by Jim McCann
“Distress signal and all alarms have been disabled,” came a voice from behind Jesse.
He turned to see a muscular, broad-shouldered younger version of himself, dressed in a heavily modified wet suit. The younger man’s smile was even more dangerous than Jesse’s, if possible. Jesse knew it was possible, because the man was his own son.
“Excellent, David. We’re running dark again.” Jesse nodded to the crewmen behind David, signaling them to bring their captive forward.
“But they heard it, of that you can be sure, American.” The sub’s captain was bloodied and beaten, yet still his voice was raised in defiance. This was a man who knew he was facing certain death, but who would fight to the bitter end, ready to go down with his ship. Jesse admired that in the man.
David sneered at the captain. “Make you a deal. I won’t tell you how to captain, you don’t tell me how to pirate.” He flicked his wrist and a long, lethal blade extended from the forearm of his suit. “On second thought, I’m not in the mood for deals today, so consider yourself relieved of duty.”
As David wiped the blood from his blade, the captain’s lifeless body fell to the floor, a gash cleanly cut through the front and back of his torso. Jesse was proud of the way his son took charge. He motioned for David to follow him as he walked to the officers’ quarters at the bow of the ship.
David looked around at the empty bunks. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“It seems our reputation precedes us. They’ve barricaded themselves near the torpedo bay ahead.” Jesse reached into a pouch. “Or, I should say, your reputation. This was your op, your win. And I think you’ve earned this.”
David looked at the item in his father’s hand: a well-worn hunting knife. “I can’t take that piece of junk. That’s the love of your life. I’ve never seen you a day without it—sharpening that blade.”
“It hasn’t always been mine,” Jesse said, placing the knife firmly into his son’s hand. “It belonged to your grandfather. He was one of the navy’s first frogmen in World War II and the first black man to have that honor. His fellow mates nicknamed him the Manta for how stealthily he moved through the water . . . and how quickly he could kill a man armed just with this knife.” David turned the blade over and saw an image of a manta ray embossed into the handle. “He gave it to me when I was your age. I think he’d want you to have it now. Carry on the tradition.”
David was about to thank his father when something thudded hard against the top of the sub, almost making them lose their footing.
Jesse activated the Bluetooth communicator in his earpiece. “What hit us?”
In the control room, one of the pirates was looking at the radar screen, his eyes not believing what they were seeing. “Sir . . . there’s someone out there!”
“Another sub?” Jesse was confused. Even if help was coming, no vessel could have reached them this quickly.
“I think . . . it’s a man!”
Before anyone could react, the behemoth submarine began to rise toward the surface! “I gave no order to change course!” Jesse barked.
With an amazing splash, the submarine broke the surface of the water and rose another ten feet into the air before crashing back down, floating like a lame, oversized metal duck. Inside, the pirates held their breath as they heard footsteps above them. Someone was walking on the hull!
A gleam in his eye, David turned to his father. “That’s not a man.”
“You think it’s the ‘Nessie’ you’ve been chasing?” Jesse asked.
Before David could answer, there came the screeching sound of metal being ripped open. Jesse’s men rushed to the sound. The top hatch was missing! They raised their guns tentatively, whispering among themselves. Without warning, the hatch flew down into the sub, knocking two pirates to the ground. A figure dropped from the hull into the sub.
Indeed, there was no man—no ordinary man at least. Towering above them with shoulder-length curly brown hair, golden eyes, and a bare broad chest covered in intricate tattoos, the mystery man stretched to his full height and gave a smirk.
“Permission to come aboard,” said Arthur Curry.
The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire from the pirates gave their answer. Arthur grabbed the hatch from the floor to use as a shield as he barreled down the sub’s hallway. Bullets ricocheted as he continued his march like a football player headed for the end zone. He stopped in front of a cabin and tore the door off as though it were paper.
Turning to the last remaining pirate, he grinned. “Hold the door, will ya?” he asked as he threw it at the pirate, flattening him. Arthur stepped into the room. It was the torpedo bay where the surviving Russian crew had hidden.
