by Greig Beck
“God love you, Valery,” Cate said holding them up. “I can take hungry, and I can deal with thirsty until it kills me, but being trapped in darkness, now that’s a nightmare I don’t want to live through.”
Jack was strapping on one of the hunting knives. “My guess is that each of the communication stations might have similar items, but…”
“But, we’re not going to be seeing those anytime soon,” Greg snorted. “Unless Dmitry has a change of mind.” He picked up one of the small flat tins of caviar. “Golly, why didn’t he drop us down something useful… like trucker’s hats.” He tossed a small flat tin of caviar out over the water making it skip half a dozen times along the glassine surface.
“Hey!” Cate sprang to her feet, and crossed to him. She pushed him in the chest. “I should make you go and get that.”
Jack growled. “That’s your rations you’re tossing away, son.”
Greg held up his hands in surrender. Cate scowled a moment longer and then turned to Jack.
“Anyway, why not get to the other stations? We’ve got a raft.” Cate began to fashion a small pack out of the lining of the communication buoy, stacking all its items inside.
Jack took the compass, reading from it, and then holding it up to angle the small dial for a second or two. “I like the idea, but what’s the point of paddling twenty more miles to the next communication buoy? The odds are it will have been sabotaged by whoever destroyed this one.”
“Shit, you’re probably right.” Cate straightened quickly. “Well, I’m not just sitting down and waiting for the lights to go out.”
“Me either.” Jack looked up from the compass. “There might be another way.” Jack held out an arm, pointing southward. “Heceta Island.”
“I remember, in Viva Silva Cave, you mentioned it on the surface – one of the deepest caves in the continent.” Cate lifted her chin.
Greg edged closer, and Abby sat forward.
“That’s it – on Heceta Island.” Jack’s jaw set. “Pronounced HECK–ah–Ta – a long way – around fifty miles to the south. But it has something that no other island in this area has… or for that matter, most islands, anywhere. The Viva Silva Cave is eight hundred feet deep, and I know it, because I’ve been in it.”
“Does it go all the way down to here?” Greg’s eyes were wide and round.
“Unlikely, and anyway, we’re much deeper than that. But I know the cave ends at a depth of eight hundred feet with a few small cracks. There could have been further honeycombing pockets that take it even deeper.” He shrugged. “Bottom line is, there’s a chance it may end close enough for us to break through.”
Greg nodded, grinning. “I’ll dig with my bare hands if that’s what it takes.”
“I’ll help.” Abby held up a hand for Greg. He took it and lifted her to her feet.
“Me too,” Cate said, eyebrows raised. “And we now have a way to get there – our raft.”
Jack turned away to the dark sea. “And fifty miles of dark ocean to cover. It’s going to take days.” He exhaled through compressed lips then shone his light out over the oil-dark water.
Cate let her gaze follow the beam. The black water seemed like an endless sheet of dark, fathomless glass.
Jack turned back, smiling. “But at least we’ve got champagne.”
* * *
Valery Mironov worked at the plastic cable around each of his wrists. It was tight, cut deep, and was making his hands throb. He’d never cry out, ask for help, or even acknowledge the pain to the man in front.
Dmitry turned, and Mironov relaxed his face into an expressionless mask. “There was no reason to kill, Yegor.”
Dmitry grinned and shrugged. “He killed himself. You heard me ask him to join me, but he said no. He left me no choice.” He turned back to his console. “If he said yes, he would be alive. So, in a way, he killed himself.” He shrugged again, and made a little farting noise with his lips.
“I see.” Mironov went back to his bonds. “And what of the others that you have left stranded? You’ve certainly killed them, just as if you put a bullet in their heads too.”
Dmitry waved the question away. “They’ll be safe.” He turned to him, his mouth twisted. “Would you prefer I had dropped them off in deep water?”
“No, no, I’m sure in your own way, you think you did the right thing.” Mironov was determined to keep the man talking. There seemed to be a flavor of unbalance to the submersible pilot that worried him. Sane men he could deal with, but often insanity had no market price.
