by Nick Thacker
The Atlantis Stone
Nick Thacker
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Afterword
Also by Nick Thacker
About the Author
Acknowledgments
I never thought I’d be writing the acknowledgements section of a real, live book. It’s been an amazing and thoroughly moving journey, and I’m more excited about this project than I thought possible. While I’m at the very beginning of (what I hope to be) my career, there are still — and will always be — people in my life who deserve my thanks and gratitude.
First, to my beautiful, amazing, and humble wife Em. You are a blessing in every way — I thank you for your undying love and support, and for pretending to like all the sections of this book — even the ones that never made it to print!
To my family and friends — thanks for putting up with me for all these years; you’ve guided me, taught me and corrected me along the way, and although I’ll always be stubborn, you’ve definitely worn off on me — however good of a person I am is a reflection of you all.
To my coworkers, church family, and others. I know it’s been unbelievably annoying to hear me call out daily word counts and “Look at this cover! How about this one!” constantly, but I hope this makes it worth your while (if you’re not into fiction or thrillers at all, then I’m just sorry to have bothered you so much!).
To Mike, my editor and friend who literally turned my hodgepodge manuscript into a viable story and (hopefully) a great read. You’re amazing, and I can’t thank you enough.
Finally, above all else, I thank God for giving me the life and blessings I have — none of what I do would be possible without Him, and I hope to live a humble, honoring, and honest life filled with His presence and grace.
To Grandpa…
* * *
No matter how bad this is… I know I still would have been your favorite author. Miss you, love you, and say hello to Grandma for me!
Chapter 1
February, 1791 - Just north of the Potomac River
The bubble-shaped submarine came to a slow halt. Its pilot looked through the bent glass in the craft’s top section to get a visual of his target. This shallow section of the river was interrupted by a deeper divot in the river’s bottom; a small well-shaped valley that sunk into the riverbed about eight feet.
It was into this hole that David’s sights were set.
He maneuvered the small submarine — an exact copy of one of his previous inventions, the Turtle — into position at the edge of the small well. The watercraft wasn’t exactly easy to control — a combination of foot pedals and hand cranks were required in perfect unison just to move the semi-buoyant craft forward, much less side-to-side. He needed to turn completely around, slowly moving Turtle II's stern toward the hole.
His hands flew over the controls and cranks, ensuring there were no over-corrections or fast movements that might send the vessel spinning out of control. The Turtle II was groundbreaking in many ways. David Bushnell designed the first American submarine, and this second version, using a water-based ballast system for controlling depth. This newer version incorporated a screw-type propeller to push the craft forward through the depths. To the untrained eye, this newer copy was exactly the same as its first incarnation.
The major difference between the two versions, however, was that Turtle II was not fitted with the large detachable mine that the Turtle employed. The Turtle’s mine had been something David included as an afterthought — given the turmoil of the British occupation of Boston and the surrounding colonies, he'd had enough foresight to fit his underwater vehicle with a functional — though limited — weapons system.
Combining the detachable mine with the stealth of a vessel that could travel sight unseen below the water's surface, Bushnell had hoped to create a vessel that could one day be used in naval and military applications. If the Turtle succeeded in deploying its timed explosive onto the underbelly of a British battleship, the young nation might gain an advantage over its powerful British opponent. David hadn’t been able to get the mines to “stick” to the undersides of the ships, so while the intended effect — destroying British ships — hadn’t been achieved, the outcome was still the same: the timed mines erupted from the ocean’s floor, and the British pulled their fleet back out of the harbor, unsure of what had caused the explosions. Overall, Bushnell’s mission had been a success.
Today, the Turtle II had a different mission. Rather than a detachable mine on the submarine’s backside, a 200-pound detachable box was added. Its contents were unknown to David — he was simply contracted to navigate to the proper location beneath the surface of the Potomac River and detach the box, placing it precisely where his employers designated — the well-shaped depression at the river’s bottom, the corners of it now marked with temporary wooden rods.
With his turn finally complete, David was now directly above the drop zone. He unscrewed the large connecting rivet and pressed the clasp holding the detachable unit in place. He heard a soft pop as the box disconnected from the rear wall.
