THE TRENCH
Paul Mannering
Copyright 2017 by Paul Mannering
www.severedpress.com
Chapter 1
The coffee tasted worse than bitter, as if the water had gone sour. Michael sipped the cold brew anyway. So far, the flight from Honolulu to Auckland on a US Navy C-130 Hercules had been long and dull. It got colder as they headed south. New Zealand was as close to Antarctica as Michael ever wanted to get. A great place for skiing in winter, but he preferred water-skiing and surfing in tropical Hawaii.
Trying to sleep in the vibrating hold of the cargo plane proved impossible. The facilities were Spartan, and Michael thought the coffee might have been recycled from the airplane’s chemical toilet. The only food provided were MRE ration packs, and they tasted worse than the coffee.
Lying on his back, his eyes closed, arms tucked into his jacket, Michael replayed recent events in his head. After a long night of tequila shots and passion, he had finally fallen asleep with a surfer girl wrapped around him, all salt scent and hard muscle. Her name had been Niki, or Viki or something. He woke up when the pounding in his head had been drowned out by a steady knocking on the door of the hotel room.
Eyes half-closed, Michael opened the door. A man in a crisp khaki US Navy Ensign’s uniform and precision haircut stood before him and regarded Michael with professional blankness.
A woman with a lieutenant’s insignia on her uniform stood to one side.
“Yeah?” Michael said through the mold growing on his tongue.
“Doctor Saint-Clair?” the Ensign asked.
“Ah… no??” Michael replied.
“Would you mind stepping aside, sir?”
“What is this all about?”
“Sir, I have orders to collect Doctor Nicole Saint-Clair from this location.”
“I have no idea who–Wait, this isn’t my hotel room.”
The ensign stepped forward and entered the suite. With a casual sweep of the room, he took in the empty bottles and the discarded clothes.
The lieutenant stepped into the room, her hands clasped behind her back in a formal gesture. She studied Michael intently for a moment. “Are you Michael Armitage?” she asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“The United States Government.”
“What is this about?”
“I recognize you from the photo Lieutenant Armitage keeps on her locker door.”
“You’re here to blackmail me or something?”
“Of course, not. What you do in your life is none of my concern. You might want to talk to your wife though.”
“Ex-wife. I mean, we’re separated.” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated. Now if you’ll excuse me, I appear to be in the wrong hotel room.” Michael stumbled back towards the bedroom and then paused, “Uhh, help yourselves to a drink.”
The blonde woman sat up when he walked in, a sheet demurely clasped against her chest, the tanned curve of her back all bared and perfect.
“Who you talking to?”
“Someone looking for Nicole Saint-Clair.” Michael avoided eye contact and scooped up his jeans, sneakers, and shirt from the floor.
“Who? The police?”
“US Navy, ma’am.” The female lieutenant stood in the bedroom doorway.
Michael took the opportunity to slip into the ensuite bathroom. He washed his face and took a long look at himself. Unshaven, on the wrong side of thirty, and on the last month of his credit cards. He wondered how bad his luck had to be if his wife’s shipmates turned up in the hotel room of some woman he had hooked up with.
Dressed and awake, he returned to the bedroom and stopped, Nicole was pulling on clothes while the female lieutenant stood by.
“Hey, she’s got nothing to do with this, uhh, whatever this is.”
“You can wait in the other room, Mister Armitage,” the lieutenant said.
Michael blinked and then stumbled into the living room. He found sunglasses and the room keys for a different hotel on the coffee table. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir.” The ensign hadn’t moved.
“I was pretty drunk last night, maybe I pissed off you and your buddies?”
“I don’t drink, sir.”
“Neither do I. At least, never again.”
“Let’s go, Ensign,” the lieutenant said, emerging from the bedroom, Nicole following in her wake, wearing jeans, boots and a surfer T-shirt. A backpack was slung over her shoulder.
“Thanks for last night, Michael,” Nicole said as she walked past.
“Sure, sorry about the early wake up.” Michael shrugged apologetically.
“Not your fault.”
“After you, sir.” The ensign fell into step behind Michael and closed the door on the way out.
Descending the stairs, Michael pushed his hands into his jeans pockets. His wedding ring felt cold, and he slipped it on his finger like Frodo with the One Ring.
They emerged into the glorious morning of a Hawaiian spring day. At the street side, the ensign opened the rear passenger door on a non-descript SUV with dark, tinted windows. Nicole and the lieutenant got in. Michael stopped.
“Well, I guess I’ll be on my way then.”
“One moment please, sir.” The ensign leaned down and listened to someone hidden in the shadow of the vehicle’s interior.
“Doctor Armitage, we would like to offer you a ride,” he said, straightening up.
“It’s okay. My hotel is two blocks that way. I can walk.”
“Get in the car, sir.”
“Not without some explanation.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, sir.” The ensign’s hand dropped to the holstered pistol on his hip. Michael found the gesture more chilling than the stone-faced refusal to answer his questions.
“For someone whose job it is to defend America’s freedom, you sure don’t have a lot of it yourself.”
“I do just fine, sir.”
Michael stared at the gun for a moment then followed the man’s gesture to get in the car.
