Callsign: Deep Blue - Book 1 (A Tom Duncan - Chess Team Novella)

by Robinson, Jeremy

Oh yeah, the bastard that broke our fall.

  “Forgot to mention, there’s a sal under you, One. He helped break your fall too.”

  White One scrambled away from the fabric as it squirmed and thrashed on the ground. He stood and activated the spotlight function of the LED grenade he wore clipped to his jacket and pointed it at the emerging salamander, which let loose a shivering shriek that echoed around the cavern. It started to flee, dragging the tangled chutes and White One had to act quickly to detach the cords from his harness before he was tugged away with it. The fabric and cords fled across the floor of the cavern as if it was alive. Beck chuckled.

  “Sweet Holy Moses, I’m gonna have nightmares after this shit. Now where’s the bomb?”

  “I think that’s it behind you, One.” Beck strode over to him and pointed her strobe light down toward a body on the floor. Next to the body was a small daypack with the flap opened. Beck squatted and changed her strobe to a steady beam of LED light. Something shiny was extended from the top of the backpack. White One squatted next to her after turning his LED light in a 360° circle to ward off any ambitious salamanders. This time, none were attempting to sneak up on them.

  Beck played her light along the body and saw that both of the legs were missing below the knee. They had clearly been gnawed on. “Ugh. Sorry, One.”

  “It was White Five. I sent him here to Labs to find a way in.”

  “Looks like he did it and tried to deactivate the bomb.” Beck stood and pointed her beam from the Wagan spotlight around the echoing chamber again. Then she looked up. “He must have fallen down here. His chest is crushed and there’s no rope or chute. That he lived long enough to try to defuse the bomb is insane.”

  She turned back to White One, but he was standing and holding the device in his hands for her to see. “We have a problem.”

  She looked down at the device through the Plexiglas facemask of her rebreather. A clear plastic window showed the timer counting down in red LED numbers. It was at 46:15. The rest of the device, roughly the size of a silver serving platter with a cover on it—Beck thought of a turkey like her grandmother used to make for Christmas—was sealed into its metal shell. She looked closely and saw that the seam where the top of the metal shell met the bottom had been welded shut. There was no way they’d be able to defuse the bomb.

  Then a red blinking in her upper left field of vision caught her eye. The air in her facemask was compromised. She pointed the beam of the Wagan up by her face and could see the hairline fracture in the mask, no doubt caused by the impact when White One had crashed onto her.

  “We have another problem. My faceplate is cracked—I’m almost out of air.” she told him.

  “Forty five minutes. What the hell do we do now?”

  “Run!”

  22.

  Section Dock, Former Manifold Alpha Facility, White Mountains, NH

  This can’t end well.

  Tom Duncan saw that the front wheel of his HDT was dipping low and wasn’t going to stick the landing. His knees had been gripping the sides of the bike in a death-clutch, but now he loosened them and pushed off the foot pedals, launching his body upward while still holding on to the handlebars. He tried to get both feet on the seat of the bike and shove off it. He only managed one foot on the seat, but as he let go of the handles, stretched his arms forward and shoved hard with his foot, he hoped it would be enough, as his body sprang forward and the bike began its plunge.

  The bike crashed into the concrete of the wall just under the edge of the platform as Duncan’s body went sprawling, the wand of the flamethrower clattering behind him as it whipped around on its hose while he rolled to a stop on the floor.

  Not graceful, but any crash you can walk away from is a good one.

  He got to his knees and looked around the darkened platform. The light from the raging fires in the dock behind him was enough for him to see, but just barely. Then a shape was lunging out at him and he ducked and rolled, the tanks from the flamethrower ripping free from his body as a strap broke. The salamander flew right over his head and performed a spectacular swan dive into the fiery pit below. Duncan rolled to his feet and turned to see two more salamanders rushing him and an upright form that made him think initially that one of the salamander creatures had figured out how to run upright, like that lizard that raised its feet as it ran across the desert sand to stay cool.

