by Michael Bray
Mackay held up one bloody hand, waving them off then closed his eyes and continued to smoke.
Blinking through tears, both Clara and Rainwater started to crawl through the fissure, the soldiers helping when Rainwater couldn’t manoeuvre by himself. All the time they waited for the explosion, for that sound which signalled that Mackay’s ultimate sacrifice was complete. They reached the rope leading out to the surface of the ice, and were relieved to see more troops. Teams of men ferrying the wounded onto the surface.
“Come on,” one of them said to Rainwater, strapping him into a harness as Clara was put into a second carrier.
“Anyone else back there?” The soldier asked one of the other soldiers.
He glanced at Rainwater and Clara, and then shook his head. “No, we’re the last.”
“Okay,” he replied, before speaking into the radio strapped to his shoulder. “This is alpha two-zero seven. Last of the survivors coming topside now. We’re coming out.”
The winch began to hoist them to the surface, the soldier following on a second hoist. The blinding sunlight that greeted them felt like a different world. They were helped out of the harnesses and ushered towards the waiting helicopters. Inside the cave, Mackay smoked the last cigarette in the pack. His throat burned from smoking so many consecutively, but he knew he wouldn’t need to worry about anything as trivial as Cancer killing him.
“He sighed and looked at the wake which still moved over the surface of the water.
“Okay you bastard,” he grunted as he lifted the concussion bomb into position. “Time to put an end to this.”
He steadied his aim, pointed the weapon at the roof and closed his eyes, and then muttered a quick prayer before pulling the trigger.
The chopper was already in the air and angling towards the battleship when the deafening roar of the collapse reached them. They watched as hundreds of tons of ice imploded and plunged into the sea. Rainwater felt Clara’s hand grasp his as they watched the spectacle.
“You were damn lucky to get out of there,” the soldier said, shouting above the noise of the rotor blades.
“I don’t feel lucky,” he muttered.
“You got a name, for the log?” the soldier asked, holding up the clipboard.
“Yeah, actually I do.” He said simply, then closed his eyes and turned away from the window.
Twenty hours later, Commander Tomlinson entered the medical bay and strode towards Rainwater. His shoulder wound had been dressed and the minor burns from the grenade explosion tended to. Clara sat beside him, watching as the commander approached.
“Doc says you’re a lucky man, Mr Rainwater.”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
“Not often a man gets blown up, shot, escapes an ice collapse like that and lives to tell the tale. How do you feel?”
“Like shit. So what happens now?”
“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about actually.” Tomlinson said, sitting in the chair beside the bed.
“What happened here is a series of unfortunate events. We don’t want to cause you any undue stress or issues down the line.”
“Let me guess, you want us to sign non-disclosure agreements right?”
“It seems you’re a man who doesn’t like to beat around the bush. Very well, I can respect that. Frankly, this incident is an embarrassment. By law, we should open this to an investigation, and the truth is that I suspect we won’t like what we will find. Besides which, it’s almost re-election time, which means the folks in the White House are mindful of the stories that come out in the press.”
“Let me save you the trouble,” Rainwater said with a sigh. “I’ve had way more than enough of this. All I want is to get home and start living a normal life. If it means we get to do that, I’ll sign anything you like.”
The relief on Tomlinson’s face was plain to see as he stood and beamed at the two of them.
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s put this mess behind us and move on, shall we?”
“That’s all I want.”
Tomlinson crossed the room and hesitated by the door.
“We will be back in US waters shortly. I’ll have someone bring you those NDA’s to sign then you are both free to go. We will of course cover all medical expenses and funeral costs for those lost. It’s the least we can do. All the same, I would be tempted to forget everything that happened out here.”
He waited, expecting a response or some kind of thanks. Rainwater and Clara looked at him, enjoying watching him squirm.
“Well, I have lots to do. Rest well, Mr Rainwater. This ordeal is finally at an end.”
EPILOGUE
Tomlinson stood in the dark, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, feeling neither pleasure nor satisfaction from the act of smoking. His migraine had grown into a thunderous thing, and he hoped by spending some time in the darkness that it may help the feeling to pass. The survivors had all signed their NDA’s and were in the process of being booked out and released, and also reminded that any breaking of the confidentiality agreement would result in swift and full punishment by law. He didn’t think it would be a problem though. Like him, they had all had enough of the entire situation.
“You shouldn’t be smoking in here.”
Rather than stop, Tomlinson took another deep drag. “On the list of things that shouldn’t have happened these last few weeks, my smoking is probably dead bottom of the pile.”
Andrews walked out of the shadows and stood beside the commander. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, looking over the enormous holding tank.
“Would have been if things hadn’t gone to shit. It’s probably better this way anyway,” Tomlinson said as he exhaled. “That thing would have been too damn big to transport. Safely anyway. It’s better off dead if you ask me.”
“I agree,” Andrews said taking the offered cigarette and lighting it. “No matter which way we look at it, we had a lucky escape.”
The two were silent for a while, and stared into the darkness.
“Want to take a look at it?” Andrews said, glancing at Tomlinson.
