Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  The old man had taught Jason how to fish, to sail, to use just about every tool on the bench, how to use a gun, how to read the weather, how to stay alive in the wilderness, and a hundred other things from whittling a piece of wood to repairing broken appliances.

  One time, when Jason had been maybe ten or eleven, he asked Opa how he knew so much about so many things. The old man looked at him and smiled, touched the side of his head, and said, “I am curious. I ask questions and I do whatever is needed to find the answers.”

  That made a lot of sense, even to a young boy, and Jason had let his grandfather’s words inspire and guide him into adulthood. Even back then, Jason had a sense of the special bond between him and his grandfather. Of course they loved each other, but it was more than that—they understood each other.

  “Go on,” said Mom. “Go on in and talk to him. You know how much he likes to see you.”

  “Okay.”

  He entered through the back door on the deck into the kitchen. There was fresh coffee in the pot, so he poured two mugs, then headed down the hall to a small suite of rooms realtors always called an “in-law” apartment. For as long as Jason could remember, this place had been called “Opa’s rooms,” and so they remained. But even though he still looked healthy and way younger than his age, the old guy was so old now, Jason wondered how much longer that would be true.

  Gently tapping on the bedroom door, Jason listened for a response.

  “Ya? Who is it?”

  Jason smiled as he heard the old man’s voice. Rather than the frail reedy peeps of most old people, his grandfather’s voice remained solid, full of timbre, still strong and confident.

  Opening the door, Jason stepped into the room, which smelled faintly of medicine and liniment. “Just me, Opa. How ya doin’?”

  His grandfather was laying back on his sofa, wearing a sweatshirt that said Nittany Lions and a pair of baggy khakis—because he thought the air conditioning was always too cold.

  “Jason. Good to see you!”

  “I brought you some coffee.”

  “Coffee. That is good. Your mother keeps it so cold in here.”

  Despite being in his early nineties, he still had most of his teeth and more hair than a lot of men half his age. Erich Bruckner looked lean and remarkably healthy as he stood with deliberate slowness. Age had not cramped his posture or his bearing, and he’d kept his weight under control by maintaining a careful diet. Smoothing his hair, he faced his grandson like a recruit acknowledging his drill sergeant.

  “What brings you to me?” he said as he accepted the mug, brought it carefully to his lips.

  Ever since Jason could remember, his Opa had always looked fit and strong, and his gradual slide toward a highly advanced age had never seemed dramatic because he’d looked pretty much the same for as long as Jason had ever known him. And there remained a light in his eyes that still burned fiercely—a beacon telling all that his mind remained ever sharp.

  “Remember a story you told me when I was a kid—about Uncle Manny and how he served in a German sub?”

  The light in his grandfather’s eyes flared more brightly, as if someone had thrown gas on banked coals. “Yes…”

  “You told me the name was the ‘U-5001’. I remember because you said it was the highest number they ever used on a U-boat.”

  “That is correct,” said the old man, as he moved to sit in a chair in front of his desk. The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  Jason sat down on the bed, faced him. “Well, it seemed very important to you at the time. You said if I ever saw U-5001 written down anywhere, or if I ever heard anyone mention it…I should tell you right away. Do you remember telling me that?”

  “Yes, I do.” He looked away, as if seeing something distant, then blinked his eyes. The old man took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “So, tell me—where did you see the name?”

  Jason recounted the newscast, and as he did, his grandfather acquired an odd expression as if he were trying to see through a veil of thick fog, looking at something far, far away.

  “Opa, you okay?” Jason tried to grin, failed. “What’s this all about?”

  “I have often suspected there was a reason…a reason I’ve lived so long. But now I am thinking there may also be more than one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jason, there are a few things I need to tell you. Things nobody in the family ever knew…”

  Jason looked at him with a growing sense of anxiety. The old guy was unnerving him a bit. Because English had been his second language, his grandfather had always spoken very precisely, but now there was even more formality in his words, and it was unsettling.

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “A long time ago, I learned there was more to the world than I ever imagined. Since then, I have looked at things differently than most men.”

  “Huh? What happened to you?”

  His grandfather smiled. “Uncle Manny was not the only one in that submarine…”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I will explain,” said the old man. He was looking at something only he could see. “And after I do, I think I will want you to make a phone call or two for me—but not from here, and not from that little thing you carry around all the time.”

  Jason looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I want you to use a pay phone, all right?”

  “Sure… Sure, Opa, but why?”

  The old man shrugged. “Maybe because I have been watching too many bad movies…or maybe because it is important. We will not know…until later.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dex

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” said Tommy. “Whaddya gonna do?”

  “Who’s Bruckner?” said Augie.

  “I can’t believe it. Bruckner has family here—in the states. His grandson says he left a message for anybody who ever found his boat. That just can’t be.” Dex ran a hand through his hair as he grappled with the new information. As soon as he wrote down the contact information for Bruckner, he erased all the calls from the Verizon service—just in case there was a way to access them, and there probably was.

