by Luke Romyn
“I – I can’t do that,” whispered Talbot.
“You have to or I’ll die.”
The memory of Captain Benedict flashed into Talbot’s mind. Nobody else was going to die for him.
“What do I have to do again?”
The colonel drew a deep breath and repeated his instructions.
Talbot didn’t like the sound of it, but he had little option. Colonel Wilson twisted around slightly to reach the sub’s controls, flicking a few buttons and keying something into the onboard computer. The sub now travelled smoothly through the ocean under its own control, heading for whatever destination the colonel had programmed in.
Preparing a thick gauze patch for a compress, Talbot peered around, grabbing a pair of pliers off a nearby shelf. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, summoning courage for the task in front of him. He glanced at the colonel, who gritted his teeth and nodded.
Gripping the shard of metal, Talbot pulled... and nothing happened! The suction around the wound would not release it without....
“This is going to hurt a lot,” he cautioned. Colonel Wilson merely nodded, sweat running down his brow, his skin ghostly.
Talbot twisted the metal within the wound, opening a gap in the skin to allow some air in. Blood spurted and Colonel Wilson screamed.
“Come on, you bitch,” grunted Talbot.
The steel shard finally drew clear of the wound, and Talbot grabbed the compress, instantly pressing it firmly against the wound. The blood was oozing, not spraying, and thus Talbot guessed the metal had missed any critical arteries. But Colonel Wilson could still bleed to death or die from shock.
Talbot secured the thick compress with surgical tape and guided the colonel back to the single cot bed, supporting his weight as he clambered into it.
“We’re on course... for Atlantis,” gasped the colonel between clenched teeth. “They’ll contact... soon. Tell them... who... you are. Wes will be there to take over.... I don’t know why... the general didn’t use him... from the start. I swear that guy’s... not human. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt... not like this.”
Talbot, not knowing who the colonel spoke of, but unwilling to push him too much, merely nodded and draped a blanket over the injured marine. “Do you want something for the pain?” he asked.
Colonel Wilson shook his head savagely. “Pain is good. Lets you know... you’re still alive.”
“Uh huh.” Talbot would rather the peace of unconsciousness to whatever nightmare the colonel was currently going through, but he wasn’t going to argue.
Once he’d made the man as comfortable as possible, he returned to the cockpit and sat in the controller’s chair, unsure what to do next. With nothing besides the DSV’s controls to stare at, he was bored senseless in moments. Closing his eyes, fatigue settled over him like a mist, slowly dragging him away.
***
The blaring of alarms jerked Talbot awake. Gazing through bleary eyes at the panel before him, lights flashed everywhere, and he struggled to make sense of them through the fog within his brain.
A screen snapped into clarity. Simple sonar, the sub blipped in the center of looping circles denoting distance. In the second from last circle he saw a flashing red blip, homing in rapidly on the DSV.
Crap.
Talbot glanced over at the colonel, but he was still unconscious. No help there. It was all on him.
Casting his gaze over the entire panel, Talbot searched for something, anything, which might help him. A button near the right side of the console caught his eye. He should have noticed it immediately, it was flashing frantically, and he lunged over and pushed down hard on it, a gentle whooshing escaping beneath him as the countermeasures were deployed.
A flicker in the corner of his eye registered a small monitor to his left. It had switched on automatically and now glowed to life, showing an image from an external camera attached to the hull. Talbot watched in rapt horror as a torpedo glided unerringly through the water toward the DSV. At the last moment it flicked away, following instead the bubbling missile-like countermeasure. The torpedo caught up with the countermeasure swiftly, and Talbot watched it detonate silently on the screen, the concussive blast rocking the DSV milliseconds later.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Talbot heard something. Glancing around, he noticed the operator’s headphones sitting on a shelf beneath the console and picked them up, hearing buzzing chatter. He put them on.
“... if you continue on your present course we will destroy you. I repeat, if you do not identify yourself immediately, and if you continue on your present course we will destroy you.”
Talbot keyed the microphone. “This is Doctor Talbot Harrison. I’m with....” He trailed off, trying to remember the colonel’s first name. “I’m with Colonel Sam Wilson from the United States Marine Corps. Hold your fire.”
A moment of silence. “Doctor Harrison. We will guide your DSV in remotely. Stand by.”
Talbot sat back in the chair and breathed a sigh of relief. The radio crackled into life in his ears once more, a different voice this time, the sound of authority ringing from every word. “Welcome to Atlantis, Dr Harrison. We’ve been waiting for you.”
***
The DSV slid smoothly through the ocean depths, and Talbot panned the external camera to the front of the craft once more. A face appeared, looming through the murkiness, snapping into sudden focus as the ship’s lights illuminated it.
Covered with marine algae and crustaceans, the milky features bore the noble countenance of one born for greatness. Talbot panned the camera down, scanning the entire gargantuan sculpture carved from white marble. It was at least five times the size of Michelangelo’s famous sculpture of David. Unlike David, however, the model for this sculpture had been a warrior – ancient armor and weaponry adorning his form, his sword raised to attack. An expression of rage had once been expertly captured upon the beardless marble visage, but time and elements had worn the features away to the point where Talbot could just distinguish them.
And like magic, a massive city appeared from the darkness. Stretching off into the gloom, structures such as those Talbot had seen in the photos back at Quantico rose from the ocean floor. Huge columns seemed to grow straight upward like ancient stone trees, some cracked or broken, some shattered completely. Regardless, they gave Talbot an impression of how incredible this entry into the fabled city would have once been. The columns appeared similar to those of ancient Rome, but the structures themselves – although larger and more elaborate than any he had seen in his years of study – were definitely of Macedonian origin.
Talbot wondered abstractly if that were who had been depicted in the honorific statue at what had once been the city gates. Could it have been Alexander of Macedonia, the man who’d conquered half the world? He’d never know, but doubted it since Alexander wasn’t around until about 356 BC. This city seemed much, much older than that.
And it seemed to stretch on forever. Archways and even minor pyramids of Incan design – wider at the base and squatter than the more famous Egyptian ones – could be seen throughout the city. All Talbot’s knowledge of archaeology was flipped upside down as never-before-seen amalgamations of ancient styling and architecture combined into a city the likes of which the world had never glimpsed. It was as if a giant had put all of history into a blender; it should have looked atrocious, but somehow the ancient designers of Atlantis had taken it all and created a thing of intense beauty.
Returning the camera toward the bow, Talbot audibly gasped. Dwarfing the entire spectacle displayed on the monitor was an immense step-pyramid, rising within the center of the city. Almost two miles wide at its base and perhaps half a mile high, the gigantic Mesoamerican structure boasted similarities to the ancient Aztec temples, the largest of which was known as the Great Pyramid of Cholula, measuring 1480 feet across the base and around 220 feet high.
That was a baby compared to this behemoth.
Alas, centuries beneath the ocean had taken a heavy t
oll. The once sharp tiers were now smoothed to the point where it was almost impossible to differentiate between them. The broad staircase at the front was nearly a memory, noticeable only because of the running-lines of stone tracing either side of it.
The DSV powered directly toward the enormous structure, and soon Talbot spied something definitely not designed by the creators of Atlantis: a huge docking station. It had been positioned at the peak of the structure, a red beacon flashing from it.
Within moments, the DSV was docking with the platform, guided in by the invisible hands of a remote operator, the booming of the locking clamps reverberating through the hull. Talbot tried to rouse Colonel Wilson, but had no luck. Checking the man’s pulse, he found it beating strongly and reasoned the marine was still in shock. Talbot moved to the microphone to call for help, but was interrupted by something unexpected –
Someone was knocking from outside.
Talbot moved to the DSV’s hatch, but paused. The ship had no airlocks. If he opened it the entire vessel would be flooded within seconds. Hearing jabbering through the discarded earphones on the control console, Talbot swiftly returned and placed the cups over his ears.
“Hello?” he queried.
“Doctor Harrison. The arrival team is outside your vessel,” said the voice on the other end. “Please open the hatch for them.”
“What about the water?”
“There is an airlock attached to the submarine dock, sir. It is completely safe.”
Talbot doubted anything linked to this entire enterprise was completely safe, but returned to the side hatch and hit the button beside it. A low pneumatic hiss sounded, and the heavy steel door swung outward, narrowly missing the man in soldier’s fatigues positioned on the other side, his arm raised as though preparing to knock once more with the steel torch he held.
The man quickly recovered his composure and transferred the torch to his left hand, extending his right to assist Talbot out of the DSV’s narrow hatch.
“Colonel Wilson is injured,” said Talbot hurriedly.
The soldier nodded casually before turning and motioning two medical team members forth. They swiftly entered the DSV, carrying a collapsible stretcher upon which were two first aid kits and other equipment.
“How ya doing?” said the soldier casually, grasping Talbot’s hand and giving it two quick pumps. “I’m Wes.”
So this was the mysterious Wes whom Colonel Wilson had been referring to in such an awestruck way. He stood around six feet tall, his short, brown hair in tousled disarray, lending the man a slightly crazed appearance. Fit without looking bulky, Wes’s wide shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. His accent was definitely not American. British perhaps? Irish?
“Er... hello?” responded Talbot.
“Yeah. Welcome to Atlantis, mate,” said the soldier. “Watch out for falling rocks and shit. This place is a shithole. Falling apart, ya know?”
They began moving down a smooth rock tunnel, the rest of the arrival team falling in behind them, except four who waited behind with the medical crew.
“Heard you’ve had a shit of a day, eh?” drawled the soldier.
“You could say that,” answered Talbot. “What’s your accent?”
“Shit, sorry mate. Australian Special Air Service. On loan to try and help clean up this mess.”
Australian SAS, thought Talbot. He’d read about these guys; they were the elite. They were sent into situations where all hell had broken loose and usually came out the other end laughing. They were also considered to be at least partially insane.
Great.
“It’s nice to meet you,” said Talbot. “What’s your rank?”
“Don’t have one, mate,” drawled Wes. “Don’t answer to anyone I don’t want to, so I don’t need one.”
At least partially insane.
