“We copy.”
The red-haired man with the Scottish accent moved forward to get a better look. “Bloody hell! What the fuck is this place?”
Sinclair said nothing. He could only stare at the strange place in defiant respect.
“The area is clean,” said the pilot as he consulted a variety of displays concerned with the presence of any other vessels or entities. “No activity detected.”
“Okay,” said Sinclair, turning to face Erich. “We move to the next phase, Captain Bruckner.”
Erich stared at him, said nothing.
“Captain Bruckner, you will now lead us to the place where you left the nuclear device.”
“What if I refuse?” He already knew the answer to this, but needed to hear them articulate it.
The red-haired man smoothed his mustache, smiled. “Come on, now, Cappy…surely you must’ve realized why we’ve bothered to bring along that numbskull friend of yours, now don’t you?”
Erich understood all too well. There was a good chance he and Tommy would be eliminated regardless of his actions. But as any submariner will tell you—even a small chance is better than none at all. He nodded, said nothing.
The pilot vacated his seat to Erich as Sinclair assumed full control of the submersible. The view through the eye-like bubble port was slightly distorted by the curvature of the thick plastic, imparting an even more surreal aspect to the strange subterranean interior.
“Which way, Captain?”
“I need to get myself oriented properly.” Erich pointed to the digital displays. “Is there a map you put on there with our position?”
Sinclair said nothing, but he keyed in a command which produced a CGI map on one of the screens. Erich squinted at it as he tried to make the topographical display agree with his memory. The more he looked at the representations, the more familiar it became, and he remembered.
“Very well,” he said. “Do you prefer compass headings or visuals?”
Sinclair remained expressionless. “Whatever works for you.”
Erich supplied a heading which angled the vessel across the vast underground sea at a cautious speed. As it closed slowly on the far shore, Erich watched Sinclair, who tried to remain stoic as he regarded the strange landscape. Not much chance of that.
Outside, the surface of the inland sea barely rippled. Bruckner stared at it, looking in the direction where he now remembered they had taken the bomb. There had been a small cove with a shallow shoreline. The dinghy carrying the device had drifted easily to a place where they’d dragged it up to the soft shore.
The minutes passed in a silence punctuated only by the occasional narrative of Sinclair to his relay contact called Topside. As the distance between the shoreline and their vessel closed, more details became discernible, but Erich could not see anything that looked like the wooden boat they had beached so long ago.
The rising walls of the great cavern drew into sharper definition as Sinclair eased within 30 meters of the shore. He tested his depth with sonar and advanced with caution.
“Do you see anything familiar, Captain?”
Erich shook his head. He had been certain this was close enough for a visual confirmation. Was it possible the device had been found sometime in the past?
Easing the boat ever closer, Sinclair’s expression suggested he might be thinking Erich was playing games with him. “Captain, I am a patient man. But you don’t want to piss me off, okay?”
Erich opened his mouth to reply, but the red-haired man interrupted him. “Hell-lo! What’s that?”
He pointed to a dark smudge against the tan clay and stone of the shoreline. Erich found it, allowed it to resolve into something familiar. It could be the upper half of his deadly cargo, but…there was something not right about it. There was a layer of water-hugging mist that kept all details along the beach indistinct. They would have to be very close to know for certain what they were looking at.
Guiding the submersible safely past the obscured object to ensure against any chance of collision, Sinclair eased it aground on the soft bottom.
“Let’s get out and have a look around,” he said, reaching his hand out to Erich.
Erich would have loved to tell him he didn’t need the assistance but decided a feigned weakness might serve him later. Straightening out and moving through the small egress was a challenge, but Erich was fit and strong beyond his years. His captors didn’t need to know that.
As he emerged from the hatch, he looked up to feel, as much as see, the curved vault of the gigantic enclosure. In the incandescence of the distant towered sphere, the mist hanging over the water seemed to carry a subtle glow.
Everyone except the pilot clambered free of the submersible, mucking through soft sandy clay to drier, firmer ground. One of the armed men hustled Tommy, still cuffed, from the hatch. The other two crewman, Sinclair, the red-haired man, and the studious-looking man in the angler’s vest and flannel shirt followed. They all paused to take in their bizarre surroundings—each man trying to reconcile the impossibility of what they witnessed with its reality.
“Sweet mother…” That was one of the armed crewman whispering a soft exclamation as he took in the total strangeness of the place. He was wearing a remote cam on his helmet, relaying a feed back to somewhere unknown.
Sinclair looked around with a slack expression. Erich could not tell if he was in total awe or merely bored.
East of their position, far away, the suggestion of the scarp of ancient buildings lay in fog. Seeing it brought Erich back through time, reaffirming the exact position from so many years ago.
Sinclair pointed through the annoying mist at the odd collection of struts and what appeared to be an oblong dome rising from the mud.
“Is that it?” he said.
“We beached the boat at the foot of a small cove. Just like that one.” Erich pointed at the object that could be the bomb.
“Get closer,” said the red-haired man. “That bleedin’ fog’s too dodgy.”
“Slowly, easy,” said the man with the horn-rimmed glasses and the flannel shirt. “We do not wish to disturb anything until I have a chance to fully inspect the mechanism.”
