by David DeLee
He pounded down the last of his beer and stood up, leaving his change for a tip. “Gotta get going. You all have a fine day.”
You too,” Tara and McMurphy said together.
He pumped a fist in the air at Floyd. “Go USA, Cap’t.”
Floyd waved him away.
At the door, Singleton stopped and turned. “They’ve actually built a city under the sea? You’re not making that up.”
“Building it, but yeah, hand to God, Reggie,” McMurphy said.
Singleton shook his head leaving. “Who in their right mind would wanna live underwater? The world’s gone crazy.”
CHAPTER NINE
Back on the Putnam, the large Legend-class cutter had been underway for over an hour. The seas were calm and the sun followed high and bright in an azure sky, crystal-clear after burning off the morning haze. A few slow-moving, white cumulus clouds followed their progress.
They cruised in an easterly direction bisecting the Gulf of Maine, a natural football-shaped depression that was bordered to the west and north by the mainland coast from Cape Cod, looping around through New Hampshire and Maine, and extended up to the Canadian provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. The Gulf had a surface area of thirty-six-thousand square miles.
The seabed was made up of several banks or elevated seamounts. The largest of these being Georges Bank. Oval in shape, the underwater mountain range was roughly one hundred and forty-nine miles in length and seventy-five miles wide. It stretched between Cape Cod to Cape Sable Island in Nova Scotia. The summit was three-hundred-thirty feet below the surface and the surrounding basins reached a depth of fifteen hundred feet below sea level.
Bannon knew from what he’d read—little of it available to the general public yet, but he had his sources—Tiamat Bluff was being constructed on the leeward side of Georges Bank at a general depth of one-thousand feet.
At a distance from Boston Harbor of sixty-two miles, the Putnam could make the trip in two hours in a pinch, but they were traveling at a more leisurely pace of twenty-knots. They were scheduled to arrive onsite in more like three hours.
Bannon and Grayson remained at the panoramic windows enjoying the view and hot coffee brought to them by a seaman. Mesmerized by the calm, wide-open expanse of turquoise water stretched out to the azure skyline at the horizon, neither tired of the view as morning gave way to early afternoon.
Not long after, Tolliver left his position at the bridge and joined them. “We’re still a couple of hours out.” He checked his watch. “I’ve you’d like, ma’am, I could give you a tour of the Putnam.”
“That would be wonderful, Captain.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Bannon asked.
“Hoped you would.” Tolliver swept his arm toward the pilothouse door. “Grab your coats. It’s cold outside.”
They spent the next hour strolling the decks of the Putnam from bow to stern.
Named after George R. Putnam, the head of the US Bureau of Lighthouses before that agency merged with the Coast Guard in 1939, the Putnam was one of only a handful of ships designed and built to replace the aging Hamilton-class cutters. The Legend-class vessel boasted an overall length of four-hundred-eighteen feet and a fifty-four-foot beam. With two diesel and one gas turbine engine to power the ship, they could achieve speeds of twenty-eight knots. They crewed with ninety-nine guardsmen and fourteen officers but could accommodate up to one hundred forty-eight personnel depending on the mission. The ship was outfitted and equipped to perform a variety of tasks; including search and rescue, port, waterways, and coastal security, conduct counter-terrorism activities, and various other law enforcement missions, as well as support a multitude of other military and naval operations.
As they stepped out from the hanger section, huddled against the January cold in their parkas, Tolliver proudly pointed out the Putnam’s sensors and processing systems, going into great detail about its electronic warfare capability and countermeasure rapid decoy launchers. Then he told them about its combat suite; which included one bow-mounted 57mm naval gun, one midship mounted 20mm anti-missile, an anti-aircraft gun, and six mid- and stern deck-mounted machine guns in .50 caliber and 7.62mm variations.
“Not that we anticipate needing any sort of firepower on this mission,” he said wrapping up the tour on the stern flight deck. “We also have an MH-65C Dolphin search and rescue chopper, two ScanEagle unmanned aerial and underwater surveillance drones, and,” he pointed toward the rear launching ramp, “two 7-meter short-range prosecutor inflatables that can be launched from the stern ramp at speed.”