After waiting thirty seconds to ensure that the box had reached the river bottom, he turned the submarine ninety degrees to his left — facing the craft almost due north. From this angle, he could see his handiwork through the submarine’s small, bubble-shaped viewing window. The large crate, bound with metal bands and locked in four places, sat nestled at the bottom of the shallow well, half submerged in silt and pebbles. Satisfied, David began spinning the propeller with his feet and guided the craft up to speed toward the shore. His work was done, and his payment could be collected.
From a rise above the northern edge of the river, three men watched silently — two on horseback, the third standing next to them. The Turtle II was submerged for an hour or so, yet the men looked on. They sa
id nothing to each other until David’s ship resurfaced, proceeded by a growing circle of lapping water and bubbles from the emptying ballast.
As the submarine slid toward them, the man seated in the middle spoke to the man standing next to him. “Benjamin, the mission has met with success. Finalize the plans for the layout at dawn, then return here and deliver the letter to our associate, Mr. L’Enfant.”
“Yes, Mr. Washington,” Benjamin replied. He left on foot, heading west.
Bushnell disembarked and returned from the river’s edge. He looked up the hill at the two remaining men and gave a slight nod. It was finished.
Washington looked to his companion. “See that Mr. Bushnell is compensated for his fine work here today — the object should now be safe from prying eyes.” He let out a tired sigh. “I suggest that you forget it as well; all that is left in this matter is the drawing of the new city’s layout.”
The man responded, “I am afraid that our dear Charles will not welcome the news. He has struggled for months to perfect the layout for our nation’s capital, and he does not always respond well to criticism.”
Washington took a long moment to answer. “Mr. Jefferson, I have personally appointed Charles l’Enfant to oversee this project, but the situation has changed. Our enemy is close to discovering our secret; we cannot continue to burden our nation with its protection. We shall leave it for another generation.”
“Please see to it that Mr. Ellicott takes over the surveying and layout of this area, and that Mr. Banneker remains behind as his personal scribe and assistant. I am confident they will give our capitol a foundation worthy of the secret it is built upon.”
Washington knew the secret could tear apart the fledgling nation. He also knew from experience how the promise of wealth and prosperity could tempt even the best of men, and the contents of the now submerged box would prove a terrible temptation indeed.
Washington and his colleagues had come so far in this new land, and had taken great pains to ensure that they would leave their families and friends with a solid foundation. If left unguarded, the whispers and rumors of this secret could eventually lead to an uprising — men would do anything to possess the knowledge it would provide. Washington knew the young government was not yet capable of dealing with this powerful object. It must be hidden away, until someone worthy of its power might find it.
Jefferson and Washington continued watching the great river before them as the sun sank into the water’s far edge. The Potomac would make a wonderful backdrop to a marvelous city, one that would hopefully see many centuries of growth and prosperity, and serve as a beacon for the people of the great land.
And one day far beyond the end of the two mens’ lives, someone would discover the secret the Founding Fathers had tried to conceal in the layout of their new capital city. Washington was sure of it, and he only prayed that it was someone worthy of the knowledge.
Chapter 2
Present Day
The air smelled like burning tar. Smoke, billowing from the mouths and openings of caves, blocked out the sun and caused a deep-gray shadow over the low, rolling dunes.
Captain Bryce Reynolds had a hard time breathing, and crouched lower still, his face nearly touching the gritty sand. He winced, trying to see through the thick clouds of fire and smoke, and crawled forward slowly. The top edge of the dune he was on was merely feet in front of him, and would offer his team much better visibility of the area in front of them.
A mortar shell blasted fifty yards from his location, opening yet another hole in a previously unknown cave system. A sergeant nearer to the explosion, Arturo Rodriguez, rolled back on his heels and fell backwards onto the sand. “Shit!” he yelled. “Forget these Republican Guard guys, the friendly fire’s gonna kill us first!”
Bryce dismissed the man’s complaint and instead focused again down the sights of his M-16 assault rifle. The mortar blast had opened the roof of a large underground cavern, and Bryce could see numerous Iraqi Republican Guard units scurrying away from the collapsing rock formation. One of the men lifted a gun, aiming toward Bryce’s team on the hill. The man next to him, Joseph Strahan, fired two rounds down into the cave, dropping the Iraqi soldier before he could shoot.