“Right-o, Doc.” The red-haired man slowed his pace, motioned to the armed escort, one of whom had been assisting Erich along the soft shore, holding him by the arm.
As they approached the object with great caution, Erich kept watching the man they’d called “Doc.” With each step closer to the object, the man appeared to be trying to look as casual as possible. His face was a blank slate, his eyes distorted behind thick lenses.
The closer they grew, the mist appeared thinner, less of a problem. When they were within several meters, Erich could see clearly enough to know they’d found it.
“Is that it?” said Sinclair.
Erich nodded. “Yes. But it is not as we left it.”
“What’s that? ‘Left it’—like how?” The tone of the red-haired man revealed his growing anxiety.
Erich on the other hand, felt a curious calm descending upon him. His initial sensation of dread and panic at returning to the site had dissipated. It was as if this place had been patiently waiting for him, and he for it. An unexpected comfort grew in him, and with it, confidence.
Doc, apparently a scientist, felt differently. “Oh, man, this does not look good.”
“What the hell happened here?” said Sinclair as he touched his wireless mic, activating it. “Topside, we have located the objective, but we may have a problem. Maybe a big problem…”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Dex
At Sea
When the V-22 touched down on the Cape Cod’s flight deck, Dex looked across the passenger bay at Dr. Robert M. Schaller, the nuclear guy from MIT, and smiled. The scientist didn’t reciprocate. He looked like a candidate for a firing squad as he strugg
led to unhitch his safety straps.
Dex had talked to him sporadically during the long flight, partially to add some detail and color to his briefing notes. Schaller had seemed grateful to gain a fuller understanding of why he’d been “selected” for the job. He was a soft-spoken, no-nonsense kind of guy sliding into his fifties with a full head of graying hair, a stylish goatee, and an athletic build. Dex figured him for a squash or tennis player.
A latch clicked and the belly door was thrown open by a seaman wearing a heavy, hooded parka. A bitter slap of super-cooled air rushed in from behind him, threatening to stand Dex up like an uppercut. Apparently the Cape Cod had been in a good position to effect a very northern rendezvous point.
“Doctor Schaller. Mister McCauley,” said the young sailor. “Welcome aboard!”
He guided them across the windswept deck to the storm door, a short corridor, and a stairway up to the bridge. Once inside, despite the absence of the wind, Dex could still feel the intense cold leeching the heat from his bones. How did these guys stand it?
After being escorted onto the command deck, Dex and Schaller saw a man wearing a crisp, tan service uniform look up from a display console, then approach them. “I’m Captain Danvers,” he said. “Good to see you fellows could make it.”
Everyone shook hands. Dex looked around at the clean, Spartan control area. The digital age had wrought huge changes in the last twenty years. “Nice boat you have here.”
Danvers grinned. “Thanks, Chief. The Admiral has a meeting scheduled for Dr. Schaller, but you’re welcome to stay and check things out, if you’d like.”
“Sounds good to me.”
The Captain motioned to an ensign who was manning a navigational station. The young officer moved quickly to escort Schaller off the bridge. Dex looked around.
“How far from the target area?” he said.
“Several hundred miles southeast of the coastline coordinates.” Danvers spoke with a slight western accent, probably Texas.
Dex glanced through the glass at the gray sky and matching ocean. “Is that good?”
The Captain shrugged. “Not sure yet. We’re within range of the CH-53 to airlift a Dragonfish in good time. But…we’ve picked up a vessel on radar at the target coordinates.”
“What kind of boat?”
“We have a SeaDrone on recon to get a visual right now. Looks fairly large, though. Could be something like the Cod, or maybe a merchant class. Also trying to get a spy-sat to catch some images on the next go-round. We should have data from either source any minute now.”
“Hmmm, what’re the odds some freighter’s parked right where we want to be?” Dex shook his head.
“Yeah, looks like we’re on tit number two, and the Admiral’s not happy about it.”
“Any idea who the interlopers might be?” Dex appreciated the Captain speaking so freely to him, and wondered if Admiral Whitehurst had given explicit orders to do so. Whatever the reason, Dex wasn’t going to bring it up. Being left out of the mission was bad enough, but being kept off the information list would have been more than he could swallow.
“Not yet. As soon as we get visual, we can track it down pretty fast.”
Dex nodded. He knew a variety of agencies had compiled stored image profiles of just about every registered ship on the sea, from every conceivable port, nation, or private entity. No hiding from the eye-in-the-sky and a decent database.
“Any idea when they plan to approach the target?”
“Waiting on Whitehurst right now. I imagine they want to get that science-guy up to speed first. We have the CH-53 and the Dragonfish rigged and ready—that would get them to the access point within 30 minutes, tops.”
Dex nodded. “Guess it’s hurry up and wait now.”
Captain Danvers grinned. “Same old Navy, right? Listen, Chief, feel free to take a tour around the boat, check her out. I’ll send for you as soon as we know something.”
“I might just do that.”
But not just then. The USS Cape Cod was a state-of-the-art boat, worth seeing, but he wanted to be around to hear any new developments. He couldn’t stop thinking about Tommy and Bruckner. Once he knew they were safe, there would be time later to take a leisurely tour.
Besides, he already knew this was a special ship. A ship designed to ensure that any air or deep sea rescue/recovery mission the Navy might encounter would be assisted with the best technology in the world. It made him think back to his early days in the Navy, when they trained guys in the old rubber and canvas suits with the brass diving helmets and vulcanized rubber air hoses.
Talk about primitive. Not to mention dangerous…
Dex remembered his Chief from those training missions—a guy named Magnuson, who’d been a salvage diver when he was a teenager on the gulf coast. When he’d volunteered for the Navy after Pearl, he already had more experience than half the guys in Underwater Rescue.
Being a diver is the most dangerous job in the world, Magnuson used to tell them. And it’s also the simplest. Script’s always the same—somethin’s down there; somebody wants it; you go get it.
Dex smiled as he reminisced those days. Twenty-two years ago? Where did the time go?
He remained on the bridge despite feeling the frustration he couldn’t do more to help. For now, all he could do was wait and stand by the glass to regard the harsh sea. Somewhere out there, beyond its dark gray chop, lay the distant icy shoreline of Greenland.
Every once in a while, he’d check his watch as he tried to imagine what it was like for Tommy and the old man. With that unknown boat already on station, it was a good bet they’d been packed into a sub headed toward One Eleven. Dex wondered how Bruckner was holding up, especially with people who seemed as ruthless as his captors. Tommy would be okay—as long as he didn’t mouth-off to them. And in a pinch, he could be counted on to attempt whatever was needed to survive.
But Dex needed details, he needed input. Not knowing jack crippled him.
Five minutes of useless, quiet speculation ended when the ensign on the communications console spoke softly into his headset mic. “Updates on ‘unknown’ coming in. Stand by…”
Everyone glanced at the officer, waiting. Dex did his best to be unobtrusive as he anticipated the new info.
“Let’s hear it,” said Captain Danvers.
“Satellite confirmation at 99-plus certainty—freighter Isabel Marie. Panamanian registry, ownership Colchys International Line in Greece.”
The Captain considered this. “Any history on the owners? Any good, innocent reason for that boat to be parked at the entrance to One Eleven?”
“Nothing yet from Colchys. Regardless, we should know more any minute now. SeaDrone ETA four and counting.”
Dex clenched his fists, held them. Finally, some answers.
“We’ve got video,” said the ensign. He keyed his console and one of the LCDs on the bridge array blinked from dead black to an aerial view of the gray ocean from low altitude. Everyone focused on the screen as the SeaDrone’s hi-res cameras suddenly captured a startlingly clear image of the Isabel Marie—a merchant ship that had seen better days.
“Jesus, what a tub…” said someone.
“Wait a minute, there’s a big chopper, see it? Right there on the waist deck.”
“Don’t let its looks fool you,” said the ensign. “I’m not getting any confirmation of legitimate activity from any of the ‘alphabets’…this looks like a rogue.”
Dex kept his position, figuring the best way to stay in the mix, was to stay out of peoples’ way. If the NSA and CIA and the rest of the agencies didn’t like that boat, then it must be bad news.
“SeaDrone on aggression mode/stand-by,” said Captain Danvers. “Communications, hit the target with all hailing frequencies. Request immediate identification and destination.”
“Aye, sir,” said a crewm
an with a headset and a sophisticated bank of controls in front of him.
As the Cape Cod attempted contact with the rogue vessel, Dex wondered if they’d found it in time. There was a possibility Tommy and the old man were still on that boat, which greatly increased their chances of surviving this whole thing. “Contact,” said the communications officer. “Isabel Marie reports engine trouble. Adrift. Awaiting assistance.”
Danvers grinned, shook his head. “Assistance? Right, sure they are. Tell them we will assist.”
The crewman reestablished contact. A pause, then: “They are refusing assistance, Captain.”
Danvers nodded. “Tell them they are impeding a United States naval operation, and their cooperation is requested.”
“Captain,” said another crewman at a different station. “I’m getting a heat signature consistent with a small missile launch.”
“What?” Danvers moved to looked over the seaman’s shoulder at a display.
“It’s a SAM!” said the crewman.
“Evasive action on the SeaDrone! Now!”
As Danvers spoke, one of the screens went dark.
“Impact,” said the crewman. “We lost it.”
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Danvers’s face had flushed as he slammed his fist on the corner of the console.
The communications officer was now holding his headset closer to his ears. “Uh, Captain, I’ve got contact with the freighter. Says they need to talk to you.”
“Put it on speaker!” Danvers said as he tried to compose himself.
The crewman toggled the output.
“This is Captain Danvers, United States Navy. Identify.”
From unseen speakers, the transmission crackled onto the command deck, static threatening to mask it at any moment. “Advise you disengage at once. We have two American hostages.”
“Isabel Marie. Please stand by.” The Captain looked at his communications officer. “Patch me into the Admiral’s quarters. Now!”
“Aye, sir.”
Dex was surprised to hear his old boss’s voice booming over the loudspeakers: “Admiral Whitehurst.”
Submerged Page 39