  Which made him consider something else. “Tommy, you have a house phone?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t use it much. I guess I don’t really need it, you know, with my cell…”

  “Is it listed in your name?”

  “Yeah, sure. Who else?”

  Dex nodded. “You got an answering machine?”

  “On the house phone? Yeah, it was my uncle’s. I just left it hooked up, why not?”

  “Who’s Bruckner?” Augie was completely out of the loop on the conversation.

  Dex had to ignore him for the moment. “Any way to access the machine remotely?”

  Tommy looked at him, shook his head. “Nah. It’s old as shit. Has a big slow cassette in it.”

  Dex figured as much. “Hate to say this, but we have to get into your house. Even if they’ve got people watching it.”

  Leaning forward, Tommy looked confused. “Huh? Why? What’s the deal?”

  “The deal is this: Jason Bruckner tracked me down from the newscast. If he tried to reach you the same way, and left a message on your machine…”

  “Aw shit,” said Tommy. “Then the bad guys will know as much as we do.”

  “Who’s Bruckner?” Augie wasn’t going to let it go, so Tommy tried to get the old guy up to speed while Dex let all the variables settle into place. He’d always believed he was an analytical guy, but their present mess was making him wonder if he had what it took.

  “Just thought of something else,” Dex said. “You have a spare key to your house?”

  Augie smiled, smacked Tommy’s arm. “Your uncle gave me one thirty years ago—for emerge
ncies and stuff. It’s hangin’ in the kitchen.”

  “Good, we might need it.”

  Picking up the Trac Fone, he wondered if the message could have been a trap. Could the people after them be so clever? Sure they could, but the Trac Fone would protect him from immediate danger. Hey, no guts, no glory, He punched in Jason Bruckner’s number, waited for someone to answer.

  “Hello?” It was the same young voice on the answering service.

  Evenly, Dex spoke. “This is Dexter McCauley. I’m trying to reach Jason Bruckner.”

  “That’s me. Man, I can’t believe I found you so easy!”

  That notion rocked Dex. How many others would find the task equally simple? “Actually, I was pretty shocked myself.”

  “Mr. McCauley, I don’t know how to explain this, so I guess I’ll just start.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The news said you found a sub called the U-5001, is that true?”

  “Yes.” Dex’s pulse had jumped and his voice felt like it might crack. He never, ever, got a case of nerves, but he was getting one now.

  “My grandfather knows that boat, and he said it’s very important that I get in touch with you.”

  Dex cleared his throat, spoke quickly. “You said your ‘grandfather’…?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Dex swallowed, paused. “Is his name Erich? Erich Bruckner?”

  “Yes sir, it is…”

  “My God, how can that be? I mean—he’s still alive?”

  “Oh yeah. Very much so. My grandfather’s in his nineties—but you’d never guess it.”

  “Amazing. And he wants to talk to me…”

  “Yes, sir. He says it’s very important.”

  “Okay, can you put him on?” Dex exhaled, rubbed his eyes. How weird was this going to get?

  “Well, Mr. McCauley. He says he’d like to talk to you in person. He says it’s important, and he rather not say anything about it on the phone.”

  “Where’re you calling from?”

  “Lancaster. Pennsylvania. He says it’s not that far from you. You live in Maryland, right?”

  Dex hesitated, but then felt silly. Of course Bruckner would know that if they looked up his number. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “So, can you come see him?”

  “You mean now?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you what—tell him I’d very much like to meet him. Get me some directions, and I can be on the road within the hour.”

  Jason waited for Dex to get paper and pencil, then gave him what he needed. He could back it up with an internet map site if he had to.

  “Okay, Jason…one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you tried to contact me—did you call anybody else?”

  “Uh, yeah, I called the fireman, the guy with the Italian name.”

  “Chipiarelli.” Dex exhaled sharply as he digested the bad news.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “You leave him a message?”

  “Yeah, on his machine, why?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sinclair

  Somewhere in Maryland

  After getting a chopper to a private airfield east of Gaithersburg, Maryland, Sinclair and Entwhistle crossed the tarmac to a waiting Lexus hybrid SUV. As dusk leached color from the landscape, they drove north on Route 97, a pleasant drive through soft hills and farmland, to intersect with I-70 toward Baltimore.

  “Winter and Wilson are still in Virginia and Jersey. Neither will be available tonight, maybe not even tomorrow.” Entwhistle closed his laptop where he’d been decrypting the latest messages.

  “Anything new from Spruill?” Sinclair was driving for two reasons: one, he liked it, and two, he couldn’t stand the way Brits drove in the States—very shaky.

  “Since he started the stake-out? Nothing.”

  “Next time he checks in, tell him I want half-hour updates—even if it’s about his fingernail clippings.”

