the laces of the shoes together and hung them arou
nd his neck.
“Come on. We’ll be topside before you know it,” Alasdair said.
Frank tried to nod, but his head was shaking so badly from side to side it barely conveyed the assent he intended. They moved forward, entered the air lock, and Alasdair dogged off the hatch to the sub’s interior below them and opened the valves above them enough to let the cold seawater flood the small compartment gradually. After the compartment filled, the upper hatch was opened and the Alasdair drifted out into the darkness of the open sea like a weightless phantom.
Frank followed, his upper body emerging from the sub, but abruptly stopped. Alasdair turned back to see Frank wrestling with a tank strap that had fouled on the hatch, holding him in the opening. Alasdair swam down to help when the sub jolted and her stern swung downward and away from the ledge where she had lain. In seconds the boat was perpendicular to the surface like a massive steel pendulum.
Alasdair reached Frank and grappled with the snagged tank strap. It was at that moment that Alasdair saw Frank’s hair shoot straight up. The shoes around Frank’s neck rocketed upward and swirled away in the powerful wake of the crash-diving vessel.
The sub was plummeting toward the blackness of the abyss.
At a hundred feet down, Alasdair unsheathed his knife and cut Frank’s stubborn tank strap, and freed him from the hatch. Their downward momentum took them to 130 feet before the two men could begin to ascend.
Alasdair led Frank to the line running from the anchor, embedded in the coral clusters far below, to the dive boat on the surface. Navy divers swam in to join them. In the beam from Alasdair’s powerful light they could see the sub for a few moments, and watch as it disappeared into the deep.
The men moved up the line. Alasdair faced Frank and clutched Frank’s loose scuba tank and kept it next to his body with his arm. Frank grabbed Alasdair’s waist belt and held onto him until they broke the surface and swam to the stern shelf of the dive boat. There they removed their cumbersome diving gear and were helped aboard by several other members of Alasdair’s dive team. The crew weighed anchor and dropped a floating marker over the sub’s location as the Coast Guard and navy boats drew alongside.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 25
