Leviathan: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “President Lincoln—he knew of this foul thing?”

  Stanton shook his head and stepped behind the closest marines.

  “Mr. Lincoln never understood anything beyond what was right in front of his face. As a country, we have entered a new world—a global society where the strong will dictate. This nation needs what you have—your friend Mr. Lincoln never understood that. He accepted your decision not to offer to us your science as a tool of war; I, sir, did not. Your mission for the president to stop the alliance of Britain and the traitors of the South was just the start. There will be many such tasks in the future, and you will perform them. If you fail in this, I will make public your discovery in the gulf, the Mediterranean, and Antarctica … needless to say, that will end your dream along with your family.”

  A moment of clarity struck Heirthall, as bright as a bolt of lightning. His eyes widened and he took a menacing step toward the secretary.

  “Return my daughter to her mother and sisters, or there will be such retribution taken against you that you will believe Satan has risen to devour you and yours. I have known men such as you. Men—twins of you—murdered my father for the sake of owning the great secret of the seas. I once looked fondly upon my adopted country, until madness struck these shores as it had so many others.” Heirthall took a menacing step forward and used his commanding, booming, deep voice: “My wife and children—produce them or reap a bitter harvest.”

  Stanton swallowed but held his position behind the marines.

  “As I speak, your vessel, your great Leviathan, is being mined. Argue and fight and you will lose far more than just your oldest child.”

  Heirthall broke. Far too much had his mind and heart absorbed the past three years. The betrayal, the long separation from his children and his wife, the killing of innocent and guilty alike upon the seas, were too much for his once great mind. He threw his black Bible toward the cordon of marines and then turned for the riverboat’s railing. As his hands touched the damp wood and rope, several shots rang out. Two minié balls pierced his back. One bullet hit his liver and one his upper back. He staggered, but managed to catch himself. He pulled with all of his strength until he could fall over the railing and into the river.

  “You fools, what have you done?” Stanton cried out. “You men.” He pointed at the four marines that had just missed taking Heirthall before he jumped. “Into the river. Bring the captain to me. He cannot have gone far!”

  The marines dropped their rifles and started to climb the railing, but they never made it. Loud popping sounded through the thick fog and a hundred bullets cut the men down. A speed of fire no man had ever heard in the long history of firearms punctured holes in the large riverboat. Wood flew as even more bullets zinged through the fog. Stanton realized as he dove behind stacked barrels that he was witnessing something akin to the Gatling gun, but this was far faster, far deadlier. The remaining marines never had a chance to reload their weapons before large-caliber rounds sliced them to pieces.

  They were facing another of Octavian Heirthall’s miracle weapons.

  The captain’s wounds were mortal. He struggled to keep his head above water as he kicked with his legs. The fog and Leviathan‘s automatic weapons were keeping the riverboat’s marines at bay, but Heirthall knew the secretary would not have been satisfied with just the one surprise treachery.

  Suddenly arms were pulling him up and out of the cold river. The captain felt the cold iron of Leviathan against his wet clothing as he was hauled aboard. The voices were jumbled and he sensed fear and anger in his crew. He fought to gain his feet and finally cleared his vision enough to see his first officer, Mr. Meriwether, standing at his side.

  “Take her down, Thomas, we have been betrayed.”

  “Captain, your wounds, they are—”

  “Down, take Leviathan down, set course upriver.” He struggled to the giant tower where he collapsed against the thick iron hatch. He slowly but angrily stood, leaning against the frame, and then entered the vessel.

  “All hands stand by to dive!” Meriwether called out as he saw the thick swath of blood that covered the deck and hatch combing. He then followed Heirthall inside.

  “Two ships approaching from the far shore. Our echo-sound report says they are ironclads!” he heard as he half-stumbled down the ladder into the control center.

  As the announcement came, an explosion rocked Leviathan from beneath the bow, and then in quick rapidity another rocked her from the stern.

  “That was not shot from an ironclad, those were placed charges. Get me a damage report.”

  Meriwether then eased his captain into the large chair placed on a raised platform at the center of the control room. As he removed his hands, he saw they were covered in blood, thick and dark red.

  “Report depth under the keel!” Meriwether called out while still looking at his hands.

  “We have only thirty feet under the keel!” the helmsman called from the front of the control room.

  “Come about, all ahead full!” Heirthall said in a pain-filled voice.

  Meriwether turned to Heirthall. “Captain, we must make for the sea before we find our way blocked.”

  “My son is dead, my family hostages, and … and the president … is dead,” Heirthall said as his eyes clenched closed in pain.

  Meriwether saw his despair. His own anger could have been that of the man that he loved more than a father.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Heirthall struggled and used the chair to stand. He quickly waved Meriwether away when he lunged to assist him.

  “Lieutenant Wallace—I need him.”

  A young man, no more than twenty, stepped from his post at the ship’s ballast control.

  “Diving Officer Wallace, here, sir!”

  Heirthall waved him over without ever opening his eyes to see him. He reached out and felt for the young man, finally feeling him underneath his hand.

  “I … have a mission … for you, boy,” he said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

  A solid shot rang off Leviathan’s hull. The echo was almost deafening. It was the first time her crew had ever heard their vessel’s hull struck solidly at point-blank range by another warship.

  “Ironclads are opening fire, Captain.”

  Heirthall’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on Wallace. The captain knew the boy had been sweet on his youngest daughter, Olivia. It was reported to him that the two spent never-ending hours together, talking and reading. Heirthall would not sacrifice this boy—instead he would use the young man’s feelings for his daughter’s sake.

  “Mr. Wallace, when we … make our turn, our last run for the sea, you … will not be aboard.”

  “Captain?” Peter Wallace asked, looking from Heirthall to Meriwether.

  “Take … some men—my … daughter is in Washington … the armory. Please find my Olivia, then … my wife and daughters…. Please, son.” He grimaced again. “You’re the youngest and the brightest—the best of us all. If need be, to secure my child, kill all in your path.”

  Wallace looked around the control room as every hand present was starting to understand the depth of their betrayal. The serious-featured young man straightened and saluted Heirthall. When he saw his captain was too weak to return his gesture of respect, he slowly lowered his hand.

  “Take the deck watch, that’s six armed men,” Meriwether said, his eyes never leaving Heirthall’s dying form. “I have more items to give you, with your permission, Captain?”

  Heirthall could only nod his head once.

  Meriwether disappeared and went aft of the control center. He returned two minutes later carrying a leather satchel and pouch. The pouch he handed to Wallace.

  “There is enough gold inside to get you, your men, Olivia, and the rest of the family back home. Enough to buy a ship if need be.”

  The boy nodded, looking guiltily up and around at the rest of the control room crew. He felt he was betraying the men he had come to lo
ve by leaving them.

  “Pay attention, Lieutenant.” Meriwether then handed him the small satchel. As the boy held it, the first officer opened it and pulled out some old and much-worn pages. “When you have the child back home, you are to guard her with your life. You will be in command of the base, the only officer left. The men are loyal to the captain until their deaths; they will be the same for you, boy, and to the girl if her mother and sisters are not recovered.”

  Wallace swallowed and looked at the captain, but Meriwether slapped the boy lightly.

  “This”—he grasped the yellowed pages—”is her family legacy; this is who she is, where she came from.” Then he held up another book. “This is the logbook of Leviathan. It is also for her. You will have to make the last entry. The plans and specifications for Leviathan are on the island with all the captain’s research. Olivia will one day know what to do with them. The last pages are of the life form—these are not to fall into the hands of our American brethren. Is this clear?”

  Peter Wallace looked at the pages and then the logbook. His frown deepened when he realized his responsibility.

