Star Water Superstorm

by David Cline

  STAR WATER

  SUPERSTORM

  DAVID CLINE

  Copyright © 2020 DAVID CLINE

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  http://www.davidbcline.com

  Cover design by: Douglas Phan

  Editing by: Jennifer Rupprecht

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my friends who inspired much of the story and most of the characters. I will always cherish our adventures together and look forward to many more to come.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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 1

  July 1945 - Argentina

  The high tide glistened in the moonlight as Mateo Sanchez picked his way amongst the half-buried driftwood littering the beach. A rustic wooden dock bobbed up and down as the Atlantic waves lapped at its rotting wooden boards. It was an hour or so past midnight, and the only sound came from the salty water rushing up onto the cool sand. The world was asleep. Even the large flocks of birds that flooded the area by day scouring the shallow water for skittish fish, were now enjoying a quiet repose.

  Mateo was still just a young boy, but this hidden cove was one of his favorite places to meander when he wanted solitude. It was rarely visited, even by locals. He almost thought of it as his own.

  The salty breeze smelled rich and pure. Mateo bent down and grabbed a branch that was sticking up out of the sand. With a grunt he loosened it and threw it out to sea. He waited until he saw the splash in the moonlight and sat down.

  He removed his sandals and buried his feet into the cold, gritty sand. He leaned back on his arms and looked out at the dark horizon. The sky was overcast and allowed little celestial light through. The tide had peaked and was now receding down the shallow slope with every wave.

  There was an unspoken quality of the ocean that Mateo found hypnotizing. The continual rhythm sounded like a lullaby and caused his eyes to grow heavy. He laid on his back and looked up toward the sky.

  When he was younger, he remembered on several occasions trying to count the stars. He smiled. At least the magnificent heavens were one thing that never seemed to change.

  A loud splash caught him off guard, and he bolted upright. He squinted and looked out toward the far side of the cove where the cliffs came together like a closing book. It almost sounded like a whale had surfaced not too far away. He stood and began walking up the shoreline, looking for the white spray. He had seen whales in the cove before, but it was rare.

  Mateo decided to brave the wooden dock to get a closer look. He grasped the last wooden piling and leaned forward over the water. From the angle where he stood, he spotted a shape that looked almost looked like a chimney. The water around its base began to foam. He thought about running home to tell his parents but was too transfixed to move.

  With a sudden lurch, an enormous, metallic shape lifted and then settled onto the water, causing a wave a few feet high to wash over the dock. Mateo clung to the piling. Around him, the cove was perfectly silent. Even the insects seemed to watch in eager anticipation.

  The towering form rotated clockwise until Mateo was looking at it broadside. His eyes widened when he recognized the general outline from a picture he had seen in a book from school. Floating, only a stone’s throw distance from him, with water still running down its sides, was a submarine.

  The submarine’s size made Mateo’s blood run cold. It was the largest object he had ever seen. A thick wire connected the forward bow to the conning tower, which was what he had mistaken for a chimney. On top were some narrow poles, which must have been the communications antenna and periscope. The idea that someone might be watching him from inside that metal mass made his neck hair stand on end.

  He glanced around. There were no lights on the beach. He knew the darkness behind him would make it hard for someone to distinguish his silhouette. He didn’t want to take any chances, though. Still watching for any type of movement from the submarine, he stepped back. His foot broke through one of the rotting planks and he stifled a scream. A sharp edge had scraped his right leg between his knee and ankle. Mateo didn’t have to look down to know the cut was filling with blood. He cursed under his breath and with a new feeling of panic, pushed himself up.

  Mateo felt his adrenaline surge, and something inside warned him to put as much distance between him and the cove as possible. He had just stood and began to limp down the dock when he heard hushed voices in the breeze. He paused and listened. Where had they come from? He looked back toward the submarine. It had not moved. He turned and scanned the beach, but it was pitch-dark. He heard the voices again, drifting from somewhere along the coastline, coming toward him.

  Mateo grimaced and calculated his current distance from the tree line where he could easily conceal himself. The voices were too close. He wouldn’t make it in time. With no other option, he pushed off his left leg and dove into the ocean. The saltwater rushed into his wound and he gritted his teeth careful not to make a sound.

  With a quick stroke, Mateo found himself under the dock. It was so dark he was forced to feel his way forward with his hands stretched out in front of him. Soon, his arms wrapped around a thick circular pillar encrusted with barnacles.

  The planks above his head creaked as a small group walked out onto the dock above him. His body shivered more from fear than cold. They talked in German and he strained to hear them over the constant sound of water moving all around him. He looked up through a hole the size of a shoe and saw three dark silhouettes. They whispered in excited voices. He pulled himself higher out the water so he would be in a better position to listen to the conversation. Two were dressed in military uniforms and one in a sharp looking tuxedo.

  “I can’t believe he is finally here,” the man closest to him said.

  “Is everything in place?” the man in the tuxedo asked.

  “Yes.” There was a pause. “I was worried about him crossing the Atlantic. The damn Allies are patrolling the entire ocean, hunting down any U-Boats still unaccounted for. But now that the Sea Wolf has arrived, he will be as safe as he was in Germany before D-Day. This is our land now.”

  “Are we certain this beach is
secure? The entire world thinks he is dead. Even one witness could ruin years of careful planning and-”

  The man dressed in the military uniform raised his hand, cutting him short. “Just enjoy this moment. We have taken all the necessary precautions. You are about to witness history being made.”

  A powerful light reflected off the foamy water and into Mateo’s eyes. He hurried and submerged himself deeper. After a moment, he peaked around the wooden pillar and out toward the submarine. A bright, round light was flashing in their direction. It blinked in a quick, synchronized motion then disappeared. There was a brief pause, then one of the men in uniform lifted his arm and began flashing a light back toward the sub, as if having a conversation.

  “It is time,” one of them said smiling. “I cannot wait until he sees what we have done in these few short years. Bormann has turned this primitive country into a powerful haven for all Germans and loyalists to the Nazi party. Within a short amount of time, we will be just as powerful as we were at the height of the Third Reich.”

  There was a reverent silence, and then the man with the light turned to the others. “Here they come.”

  Mateo looked out and saw a hatch open. Dark figures began exiting and lining up in two rows opposite each other all the way down the narrow deck. He wanted to inch closer to get a better look, but did not dare with the three figures above him so close. After a minute of silence, two figures emerged and began walking slowly down the center while the figures raised their arms straight out in front of them in a salute. When they reached the end, they were helped down into a small rubber boat floating alongside the submarine. After they were securely positioned, two other figures hurried down, and, using two long oars, pushed off the side and began making their way to shore.

  Mateo retreated farther back into the shadows and tried to remain as silent as possible. The raft closed the gap to the dock with military precision. When they drew close enough, one of the men standing on the dock above him broke the eerie silence.

  “Welcome my Führer!”

  The raft bumped the dock and one of the sailors quickly tied a rope around a pillar. The other jumped out and helped the two dark figures out of the rubber boat.

  Mateo saw the man in the tuxedo embrace the dark figure. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find you safe and in good health.”

  The man began to cough. It sounded feeble and strained. Mateo shifted and noticed for the first time that the second figure was a woman. She grabbed a blanket from the outstretched arms of the sailor who had tied the raft down and wrapped it around his shoulders. Mateo was surprised to see how frail the man looked. He was hunched forward and kept a hand behind him that shook uncontrollably. Mateo wondered who the man could be. From the clandestine reception, he had to be important.

  After catching his breath, he finally spoke in a hoarse voice, “Thank you, my most loyal of friends.”

  The two sailors jumped back into the raft and made their way back to the submarine. Mateo noticed it had rotated again and the bow was pointing toward the open ocean.

  The five of them began walking toward the beach.

  “I trust that everything is in order?”

  “Things are going better than even we had hoped,” the man in uniform said with a smile. Within a short amount of time, we will once again be ready to face the entire world.”

  The Führer nodded. “Patience, my friend. There is still a lot of work that needs to be done before that time comes.” He stopped before stepping off the dock and onto the sandy coast. He looked inland and breathed heavily. “Gentleman, a new age is dawning. The fourth Reich in the sun.”

  Chapter 2

  Present Day - Tres Fronteras Argentina

  The bright sunlight shining through the thin canopy above made the old black and white photograph look grainy as it reflected off the photo’s laminated surface. Amara used her forearm to wipe the sweat from her forehead and rotated her body to create shade. She held the photograph out in front of her and squinted. It was an aerial snapshot taken some time in the late 1940’s. A massive upheaval of earth was surrounded by a dark border of thick foliage. Large banks of dirt dwarfed the trucks and people who had been working in the area at the time. She concentrated on the upper left-hand corner which had frayed almost past the point of recognition looking for any landmarks that would have survived over the last 70 years. Inundated by the vast jungle, she thought she saw what looked like the outline of a large, white rock that jutted out a few meters above the tree line. She traced the shape on the photo with her finger and then shook her head frustrated. Drops of perspiration dripped down her nose and onto the plastic-coated image in her hands. She shook the drops off and looked back at the two men following her.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  André drew up next to her, and after a long drink from the mouthpiece that lead to a cold reservoir of water inside his backpack, looked down at the GPS unit he was carrying.

  “Paraguay is about 10 miles to our left, and Brazil is about 15 miles to our right.” His thick French accent dripped over the English words like the beads of evaporated water from the long leaves in the trees that surrounded them.

  Finley swatted at a mosquito that was zeroing in on his exposed neck. “It is a furnace under this canopy,” he said. Bending down, he tugged his boot off emptying the small rocks that had found their way inside over the last few miles.

  The three of them were archeologists, who two weeks before were a couple hundred miles south researching the recently found artifacts in Cueva de las Manos: a world-famous cave named after the bright red paintings of hands that dated all the way back to the end of the last ice age.

  They had not known each other before they had congregated on that isolated spot in Patagonia, but had wasted little time becoming friends.

  André was from a small suburb of Paris. He had studied at Yale and there attempted to perfect his English and understanding of American sarcasm. His accent was so strong, if he was tired or intoxicated, everyone just gave up trying to understand him. He had brown curly hair and a beard that made him look homeless, especially after being on an archeological dig for more than a day.

  Finley was from Wales. He received his degree from Oxford, which he always said was the biggest waste of time. He had organized his life in a way so that he only worked half the year to save money. The other half he spent traveling. Your typical 21st Century, European, 34-year-old nomad.

  “What part of Oregon are you from?” Fin asked. He rested his foot on a rock and pulled the dirt crusted laces tight around his feet.

  “About an hour south of Portland,” she answered.

  Amara had studied at the University of California in Los Angeles. Born to hippie parents who had always supported her, she had been fascinated by physical history since she was in diapers, constantly digging up the backyard and looking for hidden treasure. Everyone had called her “fighting Am” because she would raise her fists like a drunken Irishman in a bar fight when she or a friend got into it with someone. When the seldom occasion permitted her to wipe the dirt off her face, people reminded her that she was beautiful. Many of her female peers in college hated her. One day she boldly asked one of them what it was about her that merited such an unwarranted sentiment. The girl responded that Amara was prettier than they were without even trying. It was not fair that they spent at least an hour or two in front of the mirror every day getting ready. She rolled her eyes, perplexed, trying to figure out what would possess someone to waste such a vast amount of time on something as trivial as appearance.

  “Can I see the photograph?” André asked.

  Amara placed it into his outstretched hand and looked around. They were traveling through an area of the planet that was experiencing an identity crisis. It could not quite decide if it wanted to be a jungle or a forest. Sometimes, the trees had long vines hanging down from high above, giving the impression of an African jungle. Other times, it felt like the dense woods near her house ba
ck in Oregon.

  She looked over at Fin who flipped a coin high in the air while leaning against a tree so overgrown with leaves, no bark was visible.

  “Careful with that,” she said. “We are sweating our brains out over that stupid souvenir.”

  Fin smiled at her and flipped it in her direction. She dropped her water bottle and lunged to catch it. The bottle hit the ground and the water poured out the narrow opening, seeping into the damp ground.

  “Freaking Brits,” she mumbled. She hurried and scooped up her bottle, twisting the cap tight.

  Fin scowled. “Now listen here missy, I am neither English nor a Brit, I am Welsh! A very important distinction to recognize if you don’t mind.”

  “You all live on an island half the size of California,” she said rolling her eyes. “You are all the same in my book.” She looked over at André who was squinting down at the photograph. “And don’t even get me started on the French.”

  Fin opened his mouth to retort but then closed it. “Is it really that small?” He laughed and then shrugged. “Well if you are ever visiting my homeland when our soccer teams meet, make sure you brush up on your borders. Many an innocent person has found trouble in the streets after a game just for wearing the wrong color.”

  Amara waved him off, concentrating instead on the coin she now rotated in her hand. At first glance, it did not look like anything special. The once shiny silver now had a bluish black tarnish as it had reacted with hydrogen sulfide in the air over the course of many years. She thought back to how it had fallen into their possession.

  Three days before, it was supposed to be their last night in the country. They had decided to get one last round of drinks at the local pub to celebrate new friends and a job well done. When they had sat down at the bar, they noticed a man arguing with the bartender over his bill. The man did not have enough money to cover the expense so he began to pat himself down, searching for anything of value that could appease the debt. After a frustrating exchange, he had pulled out the coin that she now held. The three archeologists had descended on the poor man like leopards. They offered to pay his entire bill for the coin, and the story behind it. Without any other options, and after an angry glance from the bartender, the man, whose name was José, agreed.