Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  Tolliver said, “If you’re all set, I’d like to supervise our getting underway.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Captain.”

  Bannon shook Tolliver’s hand. “Good to see you again, Bob.”

  “You, too, Brice. Excuse me.”

  With the captain busy at the bridge, Bannon joined Grayson at the windows and together they looked out over the water, at the harbor, and skyline. They watched planes land and take off at Logan Airport. The deck vibrated under their feet. The Putnam started to move and the city began to slip away.

  He said, “It never gets old, does it?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  Though Grayson served her full military career in the Army, she grew up in New Orleans and like Bannon and McMurphy had developed a love for the water at an early age. Something she and Bannon had talked about at length over the years they’ve come to know each other.

  Behind them, someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  She and Bannon turned.

  A seaman stood at attention. “Dr. Robin Larson is requesting an audience, ma’am.”

  “Of course,” Grayson said. “Thank you, seaman.”

  The guardsman stepped back, turned, and retreated down the stairs, exiting the pilothouse.

  A second passed before an attractive woman in her early forties stepped into the pilothouse.

  A dark-haired woman, Robin Larson was casually dressed in blue jeans. They were faded, worn almost white along the thighs and rolled up at the ankles. She had on black open-toe sandals, a loose black t-shirt tucked in at just the belt buckle, and a blue and white plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned and untucked with the sleeves rolled partway up her thin arms. On her head, she wore a wide, floppy brim, beige fedora with a black band. It appeared well used.

  As she approached, she took off her oversized sunglasses.

  Not exactly what Bannon would have expected from the youngest American female billionaire and world-renowned nautical engineer in the world. But then again, he guessed having achieved the level of professional and financial success she had, she could wear whatever she damn well pleased.

  Her fingernails painted bright red. A half-dozen bracelets jangled around her gold Ladies Rolex as she extended a hand toward Grayson. “When I heard you were on board, I just had to come introduce myself. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam Secretary.”

  They shook hands. “And you as well, doctor.”

  “Please, I’m just Robin.”

  Bannon knew, modest as she might be, she was not just Robin. Already familiar with the work being done at Tiamat Bluff, he’d done a deep dive into Larson’s background after Grayson’s kind invitation to bring him along.

  Not yet forty-five, she had a net worth of over fifteen billion dollars and had graced the covers of Forbes, MIT Technology Review, and Fast Company magazine, among others. She held a doctorate in Engineering from George Washington University and had advanced degrees in Aeronautics & Astronautics and Civil & Environmental Engineering from MIT, and Advance Computer Science from Cambridge. She’d attended Barnard College where she majored in Ancient Studies and minored in Greek Classics. She started her company Aquabotics Technologies at the age of twenty-three. They hold dozens of patents to state-of-the-art advance marine technology and underwater robotics applications employed by the private sector, government, and the military.

  Bannon introduced himself. “Brice Bannon. Nice to meet you.”

  “Are you press or government employee, Mr. Bannon?”

  “Please, call me Brice,” he said, avoiding her inquiry. “I’m looking forward to visiting Tiamat Bluff. I’ve followed its development for years.”

  “Is your interest professional or casual?” she asked, pursuing her unanswered question.

  Bannon smiled while Grayson saved him.

  “Brice is a decorated Coast Guard commander and a close friend. He’s here as my guest.” Grayson then changed the subject. “Let me just say, Doctor, what you’ve accomplished is nothing short of miraculous.”

  “Thank you, but I cannot take all the credit,” Larson said. “It is a joint effort between the government, private industry, and academia. I simply helped steer the project.”

  “You’re being modest, Doctor,” Bannon said. “The breakthroughs your company has made in both remote-operated and fully-automated underwater research vehicle technologies alone are nothing less than remarkable.”

  Grayson nodded. “It would not be an exaggeration to say you’ve created one of the most important modern wonders of the twenty-first century. A true city under the sea.”

