The Trench

by Paul Mannering

  “I’m worried that this is connected with the Galahad project.” Saul paused and shivered. “I am officially notifying you that I have started the countdown timer for the Death Valley Protocol. I really need a reason to terminate the countdown.”

  A shadow moved in the background, just beyond the edge of the monitor’s glow. Saul jerked and stared over his shoulder. Turning back, he said, “If you can send help, be damned caref-”

  The video turned to grey static and then went black.

  “What is the Death Valley Protocol?” Nicole asked.

  “This really sounds like a military issue, not a science problem,” Michael said.

  “The military solution is under control, Doctor Armitage. The science problem is the one Doctor Saint-Clair and yourself are going to review and report on.”

  “What is the Death Valley Protocol?” Nicole asked again, her voice raised.

  “The DVP is a final solution authorization to sterilize a research facility in the event of a containment breach that poses a significant threat to national security.”

  “How does it work?” Nicole asked.

  “That information is classified and not relevant to your mission, Doctor Saint-Clair.”

  “If you are asking us to go into a place that may have already been, what, sterilized? I’d say it is highly relevant.”

  “The protocol was never enacted. A marine security team has entered the site and will resolve any personnel issues before you arrive.”

  “Hey, if we find a new species of fish, we get to name it, right?” Michael grinned.

  Chapter 3

  Auckland felt distinctly cooler than Honolulu. The humidity under the lead-colored sky was offset by the wind coming in off the ocean, carrying with it the reminder of how much closer to Antarctica they now were.

  For the first time in his life, Michael didn’t go through immigration or any of the usual processes when entering a foreign country. Instead, a black SUV met them on the tarmac, and they were driven through a suburban city with a strange mix of English colonial and modern South Pacific architecture.

  “Devonport Navy Base,” the American driver announced. The security was less obvious than they were used to. A quick check of the driver’s photographic ID and they were waved through.

  Michael and Nicole were allowed twenty minutes to shower, change into heavy-duty survival suits, and eat a hot meal. The SUV then dropped them next to a helicopter that bore no markings of country or military origin.

  “Saint-Clair and Armitage?” an American woman in a pilot’s jumpsuit and helmet asked.

  “Yeah?” Michael replied. Nicole just nodded, her face pale and drawn.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Uhm, sure?” No one had given them any more information other than Mr. Suit at his briefing. Michael was still processing everything they had been told, and from the way Nicole remained silent, she was still working through it herself.

  Within ten minutes, they were airborne again.

  “Where are we going?” Michael asked.

  The nearest crewmember tapped his headset then leaned over and pressed a button on the one Michael wore.

  “Where are we going?” Michael asked again.

  “We have coordinates,” the crewmember replied. Like the others, he was American too, his accent as Californian as his tan.

  Michael stared at him, waiting for more information. The crewmember returned his stare.

  “To where, your mom’s house?” Michael asked.

  “I suggest you get some sleep, Doctor. It’s going to be a long flight.”

  “It can’t be as long as the last one,” Nicole said, having activated her own headset microphone.

  “Where did you come from?” The female pilot cut into the frequency.

  “Doctor Armitage’s mom’s house,” Nicole said with no trace of humor.

  The crewmember across from Michael switched channels and said something that made the co-pilot laugh.

  Conversation stopped after that, and the only sound was the teeth rattling vibration of the rotor.

  Michael hadn’t seen his watch or cellphone since they were picked up in Honolulu. The blackout drinking session had been on Saturday night; by his best guess, it was now Monday morning.

  Except, he almost slapped his head, New Zealand was on the other side of the International Date Line. Which meant, it was what? Tuesday… or Sunday?

  The city of Auckland and the islands of New Zealand had vanished in the cloudy haze. Michael could make out the green of the South Pacific far below them. The sea was rough, each wave tipped with white foam caps. From this height, they put Michael in mind of rows of shark’s teeth. There were no islands that a helicopter could reach, which meant they had to be heading to a ship. A lot of ships had helicopter-landing pads. If it was as rough down there as it looked, they might have to be winched on board.

  Looking out the window, he scanned the horizon for the outline of a ship. Nothing but storm swell and the twisting shades of green ocean in all directions.

  In spite of it all, Michael closed his eyes and tried to think of anything other than how the hell he was going to get out of this alive.

  Chapter 4

  “Hey, Hicks, wake up.”

  Michael snorted and jerked awake. “What?”

  “Another day in the Marine Corp,” the crewmember opposite intoned.

  Michael blinked in confusion.

  “Not a movie fan?”

  “I–sure. Alien, right?”

  “Aliens,” Nicole corrected, glancing away from the window.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Sure…” Nicole went back to the window.

  “Suit up,” the pilot ordered.

  “Put this on.” The crewmember worked with quick efficiency to lock Michael and then Nicole into a harness that pulled tight around the chest, shoulders, and between the legs.