  “You tell her the story of what happened here this night. Burn into her soul the betrayal that took place. She will eventually know what to do. Her father’s and grandfather’s designs are locked away. She is to learn—learn the science, and the sea is where she will discover who she really is and why the family is who they are…. Do you understand, boy?”

  “I will not fail the captain, sir.”

  “I know you won’t, lad.” Meriwether looked around as explosions rocked Leviathan. “Godspeed, son, now be off. Jump over the side when we make our turn. Take care of Olivia, boy—love her as I already know you do.”

  Wallace turned and made for the tower hatch, stuffing the pages and logbook into the satchel as he did. The eighteen-year-old boy never looked back.

  “We are at sixteen knots and three hundred yards, Mr. Meriwether,” the helm called out.

  “Captain, your orders, sir?”

  “Take me to … the tower, Mr. Meriwether,” Heirthall ordered, and then went to his knees. Several men left their posts as they saw their captain fall.

  “Attend your stations!”

  All eyes went to the bald-headed Mr. Meriwether, who stood like a rock beside Heirthall.

  “We have one last mission to perform for our captain. We will do it right!” he yelled in his Boston accent just as more iron shot struck their hull.

  Meriwether assisted Heirthall to his feet, and they made their way slowly up the spiral staircase and into the green-tinted tower. The first officer walked his captain to the auxiliary ship’s wheel, staying long enough to make sure he was steady.

  “Thank you, Mr. Meriwether,” Heirthall said as he leaned heavily against the mahogany wheel. “Inform the crew that any who so choose can depart Leviathan.” He closed his eyes in pain.

  Meriwether saw the large pool of blood as it spread across the tiled decking. He was amazed that such an amount could be lost without death coming swiftly.

  “Aye, Captain,” he said as he turned and made his way back down into the control room.

  Heirthall came close to losing his battle with consciousness as Meriwether’s voice came across the sound-powered speakers overhead. When the dizziness passed, he looked around his familiar surroundings. He gently touched the handholds on the wheel, caressing them as he once had his beautiful wife. Sweat and tears of loss poured into his eyes, and he wiped them away with a swipe of his arm. Then he looked up and straightened as best he could as Meriwether returned. He saw his first officer cringe as a solid iron shot bounced off the exposed tower of Leviathan.

  “The crew has been informed, Captain. The Union ironclads are drawing near, and the fog, I’m afraid, is lifting with the dawn.”

  “Do we have enough men to send Leviathan on her last mission?” Heirthall asked as he held Meriwether’s gaze.

  “Yes, Captain, we have the entire complement—minus the seven you sent over the side.”

  Heirthall listened to the words, but they could not be right.

  “They—”

  “—are following your last orders, Captain. They are your men.”

  Heirthall stood straighter and gripped the ship’s wheel.

  “Order flank speed, Mr. Meriwether. By the time we are a hundred yards off Mary Lincoln, I want Leviathan‘s belly … rubbing the riverbed.” Heirthall lowered his head. “I never wanted this…. They have … pushed me to it.”

  “The ironclads?”

  “Target two of the new compressed air torpedoes on those fools,” he said as a tear slowly rolled down his left cheek. “And Mr. Meriwether, will you thank the men for—”

  “No sir, I will not. You do not thank those for doing their duty to a man who saved their lives repeatedly. One who gave those lives meaning.”

  Heirthall watched as Meriwether turned and shouted down the spiral staircase: “All ahead flank, stand by both forward-torpedo tubes, target the enemy ironclads with the new magnetic warheads!”

  Belowdecks, men sprang into action just as the giant submarine lurched forward in the water. Her stern dug so low in the river that her main center propeller dug into the mud, sending a geyser of black muck a hundred feet into the air and announcing her intentions to all those on the river that fateful morning.

  “My God, the madman is charging us!” the captain said from the bridge.