  “Not yet.” Larson seemed genuinely embarrassed by the praise. “And truth be told, there’s really nothing new or all that innovative about what we’ve done. Not really. We’ve simply studied and brought together existing technologies from around the world and merged them into a single, functioning venue.”

  “Nonsense, Doctor,” Bannon insisted. “You’ve built the first self-contained, self-sustaining underwater city in existence.”

  “A place that will benefit science, industry, the military, and contribute to the nation economically for decades to come,” Grayson added.

  “And I for one am interested in hearing a whole lot more about it,” Bannon said.

  Larson smiled. “And I’d like nothing better than to talk your ear off about it, but you’ll have to wait and hear about it with the others.”

  “Others?” Bannon asked.

  “President Kingsley has asked that I put a presentation together for those on board who’ll be accompanying us to the Bluff. An overview of the project, if you will. Where we are and where we expect to go.” She placed a hand on Bannon’s shoulder. “But don’t panic. It’ll be short and I promise not to bore you all to death.”

  “I doubt you could do that if you tried,” Bannon said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, they’re serving lunch and I’m told there will be cocktails.”

  “Definite bonus points,” Bannon said with a smile.

  “And, Madam Secretary, I’m a big fan of yours as well. I’ve watched your career, tracked your accomplishments as you’ve fought your way to the top, and doing so with all the grace and integrity one could ask for. I’m honored to have you join us. Now, if you’d both excuse me, I’ve a few last-minute details to attend to before lunch.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” Grayson said.

  “One quick question before you go,” Bannon said.

  “Certainly.”

  “Tiamat. It’s an unusual name,” Bannon said. “I’m curious how you came to choose it.”

  “You’re not familiar with ancient mythology are you, Commander Bannon?”

  “Please, call me Brice,” he said, then answered, “A little.”

  “In the ancient Babylonian religion, Tiamat was a creation goddess. The "shining" personification of salt water. She mated with Abzû, the god of fresh water, to create the heavens and the earth,” Larson said. “The merging of salt and freshwater at the beginning of existence.”

  “A metaphor for the merging the surface with the sea,” Bannon said.

  “What more fitting name could there be?”

  “It works,” Bannon said with a shrug. “As far as the legend goes.”

  She appeared curious. “How do you mean?”

  “As I recall, Tiamat was also credited with being the monstrous embodiment of the primordial chaos. That she was described as taking on the appearance of a serpent or a dragon.”

  “That’s true. But why?” Larson asked with a wry smile. “Do you know?”

  “To war against her children, the first generation of gods. In retaliation for their murdering their father while trying to overthrow his throne. She was killed by her son, Marduk, the storm-god, who sliced her dragon body in half. He used her ribs to form the vault of Heaven and Earth, her tears to form rivers, and her tail became the Milky Way.”

  “How gruesome,” Grayson said.

  “And correct.
I’ll admit to having cherry-picked the parts of the legend I felt appropriate,” Larson smiled. “It appears there’s more to you than meets the eye as well, Brice Bannon.”

  “You have no idea,” Grayson said.

  “I look forward to seeing you both later.” She shook Bannon’s hand then bowed to Grayson.

  Bannon nodded as Larson departed.

  “Dragons sliced into pieces? Really, Brice,” Grayson said. “How do you know such things?”

  She knew his formal education outside of the Coast Guard ended at high school. “Sea legends, like nautical history, it’s an interest of mine.”

  “As I recall, Ms. Sardana calls them obsessions.”

  An observation he didn’t dispute.

  But what tickled the back of Bannon’s brain like an itch was another piece of the Tiamat mythos left unsaid. In her attempt to avenge her husband’s death, Tiamat gave birth to eleven monsters: dragons, serpents, scorpion men, weather-beasts, and merpeople, and she set them loose upon the world.

  With that cheerful thought rattling around in his head, Bannon joined Grayson to once again look out at the panoramic view the pilothouse offered of the City of Boston, now barely visible on the horizon. They stood silently watching the cityscape recede as the Legend-class cutter turned and headed out for open water.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That afternoon at the Keel Haul.