The flip side was they were also potentially the most lethal advance force in the world. Perhaps that required a degree of insanity.
The man carried himself in a well-balanced stride, almost catlike in his movements, surprising Talbot with his silky grace, in almost total contrast to the coarseness of his speech.
Wes led him down into the pyramid, the narrow tunnel floor layered with rubber mats to prevent slipping given the steep decline. Moisture constantly dripped from the low ceiling, and Talbot guessed if he tripped there’d be no stopping until he crashed into the stone wall at the bottom.
Not a pleasant prospect.
Every now and then, Wes would point out something of absolutely no importance, seemingly just to make conversation. Some were extremely obscure, and Talbot felt they should hold some meaning for him, but he found himself coming up empty.
“That’s where Malcolms copped it,” Wes said at one stage, pointing to a tunnel off to their left. “Fucking thing came out of nowhere and ripped his head straight off. You should have seen it!” The soldier grinned, shadows from the intermittent lanterns casting his visage in a maniacal light. “Like someone popping the cork on a bottle of champers. Sprayed shit out everywhere.”
“Uh... okay,” replied Talbot, at a loss for an appropriate response.
“Good man, Malcolms. Fucking good man.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Talbot, glancing at one of the marines behind him to see his reaction to Wes’s statement. The man simply averted his gaze, ignoring Talbot.
“How’re you gonna do it, anyway?” said Wes, abruptly changing the subject. “I mean, you’re the one who’s gonna to sort this shit out, aren’t ya?”
Talbot was taken aback, and his step faltered, tripping him forward. Instantly the commando’s hand whipped out and grasped his upper arm, pre-empting his fall in a vice-like grip.
“Watch that step, Doc,” drawled the Australian casually. Talbot’s heart thudded in his chest.
“Thank you,” he gasped.
Wes just shrugged. “I’m your babysitter now. Wouldn’t be much good if I let you get all fucked up on the doorstep now, would it?”
“I guess not,” replied Talbot.
“Anyway, like I was sayin’, how you gonna fix this thing?”
“I honestly have no idea,” said Talbot, the enormity of the question dropping upon his shoulders like a giant sandbag.
“Hope you think of something soon,” grunted Wes. “Otherwise we’re all fucked. These things are hard to take down, trust me. If more than a couple come through this planet is done. For people anyway.”
“I wish my brother were here,” murmured Talbot despondently.
“Yeah, Thomas was a good bloke, funny bastard. Got fucking embarrassed every time I swore, how fucking funny is that?”
“Um, yeah,” replied Talbot.
“Kind of like you,” said Wes cracking a sly grin.
Talbot glanced at the man and almost tripped again, catching himself on the side of the tunnel, his hand coming away covered in a thick slime. He grimaced and wiped the grime onto the leg of his pants.
“Yep. He was a bit of a sissy too,” mused Wes amicably.
Talbot bit back a retort. “How do they keep the ocean out?” he asked instead, changing the subject.
“Big fucking noisy shit, that’s how,” responded Wes. “The pumps just about shake this fucking place apart, but they keep us dry... sort of.”
His vagueness merely annoyed Talbot. He decided against further attempts to gather any facts from the soldier; his universe obviously began and ended with killing people.
“Sad about your brother. Those bastards really hung him out to dry,” said Wes suddenly.
“How do you mean?” asked Talbot.
“Leaving him behind and all that. Pretty fucked up if you know what I mean.”
“They had no choice.”
Wes grimaced. “There’s always a choice. Those useless bastards just didn’t like that one.”
“How so?” queried Talbot.
“Well, I wasn’t there, but from what I heard, they just ran like rabbits when that fucking dog thing tore through them. Your
brother had done something to slow down whatever the hell it was chasing them, and they left him behind. That’s pretty fucked up. They never went back in to see if he was alive or not, just locked down the rift and came looking for you.”
“Are you serious?” Talbot’s hands began trembling, but for once it wasn’t from fear.
“Yep. Anyways, this time it’ll be different. You won’t get left behind.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Talbot.
The Australian commando’s eyes narrowed, and his face adopted an expression so vastly different from his former casualness that Talbot’s breath caught in his throat. There was something very predatory about that look.
“Because this time I’ll be there,” he said simply.
Talbot found the words somehow reassuring and terrifying at the same time.
***
The first person they met was General Sharpe, recently escaped from Base Alpha. “It’s good to see you’re okay, Doctor,” the general said. “This mission would be doomed if you were to fall.”
“Like my brother fell?”
“Exactly.”
“Why was there no rescue attempt to retrieve Thomas?” demanded Talbot.
General Sharpe’s glare shot daggers at Wes, who simply leaned against a wall and yawned.
“It was deemed too risky to reopen the rift. The decision was made due to the high improbability of your brother’s survival. Any rescue attempt would endanger this entire base of operations as well as the lives of those involved. Every time one of those things gets through the rift, it tears its way out of here through the very walls. Each breach is a risk the entire place will collapse, and the rift will no longer be contained.”
“Surely if it’s at the bottom of the ocean, anything to come through would drown?” argued Talbot.
