by Rick Jones
Alyssa barked a cry and fell into Savage’s embrace.
“I’m afraid they met with a terrible end,” he finished.
Savage did all he could to keep from going after O’Connell. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
“I knew that Ms. DeNardo was dead. But I didn’t know that she was to become a tool to be sanitized after I contacted you. When I spoke to you, Ms. Moore, the government’s offer was legitimate, I assure you.”
“So what happened?” she asked.
“It appears that my superior answers to another superior and so forth up the chain.”
“You’re talking the president of the United States?”
“No, Mr. Savage. I’m not. I’m talking about those who truly hold the scepter of rule in this country. I’m talking about the leaders of the CIA and NSA. Of course, they answer to the president because that’s what’s expected of them, that’s their role. But the information they hand him is gravely reduced, just enough to whet his appetite. In the end, however, it comes down to two things: to maintain absolute power and to keep this nation safe. Everything and everyone else is expendable.”
“Why are you telling us this?”
“I believe, Mr. Savage, after speaking with Captain Whitaker, that I may have become one of the expendable. Even as a member of the DOD.” He waved his hand to indicate the ship in general. “This ship, what’s inside it, has a power-altering secret. It’s one that’ll keep the U.S. on top for years to come. No one—not Russia, not China, not the Middle East, no one—will be able to compete with us.” He turned to Alyssa. “It’s my belief, should Ms. Moore find a way to open the gateway to this ship’s information highway, that Whitaker and his team will be galvanized to download the intel and execute everyone on board until there is no one left. Of course they’ll make it appear to look like an accident so that the Mexican government will be forced to believe that no intelligence was downloaded, the information lost during the turmoil. But we both know that Whitaker will have possession of it and pass it off to his handler, which is McCord.”
“But what about the scientists aboard this ship, the biophysicists and the biotechnologists, people who are only concerned about those things being held inside those chambers.”
“They’re props, Mr. Savage. Expendable . . . props. A cast of characters to make the Mexican government believe that there is no other purpose beyond our hidden agenda, which is to download the wisdom of this ship and to walk away with it solely. Those creatures are not even an interest to our people.”
“And you knew about this?”
“Some. But after reading into Whitaker’s comments, I believe this to be the most likely scenario.” Then after a brief hesitation: “They’re here to kill, Mr. Savage, clear and simple. And they’re here to kill us all the moment Ms. Moore opens that gateway.”
Alyssa turned to John. She had found the key that would open the door to the ship’s archives. “I can’t give him that information,” she said.
“What information?” O’Connell asked.
She looked at him. “I found it,” she told him. “I found a way to access the data.”
O’Connell’s face dropped. It wasn’t news he wanted to hear. “Destroy it,” he simply said. “Destroy that data before Whitaker gets his hand on it.”
“Too late.”
Those holding counsel turned to see Whitaker standing by the cot with the laptop in his hand. He was flanked by two teammates in full gear and weaponry. Holding up the laptop, Whitaker wiggled it in display to show them that he now had possession of the key to intergalactic secrets. With a smile that was as broad and beaming as the Cheshire cat, he said, “Too . . . late.”
At that moment O’Connell’s shoulders slumped to the crookedness of an Indian’s bow. Somehow he knew his life was over.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Whitaker handed the laptop to a soldier on his left, a big guy who went by the moniker of Goliath, and lived up to the very design of his name. He stood six foot seven with the composite of his armor customized to fit his broad shoulders and chest. On his six-pack abdominal plate was the faded image of the Tally-Whacker skull and crossing blades.
“Too late,” Whitaker stated. “Now, if you’ll be so kind to follow me.”
“To where?” asked Savage.
Whitaker pointed to the laptop. “We’re going to take this key here,” he said, “and unlock the door.”
“Yeah, well, let me tell you something right now, Whitaker,” said Alyssa. “If you think that I’m going to help you from this moment on, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Oh, but I think you will, Ms. Moore. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll do everything I ask of you.” Whitaker clicked on the laser sight of his assault weapon, raised the barrel, and played the red dot of the sight by bouncing the laser’s point from one person to the next in play, the dot going from chest to chest to chest. “No doubt in my mind at all.”
Alyssa puffed her chest out to contest him. But Savage held her back. He could see that she was becoming heated and going into spitfire mode, the Y-vein against her forehead more pronounced, and throbbing.
Honey!
“No I won’t,” she stated adamantly.
“Ms. Moore, your boyfriend knows who we are and what we’re capable of.” Then: “Isn’t that right, Mr. Savage?”
To Alyssa: “Honey, please.”
She tried to break free of John’s grasp as she addressed Whitaker harshly. “You think you’re in charge because you hold a weapon?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“I know for a fact that you can’t do anything without me. And without me, you have nothing.”
“You think I’m a novice to the game, Ms. Moore? Is that what you think?” In quick and fluid motion Whitaker pointed the barrel of his weapon, drew to a point on O’Connell’s shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The weapon’s suppressor sounded off like a loud spit as the bullet entered and exited the man’s body, the exit wound blooming like the petals of a rose as O’Connell went to a bended knee and grimaced as he placed a hand over the entry point, blood seeping steadily through the gaps of his clenching fingers. To his credit he didn’t cry out, which earned a measure of respect from Whitaker.