  “You are going to be winched to your destination. The suits you are wearing are designed to keep you alive in open water for up to an hour. If you end up in the water, pull this tab here. A life vest will inflate and you will be on the surface in seconds.”

  “You’ll come down and pick us up though, right?” Nicole seemed to be giving the latest briefing her full attention.

  “Absolutely. We will not be leaving until you are confirmed aboard.”

  “Aboard what?” Michael looked out at the open ocean again; no ships in sight.

  A black shape, larger than a whale, broke the surface like a leviathan summoned from the primordial depths. They stared in stunned silence as the sleek cylinder shed foaming water and sliced through the dancing swell.

  “Is that a submarine?” Nicole looked around, her mouth open in shock.

  “No, ma’am.” The crew in the cabin with them didn’t even look out the window.

  “A nuclear submarine? It has to be; there is no way that is a research vessel.”

  “Ma’am, there are no US naval vessels currently operating within New Zealand territorial waters.”

  “It’s right there!” Nicole tapped the thick Perspex window.

  “This is one of those things Mister Suit said we can never talk about,” Michael said.

  Nicole subsided. The calm and matter of fact nature of the lecture about what would happen if they were to reveal any information they were made privy to had scared her deeply.

  The helicopter crew moved around the cramped cabin, clipping the two civilian passengers into harnesses and checking everything was secure.

  “You are going to be winched out of the helo,” the crewmember clipping lines to their harnesses announced. “You don’t need to do anything except keep your legs together and your arms folded across your chest.” He demonstrated by posing with this arms in an X pattern, hands to his shoulders.

  Michael nodded and the side door of the helicopter slid open, exposing them to the roar of the rotors and the cold air of the open ocean.

  “Just step out, like you are getting
out of a car!” the crewmember shouted in Michael’s ear.

  He nodded, and felt the straps take his weight as he slipped out into the open air.

  Chapter 5

  The winch played out its wire cable as Michael looked upwards into the intent face of the crewmember guiding him down.

  A moment later, something banged loudly in the rotor mast and a cloud of dense black smoke poured out in all directions. The helicopter jerked like a whipped horse and the tail boom turned as the fuselage spewed smoke.

  The helicopter began to fall, accelerating Michael’s descent. He tried to scream and then hit the water. It felt like being slammed into a concrete wall. The world exploded in a storm of bubbles, which became a tempest as something huge hit the water a few meters away. Michael fumbled for the tab on his suit. It floated up past his eyes and he grabbed at it as an immense weight dragged him down. Pulling the tab, he felt his suit go tight as it swelled with pressurized air.

  The line on the harness strained as tight as an anchor, dragging him down into darkness. Michael struggled with it, pulling against the impossible weight taking him down.

  *

  On the helicopter, Nicole was given the same final briefing. “How are we getting home?” she yelled.

  “What?” the crewmember shouted back.

  “After this, will you come and pick us up?”

  “I have no idea.” The crewmember grinned. “Go on now!”

  Nicole wanted to protest, to ask more questions, to be sure she wasn’t being abandoned in the middle of the ocean. The helicopter shuddered and filled with a thick cloud of black smoke. Alarms wailed and the crew leapt into action, doing what they had trained for in situations just like this.

  Nicole hung on to the door as the flight deck of the chopper tilted by 45 degrees. The grey sky and the green sea spun in a sickening kaleidoscope.

  One of the crew crawled up to Nicole. “Get out of here!” he bellowed, the comms system having gone dead as fire spread through the electrical system.

  Nicole pulled herself closer to the door, struggling to get her footing. Another loud bang; this one sounded closer and came with a scream. The other flight deck crewmember had drawn a pistol and calmly shot the pilot through her helmet, sending a spray of blood and bone onto the windshield.

  He fired again, killing the co-pilot. The chopper dropped out of the sky as it tilted beyond the limit of the rotor’s aerodynamics.

  The gunman aimed at Nicole. She stared at him, frozen with shock. “Please…” she whispered. The air was knocked out of her in a scream as the helicopter crashed into the churning sea.

  Water flooded into the chopper, sending everything swirling and crashing in a maelstrom of dark shadows.

  The water turned dark as they sank. Nicole pulled herself up into an air pocket and snatched a deep breath. The gunman surfaced next to her, sending Nicole scrambling away from him in terror. Desperately searching for something to defend herself with, her hand closed around the handle of a knife. With a yell, she slashed at the gunman. He jerked back and then started flailing. Somewhere underwater, he was snagged on unseen debris and his focus went from killing Nicole to saving himself as the rising water threatened to sweep over his head.

  Nicole slashed at him with the knife. She opened a gash on his cheek and he snarled, teeth bared like an enraged animal. Nicole stabbed downwards, puncturing the man’s inflated suit and sending water and blood spraying into the air.

  Sobbing in terror, Nicole stabbed again. The gunman’s eyes went wide and unblinking and he slowly sank, leaving a swirling pool of blood to mark the spot. Nicole inhaled the last of the air and tore at the tab on her survival suit. With a whoosh! it inflated and she went tumbling out of the helicopter. She uncurled and got her bearing. Rising quickly, she focused on an orange shape struggling in the grasp of the winch harness.

  Michael was still alive. Grabbing him, she sawed at the straps of the nylon harness with the knife. Years of surfing had trained her to hold her breath in turbulent waters for up to two minutes. She was reaching the limit of her capacity when the harness fell away and the two of them surged upwards.

  *

  From below, an orange blur emerged from the gloom. Nicole was rising fast, a torrent of bubbles streaming from her mouth. She aimed for Michael, as straight as an arrow and coming just as fast.

  With the last seconds of air in his lungs, Michael grunted at the force of the impact. Nicole wrapped her arms and legs around him, the knife in one hand gleaming dull silver. She cut through the webbing of his harness. Black spots swelled and burst in his eyes. He struggled against the panic of certain death. The final cut was made to the harness and they burst onto the surface with a wild gasp for air.

  Michael’s chest heaved as he caught a splash of salt water and coughed until he almost fainted. Nicole dragged him onto his back, keeping his head above water and them both floating in the inflated embrace of their survival suits.

  Men in dark survival suits and thick life vests splashed into the water around them. Someone grabbed Michael by the shoulders and legs. In less than a minute, he was lifted out of the water and laid on the pitching deck of the submarine.

  “Get him below,” an African American sailor with a New York accent gave orders. Michael was half-lifted and guided towards the conn tower. Once they reached the recessed ladder, the men stood behind him, letting Michael find his feet for the climb.

  Nicole focused on breathing between the waves crashing over her head. Panic was tightly leashed like a savage dog that, if it broke free, would tear her composure to pieces.

  They have done this a thousand times, she reminded herself. Though, exactly why the crew of a US Navy nuclear submarine would have reason to complete thousands of covert missions in the southern most parts of the Pacific was something she couldn’t fathom.

  She looked up into the faces of American sailors, arms outstretched, ready to seize her and bring her in safely to the black steel deck. She raised her hands and gripped their waiting arms.

  “Welcome aboard, ma’am.” The same officer guided her along the path towards the conning tower.

  With a practiced efficiency, Nicole was taken inside the ship. The deck crew came inside, sealing the hatches behind them, and relaying confirmation to the control room that the cargo was secure. Nicole and Michael exchanged relieved looks; they were alive, for now at least.

  “This way,” the crewmember guiding them through the submarine said. They walked down a narrow corridor and into a control room lit by glowing consoles as complex as a space shuttle.

  “Make depth twelve-hundred feet,” a man who seemed to be in charge ordered.

  Michael hesitated, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, or warning speech. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice still rough from the salt water he had swallowed. “Thanks for picking us up; hitchhiking is a real drag around here.”

  The man didn’t move; his back remained ramrod straight and he showed no sign of even hearing Michael’s attempt at ice-breaking humor.

  “Mister Watts, do we have any civilians currently on board this vessel?”

  “No, sir!” the crewmember standing left and slightly forward of Michael and Nicole snapped to attention.

  “Is this vessel currently in the territorial waters of a friendly, sovereign nation?”

  “No, sir!” Watts could have been on a parade ground. His gaze never flickered from the officer’s face.

  “Carry on, Mister Watts.”

  “Aye, sir.” Watts indicated that Michael and Nicole should walk through the control room and exit via a forward hatch.

  Once they were in the narrow corridor beyond, Michael spoke up. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Sir?”

  “I get it, we aren’t officially here. But, that was bullshit.”

  “You aren’t even here unofficially, sir.”

  “Christ,” Nicole muttered. “If we get hurt, in trouble, or otherwise screwed? What then?”

&
nbsp; “Best you don’t find out, ma’am.” Watts continued down the corridor. “You’ll be assessed by medical, then I’ll show you to your bunks. Please stay in them until I come back to get you.”

  The med-bay was a small room packed with state of the art medical equipment. Michael and Nicole were both examined quickly and thoroughly before being told they were fine; drink plenty of fluids and stay warm. The medic left them to finish dressing in the dry clothes provided.

  Nicole waited until they were alone and then rounded on Michael. “The chopper was shot down!” she said in an angry whisper.

  “What? By who?”

  “One of the flight crew. He shot the others, and I guess he had a bomb or something to make us crash.”

  “That’s crazy.” Michael blew salt water out of his nose.

  “They don’t want anyone to know where we are going. They are going to write us off as dead.”

  Before Michael could reply, Watts appeared in the narrow doorway. “Follow me.”

  Michael and Nicole followed Watts into their cabin, and they squeezed into the small bunk spaces.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Nicole said after a moment.

  In the bunk below, Michael managed a small smile. “I have no idea. The best part is that even if we could tell anyone about it, they wouldn’t believe us.”

  “Do you think they will have us killed, once we are no longer needed I mean?”