Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Sinclair’s sacrificial ashes were barely cool on the altar when he was contacted by a Guild op, who offered a path toward salvation. Like thousands who’d been shown the same path, Sinclair never hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of guy who needed to be mugged more than once before getting the message someone was out to get you.

  When he thought about it, Sinclair could still recall most of the conversation with the tall, broad-shouldered man with Scottish accent who represented the Guild. When asked, he volunteered he’d once upon a time been one of the Royal Marines Special Boaters. Tough guys.

  “My grandfather had been in one of Churchill’s original commando units,” he continued. “No. 9. The Black Hackles.”

  “Is that why you wear the black feather in your beret?” Sinclair could not help notice the flamboyant addition.

  “Kind of, I guess. But in general, a Scot wearing this means you’ve got an ongoing quarrel with someone.”

  Sinclair didn’t want to know who that might be. But he was curious about this “Guild.”

  “Sounds like the Bilderberg Group,” he said.

  The op waved off the remark with a dismissive gesture. “Young amateurs! They haven’t even been around a hundred years…and we have infiltrated them so thoroughly they are just a puppet show.”

  “So who or what is the Guild?”

  “Not easy to explain them,” said the big Scot. “Began as a loosely structured subculture—bunch of craftsman and merchants who banded together during the Renaissance. They wanted to ensure the continuity and influence of men like themselves.”

  “That long ago? It seems hard to believe.”

  The op smirked through his heavy reddish mustache. “Not really. Enough of the bullshit. You interested?”

  “Intrigued, at least. Go on.”

  “All right, let’s see.” The Scot cleared his throat, continued. “Having been part of the mercantile process for centuries gave Guild members a certain leverage… Not only were they present at the inception of the industrial revolution, but they were definitely the first organized group to fully comprehend what it was.”

  “Okay, I follow you,” said Sinclair. “And somehow they kept organized through all the wars, all the changes of power. Across the centuries and continents, right?”

  The Scot harrumphed his assent. “Yes, and you have to figure it was probably a very hard thing to do—except for one thing.”

  “Let me guess. They understood the power of money.”

  “Spot on,” said the Scot. “Trade. Commerce. Other than religion, it was one of the only things that transcended national borders. Other than food, it was the only other item everyone needed to survive. The early leaders and organizers of the Guild understood this simple truth very, very well. Money not only became the glue that bound them together, but it became their most potent weapon as well.”

  Sinclair nodded. “I can’t even imagine how many rulers and kings and emperors they had to deal with. All those years.…”

  “True. But one fact is irrefutable—the Guild did it. It survived. And prospered…for a good reason. All those kings and emperors, and everybody else looking to conquer everybody else…they all needed two things: weapons and financing for their campaigns.”

  “And the Guild filled these needs?” Sinclair frowned. “How?”

  “Don’t forget where the original members of the Guild came from—not only tradesmen and bankers but also craftsmen. As time went on the Guild became manufacturers, or even better, the controlling interest behind the manufacturers. The great European and Asian families of arms merchants that rose up in the Eighteenth Century were all started with Guild investment capital.”

  “These guys were the original opportunists.”

  The Scot smiled. “Indeed. And eventually the families and their businesses and their inventories became absorbed into the greater body of the Guild itself.”

  “They sound very scary. They can show up anywhere and look like anybody else trying to make a buck.”

  “They are scary, and you’ve hit on one of their greatest strengths—they’re totally invisible most of the time. Nobody is looking for them. No idea what kind of manipulations they exact on the world. And during the Twentieth Century, with the explosion of technology, the Guild became even more powerful and less visible.”

  “You make it sound like they run the show.”

  “Just ‘sound like’? No, Sinclair. They do. Although, it depends on what you mean by ‘run’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, from what I can see, the Guild has never been totally in charge of things. I don’t think it wants to take over the world or anything like that.”

  “Then what does it want?”

  The op shrugged. “Oh, I’d say it wants what anything wants—to survive, and be comfortable doing it. And that’s more like what the Guild does—not by ‘running’ things, but more like influencing things. You know, like nudging things in directions that will ultimately be good for the Guild and its members.”

  “Makes sense when you think about it.” Sinclair was thinking out loud. “They’re older than any current nation.”

  “They’ve had plenty of time to get it right. They’ve learned how to make wars happen and how to make them stop. How to control the flow of money and credit and resources throughout the civilized world.”

  “So…” said Sinclair. “Nations, governments, sovereigns…whatever you want to call them. They’re what? Necessary inconveniences to them?”

  “Yes, the Guild is ‘supra-national,’ if you will. They operate outside the bounds of national borders, and represent no official charter, constitution, or political agenda.”

  “Other than continuing to exist,” said Sinclair.

  The Scot grinned ironically. “Can’t hold that against them, laddie.”

  “Okay, you have a point there.” Sinclair searched the big Scot’s face for any sign of deception, found it clear. “But aren’t there other entities that go beyond national borders—The Unilateral Committee, The Cambridge Club, The Consortium for Global Unity…probably more I’ve never heard of.”

