by Nick Thacker
“Absolutely not. Once we embark, I’ll detail you all on the mission specifics. I highly doubt we’ll be stretching her to the limit. For safety reasons, we’ll dive slowly, reaching our destination by midday.”
Mark and Jen simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief, but there was still a look of confusion on their faces. Why do we need a submarine? she thought. And why would the answer I am supposed to be finding be located underwater?
Before she could ask anything else, Carter ushered his team and Jen and Mark into the awaiting submarine, while the two diplomats on the dock waved them along.
Inside the sub, Jen found herself fighting the effects of claustrophobia. The ship was larger than she had initially imagined, but the added struts and thicker walls—designed to allow maneuverability at much greater depths—seemed to press inward. She didn’t necessarily have a distaste for small spaces, but this situation was a bit out of the ordinary for her.
She and Mark were led to their bunk by a short, squat crewman, Private Malcolmon from Iowa, as he’d introduced himself. The “bunk” was little more than a closet-sized hole in the main corridor, with two bunked beds stacked on top of one another. A four-inch deep steel drawer was secured beneath each of the two bunks for their “effects,” as Private Malcolmon instructed.
Jen glanced at Mark, but his only response was a quick nod. He jumped to the top bunk and called down, “I’ll take this one, if that’s alright.”
They hadn’t been given much time to pack, so Jen stuffed their one duffel bag—meant to hold both of their belongings—into the crack of the mattress at the foot of her bed and stood again to face Mark. “Let’s go find Carter. I want to figure out why in the hell we’re in a research submarine about ready to take a vacation.”
They walked up the corridor and found Carter conversing with another crewman. “Sergeant. A word?” she interrupted.
He turned to face the pair, immediately ending his previous conversation. The crewman, obviously a lower-ranking officer, swiveled around and left.
“What may I help you with, Ms. Adams?” His words were military—short, punchy, and direct—but his demeanor suggested empathy, as if trying to put her at ease.
“I just want to know what’s really going on, Sergeant. This submarine, the crew, it all seems so quickly put together, and how does our son fit into it? And why were you there at the university?”
Daniel waited a moment, then answered. “Listen. I know this is confusing and a little nerve-wracking for the two of you. But please hear me when I say that your son is fine. We’re going to find him—”
“How can you say that? How do you know?”
“This mission isn’t something we’ve hacked together overnight. My team, backed by the Royal Marines, has been planning an advance on this organization—the one we believe has taken your son—for well over six months now.
“We expedited things when the situation escalated. Your colleague’s death, your son’s kidnapping—we believe the organization we’ve been tracking is about to make a move. When we found out about the kidnapping and murder of Dr. Storm, we got involved to get more information and to protect you and your family.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that already,” Mark said. “Who are these guys?”
“The group calls themselves Nouvelle Terre, or ‘New Earth,’ but they’re believed to be a loosely-connected group of people who maintain little contact and little interaction with each other. They’ve been difficult, to say the least, to track down, but because of recent events, they’ve left themselves more vulnerable. The group is mostly American ex-patriots, though we don’t know how many. The few we’ve identified are wealthy and heavily invested in the private sector. The common thread between them all, including who we believe to be their leader, is their interest in environmental causes.”
“And what exactly is this cause they’re interested in?”
“We don’t know. The targets we’ve identified have each emptied many of their corporate and personal accounts in the last few weeks, and we’re not exactly sure what they’re planning.”
“But it involves something in the ocean?” Jen asked.
“Yes. A project—” he paused, then looked toward the bridge. “Listen, that’s all I can tell you for now. There will be an official briefing at 0600, when we dive. I suggest you two try to get a few hours of sleep until then. You’ll want to be rested.”
Before either of them had time to respond, Carter turned on his heel and walked toward the bridge.
12
0600 Hours
“Thank you all for being here,” Carter said from the makeshift podium in the sub’s lounge area. Jen caught the satire in his voice. She assumed most, if not all, of the crew were military, and therefore were assigned to this mission. She could see Carter’s crew members, Hog, Gary, and Saunders, all gathered together at the doorway to the lounge.
They made an interesting group. Hog was perhaps one of the strangest looking men Jen had ever seen, tall and lanky in a comical way, with rounded eyes that seemed to bulge out of his head. Maybe it’s the pressure.
Saunders, the woman who’d accompanied Carter in her and Mark’s “meeting” back at the university, was standing next to Hog, which only helped to underline the woman’s beauty. Standing almost six feet tall, she was almost equal in height to her commanding officer. Dark-skinned and rock-solid from head to toe, Lance Corporal Saunders looked like the domineering muscle of the four-person team.
Next to Saunders was Gary Mason. Mason, as far as Jen could tell, was just along for the ride. His demeanor, posture, and overall disposition was of nonchalance and indifference. When she’d bumped into him in the corridor, he just rambled some incoherent babble in a thick cockney accent. He was shorter than his two teammates and his commander, with a shaved crewcut hairstyle.