Alyssa suddenly appeared stunned, her mind processing Whitaker’s sudden and brutal act.
“You will cooperate, Ms. Moore. And just like Mr. O’Connell informed you, everyone on this ship is expendable. And as long as I hold this laptop, I do mean everyone. Secondly, he was right when he told you that the scientists—the biophysicists, the bio-whatevers—are nothing more than props. If you do not cooperate, Ms. Moore, if you battle me all the way, then I will place a scientist at your feet with the barrel of my gun to their head and pull the trigger. Whether they live or die is up to you. You cooperate, they live. If you don’t, then their lives will certainly bleed out at your feet.” He centered the red dot to the crown of O’Connell’s head. “So we’ll start right now,” he said evenly. “Ultimately, Ms. Moore, it’s your choice. You now have five seconds to make a decision . . . Four.”
She looked at John.
“Three.”
And knew she had no other choice.
“Two.”
Reason told her they were all going to die in the end anyway.
“One.”
But to be the decision maker on whether someone lived or died was more than she could tolerate. “I’ll do it.”
He lowered his weapon. “Of course you will.”
Savage aided O’Connell to his feet. The man continued to grimace against the pain.
“Ms. Moore, there was always a hidden agenda attached to this mission. It’s unfortunate that you and Mr. Savage happen to be a part of a much greater cause.”
“So now we’re expendable? Like O’Connell?”
“O’Connell knew the potential stakes involved with his employment the moment he engaged himself with the DOD’s deep cover unit. In fact, Mr. O’Connell has sanctioned the as
sassinations of several of his own to cover up for the greater good. Only this time it’s his turn. Deep cover has to show the Mexican government that we lost the man in charge of gathering data. And with him lost . . . along with the intel, which will be in my possession.”
O’Connell moaned. Droplets of blood were pooling in the space between his feet.
“He needs help,” she stated.
Whitaker leaned forward. “Well, I’m afraid he’s not gonna get it.”
“Then he’ll bleed out,” said Savage.
“Then he bleeds out.” Whitaker held his gaze for a long moment, as if in challenge, before falling back into rank with his two commandos, Goliath and Maestro. Then, to Goliath: “Get them to the Master Station,” he told him. “I need to contact Central.”
Goliath shot him a thumbs-up. “Yeah, boss.”
Whitaker turned to Alyssa. “My men will take you to the ship’s Master Station,” he said coolly, “to a master console we believe to be the mind of this ship, or what’s left of it anyway. If what you discovered is the key that opens the archives, then you’ll be able to open it from there. But keep in mind: if you delay or drag things out unnecessarily—” He allowed the red dot of his laser sight to settle on Savage’s chest, at the point above his heart. “I guarantee you, Ms. Moore, that you will not like my response. Nor will Mr. Savage.”
“We’ll do anything you want,” said Savage, “as long as you don’t hurt anyone else to prove your point.”
“You have my word,” he told him. “As a soldier.”
Savage winced at that statement. A SEAL would never compromise his morals for a hidden agenda at the cost of innocent lives. Never!
But a Tally-Whacker.
They had no morals.
Whitaker gave his men a series of hand signals, galvanizing them. Maestro, an African-American who looked to be lean and angular with strong dimensions, poised his weapon so that it was leveled to kill. “Savage, you and your boyfriend O’Connell can take point.”
“Where’re we going?”
“Onward and downward,” he said, pointing to the aft of the ship’s remnant with a quick indication of his chin. “Ms. Moore will follow.”
Savage took a steady look at Maestro’s weapon. He had been in situations like this before, most recently in Eden with the likes of Obsidian Hall and his team of mercenaries. But this group was different, a step up from Hall’s team. These people were skilled to never fall into complacency or to expect the unexpected, since the unexpected should never happen.
Maestro, however, could see Savage’s thought processes at work, could see that he was trying to figure something out. More so, he was watching Savage’s every move, spying the slightest tic or awkward motion, looking for anything that would betray the SEAL’s intentions. He raised his weapon until Savage could see the open mouth of the barrel. “Move, Savage. And don’t even think beyond the moment.”
Savage looked at Alyssa and shot off an everything-will-be-all-right wink. But she knew better, reciprocating with a false smile of her own.
It’ll be all right, he tried to convey to her. Really!
But they knew better.
As Whitaker headed to the fore of the ship to contact Base Command, Savage, Alyssa and O’Connell were led to a part of the ship’s remnant at the prodding of two elite commandos. The deeper they descended the colder it became, with surrounding pockets of Stygian darkness so deep that light could not penetrate them.
At corridor’s end they came upon the remnant’s Master Station. And it was, by all accounts, magnificent.
Even with the point of a gun to her back, Alyssa could feel a cool tingling running along her spine, that chill of excitement and awe.
“Keep moving, Ms. Moore.”
She did, walking into the basking glow of phosphorous green light.