  It was the last Gen Y man that had taken cover behind the sub. He must have used the freight elevator, Duncan thought. Its nuts that thing is still working in all this. The Gen Y man lunged at Duncan with a matte black survival knife. Duncan back pedaled and turned to see a salamander that had been behind him on the floor but was now turned and departing from the sudden movement of Duncan’s feet toward it. Duncan lurched down and grabbed the salamander under its belly and by its tail then twisted hard and sprang to his feet spinning.

  He let go of the creature’s underside, and as planned, it dropped its tail as a defensive measure. The centripetal force of the spin sent the mutant beast flying straight at the Gen Y man with the blade. He started to shout “oh son of a—” before the impact took him and the salamander toward the edge of the platform. Duncan thought they wouldn’t go over the edge, but they slid just enough toward the lip that the weight of the frenzied creature on top of the man flipped them both off the edge. As they disappeared from view, Duncan rolled across the floor to the tank of the flamethrower and wiped a streak of tail slime on his pants.

  “The word you were looking for son, was ‘bitch.’”

  He tugged the hose, pulling the wand of the weapon toward him, noticing that the tube of the wand was bent slightly, but the igniter flame was still functioning. He aimed the weapon at the last approaching salamander, and pulled the trigger. At first the blaze sprayed wide of the target because of the bend in the pipe, but Duncan corrected before the bastard could scramble away. The liquid flame engulfed the scrabbling thing and it screamed as it broiled.

  Duncan got to his feet and limped to the edge of the platform, looking down into the conflagration. His ankle was turned and his back was sore as hell—probably from one too many impacts with the tanks on the flamethrower, which he was holding now over just the one shoulder. He looked down and saw crusted, blackened salamander corpses everywhere. Gouts of thick liquid still shot up from the cooking eggs embedded on the walls as they ruptured. The bulk of the remaining salamanders—probably forty or fifty—were still clustering around the sub and were swimming into the water and under the central cargo section of the sub where the intercontinental ballistic missiles had been housed before the enormous vehicle had been retrofitted for hauling supplies and equipment.

  Why the hell are you so protective of that area?

  Then he understood.

  Oh hell, no.

  The mini-sub. One of Ridley’s many additions to the cargo sub was a tiny mini-submersible—the type used for scientific and salvage work, with mechanical claws. The bottom of the massive Typhoon’s hull had been fitted with a tiny dock of its own, so the mini sub could be raised and lower from winches inside the cargo section, from its own pressurized compartment. If the pressure in the chamber was correct, the mini-sub hatch could even be opened while the Typhoon was submerged. When Duncan had first seen it, he had assumed Ridley had primarily wanted it installed as some kind of Bond villain escape route, but the more information Chess Team had gained on Manifold Genetics, Duncan had wondered whether Ridley had been looking for some kind of underwater mythological find. Another problem for yet another day. Now, Duncan realized that the opening to the mini-sub’s hatch had been left open the last time he was in here a few months ago.

  Bastards are nesting in my new submarine!

  A small explosion down on the concrete dock pulled Duncan’s attention away from the sub. One of the 40 mm grenades the Gen Y team had. Things were going to hell rapidly. He scanned the enormous subterranean room below him. The M202 FLASH was still on the floor in one of the few places where t
he fire had yet to reach, but it wouldn’t be long before that thing exploded too.

  He spun around quickly and let loose with another burst of the flamethrower—a short burst this time, more to see than to roast anything. But no one was around, and the last of the salamanders from earlier was still cooking on the concrete floor. The stench reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in a long time. He glanced to the disabled train, wishing again for the electricity, and then remembered the man with the backpack and the egg. He scanned the room but saw no sign of the Gen Y man. He was about to head for the rail tunnel, but it would be a long 10-mile run back to Central. He turned back to the raging inferno in the submarine dock.

  One problem at a time.