  Stanton ran to the aft railing as the river erupted a thousand yards upstream. He held his hands to his ears as the two Union ironclads opened up a withering fire from their revolving turrets. They tried in vain to target the fast-moving submarine as it started its dive. The giant tower and triple rows of arched spikes were now the only visible sign above water that declared Leviathan was on her way. As they approached at more than fifty knots, the large bubble windows on the side of the tower were glowing an angry bluish-green, just as if they were the eyes of Heirthall himself.

  Stanton backed away as the marines on deck started firing on the onrushing target. Then two explosions shook the Mary Lincoln on her keel. Stanton turned toward the tumult, staring in horror just as the two great ironclads blew up.

  “What evil is afoot here!” he screamed, and then turned in anger. “Lieutenant, bring them out on deck and line them up against the stern railing. Make sure they are visible to this crazy fool!” he ordered.

  The young marine ran below and disappeared. He soon returned with the four children and the wife of Captain Octavian Heirthall. The woman was calm, but Stanton could see the girls were frightened.

  The small Frenchman was at Stanton’s side. He pulled on the man’s coat sleeve, ripping it.

  “This is barbaric. You cannot do this—send the children over the side!”

  Stanton pushed the Frenchman away.

  “Quickly, allow the captain to see what he is to lose in this foolishness. Mr. Verne, you may run if you wish, but the Mary Lincoln will stand her ground!”

  The marine reluctantly used his rifle to push the screaming girls and the silent woman to the rail. Then Elizabeth Heirthall slapped away the bayoneted rifle and gathered her children to her as they saw the great Leviathan run true to her course. The woman turned to look at Stanton, a knowing smile slowly spreading across her face. She shook her head as she hugged her daughters close to her.

  “The ironclads are no longer a concern, Captain,” Meriwether said as he used his binoculars, examining the spots where the two warships were sinking into the Penobscot mud. “The Mary Lincoln is getting her boilers going, but she cannot escape. She is at about two knots and—”

  Meriwether’s words cut off as he adjusted his glasses on the scene before him.

  “No, no, no!” The words came out in more of a moan than a cry.

  Heirthall, though barely conscious, heard the fear in his first officer’s voice. His face was now ashen gray, the blood long since absent from skin and veins. He managed to raise his head but his vision was cloudy at best
.

  “The children—Captain, the barbarian has your wife and children on deck!”

  Heirthall came fully awake and fell to his knees as he let go of the wheel. He tried to stand and was thankful when Meriwether once again lifted him to his feet. He left him, ran to the wheel, and tried to turn the giant ship. The rudder was nonresponsive as it was dragging in the thick mud of the bottom. He used all of his considerable strength to turn her, but the resistance was just too great. The mines Stanton had ordered placed against Leviathan‘s hull, coupled with the weight of her ballast, were dragging the stern into the mud.

  “She’s not responding, Captain,” Meriwether cried out.

  Heirthall leaned heavily against the thick crystal of the viewing window. His eyes blank and his body dying, he still needed no binoculars to see his family lined up on the riverboat’s stern.

  “Elizabeth,” he cried out weakly as his body slumped and blood seeped heavily from his mouth.

  “Captain!” Meriwether cried out as Heirthall collapsed.

  “What has thy vengeance wrought?” Heirthall said, the words coming out as a whisper.

  Stanton ran to the railing and jumped over the side. His large body hit the cold water unnoticed by the riverboat’s crew and complement of marines. The French news correspondent stood his ground as the great submarine rushed toward him. He suddenly tried to run and reach the woman and her children, but he slipped on the wet deck and went down hard just as the Mary Lincoln started a turn. The momentum of the large riverboat rolled the young Jules Verne into the river. Once the cold water closed over him, the Frenchman heard the scream of Leviathan‘s three propellers as they pushed the huge mass of iron boat through the water. He kicked as hard as he could to fight his way toward the rocky shoreline of the Penobscot, crying as he did at the ruthless fate awaiting the woman and her children.