Here sat the ship’s archives, the library and mind of otherworldly information, a set of cyber encyclopedias.
But in the hands of Whitaker it would become something far blacker.
It was about to become a gateway to hell.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Problems?” McCord’s image on the monitor was snowy and gray, the reception growing poorer by the moment.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Expound.”
“O’Connell apparently intuited the hidden agenda from something you or I said. He went to Savage and Moore and tried to get her to destroy the data before the agenda got under way.”
McCord leaned forward, his face barely perceptible. His voice, however, remained very clear. “Data? Did Ms. Moore discover the key? Was she able to interpret the glyphs and symbols?”
“She believes that she discovered the key to open the ship’s archives. Once we’re inside, then we can download and record all the data. We’re setting up as we speak.”
“And O’Connell?”
“Let’s just say that the hidden agenda began earlier than I would have liked.”
“He’s been dispatched?”
“Let’s say that he’s at least on his way.”
“He was a good man.”
“They’re always good until the moment of their death. We all serve a purpose. He served his.” There was absolutely no compassion when he spoke.
“And what about Ms. Moore and John Savage?”
“For the moment they’re serving their purpose. But when that purpose ends—” he cut himself short, the answer apparent.
“How long will it take to download the data?”
On screen Whitaker shrugged. “It could take anywhere from two hours to two days, who knows.”
“It appears that we have another situation brewing.”
“What’s that?”
“Russian and Chinese subs are closing in on your location, claiming off-shore maneuvers. Obviously that’s not the case.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Whitaker. “They cannot enter Mexico’s maritime border unless Mexico grants them permission, which they won’t.”
“My point is that we’re either getting surveyed by foreign powers, or they’re closing in to intercept data from a covert source on board that ship. Either way this will be our final communication in fear of misappropriation.”
“Understood. Anything else?”
“Yeah. We’re receiving reports that the area is becoming increasingly unstable. Land-based aftershocks ranging from two-point-seven to three-point-four just struck a point approximately 940 kilometers southwest of your location. The seismic waves will weaken somewhat by the time they reach your position in a few moments. But we’ve been receiving reports from the platform operators that there’re signs of stress forming along the marine terrace. They believe it’ll eventually give. And if that happens, Whitaker, that ship will become your tomb.”
“How weak is the terrace?”
“There’s no way to determine that at this time. But if I was you I’d get that data, complete the agenda, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
“You need to get that sub down here ASAP,” he told him. “Have it waiting at the sub bay just in case my team and I need to be out of here pronto.”
“Already done. Once we break contact, then we go dark until you’re topside. No more communication.”
“Understood.”
“Good luck, then.”
The connection was severed, the light of the monitor growing to a point, then gone.
Whitaker fell back in his chair, grabbed a flash drive, and toyed with it between his fingers. Time was now of the essence. More so, and coming at him at the rate of seven kilometers per second from the southwest, seismic waves were about to shake his world.
And shake it did.
#
A tremor measuring 2.7 jarred the area, the bowl-shaped wall of the crater shaking, trembling, sending tons of loose rock and debris cascading downward, hitting the ship, the terrace. Other pieces simply rode the wall to the crater’s bottom, nearly six miles below.
Along the surface of
the marine terrace a deep, running fissure moved beneath the Umbilical tube that stretched between the undersea platform and the ship, weakening the terrace, the landing beginning to pull away from the wall. The undersea platform tilted with the pull of the terrace, the Umbilical tube stretching between the platform and the ship pulling tight, the ends of the tube hanging on by the magnetic rings that bound them together.
Inside the platform where the slant of the staging area was approximately fifteen degrees, anything not tacked down slid off tables. Computers and monitors slid off their countertops and shattered upon impact against the slightly corrugated floor. And the walls protested against the sudden shift.
The engineers monitoring the atmosphere, pressure and temperature joined themselves to anything immovable and prayed to God.
#
Whitaker white-knuckled the edges of his desk and hung on as the floor took on a lean that seemed like that slow ascent to the top of a roller coaster where the car sat precariously at its peak a moment before the drop. For a second he felt like that lead rider overlooking the edge and waiting for the fall.
But the fall never came.
The tremors stopped.
After a moment Whitaker took in a deep breath, and then released it with an equally long sigh.
His world had literally altered when the ship’s fore dipped at an angle that favored a drop to the bottom of the crater, a five-mile journey, should the next tremor prove too much.
Grabbing his helmet and weapon, Whitaker made haste.
#
When the tremor struck John and Alyssa immediately took to the floor. O’Connell lost his balance and did the same, falling on his injured shoulder which sent a course of white-hot pain throughout his body. Maestro and Goliath stumbled, held their stances, however unsteady, with Goliath cradling the laptop as if it was the Holy Grail.
Seeing an opportunity, Savage lashed out with his leg and kicked Maestro’s legs out from under him, the large commando going feet first into the air with the flat of his back crashing hard against the surface, knocking the wind out of him. With the assault weapon skating several feet away, Savage and Maestro crawled hastily toward the MP5. Just as Savage was about to grab it, Maestro seized his ankle and pulled him from the weapon.