  McMurphy sat at the bar, his fist around a thick glass mug of Coors Light, feeling restless. He wore old jeans, a plaid flannel lumberjack shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, and a navy-blue t-shirt underneath. On it was a drawing of a helicopter in white with the caption: Pilots know how to stick it. A bright white bandage was taped to his forehead over his left eye.

  Tara was behind the bar, her black hair loose and flowing around her dark face. She wore black leather pants and a breezy white blouse with the top buttons open, revealing a pleasant contrast between her sun-kissed dark skin and the white blouse.

  The only other person in the place was Captain Floyd. An old geezer, as McMurphy called him, that had come with the place when Bannon bought it a few years back. At barely five-foot-six, the little man sat hunched over his beer wearing an old, gray Members Only jacket—a garment not seen in the wild since the ’90—and a white captain’s hat. With his two-day-old scruffy cheeks and his weathered skin, tanned and craggy, put a black pipe in his mouth and Captain Floyd was the spitting image of the Old Salty carved wooden nautical sea captain figurines they sell in every novelty shop and bookstore in Cape Cod.

  On the TV, with the sound down, was the third leg of the World Curling Cup championship of all things; the United States against Russia.

  Captain Floyd banged his empty mug on the bar. “Hey, toots. That means it’s empty.”

  Tara strolled down the bar. She glared hard at Captain Floyd, who did not back down. She snatched the empty mug from his hand and waved it in his face.

  “Do you have any idea how far up your—” The heavy front door of the Keel Haul opened and banged shut. “—I can shove this?” Tara finished.

  Floyd smiled big and wide. “One can dream, sweetie. Especially if it were filled up.” He arched a bushy white eyebrow at the hint. “Which would be nice.”

  Tara pulled the mug away and shook her head. “I have no idea why Brice puts up with you, old man.” Still, she went to the tap and filled his beer.

  McMurphy grinned in spite of the splitting headache he had. A reminder of yesterday’s hydrofoil crash and the gash it left in his forehead.

  Chief Singleton strolled through the dimly lit bar brushing snow off his shoulders and shaking it off his baseball cap. The flickering wall sconces reflected off the bald man’s dark scalp.

  “Hey, Reggie,” McMurphy said.

  “Skyjack. How’s the head?” Singleton asked, noting the fresh bandage.

  “Take more than that jackass to split open this old melon.”

  “Good to hear.” Singleton plopped down on the stool next to him.

  “Too early for a drink, Chief?” Tara asked.

  “Is there ever such a time?” The former NYPD detective slapped a twenty down on the bar. “And back this one up, too.” He indicated McMurphy and his half-filled mug. “On me.”

  “One Nut Brown Ale coming up,” Tara said. A dark ale from the Ipswich Ale Brewery out of Massachusetts, Bannon began stocking it when he learned it was the cop’s winter preference. She deposited a fresh Coors Light in front of McMurphy.

  He downed his first beer and raised the full mug. “Thanks, Chief.”

  Singleton sipped his beer and looked at the silent jukebox. “Anything on that thing other than country?”

  McMurphy crossed the bar and after a minute of scrutinizing the offerings made a selection. Otis Redding started singing “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”

  McMurphy sat back down. “It was either that or Taylor Swift.”

  “Otis is cool,” Singleton said.

  “Yeah, he is.” He and McMurphy clinked glasses to that. “So, what brings you around, Reggie. Not that we don’t love seeing ya.”

  “I was hoping to talk to Brice. He around?”

  “No.” McMurphy pouted. “He ditched us. Took off to visit the city under the sea and left us behind.”

  The cop furrowed his brow. “The what where now?”

  “Tiamat Bluff,” Tara said. “It’s a city they built under the sea.”

  Singleton snorted. “Yeah, and mermaids and leprechauns are real.”

  “I don’t know about mermaids,” McMurphy said. “But don’t be disrespecting the wee folk.”

  “No, seriously,” Singleton said. “What’s that? Some secret mission like you all do?”