  He headed over to the freight elevator and saw that it wasn’t functioning, but the doorway was open and the car was down on the dock level, but the car had no roof and the door on the dock level was open. From the flickering light of the flames outside the door of the freight car, Duncan could see that there was a series of metal rungs embedded into the wall on the side of the elevator shaft—a service ladder. He held the flamethrower’s wand with one hand and used the other to descend quickly, allowing his hand to jump from rung to rung rapidly. Twisted ankle or not, he had been a Ranger and balance wasn’t an issue for him. After all the craziness, he wasn’t about to die going down a simple ladder.

  At the bottom, he made his way past a door to a bathroom that was on fire. He glanced inside and saw the room was wrecked and looked like it was coated in feces. Charming. He continued along the concrete floor, skirting fires and leaping a few of the smaller puddles of liquid flame, landing with his weight on his left ankle instead of his injured right. He knelt down and inspected the launcher tubes on the M202. Amazing. Only one of the tubes was damaged, and that was one of the three that had already fired. He didn’t know if the fourth tube would fire correctly, but he slung the weapon over his free shoulder anyway.

  He ran around the dock to the sub, letting off the occasional burst from the flamethrower to entice a stray salamander to retreat just a bit faster. As he got to the far side of the massive craft, sweat was pouring from his forehead because of the heat of the flames. He saw about thirty of the yellow and black salamanders covered the side of the sub’s hull, slithering around and over each other, hissing and spitting their tongues out to taste the acrid air. Duncan tried to fire a burst of flame, but the wand of the weapon just sputtered. He was out of fuel. He flipped the strap from his left shoulder and let the weapon clatter and bang to the floor. None of the creatures came for him—they were all operating in defensive mode, protecting the nest.

  He reached for the LED grenade that had been pinned to the shoulder strap of his tactical vest and found it wasn’t there. Damn. Only one left. He reached into the side cargo pocket of his camo BDU pants and pulled out the last LED grenade. After a quick inspection to determine that it seemed to still be functioning, he raised it toward the side of the sub, closed his eyes tightly and turned his head away before firing the incredibly bright burst of LED light at the creatures swarming over the hull. The shrieks were hideous and painful with the sound echoing off the wall of the sub and the concrete wall of the dock behind him.

  When he opened his eyes, the last of the salamanders were fleeing from the burst over the top of the hull and behind the sail. Duncan wasted no time in unslinging the rocket launcher and clipping the reusable flash grenade to his vest. He still had his bayonet and his sidearm too but they would be of little use against any amphibians inside the close confines of the submarine. He raced up the metal gangplank from the dock’s surface to the top of the hull and opened the nearest hatch leading to the gigantic submarine’s innards. He switched the LED grenade to its spotlight mode and shined the beam down the hatch. No sign of movement. Good. He hadn’t expected any. He had only been on one United States submarine as president, and even though he had been in the Army and not the Navy, he knew by heart the number one rule on a submarine: KFDS—keep the fucking doors shut. Subs were designed with multiple inner bulkheads so that any single flooding compartment couldn’t spread to the other parts of the vessel. Duncan had reminded Carrack of that very rule when they had last been down here a few months ago, and they had been careful to seal all the bulkheads after themselves on their tour.

  Duncan expected the entirety of the vessel to be free of salamanders except for the cargo section, where the mini-sub waited. That’s where they’ll all be. He raced headlong through the body of the submarine, opening and closing compartments and bulkhead doors as he went. The rusted green paint looked harsh in the electric glow of the bright LED lights, but he counted himself grateful that squinting from the painful light was the only threat he had to face as he made his way through the tight confines of the passages leading toward the bow.

  Everything was going fine until he got to the last door, which would lead him into the retrofitted cargo section—the place he suspected of being the nest. His LED was starting to dim. The power cell was dying. He knew it ran on something other than a typical lithium battery, but he didn’t know exactly what it was. Still, he wasn’t pleased to see that his last light was dimming. It was still on, but it wasn’t as bright as it had been and the circumference of ambient light around him had decreased.

  Really?This too!?

