by Nick Thacker
They were all standing now, with the exception of the president who remained hunched in his chair.
“They’re coming! That has to be it!”
Minutes passed, and Jen waited for another sound. Nothing.
The ocean around seemed to grow quieter every second, until finally the loudest thing she’d ever heard resonated from directly behind her head.
Whump.
The noise was dull but powerful; immediately close and yet unrecognizable.
Whump.
Another sound, this time from the opposite side of the sub.
“They’re pulling us off the concrete block!”
Chapter 59
IT HAD TAKEN OVER FOUR hours to spot the tiny submarine, but one of the radio crew finally found it. Someone on board had decided to turn on the exterior lights, shining a green-cast light outward and letting the advanced sighting technology on board the ship do its job.
Immediately, a submarine crew was in the water. They were lifted off the deck of the ship, a borrowed research vessel christened The Emory Strait. A number of Royal Marines and US Navy seamen guided the submersible, fitted with extended arms and a pulley-crane operation, over the edge and watched it sink into the water.
The two-man sub quickly descended, finally having a charted course directly below the ship. Sonar and communications systems, as well as the advanced targeting sights and construction arms of the sub, were quickly tested. Everything in working order, the sub continued its descent until it was lying just above the older, larger submarine mounted on the floor of the Atlantic.
The arms reached out and placed both of its telescoping drill heads near the two large bolts holding the submarine to the concrete base. It began to drill from both sides at once, taking advantage of the massive pressure of the deep ocean. The bolt left the base of the concrete with a soft pop, its head sheared from its shaft, and the small research sub moved around to the other side of its target.
It repeated the process two more times, shearing off three of the four bolts from the concrete. On the fourth bolt it stopped, placing one of its movable arms on top of the sub. It applied pressure, trying to prevent the almost-free sub from rising too quickly once the final bolt was severed.
The second arm drilled again, this time moving more slowly on its own. The final bolt broke free and shot away from the two submarines, and the now-free vessel began to push upwards. The two-man sub guided the other with the two arms, both allowing it to rise through the deep water but using its own ballast systems—both the main and redundant system now working in tandem at twice the power—to keep the submarines from shooting upwards like a cork.
The ascension process took all of two and –a half hours, each man in the sub taking careful note of the surrounding pressure, the status of the onboard systems, and the placement of the two arms on the neighboring sub’s back. They checked in regularly via radio, giving the surface team an accurate prediction of the surfacing time.
When the two submarines popped out of the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, deck crews cheered and began hoisting the ship’s crane and pulley to the starboard side of the ship, where a diving crew had already swam up next to the old submarine. They hitched the crane’s lift supports and struts to the underside of the sub and signaled for the operator to begin moving the vessel from the ocean to the deck of the research ship. Within another half hour, the submarine was ready to be opened.
Detective Craig Larson stood by, watching the entire process. He smiled with the cheering crewmen and women, and approached the submarine when it was finally on deck. A soldier nearby nodded, and he stepped forward. Two young Navy men, Rogers and Cabrera, he believed, began working on opening the top hatch of the sub. They succeeded, and Larson walked up the platform surrounding the small vessel.
Chapter 60
THEY ROSE THROUGH THE WATER for another few hours. Mark lost track of how long it had been, but he knew most of the group had long since fallen asleep. He stayed awake, watching Jen and Reese at the side of the sub.
He couldn’t tell if they were rising, falling, or staying in place, but the sensation of movement was there. It was an odd feeling, moving around as a completely weightless object without a sense of actual direction. After another fifteen minutes passed, Mark felt another sensation: were they stopping?
Saunders opened her eyes, followed soon after by Nelson.
“We home yet?” he asked.
Mark shrugged, but a popping sound resonated through the sub as the wheel at the top of the hatch began to open. In a moment Nelson was at the hatch, looking upward. He shielded his eyes as a blinding light pierced the dark interior.
Sunlight.
Mark had never felt so elated in his entire life. The light filled every space in the sub; no corner was left untouched. He felt its warmth wash over his face and arms, and he turned to look at Jen.
“We’re home,” she mouthed, not making a sound. He nodded.
A United States Navy soldier shouted down from the open hatch, and Nelson responded. He reached up to the ladder and lifted himself upward. Reese followed, Jen close behind, and Mark waited for Saunders to climb out.
Mark walked to the exit of the sub and looked up. A Navy officer’s face greeted him.
“I have something here I’ll need a hand with,” Mark said. He retreated toward the back of the sub and waited until he heard footsteps descending the ladder. The young soldier dropped to the metal floor and looked at Mark. His eyes grew wide and he instantly jumped for the ladder again.
“I need some help over here!” he yelled. “I’ve got the president down here, alive,” he added.
Within seconds, three more sailors had gathered around the hatch, and Mark moved around and began to lift the president from the chair. Before he walked toward the exit, he looked down and shook him gently, waiting for the man’s eyes to open. He had been fast asleep, still affected by the drugs.
The president’s eyes met Mark’s and widened. Mark smiled, reached into his pocket, and retrieved the small device he’d pocketed earlier. He pressed the small button on the side and waved it near the president’s temple.
“This is for my family, Mr. President.” Mark waved it again, and the president’s eyes glazed over. He felt for a pulse.
Good.
The first sailor had reached them and pulled the president away from Mark.
“Rogers! Get down here and help me out!” He threw the president’s arm over his shoulder and turned to exit. “I’ve got one more civ down here, too. Give me a hand!”
The man turned and nodded. Mark smiled at the young man. “He’s hurt, I think. Obviously shaken up, but I think there’s something more to it than that. He’s been acting strange since he got hit down there. Must have hit his head pretty badly.”
The Navy soldier thanked him and lifted the president’s arms to the waiting hands of the crewman standing around the hatch. Mark followed him out and was immediately escorted to a waiting inflatable craft moored next to their sub.
He was ushered next to Jen and Reese, and he sat down in the middle of the boat, facing Saunders and Nelson.
Mark slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her close. Reese moved to sit between Mark and Jen, and rested his head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked as she turned to him.
She nodded, moved her hand to his face, and kissed him.
Chapter 61
HAROLD MATHERS SAT MOTIONLESS, WATCHING the small television mounted on the wall.
“Reports indicate some sort of brain damage caused by anaphylactic shock…”
The newscaster was standing in front of a green-screened image of the White House front gate, reading from a prepared statement from his Chief of Staff’s office.
“…Initial estimates predict that the damage will be limited to an area no larger than five hundred square miles in the mid-Atlantic, and recovery crews from FEMA have already been dispatched…”
Mathers reached up t
o wipe a drop of saliva from his lip. He felt his chin. It was covered in whiskers.
When was the last time I shaved?
He felt the skin on his cheek flare up as his hand grazed a spot that he’d apparently nicked with his razor.
“President Frank McKinney, recently returned from his trip abroad, has been working with the former First Lady Mathers on a worldwide press tour to explain and apologize for the unbelievable events of the past month…”
His tongue rolled slightly out over his bottom lip. He focused his attention on pulling it back into his mouth. The drop of saliva grew, now rolling over his whiskered chin and resting on the divot on his lower lip.
“Starting with Canada and England, the duo visited thirty-five countries in two months and presented to audiences of almost one billion people across television and radio networks. The speech has been translated to almost twenty languages, and outlines the terrible computer malfunctions that led to twelve ballistic missiles being simultaneously fired…”
Mathers reached up again to wipe it away just as a woman’s voice giggled from behind him. He was immediately distracted and his tongue dropped slightly out of his mouth once more.
“The efforts of Detective Craig Larson and his late partner Ken Dawson have led to the arrest of eighteen individuals believed to be involved in the Nouvelle Terre organization. Detective Dawson sadly perished in a house fire outside Washington…”
The giggling continued, and he shifted his eyes to the left as the woman entered his field of vision.
“Mr. Pres—Mr. Mathers,” she said, correcting herself, “how silly of you!” She reached to his lip and wiped away the growing blob of saliva with her sleeve. “You must be hungry. Come here, let’s get you to the cafeteria.”
Mathers tried to look at her; tried to raise his voice to argue. His voice stuttered, a gravelly hollowed-out skeleton of his soothing baritone that had won him his presidency, and he gasped for air.
His head lolled sideways, against his own will. Dammit. Stop and think.
He drew a few short breaths, steadying his hands. They gripped the sides of his wheelchair tightly, trying to force his body to calm down.
The nurse continued patronizing him, but he was no longer listening.
Tell her you’re okay, man. He struggled to build the sentence in his mind, and even as he started to open his mouth to speak, he knew, like always, thatit wouldn’t work.
“For have to— neb… I ca—hold un…” What the hell was that? He wondered as he heard the disgusting voice—his own—string together another incoherent set of syllables.
“Mr. Mathers, it’s okay. Let’s get you downstairs.” She reached down to his shoulder, her other hand finding the handle on the back of his wheelchair. She squeezed his shoulder to calm him and guided the wheelchair out of the white room.
Another drop of drool appeared at the side of his mouth.
THE
Enigma Strain
a novel
NICK THACKER
1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA
THE sound of another exploding tree caused Nicholas Alexei to jump. He could hear the men behind him snickering, but he didn’t turn to address it. It wasn’t worth his time, and it was bad leadership to acknowledge pettiness. He grumbled under his breath and marched forward through the knee-deep snow.
Nicholas was used to the sounds of the winter. This new land reminded him of home; of the countless kilometers of deep black forest, filled with the same types of animals he used to hunt, the same trees he used to climb, and the same bitter cold he used to long for. He remembered the smells too – the ripe evergreen scent, the freshness of blankets of snow stick enough to stall a horse to, and the sheer emptiness of the air.
He knew the sounds as well. The frozen tree sap inside the trunks of the pines would expand, causing the bark and wood to explode. His father had explained it to him on a wolf-hunting trip when he was a boy, and he had often lay awake at night counting the rippling explosions as they worked their way through the wooded area around their cabin. He knew more about the woods than any of the men he had brought with him, with the exception of maybe Sven.
Still, the laughter of the men frustrated him. It wasn’t a sign of insubordination as much as it was a sign of their laziness. Three months they’d made their trek over mountains and across valleys so high and so deep he’d thought they wouldn’t make it to the other side with their entire crew intact. They’d crossed tundras, plateaus, and wetlands, all without losing a man. Their hunting excursions were always successful, and most nights ended around a large bonfire with a deer roasting on a spit. Breakfast was hot soup, and they snacked on smoked meats throughout the day.
Nicholas had to admit that it was so far one of the more successful trips he’d been on, and he knew God was smiling on them in this new land. But he knew it made them weak; it made them soft. They had grown fat and sluggish, traveling fewer kilometers every day than the day before. Their energy and excitement was replaced by restlessness, and their stories and poems read aloud around the fire had devolved into passionless songs.
Without turning around, he called back to the twenty-seven men behind him. “Where is the doctor?”
A short, thin man rushed to his side. Nicholas did not slow down. “How is our status, doctor?”
“We are well, commander. The men are full, and morale is high.”
“We move more slowly each day,” Nicholas said. “We have caught more game than we can eat, and we build fires larger than we can burn in one night. The men are fat, and they are growing complacent.”
“But they are happy, sir,” the doctor said.
“Happiness is as much a curse as a virtue,” Nicholas said, turning to the shorter man. “We will stop and make camp when we next find a clearing. The river is to the north, and we can fish there for as long as we like.”
Nicholas was a man of his word, a man of integrity. He had promised his superiors back in Russia a map of the deep terrain of North America, and he would deliver it. His expedition had grown mundane, and it was time to bring it back to life.
“Split the men into crews of two and three,” Nicholas said, “and I will send them out in the morning to chart the area. The comrades will find pleasure in a change of scenery, and I myself will enjoy an excursion of a more singular fashion.”
“So you will wander alone through these parts?” The doctor asked.
Nicholas laughed. “I will take care to not lose myself in the fog, if that is what you are asking. Sometimes a man must wander, my friend,” he said. “But rest assured we will gather together after three days.”
The doctor nodded and silently fell in line behind Nicholas. Nicholas Alexei was uncertain if this plan of his would do more good than endanger them all, but it was a risk he was willing to take. They had found nothing useful thus far; nothing the motherland would be inclined to return for. Cartography was their manifest, but he was under no false pretenses. By moving outward in smaller groups, the expedition could cover more territory and more ground than by moving a single line.
So far, they had charted the great river to their north all the way from the sea, but they knew all rivers began somewhere. Whether it was a lake at the top of a mountain peak or from tributaries caused by glacial melt he did not know.
And he didn’t care.
Nicholas Alexei was here for one reason, and one reason alone. His homeland sought riches, as did his men. All men sought more than what God had initially blessed them with. It was man’s duty to find that which he was owed in this life, all the more blessings to be bestowed upon him in the afterlife.
This new land was not known for its riches, as it had been settled merely years beforehand, but it was the great unknown that continued to attract new inhabitants, and it was this same force that attracted Nicholas to the opportunity.
1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA
THE first star appeared in the heavens above him, and Nicholas turned to the line behind hi
m. “Make camp,” he ordered his men. “There is a clearing to our left; we will stay there.”
Immediately, the men filed outward from the position in the line and began to extract poles and tarps from their packs. A few broke away to hunt, while others milled about and checked canteen levels.
They were slow, Nicholas noticed. After the last few days’ effort it did not surprise him, but it did not please him much either. It took over an hour to set up the ten tents and build a fire, But no more than ten minutes for the men to begin huddling around it.
Soon the sky darkened and the moon arose above them, nearly full. Food was prepared, a roasted deer and herb soup, and the men began singing.
Nicholas had had enough. He broke away from the camp and lifted the moose skin parka hood up and over his head. The bitter cold bit into his flesh, and the gentle wind threatened to chill his core, but he didn’t notice. He made for a smaller clearing to the south that he had seen earlier, one with a rock outcropping against a higher mountain cliff. The river they were following had likely cut down into this valley they were currently in, and if he was lucky it had left some interesting formations for him.
He reached the clearing and scared away a small mammal that disappeared into a hole in front of a tree. He stepped into the open grassy area and looked toward the outcropping. It appeared that the boulders were precariously situated around a hole near the ground, beckoning him closer. As he approached, he could see in the failing light that the rocks were in fact surrounding an opening to a small cave.
As a boy, nothing had excited him more than exploring unmarked caves and caverns. His father had joined him in a spelunking expedition once, and together they discovered an underground spring that provided water to the well near their cabin.
