by David DeLee
Larson screamed and covered her mouth with her hands. Her knees buckled. Bannon grabbed her and pulled her back, tucked her in close to him.
The group of workers who’d brought the submersibles up screamed and scrambled toward the back wall. Garcia and the other pilot among them. Some dropped to the deck. Others turned to flee, but the armed gunmen had already moved into position to corral them.
The Hispanic man took another step forward. His gun aimed at Larson, Bannon, and the others. “We have taken control of this facility. I am in charge.”
“Answer the lady’s question,” Bannon said. “Who are you?”
He stared at Bannon, sizing him up before responding. “I am General Sebastian Ramos Sucre of the Revolutionary Republic Army.”
Larson clung to Bannon’s arm. Blood spatter on her clothes and the side of her face. Tears streaked her cheeks. He could feel her the fear leech off her. “Who are they?”
“A South American paramilitary group,” Bannon clarified.
“A terrorist group,” Grayson spat out with disgust.
“The woman with the gun,” Sucre called out. “You are Secret Service, yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Toss your weapon into the moon pool. If you do not, I will kill these two.”
He indicated Bannon and Larson with his own gun.
Bannon put an arm around Larson. She trembled uncontrollably.
“Where are the other Secret Service agents?” Holloway asked. “What have you done with the people working here?”
“Some are secure. Unharmed. Others, not so much.”
“You killed them?” Grayson asked.
He shrugged. “Those that did not cooperate. Those that fought back.”
Bannon needed to distract him, keep him talking while he figured out a counterattack, a way to fight back without getting everyone killed. He looked around the wet room. There were plenty of things he could use as weapons if he could get his hands on them.
For now, Holloway still held onto her gun. The only real weapon in friendly hands.
But against seven armed men with machine pistol? Not good odds.
“What do you want?” Bannon asked.
“For the agent to toss her gun away. One. Two…”
Behind him, Bannon heard a splash.
So much for having a gun on their side.
“Very good,” Sucre said. “My men and I have seized control of this so-called underwater city.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bannon noticed Holloway and Grayson help Kingsley to his feet.
“For what purpose?” Kingsley demanded. He brushed his hands down his ruined suit, wet and dirty from laying on the wet room deck.
“Is it not obvious? To hold you hostage, Mr. President. To get your country to aid us in our struggle against the brutal regime currently governing my country. A corrupt, illegal government supported by you.”
“Strange way to ask for help,” Bannon said.
“You’ll not receive one ounce of help for us,” Kingsley said. “The United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. We’ll not do your bidding.”
“I hope that is not true, Mr. President.” Sucre spread his arms and turned, indicating the wet room and all of Tiamat Bluff. “Otherwise, this is where your legacy ends.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sucre ordered Garcia and the other Tiamat Bluff employees to be removed from the wet room. They were marched away to an undisclosed location at gunpoint by two armed men dressed in what passed for security uniforms: light blue Polo shirts with shoulder patches and dark blue slacks.
Then there were five, Bannon thought, liking the improved odds, but reminding himself, they were heavily armed men and he was weaponless.
Bannon assumed those of them remaining were Sucre’s VIP hostages; POTUS, Senator Horn, Grayson, himself, Holloway, Larson, and the three news people; Little, Leary, and the Internet kid.
Sucre and his men moved them out at gunpoint.
Taken from the wet room, they were led along a windowless corridor to an elevator. They rode up to the top level of the complex: The park atrium called Kanaloa Park. Named after the water god from ancient Hawai’I.
Even under the dire circumstances, they found themselves in, Bannon couldn’t help but admire their surroundings as they stepped into a large garden paradise. There was actual, real grass. Dozens of Japanese maples and flowering dogwoods planted along walking paths with old-fashioned streetlamps that had flickering, candle-like lights. There were park benches and even a pond with a fountain in the middle. A water geyser shooting into the air imbued with colorful changing lights. The sound of splashing water was music to his ear.
To their left was a community-size pool with a slide and diving boards, a baseball diamond with a chain-link backstop and dugouts in the distance, two tennis courts, and tables with checkerboard tops.
There were even closed vendor carts and a bandshell for public concerts and events. All under a large dome overhead constructed of triangular-shaped, transparent acrylic panels with lattice ribs between the panels, through which the outside ocean could be seen, ablaze with red-hued light from Tiamat Bluff.
“Are those…bird’s chirping?” Grayson asked as they were directed toward the bandshell.
“Yes,” Larson said. She’d wiped her cheeks streaking the small dots of blood still there. “We’ve brought down several commonly found North American species. Part of our attempt to create a self-sustaining closed ecological system.” Her voice flat. Bannon feared she might be in shock, yet he could hear the pride in her voice as she added, “They seem to be thriving.”
A gunman shoved Bannon in the back. “Keep moving.”
Bannon glared at him but did as he was told.
Sucre climbed the steps to the bandshell stage. A dozen rows of seats faced the stage. Bolted to a concrete pad, Bannon noticed, dashing his impulsive thought of grabbing one and smashing as many of their captives with it as he could. He also noticed there were more armed men and women stationed throughout the park. They took up positions at several closed, sliding doors.