“Nice shot,” Bryce said. He and the other four U.S. Army Rangers next to him on the dune waited for a moment to see if any more Iraqi Guards would run out from the cavern, but none came.
They inched forward, slowly reaching the top of the dune. More artillery shells smashed down onto the sandy field in front of them, and each explosion caused the team to retract a bit, tensing in anticipation of a sudden counterattack.
A break in the dusty air came momentarily, and Bryce could see the city of Samarra, Iraq to the northwest; the Tigris to its left, winding through the sand and rock plains like a mirage. Immediately ahead, he saw the huts and tents of the Iraqi Republican Guard, and men running about in preparation. Mortar blasts continued to launch debris and rock upwards, causing even more commotion among the opposing forces.
“There,” Bryce called out to the rest of his team. “That’s where we’re headed. We need to secure the perimeter first, and Strahan and I will grab the package. Eyes up; on me.” He didn’t wait for his teams’ response; they knew the mission objectives.
He rose to his feet, the Ranger team following. Master Sergeant Andreeson and the kid, Private First Class Jason O’Neil, took the left flank. They ran a straight-line path down the front side of the dune, pacing their advance carefully toward the camp they had been ordered to infiltrate. The small command and weapons depot sat just outside the city of Samarra, and their mission was to locate and retrieve the “package” — a list of firing orders and coordinates. Their cover would be an ongoing onslaught of friendly artillery fire, raining down on the area from the north, hopefully causing the Iraqi soldiers to anticipate an attack from that direction. His team spread out over the wide expanse of sand dunes and rocky plains, and he heard his second-in-command recite the mission objectives to the rest of the men through the radio transmitter.
At least they knew their mission objectives, he thought.
Captain Reynolds, however, had one more objective that was not known to the other members of the small five-man Ranger team. Prior to their airdrop, Major Dwight Maynes had pulled Bryce aside near the cockpit of the cargo plane and away from the rest of his men. The noise in the fuselage was deafening, but thanks to the ear-mounted two-way radios they’d been equipped with, the noise-cancelling devices prevented them from needing to shout.
“Reynolds — there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that, sir?” Bryce asked.
“In addition to your current objectives, I need you to locate another package.” Maynes answered.
“Yes sir. What’s the item?”
“It’s a book — a notebook, I guess. I have no idea what’s inside; just locate and retrieve it. I’ll take care of it from there.”
“Affirmative. So, what exactly is this all for? I mean, a notebook? And you don’t even know what’s inside?” Bryce asked.
“Look, Bryce. I don’t understand it all either. This is definitely a need-to-know mission, and — “ he looked to the men in the cargo plane’s interior preparing for their jump, “I expect that you’ll keep this under wraps as well.”
“Of course. Say no more. See you on the other side, Major.” He turned and walked down the middle of the fuselage, the two facing rows of seated combat soldiers suited and ready for deployment. Bryce nodded at them and took his place at the front of the line, readying himself for the drop.
Another mortar shell explosion brought him back to the present. So far, the attack had been executed flawlessly. The Iraqis didn’t seem to know there were enemy troops on the ground in their area, and the Ranger team was moving steadily and quickly toward the camp.
O’Neil and Andreeson reached the clearing on the southwest side of the camp, and went prone behind a cluster of boulders. On the right flank, Sergeant Rodrig
uez moved into position and prepared to strafe the outside of the quartermaster’s tent. Bryce lifted a fist to his head, then counted to three on his fingers. At three, he lifted his gun and squinted down the scope of his assault rifle. Next to him, Corporal Joseph Strahan did the same.
“Mortar team, open fire.” His own men also opened fire on the eight scattered tents and mobile buildings.
Bryce’s order signaled the beginning of the attack. While the mortar unit had been laying covering and distracting fire from the north, the real fireworks were just beginning. Bryce had timed their attack with the mortar team, stationed less than a mile away, and now the infantry unit there was using all three of their mortars in tandem, launching explosive rounds on the camp once every other second.
The effect was chaotic — the twenty or thirty Iraqi men hunkered down in the tents and buildings snapped into action. They ran in every direction, some chopped down immediately by Ranger fire, and others hit by falling mortar rounds. The few that weren’t hit ran for the tunnels and bunkers surrounding the base.