  “Mostly dodges. And definitely small-time.”

  Sinclair chuckled.

  “There’s one thing you haven’t mentioned. What about the terrorist network?”

  The Op shook his head in mock disapproval. “Now, Mr. Sinclair, you can’t be serious, can you?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “The terrorists operate largely at the pleasure of the Guild. Funding, supplies, locales—all propped up to benefit a variety of Guild interests. They are considered a tool just like any other. If they ever use up their utility, they’ll be tossed in the dustbin.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you. But I have to ask—why’re you telling me all this? You want me to help you stop them?”

  “Are you funnin’ me a wee bit? Nobody’s going to stop them. I want you to join them.”

  Sinclair nodded. He knew where things had been headed. He just needed to hear it. “And what happens if I say no? Do you kill me because I know too much?”

  The Scot chuckled. “You know about the sun in the sky, but you can’t stop it from burnin’! The Guild doesn’t care what you know. It’s simple: they think you could perhaps be useful to them. Nothing more or less.”

  “Fair enough.” He was not stupid. They might not care what he knew; but they’d kill him all the same. These were people who liked to keep things neat and orderly. Sinclair paused to consider the reality of his recruitment, and what it might actually mean in his life. “Tell me how it would work…”

  The Scot smiled, then talked about the details.

  And so, after a tragic “disappearance” during a weekend sail off the Atlantic coast, he had a new employer. His family probably missed him for a little while then started to enjoy his fat life insurance polic
y. He was free of all the things that weighted him down, other than a reason to get up every day, which the Guild provided.

  Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the LCD which displayed the global situation map. Various colored geometric shapes indicated hot-spots of Guild intervention or manipulation. Considering the complexities of monitoring and analyzing the billions of geo-political data-bits coming into the Guild’s computers each day, Sinclair was impressed with his organization’s ability to make fast, accurate decisions.

  His present ops base was a small, rocky bar forty-one miles off the North Carolina coast called East Camden Island. Having served as a Coast Guard watch station during World War II, it had been abandoned in 1946 and remained so until retrofitted by the Guild in the late nineties—only because of its proximity to an undersea data haven being built by the United States. Such havens had become the sexy way to preserve civilization in the twenty-first century. Sink giant modular cubes underwater, bolt them together, attach them to the sea floor and blow air into the sealed unit. The idea was to create a vault to store, process, and dispatch information in a series of redundant arrays within a protective environment impervious to nuclear strike, EMP penetration, comet or asteroid impact, and just about anything else short of a certain G-type star going nova.

  A great concept unless somebody was hanging around while the heavy lifting was going on.

  “Somebody” was; and his name had been Sinclair.

  Initially used to observe the construction of the underwater concrete cube which ran 200 meters per side, East Camden Island became the Guild’s extraction point for all data contained within or passed through the data haven. Sinclair and his team of underwater engineers had been able to compromise the facility because they had been present during all phases of its construction. A year before things went online, Sinclair’s people had inserted micro-taps into the optical strand cables that connected the data haven to the outside world. They worked in total stealth, utterly invisible to the construction crews all around them. By compromising the optical strands so early in the creation phase, the taps showed up as nothing more threatening than anomalies in thickness or tension when powered up.

  Once online, the Guild had access to enormous data-streams. Sinclair understood very well that knowledge is indeed power. When combined with their centuries-old network of human information conduits, such recondite incursions into the cyber-world reinforced the Guild’s position as the most powerful entity on the planet.

  There was no communication on earth not vulnerable to a Guild intercept or decrypt—which was exactly the way its leaders preferred it.

  As far as who those leaders might be, Sinclair had no firm information, although he had more than a few ideas. Not always specific names, but titles and power positions filled and unfilled by visits from the reaper. All part of the plan, the vision ensuring the Guild had been built to last. It bespoke a belief in the system and the philosophy that had held the organization together for five centuries. In his private moments, he imagined the Guild had long ago strayed from the purposes of its original creation, opting out for existence for its own sake.

  A soft, electronic chime punctuated his thoughts. It was a signal someone had entered the sallyport—a kind of airlock-like chamber affording the only access in and out of the camouflaged command bunker. Turning in his chair, Sinclair regarded the LCD display. It provided multiple views of the pass-through chamber and the figure who stood staring into the retinal scanner by the outer door.

  Entwhistle. The new Number Two had come from the Britain’s MI5, and had been assigned to East Camden because of his expertise in data extraction and decryption. Unlike Sinclair, who also used the island base as the occasional staging platform, Entwhistle would be spending most of his professional time within the clandestine facility.

  Another soft chime as Sinclair watched his Second clear the first security door, step into the bright-white tube where a series of secondary scans warped over him. If he carried any chemical or biological agents, any kind of conventional weapon, or even an unapproved scrap of paper, the scanners would activate an aerosol injection of Sarin-3 gas into the chamber. And he would no longer be a threat.