“Sit,” Sucre ordered, holstering his gun. The others with him held their machine pistols at the ready.
“Where did you take the others?” Grayson asked, defiantly remaining on her feet.
“They are safe, Madam Secretary,” Sucre said. “For now. Continue to defy me and they won’t be. Now sit!”
She did, joining the others, except Kingsley. “You must realize what a mistake you’re making. You haven’t thought this thing through, son. You’re trapped on the bottom of the sea. A Legend-class Coast Guard cutter is positioned directly above you. It has roughly the same munitions and capability of a Navy destroyer. It can reign hellfire down on you like you’ve never seen before.”
“But it will not,” Sucre said with confidence. “Not so long as you are our guest, Mr. President. And I use the term guest quite loosely.”
“And that’s your play?” Kingsley asked. “Hold me hostage. In exchange for what? Whatever it is, you’ll never get away with it.”
“Let me worry about that,” Sucre said. “Your only concern should be surviving the next twenty-four hours. Toward the end, allow me to demonstrate how serious we are.” He pulled a radio from his back pocket. “We are ready.”
A second later, the lights in the park went out, plunging them into darkness except for the red emergency exit lights over the doors leading out to the corridor that rimmed the park and soft white safety lights that lined the brick pathways like runway lights at an airport.
The exterior lights remained lit, a reddish hue.
Bannon half rose, ready to use the foolish opportunity he’d been given to strike, only to be frozen where he half-stood, the muzzle of a machine pistol pressed into his neck. And none too gently either. He held his hands in the air.
The man holding the weapon sneered. “Sit.”
Bannon sat.
“Let me be clear,” Sucre said from the stage. “The only hostage
I need to keep alive is David Kingsley. The rest of you. Every single one of you. Is expendable. I will end you without a moment’s hesitation. Should you need convincing, watch.”
He pointed over their heads to a place beyond the dome.
Collectively the group looked up, following where he pointed. With the park lights extinguished, the underwater world beyond came to life.
First, Bannon caught sight of a moray eel swimming by. Resembling a snake with a waving fin along the length of its back. It was nearly two meters long and its skin had a honeycombed pattern to it. Particles drifted in the water, visible from what little light leaked out through the acrylic glass and the red hue that didn’t negatively affect the sea creatures at this level. A large pinkish sea nettle, with its lacy arms and tentacles at least ten feet long pulsated along emitting its own glow.
But Sucre hadn’t dimmed the lights to present his captured audience with an enchanted view of the ocean life outside. His true motivation came into view a moment later.
Bannon stiffened in his seat. In the distance, two small white dots of light could be seen. As they came closer, grew larger, he recognized them for what they were. The headlights of the two remaining submersibles, making their trip down from the USCGC Putnam.
Bannon’s stomach soured.
The submersibles came into full view, making their circular approach to the facility the same way Garcia had earlier done for them, giving the passengers the full, breathtaking scope of Tiamat Bluff. Unsuspecting of the danger that awaited them upon arrival.
Sucre keyed his radio. Patched through to the communications transmission between the control center and the submersibles, he allowed the President and the others to listen to the exchange between Ops and the approaching submersibles.
“Tiamat Control,” a static-filled voice said. “This is Waterview-One and Two.”
“Go for Control.” The same voice who’d answered Garcia on their trip down.
“We’re on final approach, Control. Requesting permission to come on board.”
“Permission granted, Waterview-One and Two. Proceed to Moon Pool Alpha. We await your arrival.”
“Roger, Control. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” the voice said. “And welcome to Tiamat Bluff.”
Sucre broke the radio link and watched with the others as the two submersibles made their approach. A tense anticipatory silence fell over the park. It seemed even the birds had gone silent, waiting.
Bannon kept a watchful eye on the submersibles from the corner of his eye, but his full attention was on the park. Locating the exits, identifying where the enemy combatants were positioned, gauging their level of attentiveness, looking for any weaknesses, an opportunity to fight back, to escape.
Unfortunately, none presented itself.
Each clutched a Steyr TMP 9mm machine pistol, an Austrian manufactured, full-automatic weapon with a thirty round box magazine capable of firing up to nine hundred rounds per minute. They wore spare magazines on their belts and a holstered 9mm Taurus PT92 semiautomatic pistol with seventeen round magazines. The men and one woman appeared disciplined and well-trained. They didn’t get distracted by the submersibles. Their attention remained solely on the hostages. Their grips firmly on their weapons.
“Watch,” Sucre said, his mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. “Watch.”
Bannon followed the man’s gaze, returning his attention to the submersibles.
The vessels altered course, diverting to the right, continuing their angled descent toward the moon pool spur.
Why would they allow this group of passengers to arrive, Bannon wondered? More people to take prisoner, to guard over. Sucre said it himself, except for Kingsley the hostages were expendable. Why take on more?
His thoughts were cut off by the first of two explosions.
Bannon blinked at the sudden yellow fireballs. One followed seconds later by the second.
The group collectively gasped.
The bright light of fire went out quickly, drowned out by the pressurized water that crushed the blackened husks. The wreckage of the destroyed submersibles sank, dropping to the ocean floor like misshapen crumbled rocks.