“He—he’s real!” said one in Russian.
“And he’s late for happy hour, so hurry up,” Arthur answered, also in Russian.
He led them up the stairs to the top of the submarine, where they quickly boarded three lifeboats. “Stay here. Just need to take out the trash.” With that, Arthur dropped back into the sub and found himself face-to-face with Jesse and David, the elder pointing his machine gun and the son with a Glock trained on the intruder’s chest. The duo opened fire.
As they emptied their weapons, round after round knocking Arthur farther back, they drove him deeper toward the torpedo bay. To escape the shower of bullets, Arthur dropped through a hatch in the floor, deeper into the bowels of the sub.
Arthur had only a moment to notice he was surrounded by the ship’s torpedoes that lined the walls. He caught a glimpse of an opening that had been cut with laser-sharp precision. Beyond looked to be a control panel. The mini submarine was docked there, attached securely so as not to let in any water.
The thunk of another man dropping into the torpedo bay shifted Arthur’s attention. It was the younger of his attackers. The man triggered a long blade that sprang from his suit’s forearm. He gripped a short sword in his other hand, twirling it slightly. This attacker had a look of glee on his face as he started toward Arthur.
“Been waiting a long time for this,” David said as he lunged.
Arthur dodged the blades deftly. “And yet this is the first time I’ve seen you. Couldn’t have been waiting too long.”
David engaged Arthur, crashing both blades down on him. Arthur blocked the move with a pipe he tore from the wall. The men’s faces were inches apart. Arthur could see an odd excitement in the stranger’s eyes.
“I scavenge the seas and you patrol them, right, ‘Aquaman’? We were bound to meet sooner or later.” David welcomed the challenge to face the creature he had studied for years, scouring reports and news about sightings of the mystery man from the sea. This indeed was his “Nessie,” and he meant to make Arthur a prized trophy when he killed him.
“Huh. Well, let’s not make a habit of it, then,” Arthur said, pushing David back and dropping the pipe.
David slashed again and again at Arthur, who blocked the blades with his bare arms, knocking them aside without so much as a scratch. David’s eyes widened as Arthur swung his forearm and knocked the short sword from David’s grip. Dodging a swipe from the man’s wrist blade, Arthur caught it between his hand and snapped it in two. David found himself hoisted in the air and Arthur flung him across the way. David’s body slammed into the steel wall and slid down.
“You’ll pay for that, fish man!” Arthur turned to face the voice in time to see Jesse standing behind him, grenade launcher in hand. With a fwoom, a grenade flew to Arthur’s chest and exploded upon impact. The blast hurled Arthur against a wall, denting the metal where he hit, and he fell facedown.
Father and son exchanged glances, and smiles began to creep across their faces. The mighty hero of the sea had been downed. But the sound of metal scraping across the floor broke their silent celebration. Both men turned to see Arthur rise to his feet, pipe in hand.
Arthur brushed his long hair from his face, revealing a slight grimace. “Ouch.” With an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist, the pipe flew from his hand a
nd pierced Jesse’s shoulder, pinning him to the opposite wall.
“Dad!” David stood in shock as Arthur walked toward Jesse.
“That’s your kid? Talk about failing as a father.” Arthur yanked the pipe out and Jesse slid down the wall, the gaping wound in his shoulder starting to bleed profusely. Arthur turned and began to climb the ladder back up to the main cabin.
“Don’t talk to me about failure!” Jesse’s scream echoed through the chamber as he tried to aim the grenade launcher at his ascending attacker. Injured, Jesse missed the mark wildly as the grenade sailed into the hull, blowing a hole in the ship and rattling a torpedo off the racks. The missile rolled mercilessly toward Jesse, crushing the man against the wall. The breach in the hull started to peel open, and water began to pour in.
David ran to his father and tried to lift the heavy metal that was pinning him. Looking to the ladder, he cried after Arthur, “You can’t leave! He’s trapped!”
Arthur barely looked down. “You boys got yourself in this mess, get yourselves out, ‘scavengers of the seas.’”