“They must have paid you a fortune to undertake this mission, comrade. As I expect they’ll be seeking a thousand king’s ransoms for me. Maybe I could cut out the middlemen – give the king’s ransom all directly to you. Make you rich beyond Croesus’s dreams. I could even spirit you away to a tropical island so you could live out your life like an emperor; no questions asked.” Mironov watched Dmitry closely, looking for any sign he could move the man.
“Money?” Dmitry turned to him, his eyes narrowed. “What I want, only Brogidan Yusoff, can give me.”
On hearing the name of the Head of the Russian Ministry of Resources and Agriculture, Mironov’s hopes sank. It was personal then, and perhaps there was to be no ransom after all.
“So then, I can assume it was you and him, that organised the destruction of the crane, and contamination of the entire site.”
“Yes, yes, of course – blew up the crane, blew up the communication silos, and sealed you in.” Dmitry turned away, his expression bored.
“And how will you get out, then?” Mironov waited, as the silence stretched for several seconds.
“We have a plan.” Dmitry turned in his seat. “You’re worth much more alive than dead. But the dead never misbehave.” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in the sound. He turned away. “So behave.”
Mironov worked harder at his bonds – they were a thin plastic type of cable-rope that was used for repairs. He’d been swiveling his wrists, and had made them bleed a while back now. The pain was excruciating, but he kept his face expressionless as he cut his flesh, his eyes on Dmitry the entire time.
The blood was impossible to feel against his skin, as it must have been close to the same temperature as the inside of the Prusalka. But the fluid had a purpose and there was design to his self-mutilation. The blood flowed, and the blood was slippery.
CHAPTER 16
Sheslay, British Columbia, Canada.
– 58°16′00″N 131°48′00″W
The two black-clad agents waited in a shadowy twilight that was cemetery still. They were ex-Spetsnaz and recruited by Uli Stroyev himself. He had been pleased with their progress, but urged greater speed. He had reminded them their success bonus only came at the end of the job.
One tugged his collar higher, breathing out slowly so as not to create plumes of vapor.
“I thought Russia was cold.”
The other pulled field glasses from his eyes and turned. “You’ve been to Siberia?” He went back to scanning the cleared area of the forest. “This is tropical compared to there.”
Like Hobart Bay, Sheslay was a small settlement with just a few houses and some hunting cabins set in amongst forested mountains and situated at the convergence of the Hackett and Sheslay Rivers. Once again their target was a small building set apart from all the others. They knew that just like at Hobart Bay, inside the nondescript-looking shack, the metal communication silo that reached all the way down to the subterranean sea sat waiting patiently for its potential travelers below ground.
The agent lowered his field glasses again, and tucked them away. Once again there was no guard, and just a blind reliance on their technological sentinels. Like at the previous silo, they deployed the electromagnetic pulse and then waited a few seconds to ensure there was no other response.
“Remind me how westerners actually get anything done,” the man sneered. “They make our job so easy.” He nodded forward. “Let’s go.”
The
y sprinted again, staying low and zigzagging between trees and then pushing hard over the last hundred feet to the cabin door. One of the men grabbed the handle and turned to his partner, holding up three fingers. He counted them down – three-two-one – then both went in fast.
He shut the door and spun. Years of experience immediately told him they were not alone. The first shot, little more than a muffled spit, slammed his fellow agent’s head back against the door, the bullet passing through the skull and wood, letting in a beam of muted moonlight. The dead man slid to the ground.
The remaining agent then went for his gun. He was lightening quick, but still no match for someone with theirs already drawn. The next shot took him in the shoulder of his gun arm, shattering the clavicle, acromion and scapula, and making the arm hang useless at his side.
A small light came on then. It was on the shooter’s forehead, making them invisible in the dark behind it.
“Let us be clear, you are a dead man. But how you spend the last few minutes of your miserable life is now up to you.”