“Why not, suppose it’s not every day you get to see something so unique.”
Andrews flicked a switch, illuminating the array of underwater lights in the holding tank. Inside, the juvenile creature swam in lazy circles, still dragging Russo’s body behind it by the leg.
“Talk about lucky,” Tomlinson said. “We opened the tank doors to cut the whale carcass loose and this little bastard swam right in and started to feed on it. Couldn’t believe it. Happened before the explosion. Thing must have bolted straight out of the cave when they pushed it back into the water.”
Andrews nodded, watching Russo’s bloated corpse make another lazy rotation. “Ironic really. Russo spent the last few weeks of his life chasing this thing, and even in death, can’t get close enough to it.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you this. I’m happier transporting this one to Florida rather than that big son of a bitch.”
“In time, this one will grow to the same size. Hell, maybe bigger, who knows.”
“So, it doesn’t matter that it’s not the adult?”
Andrews shook his head. “No. Same DNA. It really makes no difference.”
“The only thing I wonder about, is what might happen if things go wrong.”
“Like what?”
Like if this thing grows to maturity then decides it doesn’t want to be contained in Florida anymore.”
“It’s a secured facility. It’s perfectly safe.”
“Maybe it is. Nobody has ever really dealt with anything like this before, have they?”
“True,” Andrews said, dropping the butt of his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “It’s all about discovery. That’s what Project Blue is all about. Russo didn’t see that. For him it was all about the black and white of the capture. He saw the objective, but didn’t see why it had to be done.”
“Maybe,” Tomlinson muttered. “Anyway, shut d
own those lights, I don’t want to look at his damn corpse anymore. I just hope it was all worth the effort and we can learn something from this animal.”
“I’m sure we will,” Andrews said as he reached over to the light switch. Pausing to take a last lingering look at the magnificent creature, he flicked the switch and plunged the holding tank into darkness.
FIN
Read on for a free sample of Krakatitsa: A Deep Sea Thriller
Chapter 1
“Number one is missing.”
Mike blinked and looked at the phone, “Where?”
“Japan, it is three days late for China. Get to the port.”
“Alright, I’ll be right there.” The woman lying next to him opened her eyes and looked at him sleepily as he stood up. “You have to leave,” he said in his best, broken Russian, “I have to go.” She watched him without moving as he packed a suitcase. “I’m not joking. You need to get your things.”
“I can wait for you.”
“No, you can’t. I don’t know when I’ll be back and I do not want them to find you.” He stood up, grabbed a handful of bills, and shoved them into her purse. “Go back home, it will not be safe here. There is enough here to get you, what is the word, set up without having to go back to what you were doing.”
Kubilai looked at the bills in her purse. “You will come back for me?”
“Yes, if it is safe, I will come back.”
She grew more pensive as they packed. Her dark mood turned angry so that she was throwing things in the suitcase by the time she finished. When the taxi pulled up, she looked at him with disgust. “You will not come.”
“Keep your phone,” Mike said as he lifted her bag into the trunk. “You have enough to get a good start. Keep yourself safe.” She said nothing as he shut the door to the cab.
Number One was the submarine that travelled the Asian coast down to Australia. Number Two cruised the Americas. A fishing vessel would meet one of the subs and load it with either heroin from Asia, or cocaine from South America. The process was simple. Using a small submersible, they would drop bundles from the submarines along the coastline. A cell phone would be put inside a balloon that would float to the surface and email the coordinates to the mainland. Then a common local recreational, fishing or commercial vessel would retrieve it. The Subs would unload the remainder of their payload to a ship in the north pacific where it would be exchanged, then heroin would go to the Americas and cocaine would make its way to Asia. Mike was the person who designed them.
After graduating with a degree in Marine Engineering, Michael Joossens designed underwater vehicles and tools for a company that contracted with numerous private and public organizations. These were small, usually unmanned, vessels that were outfitted with robotics and cameras for recovery and research. Shelikhov Nautical, a Russian shipping firm, offered him a large contract to design larger submarines for their salvage contracts. The brutish figures and constant stream of young women that paraded through the facility let him know this wasn’t an average shipping company, and it wasn’t long before he realized who he was working for.
At first, he was happy enough to play along, enjoying not only the huge salary, but also the many fringe benefits of women and nightlife. However, he soon realized he was only a little more than tolerated by the businessmen of the organization for his knowledge and skills. He was lucky. Some of the others that were involved with the development and construction were extorted and terrorized by some of the lower level players of the organization. He had to hold his own a couple of times and took his licks, but, in the end, he gained their respect and learned his lessons: keep to yourself, divulge nothing, mind your own business, join the party only when invited, and don’t overstay your welcome. He thought about the pseudo-tough guys he went to school with who thought they were “gangsta.” They needed to hang with his crowd. Joossens had hardened over the years he had been with them. He could hold his own and there wasn’t much that intimidated him anymore. He had very few friends here and trusted none of them. That’s why he sent Kubilai away. If they found her, they would capture and either use her to get what they wanted or torture her as punishment.