“The current orders are as follows.” Carter reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a folded slip of paper. “We are to embark on an exploratory mission in international waters, north of Puerto Rico, in what is known as the Milwaukee Deep. We are expected to locate a submerged research station and provide reconnaissance and intelligence to the United States and the British Royal Navy.”
He looked around to ensure he still had their attention. Jen’s eyes were riveted on Carter.
“We’ve been under way for about thirty minutes now. That gives us enough time to run through the general operations protocol and to get some rest. Further, we have our first scheduled rendezvous in three hours. Be back here at 0900. I expect all of us to have met with the crew here, received any necessary instruction”— he looked toward the boat’s XO —“and gotten settled in by then.”
“Here’s how it works. Everyone on board has a job to do—my team, myself, and you as well, Jen and Mark. Obviously this is not a normal mission. Therefore, we don’t expect you to be thoroughly versed in your particular area. However, I’ve assigned you each to a certain part of the ship and will introduce you to who’s in charge there. While we are at sea, you will be under their direct supervision and shall follow their orders. Help out when and where you can and try to become part of the team as much as possible.”
Jen and Mark nodded simultaneously as a member of the crew stood up and joined Carter at the front of the room. Carter introduced the man as Chief Petty Officer Warren Hynes, Steward of the ship. He had a thick Australian accent, crewcut blond hair, and huge blue eyes, and Jen understood immediately why this man was perfect for his job. He looked like a man fit for a role in Gilligan’s Island—completely at ease on board a seafaring vessel.
“Good morning, and welcome aboard. As Sergeant Carter said, I’m Chief Petty Officer Hynes, and I’ll be your steward while you are with us. If anyone needs me, feel free to track me down. My cabin is down the hall, past the first entrance to the galley. Usually, each of us has both ship responsibilities and fighting responsibilities, but for the time being our civilian guests won’t have to worry about the latter. As long as everything goes
to plan, neither will we.
“Jen, you’ll go with Petty Officer Carl Jenkins, head cook in charge of the mess hall and galley. He’s one man short this time around, so you should be able to jump in right away. Mark, you’re with Lieutenant Miranda Lopez, our Logistics Officer. Mostly you’ll be handling things on a case-by-case basis, keeping track of supply, helping out wherever you can, that sort of thing.
“That’s pretty much it for now. Anyone have any questions?” He paused for about a second to wait for a response, and then called on Petty Officer Jenkins and Lieutenant Miranda Lopez to stand and escort them out of the room.
Jen stood up, followed by Mark. She was now supposed to take on a role helping out the chef on board a military submarine as if she was just one of the crew. She felt so out of place here, on a military submarine about to sink to the bottom of one of the deepest parts of the ocean, apparently to find information that would lead her back to their son.
Unlikely.
Her skepticism seemed to be matched in Mark’s voice. “Jen, does this make any sense to you?” he asked.
“No, I mean—of course not,” she responded. “Why would it?”
He shook his head. “It’s just that less than twelve hours ago, we were sitting in the apartment trying to figure out what to do next. We get, uh, overtaken at the school, and now we’re here, halfway across the country. It seems so fast, you know?”
She thought about this for a moment. “I don’t think Reese’s kidnapping was the start of this. Clearly there’s more going on. I know this mission wasn’t something that was slapped together last minute, and I want to find out what they know.”
They reached the rectangular doorway at the edge of the room, slowing to step deliberately over the tall threshold. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about her son.
13
0900 Hours
Jen and Mark sat in the same room they’d left three hours earlier. Time had crawled as she’d learned safety procedures, basic military sub lingo, a few crew members’ names (all of which Jen had forgotten), and taken a twenty-minute “nap,” during which she had stared straight up at the bottom of Mark’s bunk.
He’d fared no better. The pervasive, unwavering reminder that their son was missing was constantly on his mind as well, and he’d spent the time getting acquainted with the procedural operations of the sub, going through the motions, and nodding his head every few seconds.
Both were exhausted. Jen hoped this “rendezvous” would end quickly, giving her at least a few hours to try and sleep. She wondered if she could shut her eyes here, in the chair, and catch a few seconds of rest—
“At attention, crew,” one of the enlisted crew members called out.
Her eyes snapped open as Sergeant Daniel Carter entered the room. 0900 on the dot, she noticed.
“At ease. Thanks for being here. Irons, do you have the comm-link?” he asked one of the enlisted men.
“Aye, sir. It’s on three, just hit the—”
Carter already had the television screen powered up and on the right channel before the young man could finish. The monitor blinked, and a fuzzy picture of a decadent office slowly came into focus.
“Good morning,” a man’s voice spoke. The sound came from speakers hidden somewhere in the room. “I do appreciate your willingness to serve today. It’s been an interesting day, as I’m sure you’ll all agree.” The man sat behind the desk in the office. Jen sensed the presence of a few aides or advisors standing close to the desk; human-shaped shadows wriggled over the carpet and curtains.