Bannon leaped to his feet. “You son of a bitch!”
The lights came back on. Like the house lights after a theatrical performance.
Kingsley appeared particularly shaken. He stared wide-eyed at the column of air bubbles rising from the sinking submersibles. Then reached for the back of the chair behind him before dropping heavily into the seat. He tugged at the knot of his tie.
“Dear God. Liz. Amal was on one of those vessels. Amal Haddad is dead.” He turned toward Sucre. “What is wrong with you, man?” Kingsley fisted his hands in equal outrage. “Those men and women, they were—”
“Tools of your corrupt capitalistic machine,” Sucre said.
“Innocent men and women,” Kingsley said. “A senator and two congressmen. My…my Chief of Staff.”
“And now they’re dead. Their blood money and their bought votes cannot hurt anyone ever again.”
“How?” Bannon asked. “Were they rigged with explosives?”
Even as he suggested it, Bannon knew that couldn’t be the case. The submersibles would’ve been checked by the Secret Service’s advanced team, probably more than once, as had everything and everybody on board the Putnam.
Sucre’s one-word answer sent a shiver down Bannon’s spine. “Mines.”
“You’re a monster,” Larson blurted out, more tears running down her checks. She would’ve known the pilots, had probably worked with them for years, been friends with them. Her loss was real and cut deep. If there had been any doubt, and there wasn’t after the cold-blooded execution of Dr. Nomura, it was clear, Sucre would not hesitate to kill every last one of them.
“This facility is surrounded by a network of small, but powerful drone mines,” Sucre announced. “They’re programmed to provide a random, constantly shifting net around us. Nothing larger than a dolphin can get anywhere close to us. Ops is also monitoring Tiamat Bluff’s sophisticated sonar and radar systems to detect any breach attempts going forward. In addition, every means of egress: the moonpools, the lock tubes, and the cargo submarine hatches are all heavily guarded by my people who won’t hesitate to kill in retaliation to any type of forced entry—or exit—attempt.”
He walked down the steps of the stage and stood before the group of hostages.
“Cellphones do not work down here. All communication with the surface is cut off except for what we control. You see, Mr. President, while you might dismiss me as some amateur guerrilla fighter from a backwater South American country, the truth is, I have thought of everything.”
“The explosions,” Bannon said. “The Putnam will have noticed. They’ll put divers in the water, come to investigate.”
“No, they will not,” Sucre said. “Because we will tell them not to.”
“You underestimate the U.S. Coast Guard,” Grayson said. “And America.”
“On the contrary, Madam Secretary,” Sucre said. “I do not. They will not attempt a rescue. Not because I tell them not to, but because he will.”
He pointed at David Kingsley.
“I’ll do no such thing.”
Sucre waved at two of his men.
They grabbed Jerry Little and his cameraman, Malcolm Leary, forcibly pulling them from where they sat. The two men protested, but neither was strong enough to put up a fight against the men. A third man approached carrying Leary’s heavy TV camera. In front of the stage, Sucre forced Leary and Little to their knees then pressed his pistol to the cameraman’s forehead.
To his credit, the young man remained stoic. His jaw twitched in a tight grimace but he stared defiantly at Sucre.
“You will appear on television, Mr. President, and inform the world of your rather unfortunate predicament. You will tell anyone who is foolish enough to attempt a rescue that I will kill all the hostages, including you if they try. You will tell th
em to stand down and you will deliver my demands.”
Kingsley remained unmoved.
Sucre looked at Leary. “I would prefer to have this man operate his camera, and for Mr. Little to convince his network to air this breaking news story.”
He snapped the slide of the gun back and put the gun to Leary’s head again.
“But I do have contingency plans available.” He glared at Kingsley. “If you make that necessary.”
“No,” Kingsley said. “No more killing. I’ll deliver your damn message.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Skyjack McMurphy spent the afternoon at the Keel Haul mainly because he didn’t have anything else to do. He’d exchanged the large bandage over his eye with a simple plastic strip. His skin around the cut was an angry-looking purple. When Tara asked if he wanted something to eat with his fourth beer of the day, he declined with a wave of his hand. “Naw, I’m good.”
Alone in the bar for most of the day, except for a couple of twenty-somethings McMurphy recognized as surfer regulars during the summer, he and Tara sat, talked, and searched Facebook for funny cat videos. The two young men watch a two-man luge competition on TV, a qualifying event for next year’s winter Olympics while drinking and eating and swapping tales of derring-do while surfing the wicked waves of Hampton Beach.
At their request, Tara had silenced the jukebox so they could watch the competition in peace.
And, of course, Captain Floyd, their resident barfly, was there.
He sat midway down the bar, his sea captain’s hat squashed down on his head and his old gnarled hands wrapped around a mug of beer. He glared at Tara with his bushy white eyebrows knotted so close together it looked like he had a unibrow. “Hey, Toots.”
She slapped a damp drying rag over her shoulder. “What is it, old man?”
“Where’s that boss of yours? The idiot that owns this place?”
“He’s busy. Why?”
“I’ve got a complaint.”
Tara arched her own eyebrow at that. “Tread carefully, you old coot.”