The ships were built in record speed do to the resources, lack of bureaucracy, and a forced, loyal labor force. So when they were completed, Mike was forced to be part of the crew for their maiden voyages. Mike hated being on submarines. The small shallow ones weren’t bad, but being trapped in the deeper crafts was awful. These ships easily reached a depth of three hundred and fifty meters. Number two was tested to four hundred and twenty. They were small, thirty-five meters, but the thick double hull construction made them feel even more cramped and stifling. Then there was the perpetual dim light and complete loss of any sense of time. That in and of itself was awful enough, but being imprisoned in the perpetual locker room atmosphere was worse.
The only thing worse than a sadistic gangster, was a bored sadistic gangster. Tests of strength and toughness were incessant, whether it was wrestling, arm wrestling, strength competitions or all out fighting, everything was subject to a competition of power and manhood. He did learn how to fight though. At night, the subs would surface to charge the batteries by running the diesel engines and refuel from another of the company’s ships. The hatches opened to clear the foul, stale air, and the matches on the deck would ensue with the loser being tossed overboard. He tasted his share of salt water more than his opponents, but he eventually earned respect from even the most archaic of thugs for not giving up. The crewmembers who didn’t participate were harassed mercilessly and sank to the lowest standing. He’d never been to prison, but imagined the social structure wasn’t too far off, since most of the men making the rules had done their share of time.
The only guys who didn’t get bothered were the Spetsnaz guys. No one messed with them. A few of them fought and they kicked everyone’s ass. Mike fought them too. He never submitted early like some of the other guys and got hurt for his diligence. Although he never beat them, he never gave up, and by the end of the second submarine’s maiden voyage he was winning more than half his fights with the gangsters. As a sign of respect, they labelled him an “Official American Badass just like Clint Eastwood”, and presented him with a Smith and Wesson Model 29 with a six inch barrel.
After the ships were built, Mike worked with some of the other ships, went on salvage missions and waited for something that needed fixing. He added recreational features to the luxury yachts that were operated by the company, and made a few submersibles and to be sold to research facilities and universities. The company was thinking of making it another aspect of the business. It was a good arrangement, he was making about 250k on the books that he could report to the IRS, and the other 1.75 million went to a Swiss bank account. He was free after another year, to be called back only for consulting work if there was a problem or modification. It had only been four months since both of the ships had sailed. Unlike the name suggested, the main port and offices were in Vladivostok. That’s where the pieces of the submarines were gathered and put together. When a section was finished, it was trucked up the coast to the sea of Okhotsk where final assembly and launching took place.
Mike passed through the gates of the shipyard, parked his car, grabbed the suitcase, and headed up to the offices. Gavril Alkaev, the man who recruited him and oversaw the operation as a whole was there. He was the person everyone answered to. Next to him was Dmitri Markovic, an ex-Spetsnaz commander who was in charge of personnel and kept the goons under control. No one tangled with Dmitri out of either respect or fear. Stepan Polzin, a former naval submarine captain sat across from Markovic. Mike was relieved when seeing the three of them. Not only did he have their respect, he was able to speak above the lowest common denominator of women, sports, and other feats of masculinity. “Where is Valeri?” Mike asked in Russian.
“He is coming.” Alkaev said.
“What do we know?”
“The ship was on schedule for Iwaki. It usually
makes the next delivery three to four days later near Yangjiang.”
Mike looked at the map, “That is almost thirty-five hundred kilometers,” he said. “Are we sure it was not just a lost transmission? It takes over a week to get to Australia. They may make contact then.”
“Yes, we considered that,” Dmitri answered. “However, if they are late, then we are two weeks behind. You understand that these vessels must not be found.”
“Yes, I understand.” Joossens said, “What do we have?”
“We have The Dafna,” Alkaev answered. The Dafna was the salvage vessel the company used to recover ships and cargo. “You and Valeri will be on that with the normal crew. Captain Polzin will be in charge. Commander Markovic and I will be on the Ivonne.” The Ivonne was one of the yachts that were used for entertainment and recreation. “As far as the authorities are concerned, we will be looking Alena.” The Alena was a ship that went down several months ago carrying classic automobiles from the United States for Asian buyers.
Mike looked at the map again, “They follow a similar route every time?”
“Yes, I know the routes.” Polzin answered.
“We start at the last location and follow the course through the shallows?” Mike looked up and contemplated what was ahead of him when the door opened. Valeri Savin came into the room with two low level thugs. He was shaken, but didn’t look hurt.
“Those engines cannot be found,” Alkaev reiterated. The diesel engines, batteries, and charging units were Russian navy.
Savin was the other engineer who was responsible for the propulsion system and procured them. Valeri was eager to join the team, live the life, and act like a big shot. Like Joossens, he was never accepted as a real member, but Savin was infuriated about it. On top of that, he didn’t have the nerves or composure to handle the risk and deal with the thugs. He was in way over his head and was always a heartbeat away from fleeing. Weekly photographs of his sister and mother going about their daily lives kept him close to the company. A phone call like the one that woke up Mike would have had him scurrying to the countryside. That’s why they sent for him.