  Until recently Bannon and the others had successfully kept the local police chief in the dark about their extracurricular activities with the government. But, a good cop with twenty years of NYPD experience under his belt, Reginald Singleton was not some easily fooled local yokel. He’d taken note of the unusual activity circling around the bar over time. His suspicions were realized a few months back when a group of terrorists firebombed the Keel Haul, kidnapped a fugitive Bannon and his people were holding and killed a local Coast Guardsman in the process. Afterward, he’d been pulled into helping them on a case or two, putting him on the fringe of their inner circle.

  “No,” McMurphy grumbled. “There really is this new, state-of-the-art city they’ve built under the sea. It's offshore, out in the Gulf of Maine. Brice got invited to go tour it and he left us here to twiddle our thumbs and cool our heels.”

  “Forgive Skyjack, he’s a little grumpy about being left behind,” Tara said.

  “And my head hurts.”

  “And his head hurts,” she said offering absolutely no sympathy. “Brice’ll be back in a day or two. Or is there something the B-team can do for you?”

  “Ha. Some B-team.” Singleton had seen the team in action, especially Tara having accompanied her and Bannon onto an old derelict sub-chaser and witnessed them first hand savagely take out a team of enemy combatants. Especially Blades. “I wish I had you guys around when I was kicking down doors and busting heads in the Bronx, back in the day.”

  Tara handed him a second beer and poured herself a gin and tonic over ice. “You carried your own just fine, Chief.”

  “For an old guy, you mean.”

  She raised her hands in defense. “I didn’t say that.”

  He smiled before turning to McMurphy. “I told Brice I’d track down that guy did a number on you at the race.”

  “You found that low-down scoundrel?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “No.” McMurphy was surprised by that. From what he’d seen Singleton was a damn good cop.

  “Not from lack of trying,” the cop said in his defense. “Turns out he was a last-minute entry. Paid his fees in cash. The name he used on the entry forms turned out to be bogus. Surprise. Surprise. I had my guys talk with the other racers and the organizers. Nobody knows this g
uy. It’s like he’s a ghost.”

  “Not the sort of behavior you’d expect from a participant in a charity event,” Tara said.

  “Right,” the chief said. “That’s what I’m thinking. Unless…”

  He let the statement hang.

  “Unless what?” McMurphy asked, picking up the thread and tugging.

  “No. It’s nothing. Probably nothing anyway.”

  “You’ve got something on your mind, Chief,” Tara said.

  “Spill it,” McMurphy demanded.

  “I’m just thinking, out loud, you know like.”

  “Yeah,” McMurphy said.

  “Go on,” Tara encouraged.

  Captain Floyd jumped up and hooted, his fist in the air. “Yeah! Take that you Ruskies!”

  The others looked at him.

  “What?” He pointed at the TV. “We scored. We’re winning.” When no one responded, Floyd grumbled. “You put the stupid curling on the TV, not me.”

  He returned his focus to his beer.

  “Chief,” Tara said. “You were saying?”

  “It’s odd, is all,” he said. “Traffic and surveillance cams found him getting into a dark, late-model Corolla. No tags. He used a fictitious name to enter the race. No one else knows him. I’m just wondering if it’s possible, maybe, the guy was there because of you.” He paused before adding, “You know your…other jobs.”

  The thought had crossed McMurphy’s mind, but he hadn’t given it any serious consideration. Neither he nor Bannon recognized the guy, so not somebody from their past. They’d not heard of any threats against them, and they were between assignments with Homeland Security.

  “It’s possible.” McMurphy shrugged, outlining all the reasons why he’d dismissed the idea initially. “I just figured the guy was some idiot that wanted to win too much.”

  “Maybe,” Singleton said. “You’re probably right. Anyway, I’ll get to the bottom of it. We’re working on tracking the down the registration and purchasing information on that ugly boat contraption he left behind. Those things aren’t cheap and there’s not a lot of companies that make ’em. There’s gotta be a record of who bought it. If the owner’s not our guy, he’ll lead us to him.”