“Very impressive, Captain,” Grayson said.
She’d learned nothing new from what she saw, of course. As Secretary of Homeland Security, she was fully briefed by the Commandant of the Coast Guard on all appropriations and expenditures made by the service, but to experience it firsthand was certainly remarkable and not a bad way to kill time, Bannon thought.
“How much longer before we reach the coordinates given to you by Dr. Larson, Captain?”
Toliver consulted his watch. “Less than an hour, ma’am.”
“And Marine One?” she asked.
“They had a late start, ma’am.”
Worry lines creased her forehead.
“Nothing to be concerned over, Madam Secretary,” Tolliver said. “My understanding is President Kingsley got a little…longwinded with the Daughters of the Revolution breakfast he attended earlier.”
“Ah, yes,” Grayson said with a smile. “He does like to pontificate.”
“They should be arriving momentarily. We could wait inside if you prefer, ma’am?” Tolliver offered.
Grayson pulled a wisp of hair from her face and returned her gloved hands to the pocket of her parka. “No, Captain. I’d rather stay right here.” She turned her face to the sun, warm in spite of the cold air, and closed her eyes. “Washington can be a bit…stuffy.”
“I can imagine, ma’am. If you’d like, I can get an update of the President’s progress for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bannon said. The first to spot Marine One’s approach, he pointed. “Here they come now.”
In the distance, a formation of dark, black specs grew larger in the sky. Three helicopters approaching.
Bannon knew, as a security measure, Marine One flew in formation with up to four additional, identically marked, choppers. On route to their location, the helicopters would constantly shift, moving the aircraft that actually transported POTUS around, playing an aerial version of a shell game.
Upon approach, one of the three Sikorsky Sea King helicopters, informally called white tops because of their distinctive livery—color, graphics, and identifiers—advanced while the other two banked and peeled away to begin their journey back to Logan Airport where they’d wait to again come out and escort POTUS back to shore.
The remaining craft touched down on the flight deck while Bannon, Tolliver, and Grayson stood to one side, watching. Tolliver held his cap to his head against the updraft created by the main rotor blades. Bannon squinted his eyes behind the Ray-Bans he wore.
The helicopter powered down. The main and rear rotors slowed to a soft chug-chug-chug.
A marine in dress blues that Bannon hadn’t noticed behind them marched toward the chopper. He unlocked and opened the hatch behind the cockpit and pulled it downward. The hatch formed a set of five steps. He then stood smartly at attention beside the folded stairs.
A minute passed before President David Kingsley appeared in the doorway. He paused to say something to the pilot and co-pilot then emerged wearing a long, dark overcoat. A man approaching seventy, Kingsley was no spring chicken, but he was thin and fit. An advent runner and outdoorsmen, he was an outspoken environmentalist and champion of fitness and good health. He raced every year in the Boston Marathon, and refused to give that up when he was elected to office; to the chagrin of his Secret Service protection detail, Bannon had heard tell.
Kingsley saluted the Marine before cros
sing the flight deck. He pushed his windblown white hair from his eyes. The helicopter’s rotors had slowed significantly by the time he reached Grayson and the others, but the ocean breeze wasn’t so accommodating. The man’s coat whipped around his legs.
Tolliver snapped to attention and saluted.
Kingsley returned the salute. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
“Permission granted, sir.” Tolliver dropped the salute and clasped Kingsley’s outstretched hand. “Welcome to the Putnam, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kingsley said. He nodded to Grayson. “Liz.”
“Mr. President.”
Kingsley turned his attention to Bannon. With a wide smile, POTUS gripped his hand in two of his, pumping it hard. “Commander Bannon. Good to see you again.”
“And you, sir.”
Over the breeze, Kingsley shouted, “I never got a chance to properly thank you for your work in the Oceanic Princess and Yankee Stadium attacks. Hell of job you did. Hell of a job.”