  He knew he had to get it done quickly and get out. He pulled the M202 down from his shoulder and prepared the weapon. Then he opened the hatch and slowly pulled the door open a just a crack. He couldn’t see any movement in the yawning space beyond. He opened the door a little wider and stepped into the doorway. Nothing moving in the nearest twenty feet or so, beyond that the cargo space was lost in shadows and darkness.

  Duncan aimed the rocket launcher ahead and stepped cautiously into the chamber. This time, he left the door open behind him. It was a violation of submarine rules but he wasn’t about to close off his route of escape. He took a few more tentative steps into the darkness, the feeble glow of his LED grenade dying further. Something ahead in the gloom shifted. He knew they were there, but something was wrong. When the darkness shifted, it moved as one unit.

  Can they flock like birds now? he wondered.

  He strained his eyes to see in the gloom but couldn’t make out any details. He was tired, frustrated, in pain from the twisted ankle and the shrapnel in his left arm from the exploding catwalk. He took another step and then tapped repeatedly at the LED light on his chest. It dimmed further. Son of a bitch. He unclipped the device and hurled it forward into the darkness. When it hit the floor of the sub, it burst with a blindingly bright white glare, illuminating the space until its far reaches, burning the horrific image of what Duncan saw into his retinas.

  In the center of the cavernous cargo bay was a gigantic oversized salamander, whose head had to be at least ten meters wide. The Godzilla-sized mother salamander was rampaging straight for him despite the brilliant burst of light, its oversized muscular legs looking like those of an enormous monitor lizard or a Komodo dragon. The walls were coated with glistening eggs and at least a hundred of the six-foot long salamanders raced along on the walls and floor behind the enormous leader.

  Duncan wasted no time, he fired the last rocket from the M202 FLASH and dropped the launcher as he ran like hell back for the open hatch. He dove into the next compartment and flung his body against the door, slamming it shut as the detonation of the rocket hit the door, launching it open again and sending him flying down the narrow corridor to the next bulkhead door. He reached up and spun the wheel on the hatch as flames and smoke filled the compartment. The second he had it open, he climbed in and pulled it shut behind him, giving the wheel on the other side of the door a hard spin.

  He leaned his back against the door and slid down it to the floor, as it began to warm from the raging napalm fire on the other side of the bulkhead.

  23.

  Cavern under Section Labs, Former Manifold Alpha Facility, White Mountains, NH

  Beck and Carrack ran.


  Everything in Matt Carrack’s body hurt. His legs and back were sore from the parachute crash, and now his lungs were ready to burst as Beck led the way through a system of narrow tunnels she had discovered at the far end of the cavern, which she had informed him led back up to the Labs-Central rail tunnel where they had blown up the bio door. He had the black nylon backpack with the welded shut bomb in it. He was wearing it as he ran, as if he wasn’t carrying something that could destroy several square miles of everything if it ignited the natural gasses around them.

  Beck slowed and passed the single working rebreather mask back to him. He pressed the facemask hard against his head and cleared the mask by exhaling strongly. He didn’t want to suck in a huge lungful of the radon gas. Once the faceplate was cleared, he greedily sucked in some fresh oxygen from the portable unit. Then he took another huge lungful of air and passed the mask back to Beck. He was probably giving her the mask more often than he should but he was worried about her, because she’d already breathed some of the gas before she realized her own mask had been damaged.

  They had moved over underground vines and worked their way past boulders large and small, occasionally setting off a burst of sizzling white light from the LED grenade to ward off the salamanders in the chamber behind them as they ran. Then Beck had led him into the twisting confines of tiny crevices and tunnels that required him to stoop or sometimes crawl.

  He had set the countdown timer on his forest green Suunto wristwatch before placing the bomb into the pack and slinging it over his shoulder. He checked it now. They had less than ten minutes left. Beck passed him the mask again as she bounded ahead, leaping over small rocks and scrabbling over the larger ones. He repeated the procedure with the mask and after his first few breaths shouted at her through the faceplate.

  “Ten minutes! How much further?”

  Without taking the mask back, she answered him. “We’re almost there. We won’t need the mask anymore.”