The voice was female, but there was no hint of uncertainty or compassion; this was the voice of a stone-cold killer. The agent quickly sorted through his options: charge the light, stall for time, beg for mercy.
He still had one good arm – it is enough. He got ready to run at the light. “Well now…”
The next shot, took him in the kneecap. The pain of the obliterated patella was excruciating, and immediately made the option of charging redundant.
“I have plenty more shots, and plenty more time. My next will be in your testicles.”
The agent groaned, now knowing the promise of death was no warning or bluff, but an absolute certainty. If he had a cyanide pill, this would have been the time to take it.
Fuck it. He owed no one anything.
“What do you want?” he hissed through pain-gritted teeth.
“Tell me, who?”
The gun hand came up, and in the light he saw the barrel lower towards his groin. He told her everything he knew.
* * *
Sonya Borashev checked her watch as she ran to her snow sled. The Russian agent had been very informative. As she expected, the hit had been ordered by Brogidan Yusoff, head of the Russian Ministry of Resources and Agriculture, and his henchman, Uli Stroyev.
These two agents were simply ensuring there was no back door, while the real killer was already onboard the submersible. Sonya stopped for a moment, concentrating on easing the shaking in her arms and legs. The tremors weren’t from fear or the cold, but instead from pure rage. That Valery could already be dead made her fury volcanic, and her vision misted red for a few seconds.
For now, she had to assume they were all alive. The team comprised of Valery, marine biologists, and a geologist – all smart people. If she was there, she’d be looking for another way out – so would Valery.
By now, the team would know the Hobart Bay silo was destroyed, and must undoubtedly assume all the other silos were in the same state. So, what would they do? Where would they go?
They’d look for another escape hatch. She threw a leg over her snow mobile. She needed to speak to a local geologist, now.
The machine roared to a start, and she sped away through the twilight snowdrifts.
CHAPTER 17
Jack, Cate, Greg and Abby stood around the inflated raft. It was twelve-feet long with a raised bow and three inbuilt seats. There were also two telescopic paddles now lying in its bottom.
Jack bobbed his head. “We could have done a lot worse; it’s a Whitewater, they’re often used for rough-river rafting. Polyurethane alloy with a reinforced floor – pretty damn tough.”
“Plenty of room,” Greg said, nodding as he felt along one gunwale.
Cate, hands on her hips, tilted her head at Jack. “We have fifty miles to cover, all under paddle power. How long do you think?”
Jack rubbed his chin. “Couple of days, at least… and that’s if we only take short breaks. For paddling it’ll be two on, two off, right around the clock.”
“And ah, what happens if something from below takes an interest in us?” Greg straightened, but kept his eyes on the raft.
Cate nudged the raft with her toe. “You think those oars are just for paddling? We beat the shit out of anything that even looks sideways at us. Deal?”
Greg held up one of the lightweight, plastic oars. “Ooookay.”
Jack smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
Abby hugged herself, her voice tiny. “Maybe someone might rescue us.” She looked out over the dark water. “Some of those things down there were a lot bigger than the raft.”
Jack’s smile faded. “Yes, they were. But the bottom line is, right now, we’ve got plenty of bad options. We can certainly stay here and wait to be rescued. But how? The entry site is contaminated, and no one even knows where we are.” Jack went and placed a hand on Abby’s shoulder, and looked into her eyes. “We’d just end up dying slowly in the dark. We could paddle to the next buoy, which is probably sabotaged as well. Or we risk it all trying to find a way out… and that could also be a dead-end – back to square one.” He sighed. “But the way I see it, the worst thing we can do is become paralysed by indecision.” He gave her a grim smile. “Because doing nothing, will lead to certain death.”
Abby continued to look out over the water. “Maybe Valery will overpower Dmitry, and come back for us…” Her voice trailed away, and she turned and walked off along the rock ledge.
Jack watched her go for a moment. “We pack the raft with everything we need or even might need… and break the doors off the pod; they’ll be our extra oars.”
Cate turned her head slowly, looking from Abby, to the huge cliff wall. The cave drawings were lost in the darkness now, but she remembered all the bodies that seemed to float beneath the monstrous shark.
She then looked out over the steaming sea. There was nothing here for them now. “The least bad option it is then. Ready when you are.”
“Let’s do this,” said Greg, reaching down to grab one side of the raft. He turned to the lone figure of Abby. “Abby, c’mon babe. All a-boooard.”
CHAPTER 18
The Bering Sea, ten miles west of the Baker-Shevardnadze Line
– 168° 58’37”
The Russian drill ship, the Viktor Dubynin, groaned and tugged against its sea anchors. The six wrist-thick cables whipped tight in the air, flicking spray and causing even their best seamen to grab railings, table tops, anything, as the powerful vessel jerked sharply in the rough water.
Captain Boris Gorkin exhaled blue smoke into the bridge room, as chief engineer Olaf Kozlov bent over a computer screen that showed a graphic representation of the seabed below them.
“We are through the shell and into the source liquid. As we expected, it is sea water.” He lifted his radio to speak furiously to his rig team for a few seconds. “Okay, capping now…”
Kozlov gritted his teeth, leaning in at the screen as the numbers spiked. “Ach, we have instability in the crust.”
Gorkin turned, his eyes half lidded. From Brogidan Yusoff’s perspective, it was his responsibility for breaching the crustal coating over the subterranean liquid bed, attaching the extraction pipes, and then waiting for the package to be in place. His success bonus would be six figures. But only if everything went to plan. If anything went wrong, he’d damn well make sure it wasn’t his head that was on the block – literally.
He watched closely as Kozlov grunted at the screen, his teeth still bared, and veins now popping at his temples. “Easing.” He started to nod, his face relaxing. “Stabilizing...” He straightened. “…and capped.” He plonked down in his seat and grinned. “Ready and awaiting object extraction.”
“Everything okay now?” Gorkin lumbered over, looking over the man’s shoulder at the screen.
Kozlov shrugged. “Sometimes the skin over the bed is weaker in some places more than others. You can’t know until you start drilling. This area’s crust layer
must be particularly shallow… and brittle. Not ideal.” He cracked his knuckles. “But all good now, we have a cap, and a firm seal. Ready to start pumping when they’re in place.”
“Will it hold?” Gorkin watched the man closely.
“Of course it will hold.” He grinned, his brows up.
Gorkin continued to stare at the man. Senchov’s smile looked fragile, and he knew why. There was no such thing as a guarantee in his business. He’d been out on dozens of seabed drilling projects, and most times the caps held. Only one in a hundred didn’t. But he knew deep liquid was always under pressure, and the ocean was quite shallow here, so less corresponding pressure on the crust.
But the deep liquid beds were always trying to escape. Like living things they wanted their freedom. If there was a seabed collapse, then whatever was in that subterranean place would end up right underneath them.
* * *
They rowed slowly, Jack and Greg taking first shift. Their paddles dipped in, swept back along the side of the raft to pull them across the water, and then being slid out from the dark liquid. There was very little sound, as both men automatically knew to make as little noise as possible.
By now, Jack guessed they had passed well over the underwater cliff they had seen in the submersible, and below them now was nothing but the pitiless void, where it dropped away thousands of feet into the abyss. There would be movement down there, and he hoped that was exactly where it would stay.
To conserve power, they travelled in the dark, just the glow of the compass to guide them.
Something splashed out in the darkness.
Jack slowed his paddling as the splash came again, and this time it was accompanied by a smell of age-old barnacles and ocean bottoms.
“Stop,” Jack whispered, switched on one of the flashlights and trained its beam in the direction of the commotion.
His breath caught in his throat as at the far edge of his light, something huge lumped the water’s surface, rolled once and then slid beneath the oily sheen of the dark water.