“It was a team effort, sir.”
“Of course, it was,” Kingsley said. “Please express my gratitude to the others, too. Of course.”
“I will, sir.”
POTUS released Bannon’s hand and gripped his shoulder. “I just wish more people could know about your team’s valiant efforts on our behalf.”
“It’s not an issue, sir, really. Frankly, we like it this way. The less fanfare the better.”
“That’s a position I certainly understand, Commander,” Kingsley said.
Kingsley’s Chief of Staff, Amal Haddad, emerged from the helicopter wearing a dark three-quarter length coat over her pantsuit and carrying a brown leather satchel. With her was a young woman with blond hair wearing dark Ray-Ban sunglasses, like Bannon’s. Even before he saw the earpiece in her right ear, her attire, her stoic demeanor, and her holstered Sig Sauer told Bannon she was Secret Service.
Haddad held a tablet in her hand, looked at it. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” she said, “But we’re behind schedule and—”
Captain Tolliver said, “Dr. Larson is expecting us in the Officer’s Mess where a late lunch has been prepared.”
“Excellent, Captain,” Kingsley said. “Lead the way. I’m anxious to hear what the good doctor has for us.”
CHAPTER TEN
“This way, sir.” Tolliver turned smartly and the President fell in step behind him, with the other’s following; Grayson, Haddad, then Bannon with the secret service agent by his side.
Bannon glanced at her and smiled.
The woman stared unflinchingly ahead. Ignoring him.
Not one to be ignored, he extended his hand. “We didn’t get a chance to be properly introduced. I’m Brice Bannon.”
She leveled him with a hard stare. He suspected it would’ve been even more withering had it not been for the impenetrable dark lens of her sunglasses.
“I know who you are, Commander. We vetted every person on this ship and anyone accompanying the President to Tiamat Bluff, even last-minute add-ons.”
“Didn’t mean to create a fuss.”
“I recommended we reject the Secretary’s request you join us today. POTUS overruled me, Commander Bannon.” She quickened her pace.
“A pleasure meeting you,” he called out. “And you can call me Brice.”
He didn’t know if the pretty blonde with the severely pulled back hair had learned to be cold and rude at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia, where the Secret Service trained their agents, or if she were that way naturally. He hoped it came from her training. If not, that would be rather sad.
They entered the superstructure. The last to step through the hatchway, Bannon pulled the watertight door closed behind them.
Tolliver led them through a narrow passageway then down a steep flight of metal stairs. They went through two more open hatchways before they reached the Officer’s Mess on the main deck. Their footfalls echoed through the hollow steel corridors. Engine vibrations could be felt through the deck plates. The air tainted with the faint, foul odor of oil. Bannon smiled. It felt like coming home.
Inside the modest cherry paneled mess hall, a long table had been set up facing the bulkhead where a white smartboard hung. Covered with a maroon tablecloth there were eight china place settings on the table. The white plates and cups were rimmed with a blue and thick red service mark. Centered on the plates and the sides of the teacups were the Coast Guard seal: a pair of crossed anchors superimposed by a life ring and a shield marked United State Coast Guard 1790 and their motto: Semper Paratus—Always Ready—surrounded by a line grommet.
Dr. Robin Larson stood with a short Asian man wearing an ill-fitting suit at the head of the table near the smartboard. He wore thick-lensed, black-rimmed glasses. As the group filed in and took their seats, she introduced her companion as Dr. Reo Nomura. The man had advanced degrees from Japan’s Hokkaido University Graduate School of Science in material science and earth and planetary dynamics. Her assistant and business partner for the past five years, she referred to him as the smart one between the two of them. He cast his eyes downward and blushed at the compliment.
Kingsley took his sat at the end of the table facing the smartboard. Amal Haddad sat down on his right and Grayson took the seat on his left. Bannon sat down beside Haddad. He knew her, of course, but they had never met. He introduced himself.