“My name is Gregory Durand, Assistant to the Head of the National Environmental Terrorism Agency. We are a British intelligence organization tasked with discovering and neutralizing terrorist threats to the nation and world. I know that you do not see any American forces amongst yourselves. I do apologize, but it is for your own security. This matter you will be attending to is one of national security, both for the British and American governments alike—a matter that has escalated in the past few hours to one of the utmost importance. Unfortunately, it also means that if American Special Forces were somehow seen embarking on any sort of mission in the target area, it could prove to be a difficult situation to clean up. The media would be all over it within two hours, and…” the man sighed, clearly exasperated at even the thought.
“I do, however, trust the abilities of you all more than you know. I want you to know that I fully support the mission and wish nothing more than your success and safe return.”
Carter gave the man—his current commanding officer—a single nod, thanking him for the compliment. Durand continued addressing the room. “I understand that Sergeant Carter has briefed you on the mission. You are to locate and secure the package, a boy named Reese Adams. His parents, as I’m sure you know, are Jennifer and Mark Adams, and will be accompanying you on the mission.”
A few faces turned to look at Jen and Mark in the center of the room. Durand paused, but then answered the question every one of the military men and women—and Jen and Mark—had on their minds.
“Mr. and Ms. Adams are really with you all, though, because Jen’s presence is crucial to the success of the mission. The group that kidnapped Reese wants something in return; something only Jen has, apparently. We don’t have any intelligence as to what that something might be, but I thought it best that she accompany your team to the station in case there is something there she can use. At that point, if it comes, the military team will provide support and attempt to eliminate whatever threat they find.
“We’ll be keeping you updated throughout the mission with any information we find, Sergeant. And Ms. Adams, understand that we will find your son. We will get to the bottom of this, and I only ask that you lend us a hand in the meantime.”
She nodded, as if the man could see her as well. She had so many questions, though. So many pieces to this puzzle. Hell, she didn’t even know what the puzzle was supposed to look like. Mark squeezed her hand.
“Let’s talk about details. I know Carter told you where you’re heading, but he did not address any specifics. I’ve kept a few things to myself until this moment, but also understand that what I’m about to tell you may be completely irrelevant.
“It turns out that the base you’re heading to was a United States government-funded research station built in 1974, redefining the possibilities of modern undersea exploration. It was built on a geothermal hotspot, and that’s how it was powered. A desalinization plant was built next, an engineering marvel that allowed a team of researchers to stay for extended periods of time on-site. Finally, all of this was encased in a dome made out of a synthetic material that pushed against the immense pressure of the waters surrounding the station. There’s more to it than that, obviously, but I wanted you to understand the basics before you arrived.
“You’re going to be docking at the station around 1200 hours, as your captain tells me. There won’t be any surface light reaching to these depths, so you’ll be taking a slow, careful crawl around the dome’s western and southern fronts—the sides that aren’t jutting up against the cliffs of the Puerto Rico Trench. You’ll then find one of the two docking stations, and at that point you’ll dock, equalize the pressure in the sub’s holding bay, and then pump out the water from the station.”
Jen’s mind was racing at this point. A government research station located at the bottom of the ocean? One large enough to house people? And the fact that it’s still there…
She wondered if Durand was reading from a prompter screen or if he’d memorized these statistics. Either way, it was impressive, the scope of this project. Both the building of the base in the first place—over forty years ago—and the fact that they were supposed to revisit it today.
Then she remembered one of the first things he’d said—that the station was established to conduct geothermal research. That was her specialty ever since she’d started working with Dr. Storm. Maybe that had something to do with what the kidnappers wanted from her.
<
br /> He wanted me to lend them a hand in the meantime. That meant that whatever this was about, her son was only a small piece of it.
“Also, we’re not sure how much this group, Nouvelle Terre, knows. We know that one of their members, Jeremiah Austin, at one point in time, was involved with some of the building of the research station. He worked with Dr. Mitchell Storm, the brother of the late Dr. Elias Storm. So far, that’s the only tie we have, but it’s a strong one. It seems like the organization wanted to get to Dr. Storm’s research by way of his brother. When that soured, they most likely went for Jen Adams, the next logical person who would understand what Dr. Storm was working on.”
She let all of this sink in. Dr. Storm’s brother was somehow involved. Someone who worked with this terrorist organization years ago, and now they want to finish the project.
Her boss, Dr. Elias Storm, didn’t know anything—or at least didn’t talk—and he’d paid the price for it.
They were using her. They took her son, and now she and Mark were on this wild goose chase together.
“I know what you’re probably wondering,” Gregory Durand said. “Why are you heading toward a research station at the bottom of the Atlantic? We believe that Nouvelle Terre is acting out in the interest of securing what they want quickly. Since the last we’d heard from them was immediately following the completion of this base, and with the close ties between the research performed there and what Nouvelle Terre’s all about, we think it might be a good lead. It won’t be the endgame. Reese is no doubt being kept wherever the organization’s headquartered. However—”
The monitor and speakers crackled and died. Carter looked toward the young crewman who had apparently set up the communication link, but the soldier shrugged. The screen turned to fuzz, the connection obviously lost. Carter looked unswayed. He continued delivering the speech, skipping to the end.