  Not this time. A third chime signaled the second door opening, and Sinclair watched Entwhistle enter the com. He was a short, well-built, red-haired man in his mid thirties, who spoke with the remnants of a Welsh accent. His voice was deeper than his wan appearance might suggest, and he usually had an impish grin just waiting to happen behind the soft angles of his face. Sinclair liked him well enough, even though the guy liked to talk a lot.

  “Reporting for duty, Captain,” said Entwhistle with a smile. “What’s on our plate for today?”

  Sinclair glanced up at him then gestured toward the primary console and some papers he’d printed out. “Not sure yet. Waiting on a full briefing.”

  Entwhistle looked at the message. “Hmmm. What’s the U-5001?”

  Being as concise as possible, Sinclair gave him a history of the submarine compiled from intelligence files dating all the way back to the end of World War II. “Everything we have is from a variety of interrogations and separate individuals. No one, it appears, knew the whole picture. There were never any official documents on the boat or its mission. We don’t even know who crewed her. We believe it stopped at the secret Nazi base called Station One Eleven. We know it carried a crude atomic bomb. We know the mission aborted and that it went MIA. That’s pretty much all we know.”

  “A bloody lot more than I ever did.” Entwhistle couldn’t hide his surprise. “So the stories about them not having a bomb were crap?”

  “U.S. Intelligence never wanted the Germans to look as good as us. They buried that one with disinformation.”

  “But the sub and the bomb…” His second sighed. “You say it’s been found. After all this time?”

  “Not confirmed. What you see here is all we know for now.”

  “And what was ‘Station One Eleven’?”

  “From what we can tell, it was the northern equivalent of the Antarctic Nazi base they called ‘Station Two Eleven’.”

  “Oh yes,” said Entwhistle. “I’ve heard some of the stories about that one. Almost mythic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sinclair looked at him. “What stories did you hear?”

  “One called ‘Operation High Jump’ I remember best. Admiral Byrd and a US Navy task force. Supposed to have ‘invaded’ Antarctica in 1947. Scuttlebutt always claimed they were looking to wipe out a secret base under the ice.”

  Sinclair grinned. “Is that all they told you in London?”

  “Well, there’re rumors they ran into trouble, came limping back with their tails stuck in their arse cheeks…”

  Sinclair nodded. “That’s pretty accurate.”

  “They say the krauties had some of their scientists down there creating superweapons or some such tripe. I heard that one too.”

  “Not sure what they were doing there,” said Sinclair. “But I know they were there. The Navy captured two U-boats in Buenos Aires in late 1946, and the crews admitted they’d been down there. The Germans had the engineering know-how to set up something under the ice. You ever see anything on their underground factories and the labs of the Nordhausen complex? In the Harz Mountains. Amazing. The Kahl installation at Thuumlringen is a big bastard too.”

  “Right-O,” said Entwhistle. He raked his thin fingers through his red hair. “So what ever happened to them? At the south pole, I mean?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “Not sure. I’ve seen the docs about Byrd being grilled by Forrestal. Not pretty.”

  “Not long after that, they had Forrestal committed as a loony, right?”

  Sinclair nodded. “Until he took a dive from the Bethesda Naval Hospital tower.”

  “MI5 always believed he was thrown out that window.”

  “They’re not alone. A week later,
Truman authorized a secret atomic bomb test—at the south pole.”

  Entwhistle smiled, revealing dental work that could only be called adequate. “Hmmm. I’d guess that was the spot-on end of Station Two Eleven.”

  “So the story goes. But they never found the other one at the North Pole. That’s why everyone was interested in the U-5001. We know it was dispatched there on a rescue and recovery mission.”

  “Okay,” said Entwhistle. “I can see why we’d want that bomb. No doubt it may come in useful at some point.”

  Sinclair nodded. “Oh, I think we could find plenty of interest in weapons-grade fissionable material—either for us, or somebody we need to influence.”

  “Right-o, but what about the base? We want to find that base exactly why?”

  “Because of what we’ve been able to piece together about it. Fragments of memos from postwar interrogations, mostly. Suggesting the Nazi scientists were into all kinds of weird stuff. Anti-gravity, heat-rays, sonic canons, and, of course, advanced aeronautics and nuclear technology.” Sinclair gestured at the datafile he’d been reading before his Second had arrived.

  “Fucking Teutonic bastards! Bloody slick, they were.”

  “Did you ever hear of something called ‘the Bell’ or as the Nazis called it, ‘Die Glocke’?”

  “Can’t say that I have, why?”

  “They talk about it in these datafiles I’ve been reading. It was a top secret device they were working on, but no one has been able to figure out exactly what it was supposed to do. They called it a ‘torsion field generator’.”

  “Really? What the bleeding hell is that?”

  “Some people thought their scientists were playing around with time travel or spatial displacement.”

  Entwhistle chuckled. “Bollocks is all that is!”

  Sinclair picked up the file, flipped through to a page, and read aloud: