Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Just enough to see a very bad situation.

  Richard and Peggy Bruckner lay on the floor, hands and ankles bound by Monadnock plastic restraints—the kind now used by most cops. Dex couldn’t hear them, but Richard was muttering something as his wife sobbed demonstrably. Jason Bruckner was on the carpet as well, but seated and leaning against the wall—he’d taken off his shirt and was trying to staunch a heavily bleeding wound in his leg. His expression a combination of shock and abject terror.

  No sign of Augie, Bruckner, or Tommy.

  Jesus, what the fuck now…?

  As if in answer, the rotor noise above him changed pitch and the chopper’s engine surged with power and intention. Wedged in between the cover of the large bushes, Dex look up to see the black aircraft careen over him at a severe angle, skimming the nearest decorative trees in the front yard as well as the peaked roof. Then it dipped and swooped like a gigantic, predatory insect as it dropped to the wide expanse of lawn behind the Bruckner’s colonial. It was small and sleek, and he didn’t recognize the model or the manufacturer, which meant it could be some exotic foreign bird.

  The ratcheting rotor noise was loud and fearsome. Porch lights of neighboring homes were switching on, doors were opening as neighbors were checking on the disturbance.

  Moving along the edge of the house, Dex reached the rear left corner, using a stand of small evergreens for cover. The bay door of the chopper had slid open to accept its cargo—which had moved into view simultaneously upon touchdown.

  Tommy, hands bound behind his back, being rousted along by a tall, rangy dark-skinned guy wearing all black. The man’s right hand wedged a handgun under Tommy’s chin while his other arm held him close as human shield. Right behind him, a shorter stocky red-haired man with a mustache, who was basically supporting a wrist-bound Captain Bruckner, held in the same shield maneuver.

  Even though Dex had raised his Sig, he knew—no way he was getting off a shot.

  Anger and frustration caused his arm to tremble and waver.

  Clusterfuck. Complete and total.

  The thought burned through him as the black chopper angled skyward in a savage leap, its engine screaming with power and menace. Within seconds, it had tilted and twisted westward into the night sky, the beat of its blades dopplering away into a faint mocking whisper.

  It was only then, he was aware of his Trac Fone chirping at him.

  Slowly, he lowered his weapon, tucked it away just in case someone saw him and got the wrong idea. The ambient sounds of people yelling and moving about left him in an impotent haze, as he keyed on the phone.

  “McCauley…” he said in a raspy voice.

  “Jesus Christ, Chief! What’s going on? Why’d didn’t you pick up?”

  “Situation Fubar, Admiral. Can’t talk now. I’ve got casualties…”

  He punched off the call and moved quickly to the back entrance of the house where the patio sliding glass door yawned open. As he moved quickly through the kitchen he heard a woman still moaning and sobbing.

  He started yelling to announce his presence. Last thing he wanted was to create more panic. “Jason! Mr. Bruckner! It’s Dex!”

  The Trac Fone started chirping, but he ignored it.

  Peggy Bruckner was screaming, so loudly she effectively masked whatever it was Richard Bruckner was trying to say. Turning the corner out of the kitchen, Dex entered the room he glimpsed through the slatted blinds. Augie’s still form on the carpet remained in the same position—not good. Against the far wall, Jason had slumped over, conscious but growing pale. He looked like he was bleeding out, although slower than from an arterial wound. Peggy continued to wail, lost in total hysteria.

  The Trac Fone went silent.

  Kneeling by Richard, Dex pulled out his Spyderco and ripped through the restraint’s tough plastic with the knife’s inner serrated edge.

  “Get ’im out of here! He’s hurt bad!” yelled Richard.

  “What happened here—quickly!” Dex handed him the knife to cut his wife free, turned to Jason.

  “They shot him in the leg! Hit the old guy pretty hard…dead, I think. And they said there’s a bomb!”

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  The thought pressed down on him like an enormous slab, threatening to flatten him into total surrender. But Dex kneeled, tightened the shreds of Jason’s shirt above the wound, started to yank him to an upright position. The Trac Fone started again, but he was way too occupied to answer it.

  Peggy’s screaming had settled into a heaving series of soft cries, like some kind of weird seabird, which blended into the chirping cell phone. Richard had cut her free and as she had begun crawling on all fours toward the kitchen, he joined Dex to sling Jason between them.

  When they’d caught up with Peggy, Richard urged his wife to get up, to get out of the house. But she kept half-crawling, half-dragging herself across the tiled floor, still sobbing and trying to catch her breath. “Anybody call for help?” said Dex as he and Richard dragged Jason toward the back door.

  “They said they’d blow us up if we tried to call,” said Richard Bruckner. He was overweight enough to be gasping for breath and enough strength to push on. Dex figured the bomb thing might have been a bluff to immobilize everyone, but he still needed to get everybody clear of the house just in case.

  His Trac Fone went off again as he struggled with Richard and Jason down the wooden steps of the deck, and reached the far corner of the yard. “Stay with him,” said Dex. Angrily, he punched off the ringer, then flipped his Trac Fone to Richard. “Call 911! Now!”

  Then he was running back to intercept Peggy at the back door, who was feebly trying to sit up, to get to her feet. Reaching under both arms, Dex finished the job for her, and guided her out into the yard. She moved like someone under heavy sedation and her eyes rolled around, unable to fix on anything. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a distorted molasses-like dream. With each step, her weight seemed to be doubling. Finally, he reached the far corner of the lawn.

  He heard Richard Bruckner say, “They’re on the way!” Even though Dex stood right next to him, his words sounded as if they were traveling a great distance, strained and weak.

  Dex was already turning back to the house. Even if a bomb had been planted, even if Augie was already dead, Dex knew he had to go in there and try to get him.

  And he hated himself at that moment. Hated himself for his sense of duty. But also for not wanting any parts of this hero crap. He knew himself too well. He knew he’d retired out of the Navy because he’d grown tired of the risk, of the demand to be a hero if the job required it. The demand to always be tough, always be hard, always be ready to die.

  The day he realized he was no longer ready to do it—that was the day he knew he had to change whatever was left of his life.

  But here he was falling right back into it. And it felt good, felt right—like putting your hand in the baseball glove you’ve been using for fifteen years.

  You’re a mess is what you are…

  The thought wormed through him as he moved quickly through the kitchen to get Augie. With each step, he expected to see a flash from the explosion he’d never hear, but he kept moving anyway. As he turned into the room, he dropped down to scoop up the little old man on the carpet. Still wearing his Orioles hat, Augie felt as light and lifeless as a bag of sticks, and Dex felt a surge of sadness go through. He’d barely known this man, but he’d really liked him.

  He ran from the room, and out into the night.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Whitehurst

  Naval Special Warfare Center

  Philadelphia

  Almost two hours had elapsed since the attack on the Bruckner home, and Admiral Parker Whitehurst was up to his elbows in red tape, potential lawsuits, and threats from the Secretary of the Navy to clean up this mess as quickly as possible
. Richard and Margaret Bruckner, in addition to their son, Jason, had survived the ordeal and were still being attended at the adjacent Naval Hospital. The son had lost a lot of blood from a 9mm wound to his left thigh, but his prognosis was good. The only casualty had been Augustino Picaccio, who’d suffered cardiac arrest when the intruders roughed him up.

  Upon arriving on the scene in a commandeered V-22 Osprey from the D.C. Naval Yard, Parker’s first priority had been to convince Dex McCauley the attack had not originated from within the Navy or any of the other branches of service. When the rescue and backup arrived, McCauley was half nutty with rage and frustration. He wouldn’t talk to anyone other than Parker, and who could blame him? He’d been through a balls-out crazy ordeal and was doing his best to keep his balance.

  Parker had seen it many times during a long career of dealing with good men pushed to the brink—sometimes you had to let them vent or spin out of control, and just hope they had enough inner strength to pull it all back together.

  If they didn’t, you moved on. If they did, you had a much stronger individual on the team than you did before.

  But McCauley would always have a special place in Parker’s heart because, quite simply, he’d been the best man he’d ever had in his unit. The guy had guts, compassion, discipline, and a moral compass that never went wonky. That’s why the Admiral had gone out of his way to present his old Chief with documented proof that black helicopter hadn’t come from inside the barnyard. He even allowed Dex to personally punch up the maintenance logs on the Sea Ranger, which showed all the proper check-marks on the aircraft’s fuel pump and lines.

  But that didn’t stop McCauley from stating the obvious—if the Sea Ranger had been sabotaged, then the Navy had a serious problem with internal security.

  Parker agreed. If an outside entity possessed routine access to all levels of communication in the United States Navy, the nation was in big trouble. McCauley had called him on an untraceable cell phone, but somebody intercepted the call anyway. The only logical conclusion dictated that all internal Naval command communications were being monitored all the time.

  And that was simply unacceptable.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Parker had launched a massive coordinating operation to assemble the most knowledgeable personnel on every aspect of the U-5001 mission.

  Time was against them, and every minute that passed without the Navy having a plan was diminishing their odds of success.

  Because of logistics, Parker had designated the old Philadelphia Navy Yard as the best place to assemble the initial phase of the mission. Although officially closed back in 1995, the Navy had maintained some of the space, renovated and reconstituted with the formation of the Department of Homeland Security. The confluence of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers remained a strategically important location, and the Navy had been smart to not abandon it just because of budget cuts.

  Parker waited n a Briefing Center several levels below ground. The room was replete with the usual hi-tech toys, and LCD displays of various geophysical and geopolitical hotspots. Beyond several smoked glass walls, personnel hunched over keyboards and consoles. To Parker, it remained Spartan and functional, and not very sexy. Fake sets pretending to be like this one—in cheap and expensive movies alike—all looked a hell of a lot better.

  Because of its connections to counter-terror missions, the Center enjoyed the latest encryption security technology, and Parker had insisted on private keys for everyone involved in this final pre-launch meeting. If any information became compromised, Parker would have a very small suspect pool.

  He was seated at a table with Dexter McCauley, who still carried his backpack with laptop and papers; Commander Chuck Drabek, of SEAL Team 9, who handled Task Units specialized in covert operations with minimal prep time. Also onboard was Harry Olmstead, a regional Director of the Counter Terrorist Group, who had access to the latest actions of all known threats to the nation. That he was a keen mind with a ruthless streak didn’t hurt, either.

  They all sat facing a single LCD screen which had elevated out of the table top, located so that everyone could see its display—which for the moment remained blank.

  And that was the problem.

  Parker was getting pissed off as they waited for the final member of the meeting to join them, albeit electronically onscreen He could feel the tension growing among the assembled personnel as time raced away from them.

  He gently nudged McCauley who was seated to his left. “Feeling any better?”

  “Physically, a little.” McCauley’s voice was raw and he spoke softly, but in a tone that said he didn’t care who was listening in. “Head-wise, I’m still…fucked up.”

  Parker could only nod, saying nothing. McCauley had definitely taken his rage down several notches, but he continued to shoulder all the blame for the civilian’s death, and the abductions of Chipiarelli and Bruckner. He wasn’t listening to anybody else’s tortured logic right now. Parker understood—because he’d been down into that same abyss himself—McCauley needed to feel responsible. Because it gave him the strength to keep going.

  The LCD flickered, went black, then totally white, finally resolving into the face of an older man in service khaki. His brush cut hair was graying nicely and he wore wire-rimmed glasses with squared off edges just like his hair and his jaw. Despite his archetypal look of the rough career non-com, he radiated the confidence and intelligence of a university doyen.

  “Chief Petty Officer Warren McGrath, checking in…”

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. McGrath,” said Parker, quickly introducing the newcomer all around.

  “Sorry I’m late, Admiral, but I wanted to get as much archival data as possible and not everything we have is digitally accessible.”

  “I understand,” said Parker, looking at the others around the table. “Mr. McGrath has access to all historical classified materials in the Service Archives. He may have some materials that will help us make the quick decisions we need.”

  Everyone nodded, waited for Parker to continue. “Very well, gentlemen. First, a little good news—we have some leads on who or what we may be up against… Mr. Olmstead?”

  The Director from CTG nodded. He was in his late forties, and had kept himself in shape with time in the gym. His hair was getting thin, but hadn’t gone too gray, which added to his youthful aspect. He looked at McCauley. “Thanks to your input, our digital forensic sketch technology scored some hits on the identities of your intruders.”

  Olmstead opened his file folder, handed several photographs to McCauley. “Are these your guys?”

  McCauley barely looked at them as his jaw muscles tensed. “That’s them.”

  Indicating the first photo of a red-haired man, Olmstead spoke quickly. “Stewart Entwhistle. Ex-MI5. Reputation as brilliant data guy. Specializes in decryption, cryptanalysis, digital espionage. But also a competent field mechanic. Dropped off the radar five years ago. Vanished. Until this.

  “The other guy is Junius Sinclair. Captain, US Navy. He—”

  “Christ on a crutch!” said Parker. “I know that man! He was in DSR.”

  “That’s right,” said Olmstead. “On a fast track until the Norfolk incident.”

  Parker shook his head. “He got CYA’d. Broke him back to Lieutenant Commander. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Not long after that, he was reported lost at sea in a storm. His own sloop,” said Olmstead. “Obviously bullshit.”

  “So who’re these guys with now?” McCauley continued to stare at the photos.

  Olmstead shrugged. “Most likely one of several New World Order entities. Nobody believes they exist except the conspiracy nuts…and of course people like me who know they do.”

  “How powerful are they?” McCauley’s complexion had deepened, his voice sounded stronger. “How dangerous?”

  “Extremely. They’ve cultiv
ated access to the best technology and info access in the world, no matter what country controls it. And they can manipulate a lot of money as well,” said Olmstead. “I’m talking on the world market level.”

  The SEAL Commander nodded. “They prefer a very covert presence. This kind of bold strike is out of character. Usually, any up-profile action is disguised as terrorism.”

  McCauley shook his head. “They didn’t seem interested in disguising much of anything this time.”

  Olmstead looked at him. “That tells me they were in desperate mode. Obviously they’ve placed a high value on Captain Bruckner…or what he knows.”

  Chuck Drabek tapped a pencil on his legal pad. “We need to ascertain their objective, then form our own. Quickly.”

  Parker looked at everyone at the table. “I’m assuming you have all read Mr. McCauley’s debriefing documents…that should provide us with a good jump-off point.”

  Drabek, the SEAL Commander, nodded toward Dex. “Chief McCauley, this thing about the ‘inter-matter’, I mean, you can swear to this?”

  “I can swear to seeing a piece of something weird, something Captain Bruckner says can be converted into any known substance. But I don’t know if it’s what they say it is…”

  Parker looked at the face on the screen. “You’ve had some time to research this, McGrath. What can you tell us?”

  Everyone looked at the archivist. “The biggest problem is there is no single folder or file on Station One Eleven. The Germans got sloppy with their record-keeping during the final months of the war.”

  “Which means…?” said Olmstead. He adjusted his tie unconsciously, a nervous habit.

  “Which means I’ve been pulling out data from so many places, it’s like one of those puzzles with the really tiny pieces and half of them are pictures of a blue sky, and the other a dark woods. Even after I retrieve them, I still have no idea how they fit together. See what I mean?”