“A pleasure,” she said. Cool. Professional. But neither friendly or unfriendly.
Tolliver took his seat beside Grayson.
Kingsley’s indicated the chair next to Bannon. “Kate, sit. You should hear this. You’re going to be down there right along with the rest of us.”
“I’ve been fully briefed on the facility, sir. There’s no need.”
“I insist.”
“Then I can observe from here.” The Secret Service agent pointed at the closed hatch.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I want you to join us. Sit.”
She sat down, looked quite uncomfortable doing so.
Bannon flashed her a smile. She looked away.
Dr. Nomura took one of the two remaining seats while Larson remained on her feet near the smartboard. She’d ditched her hat and sunglasses but had not changed her clothes from earlier. Faded jeans and a plaid flannel shirt to make a presentation to the most powerful man in the free world. Her sleeves still rolled partway up her arms. Was it audacity or naiveté, Bannon wondered, or did the rich and powerful just operate on a level different from everyone else?
Drinks were served and Tolliver announced lunch would be served momentarily.
“Why don’t you get started, Doctor,” Kingsley suggested. “I’m anxious to hear your presentation.”
“Of course, sir.” She clicked her remote and dimmed the lights. The white screen turned into a picture of the Earth, a blue and green marble slowly rotating on a field of black stars. “As most of you know, more than seventy percent of the Earth’s surface is covered by water. Over fifty percent of the world’s oceans are more than four kilometers deep. We have explored and know more about the surface of the moon and Mars than we do our own planet. The ocean remains our last great mystery and it represents this planet’s largest untapped resource. With all apologies to Star Trek, it is the world under the waves, not space, that is our final frontier."
She paused to take a sip of water and gazed at each person in attendance as if looking for someone to challenge her claim. No one did. “Over the next fifty years the competition between nations to live and work at sea, and under it, will be the greatest technological rivalry to occur since America won the race to the moon.
“And it’s already begun,” she warned. “China is building a state-of-the-art, deep-sea platform in the South China Sea. Russia, Japan, and France each have similar projects in various stages of completion. Underwater labs. Mining operations. Research facilities. All with the goal to claim as much of the underwater real estate and natural resources as they can for themselves. W
hen I learned of this, I made it my mission to ensure we do it first. And that we do it better.” She aimed the remote and click. “Ladies and gentlemen. Mr. President. I give you Tiamat Bluff.”
On the smartboard, a vivid, sloping underwater vista of bluish-purple rock and swaying vegetation appeared against blackish mountain ranges in the background. The view swept forward, racing over the bluish-green elevating expanse, rising from the lowest grade to highest—up the slope of craggy outcroppings, fanning coral, darting fish, and hydrothermal vents spewing heated water called white smokers.
The camera angle pitched and sailed around the embankment—Bannon felt like he was riding the back of an eagle, but soaring underwater—until a large bluish-black dome dotted with long narrow streaks of yellow and capped with a glowing yellowish dome came into view.
Built into the grated rock there were two smaller—but quite large—domes below the bigger, higher one. A long, narrow tube, half-buried in the seafloor, extended from the main structure then forked, connecting independently to the lower two domes. Like the main dome, each had rows of long, narrow gaps of bright yellow light carved into them. Windows.
The image on the screen zoomed overhead and gave them a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree aerial view of the complex. From the main building, Bannon saw a dozen or more stubs extended outward and then capped off.
The underwater complex bathed in a reddish hue would’ve turned any Bond villain green with envy.
With a laser pointer, Larson identified the smaller, lower structures. “To the right is our power generation plant. Housed inside is a small, nuclear reactor. We’re using the same designs as the Navy’s latest Columbia-class submarines, but we’re also utilizing various natural resources such as water and thermal climate methods, and other experimental means to supplement our infrastructure needs. Some exciting and cutting-edge stuff. Dr. Nomura,” she nodded toward the small Asian man, “is our resident expert on these matters and can give all the details you need, but basically he, and they, keep the lights on.”