“What is going on?” Nicole asked.
“I’m going for a ride. You?”
“Same. Did they tell you what this was about?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Not at liberty to say?”
“Something like that.”
“You must have really pissed someone off last night.”
“I don’t remember much about last night,” Michael admitted.
Nicole regarded him steadily. “You approached me at the hotel bar, declared that you were a free-diving world champion and you could go deeper, longer, and harder than any man alive.”
“I did?”
“That was just your opening line. Then you proceeded to try and buy me drinks.”
“Tequila…” Michael felt the taste of it in his throat even now.
“Tequila, bourbon, and vodka shots. You then tried to explain the biochemistry of intoxication.”
“Did I make any sense?”
“To someone with no idea what you were talking about, sure. You did get your secondary and tertiary ethanol metabolism pathways confused. Then you got stuck pronouncing dehydrogenase.”
“Nicole Saint-Clair…? You gave the lecture about molecular evolution at the conference?”
“I’m touched you remembered.”
“I saw your name on the program. I didn’t actually attend the lecture.”
“That’s a shame. You might have learned something.”
“Marine biology is my field. Particularly hydrozoans.”
“I know. You told me last night. Of course, by that point you couldn’t say hydrozoan. Let alone jellyfish. But I guessed.”
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“Michael Armitage,” Michael extended a hand.
“Nicole, Nicole Saint-Clair.”
“Did we–?”
“Oh yeah, though you were almost unconscious by the third time.”
The lieutenant got behind the wheel, next to the unseen passenger. The ensign took the window seat next to Michael in the back.
Michael curled his hands into fists and worked his wedding ring in a circle as the SUV pulled out into the Honolulu traffic. Gretchen had always put her career first, though to be fair, Michael’s research had been his focus since they met.
“You weren’t wearing that wedding ring last night.” Nicole’s bright tone had an artificial twang to it.
“It’s complicated.” Michael resisted the urge to sit on his hand.
“Separated? Divorced?”
“Gretchen is away with work a lot.”
“You’re married and your wife’s name is Gretchen.” Nicole’s jaw went tight and she turned to stare out the window.
“Gretchen Armitage is a lieutenant in the US Navy,” the woman driving said.
“Oh God…” Nicole reddened. “I have never done anything like that before.”
“Quite the coincidence.” The male passenger in the front seat wore a suit and sunglasses. From behind him, where Michael sat, he looked close to retirement. Though, that didn’t mean much in government circles. The guy sounded educated, calm, and in control. Someone who was used to being listened to without ever having to raise his voice.
“It’s embarrassing,” Nicole muttered.
“Get over it,” the man in the suit replied. “Coincidences are nothing more than mistakes with fortunate outcomes.”
“I think I have had that fortune cookie before,” Michael said.
“In this instance, Doctor Armitage, we required two experts in specialist fields. The fortunate coincidence for us was that two of them were in the same hotel room this morning. Doctor Kurt Ramaldi was my first choice.”
“Ramaldi? Seriously?”
“He has produced some of the most well-received papers in his field of the last five years.”
“Ramaldi’s work is all theoretical. None of his conclusions hold up in a natural environment. He works entirely in computer modelling.”
“His presentation at the conference was interesting, or did you miss that one too?” Nicole asked and went back to staring at the passing traffic.
Michael gave a disgusted snort. “Ramaldi applies perfect parameters to his experiments and then has the audacity to say it proves exactly what he wants it to prove.”
“You do not believe that computer modelling has any place in biological research?” the man in the front seat asked.
“Sure it does, just not Ramaldi’s computer modelling.”
“He’s right,” Nicole spoke up. “Ramaldi’s work looks good, but his data is flawed.”
“The often vaunted, but never sought, second opinion,” the passenger said with a nod. “I am sure between the two of you we can have a resolution in no time.”
The SUV rolled to a halt at the gate of the US Navy and Air Force joint base, Pearl Harbor-Hickam. After a quick flash of identification from the driver and a cursory eyeball of the civilians in the back, they were waved through.
Michael’s stomach tied in knots, anything involving the US military made him nervous. He didn’t really subscribe to the whole patriotic salute-the-flag attitude of some of his fellow Americans. On the bright side, there might be some much-needed research funding to come out of this consultancy.
The vehicle drove across the campus, past houses and low office buildings. Men and women in uniform were everywhere and Michael kept double-checking to make sure that Gretchen wasn’t one of them. After passing through another security gate, this one bringing them to the dockside area of the base, the SUV stopped.
Michael and Nicole waited until the driver opened the back door and then climbed out.
“This way, sir, ma’am,” their escort said, indicating a cinderblock and steel building. The passenger in the suit joined them on the baking concrete. He was Caucasian, his hair close-cropped, his demeanor as government-issued as his suit.
The sailor on guard outside opened the door as they approached. Inside, the atmosphere was air-conditioned and smelled of careful cleaning.
Entering a conference room, Michael and Nicole took the seats offered around a long table. The ensign went to arrange coffee and breakfast for the visitors. The man in the suit went and closed the blinds on the other side and then stood, staring at the grey slats. The lieutenant closed the door and stayed outside.
“I’m sure you are aware of the limited knowledge we have of the world’s oceans,” the man in the suit said to the blocked window. “It is quite true that we know more about outer space than we do about the water that makes up seventy percent of the planet.”
“Seventy-one percent,” Michael said absently. “Ninety-six percent of that water is in the seas and oceans. The rest is lakes, rivers, snow, polar ice, and bottled water.”
The man nodded. “I am preaching to the choir.” They sat in silence for an awkward moment. “Before we go any further, there is paperwork to sign. Standard non-disclosure agreements.” Two slim manila folders were slid across the table to the scientists. Mr. Suit gave them a moment to flick through the multi-page documents.
“Suffice to say, the essence of the dense legalese is that if you communicate anything you witness during your time assisting the US government in this matter, to any person, for any reason, without due authorization, the remaining days of your life will be more unpleasant than you can possibly imagine.”
“We don’t even know what this is about,” Nicole said. “You’re threatening us and we don’t even know why.”
“You are not being threatened, Doctor Saint-Clair, simply informed.”
“We can walk away at any time?” Nicole asked.
“Possibly.” The man in the suit turned and regarded them both.
“If this is some kind of consultancy work, how much are we getting paid?” Michael asked.
“Enough to clear your debts and fund your research for at least five years, Doctor Armitage.”
“Are we going to end up having to appear before a Congressional sub-committee of inquiry?” Michael asked.
Mr. Suit almost smiled. “I can assure you, Doctor Armitage, that will never happen.”
The door opened and the ensign entered, bearing a tray of steaming coffees and covered plates of bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
Michael sipped his coffee gratefully, feeling the life flow into his limbs as the pressure eased behind his eyes. The food eased the roiling of his belly, and he and Nicole ate in silence for a few minutes.
When they were done, Mr. Suit laid a pen between the two folders on the table. “Initial each page, then sign at the end.”
Michael and Nicole looked at each other and then signed.
Chapter 2
Nicole had barely spoken a word since they boarded the plane at Pearl Harbor, and began their long flight south. She just burrowed deeper into the fur-lined jacket she had been issued with and seemed to be asleep.
Michael had laughed when Mr. Suit’s presentation finished. The content of it was patently ridiculous. He began with a PowerPoint presentation, old slides still labelled classified, showing drawings and photographs of a serious construction project. To Michael, it looked like an underground bunker, the sort of thing science-fiction writers in the 1950s imagined people living in after the bombs fell in the final war with the Soviet Union.
“The concept of the rock-site was a Cold War initiative. At key locations around the world, underground bases, built-in marine environments, would provide covert operational centers for surveillance of Soviet submarine fleets. In the decades since the Cold War finished, the remaining facilities were either mothballed or re-designated for scientific research.”
“What kind of research?” Nicole asked.
“The kind t
hat does not earn the scientists involved a Nobel Prize, or publishing credits in peer-reviewed journals,” Mr. Suit said drily. “It does, however, make an invaluable contribution to National Security.”
“So, not cures for cancer, HIV, or Ebola then?” Nicole asked.
“The specific nature of the various projects is irrelevant to your involvement.”
At this point, Michael got the giggles. “Seriously? You brought us in here to admit that the US Navy built secret underwater bases?”
“It is background information to provide context for what you are about to witness.”
The screen flickered and a video recording of a bearded man seated in a cramped laboratory speaking directly into the camera came online. In Michael’s professional estimation, he looked like shit.
“I am Doctor Bernard Saul, biological research laboratory head at SUD 8. It’s ahh… three in the morning local time. I’m going to record this and transmit it via the secure network.”
The man on the video sighed, and rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “I haven’t slept in a couple of days, so I’ll try and make sense. There’s something… ah… wrong here. I don’t know how else to describe the current situation. We’ve been regular as clockwork with our psych assessments, and you’ve no doubt seen the reports. The crew here are excellent people. Well trained, professionals in their fields. About a week ago, lab technician, Andrew Filden, went missing. We are a contained environment, so it’s not likely he wandered outside and ahh, got lost in the snow.” Saul laughed, a thin nasal sound with a sharp edge of hysteria.
“Andy turned up again two days later. He was a little weird, to be honest, but we figured it was just a hangover. Maybe he’d been hitting some home-brewed hooch and went on a bender. Filden was the first. One of the Navy crew was reported missing a day later. He showed up again after twenty-four hours and refused to answer any questions about his absence. The crew chief took care of it. Put him in the brig or whatever it is they do these days.”
Saul turned and stared into the darkness beyond the light cast by the computer monitor. “Whatever is ahh… affecting the onsite personnel, is spreading. Observable symptoms are an absence from usual routine or duties. Then within twenty-four hours, the missing person shows up again. But different, you know? I mean, they look the same, but they are kinda shut down. Subdued, less emotional or engaged. I suggested to Doctor Nakiro that she might like to conduct blood tests on everyone. She went missing later that day. When she turned up again, she told me that everything was fine.” Saul leaned into the camera. “Everything is not fine. Everything is as fucking far from fine right now as it could possibly be.” Saul took a breath and rubbed his eyes.
The Trench Page 1