  Entwhistle re-opened the laptop, started encrypting a terse transmission. They drove in silence as the vehicle’s headlights played over the trees and meadows lining the winding road. As Sinclair glided around a gradual bend, a deer stood poised to spring across the road, then flinched back under the beam of the light. Just what they needed right now was a collision—that would be just about enough delay to jeopardize the operation.

  Sinclair rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture he’d displayed most of his life. So how did he feel about this assignment? Did he really care if it went south? His superiors had evidently cast it into the “maybe file,” the status for anything not worth getting top-tier hands dirty.

  The Guild had survived by applying basic rules of economics to other aspects of human conduct in the geopolitical and military arenas. From what Sinclair had managed to glean from his ability to read between the lines, the Guild ascribed quotients of risk-to-benefit, and based most strategic decisions on a series of formulae tested through centuries of hands-on application. They had mastered the manipulation of global conflicts, investing in both sides of every war, and profiting beyond imagination.

  While he found a certain level of interest in this kind of planning and execution, he didn’t care enough to push himself up through the ranks to learn it well. Sinclair, when being honest with himself, was a man who had given up not only his idealism, but his need to excel at anything ever again. He was just doing a job—that was it.

  As he drove along in silence, he let his mind wander, replaying old scenes and incidents from his life. Flash-cuts of video memory: days at college, basic training, his first apartment, the birth of his first child. All of it seemed so long ago, so foreign to him. Like watching a docu-bio of someone only vaguely familiar. It had been so long since anyone had used his first name, he barely remembered it himself. Symbolic, really, how everything he’d ever felt important in his life had begun an inevitable slide into meaninglessness—including his position within the endless labyrinths of the Guild. Did he truly care about anything now?

  Sinclair grinned softly, as he tried to imagine what his superiors would think if they ever divined his innermost thought. It made him smile—because they may already be doing it. Maybe that’s why he spent most of his time holed up in an abandoned base on a forgotten island…

  “Interstate 70 coming up,” said Entwhistle.

  “I see the ramp.”

  Entwhistle glanced at his watch. “Spruill missed his check-in.”

  “Did he acknowledge your last message?”

  “He did indeed.”

  Sinclair knew how easy it was to wander off schedule. “Give him fifteen minutes before we get concerned.”

  Entwhistle nodded. “I figure we have at least 40 minutes to his rendezvous point. More than enough time to put himself in a jolly jackpot.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dex

  High Street

  “Whaddya mean, you’ll ‘cover me’?” Tommy’s voice was low and controlled, but tinged with equal parts anxiety and indignation.

  Dex was checking his Sig-Sauer as they stood in Augie’s kitchen. The overhead ceiling fixture was off, and he could see Tommy’s angular handsome face dimly highlighted by a small night-light plugged into a socket over the old counter-tops. “I just told you—we need to get that tape off your answering machine.”

  “Suppose they’ve already been there? Suppose they already got it?”

  Dex looked at him with a neutral expression. “Then at least we’ll know what we’re up against, and that we’ll be having some extra guests up in Lancaster.”

  Tommy exhaled, drew in a long, calming breath. “Okay, okay. I’m cool with it.”

  Dex nodded, opened the back door which led into Augie�
��s unkempt backyard, little more than an oblong of weeds and knee-high grass enclosed by eight-foot high cinder block walls. He looked at Tommy. “Just like we rehearsed it, right?”

  “You got it, Chief.” Tommy swallowed hard and followed him out into the night.

  The only problem was—they hadn’t really rehearsed it very well. What Dex had done was run down a very quick series of “what-ifs” and tried to reach a consensus on how to deal with each of them. The consensus he had in mind was him and Tommy, but Augie kept spouting off with slightly askew remarks that suggested he wasn’t always tuned-in to the same station as everybody else.

  Now, as he stood in the backyard, looking up at the sparkling burn of stars, he thought for an instant on the strange place to which his life had come. Despite his frequent statements he’d never been happier since retiring from the Navy, he knew now that was a lie. Most of the time, he was half-bored out of his ass, and never realized how much he’d needed some sort of tension in his life. And right about now, as he coolly regarded Tommy, he felt every fiber of his being thrumming like a cable full of high amp current. He felt alive and ready for whatever was waiting for him.

  And he liked it.

  Tommy stood behind him, lifting himself up and down on his toes, and Dex could feel the nervous energy coming off the guy in waves.

  “We ready?” he whispered.

  “By the numbers, okay?”

  Tommy gave him a thumbs up, turned and headed for the back gate.

  Following him in the dim light of the service alley, Dex watched Tommy unhook the crude latch and slip into the narrow concrete strip crowded with trash cans and bordered by the high wall of the bocce court. The gate to Tommy’s yard swung inward on bent hinges, a monument to years of neglect and an insufficient maintenance budget of his deceased uncle. The yard itself was crammed with junk that never quite made it to the alley for collection or disposal. Dex had to be extra cautious to not collide with any stray boxes or cans that might make enough noise to announce their presence.