“You can’t just leave him like this!” David’s voice howled as water began to rapidly rush in and fill the room. “He’ll drown!”
This time, Arthur paused. His golden eyes flashed with fury. “You murdered innocent people. Ask the sea for mercy.” With that, Arthur left them in the flooding chamber.
“Go,” Jesse said. He sounded resolved to his fate, but his son refused to stop trying to free him. Jesse lifted up a grenade as David was about to protest. “You have to live so you can kill him.”
“I’ll hunt him down and slit his throat like the Manta,” David vowed.
Pulling the pin on the grenade, Jesse gave a weak smile. “I expect nothing less, my son.”
David cried out in anger as he felt his heart breaking. “Damn you!” His voice echoed, and he hoped Arthur could hear his curse.
David scrambled into the mini-sub, and looked back one last time at his father. He hid tears as he closed the hatch and detached from the giant craft. Looking behind him, he saw a flash as the grenade exploded and the ship—his father’s watery casket—began to sink. David sped off, thoughts of vengeance flooding his mind.
Arthur had already grabbed the lines of the three lifeboats when he felt the ship rock from the blast in the torpedo chamber. His face hardened. The sea had claimed the killers, as was its right.
Making sure the rescued Russian soldiers were secure in the rafts, he sped across the water, boats in tow, bringing the survivors to safety as the sun began its descent. Mercy for the innocent, he thought. The sea always had a way of ensuring balance, something Arthur had grown up hearing time and again from his father . . . among others.
Two
The sun was rising on Amnesty Bay, and Tom Curry stood at the edge of the pier to greet it as he had for nearly thirty years. The wind blew through his short-cropped dark hair, now flecked with gray from the years, and the glow of the dawn lit his dark eyes. His tan skin was weathered with age. He smiled at the sea. Tomorrow, maybe, he thought. Tom turned and began walking back to the old lighthouse.
A loud splash broke the morning reverie. Tom’s smile grew to a grin. Without turning back, he knew it wasn’t Atlanna, but the tide had brought home the next best thing. “Welcome home, son.”
“You’re like a clock.” Arthur shook his mane of hair dry as he joined his father.
“And you’re in time for breakfast. I’m buying.” Tom put his arm around his son, happy to have family home again.
Tom’s well-worn red pickup truck was one of the few vehicles parked outside the tavern, the sign above the door reading “Terry’s Sunken Galleon.” It was the best place in Amnesty Bay to get greasy food any time of day or night without questions. Arthur and Tom were dining on such a feast as the televisions flashed cable news on the screens around the tavern.
Arthur looked at his father’s plate, scraped clean, as he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “How is it I can breathe underwater but you can still swallow a whole meal before me?”
Tom shrugged, giving a crooked grin. “You’ve finally discovered my superpower.”
The two men laughed. This felt . . . right. It feels like home, Arthur thought. He spent most of his time on the shores of other continents and had friends in many ports, but this, this was the only place he felt he could be himself.
“It’s the top of the hour, and this morning’s headline remains: ‘Maritime Mystery!’” The news anchor’s voice blared in the mostly empty bar. “Dramatic footage shows the navy aiding the rescued survivors of the Stalnoivolk, a Russian submarine apparently hijacked yesterday by a group of heavily armed and high-tech pirates that have been terrorizing the Atlantic lately.”
The news caught Tom’s attention, and he turned to watch the screen. Arthur glanced at the TV while chewing a piece of bacon. “These same pirates are wanted in connection with the disappearance of a prototype of a top secret naval mini–stealth submarine.” An image of the sleek black ship flashed on the screen. It was the one Arthur had seen attached to the Russian ship.
“Wasn’t me,” Arthur murmured in response to his father’s knowing look.
The anchor’s voice chimed in as if on cue. “And we are getting unconfirmed reports that the ‘meta-human’ dubbed by social media as ‘the Aquaman’ was on the scene and likely the one responsible for this daring rescue.” A blurry image of Arthur streaking across the sea, taken from a smartphone camera, filled the screen. Tom tilted his head slightly.
“Stand by that?” he asked, a smile beginning to form.
“That could be . . . anybody. The Bat?” Arthur countered unconvincingly.
“I don’t think the Bat swims.” Tom chuckled.
“No, he has some pretty crazy toys that do that for him,” Arthur said under his breath.
Tom slapped his son’s shoulder, leaving a greasy streak on his flannel shirt. He beamed. “You’re doing it. You’ve been doing it, haven’t you? What Vulko trained you to do?”
Arthur rolled his eyes at the name. “Vulko’s only got one oar in the water.”
Tom was undeterred. “I knew you’d embrace it someday. Your mother—”
“Stop. We’ve been over this.”
“She always said you would be the one to unite the world with Atlantis,” Tom finished. At the sound of the word, Arthur erupted.
“Atlantis killed my mother!” The harsh whisper carried a threat that the subject was still off-limits; old wounds ran deep.
Tom shook his head. “You don’t know that.”
“Has she returned? It’s been almost thirty years! She’s dead, killed because she gave birth to me, some half-breed no one wants in her former realm or here.”
His father put his hand over Arthur’s and forced him to face him. Softly, Tom said, “Son. One day you will have to stop blaming yourself for what happened.”
Before Arthur could reply, a gang of five rowdy-looking bikers entered the Sunken Galleon. One turned to Terry behind the bar and barked for him to turn up the volume.
“It’s that nut job I was tellin’ you about. The underwater dude!” the biker told his friends.
The television now had two people on: the anchor and a man in a lab coat. “Joining us now to discuss his theories on this so-called savior of the seas is Dr. Stephen Shin, formerly of the US Institute of Marine Science. Thank you for joining us, Dr. Shin.”
Dr. Shin looked as though he hadn’t slept all night, anxious to have a platform to present his thoughts. “Thank you for having me.”
“Dr. Shin,” the anchor continued, “you have what some have called a rather controversial theory on this Aquaman’s origin.”
“Some may laugh it off, but may I remind you that three-quarters of Earth is covered by ocean. We spend billions to research life outside of this world, when, I ask, who’s to say we are the only intelligent life on this land? Given what we’ve seen of him, we humans may not even be the most dominant species on Earth anymo
re.” The scientist grew more and more animated as he spoke.
The blurry video still of Arthur filled the anchor’s side of the screen again. “So you’re suggesting Aquaman is from the ocean?” The anchor tried to suppress disbelief.
Dr. Shin leaned closer to the camera, eyes wide. “I am saying he is from Atlantis.”
Arthur and Tom looked at each other nervously. Would anyone take this man seriously? The silent question was quickly answered as the bikers roared in laughter.
“See? What’d I say?” The leader of the gang wiped a tear from his eye as he nearly doubled over, cracking up at the idea.
The anchor’s voice came over the speaker as Arthur’s blurry photo remained. “To be clear, you’re referring to the myth of—”
“The lost continent of Atlantis is no myth,” Shin insisted. “Study tectonic plates; look at the landscape of Pangea. Once, we were all one supercontinent. Now there are seven, and Atlantis is the missing eighth! And populated by beings far more dangerous than anything from the stars. Just witness the video captured yesterday. This display of raw power is only the latest in . . .”
A chair scraped across the floor by the bar, accompanied by the group of bikers muttering among themselves. They were looking back and forth between the image on the screen . . . and Arthur.
“Yo!” the lead biker called, approaching the father and son, gang in tow. He put his hands on the table and leaned in. Nodding his head back to the TV, he asked, “That you? The fish boy?”
Arthur pushed his plate away and sighed. Here we go, he thought as he stood to face the man. He cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s fish man.” His look dared the men to push their luck further.
The lead biker reached into his vest and pulled out a cell phone. He cracked a wide grin. “Up for a selfie with me?” The biker laughed. The rest of the gang joined in.
“One with all of us! Hometown hero from under the sea,” another roared.
