How could the others not feel the terror of this place? Locked in the ice like something out of distant myth, it had waited patiently for them, but Erich realized he was the only one who truly comprehended its unspoken message of doom.
He knew he would never return to this place. But more importantly…he would never leave it.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Dex
Under the Ice
After Dr. Schaller respectfully declined to be part of the assault mission, volunteering instead to be part of the “second wave” that could go in and neutralize the nuclear device with a higher degree of safety, the parameters of the mission changed yet again.
And that’s how he’d ended up on the Dragonfish.
While Drabek’s team worked out the logistics of the entry under Greenland Shelf, and had locked in the coordinates where Tommy and old Bruckner would be waiting for them, Dex had finally won over Parker Whitehurst.
It was just going to be a taxi run—like a hack picking up a fare.
As Dex settled into the sleek submersible, he could see how much things had changed in just the few years since he’d retired. The Dragonfish was like something from a science fiction film, only it was real. The technology was such that it would keep getting better and keep getting obsolesced faster than it took to build the newest toys, that’s what Kevin Cheever had always told him. But Dex had never really believed him until he’d taken a jumpseat in the latest Deep Sea Assault and Rescue vessel.
Kevin Cheever.
Having recalled his friend and dive mate, Dex finally let a breaker of pain and culpability curl over him. In the weird, twisted logic of true guilt, Dex knew there would always be a part of him believing he’d been the sole reason Kevin and the rest of the Deep Six (that dumb name they’d all insisted on) had been killed.
Sure, it was a stretch, and it wasn’t much different from the professional responsibility he’d accepted for all the Navy boys he’d failed to rescue or had sent into a harm’s way that had turned out to be fatal. It wasn’t any kind of crushing weight that would prevent him from surviving or functioning in the future, but it was like a chronic ache that would never go away.
And honestly, Dex was okay with that. He’d feel worse about himself if he’d ever been able to seal it off like Fortunato in the wine cellar and never think of it again. No, it was better to think about it. Live with it like all the other things that create a life.
“Approaching the access point,” said the Dragonfish pilot, a kid who looked too young to be in the Navy. Dex had noticed the name Voelker on his nameplate.
“We copy.” That was the Cape Cod. “Maintain heading and confirm sonar contact.”
“ETA ten minutes,” said Voelker. “Sonar is a negative.”
“You have a window for contact. Advise when confirmed.”
Supposedly, the bad guys had placed a warning buoy at the end of the underwater tunnel into Station One Eleven. A marker signaling the entrance to what Bruckner had described as a vast cavern and lake. Dex knew the buoy was more than a beacon. It was symbol of the honor of the deal. And as far as Dex understood it, if Tommy and Bruckner were picked up safely, the bad guys got their Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card from the top of the deck.
A soft ping emanated from the pilot’s console. Once. Then a series of repeats. A pattern.
“Contact,” said Voelker.
“Steady as she goes.”
Then just as suddenly as they’d begun, the signals from the marker buoy stopped.
“Hey,” said Voelker. “What the—?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Bruckner
He would never leave it.
In that instant of realization, Erich felt a release, a benediction of such cleansing strength, he felt invulnerable.
As he stood next to Hawthorne, he turned and spoke vaguely in Sinclair’s direction. “I…I feel…funny,” he said. “Something is—”
“What’s the matter?” said the technician, who reached out to steady Erich. It was a helpful, human gesture, and Erich felt a brief pang of guilt for the deception.
Pretending to lean into Hawthorne for support, Erich used him as a base, a pillar, and finally, a launching point. With all the power and feeble energy he could summon, he pushed off propelling himself forward.
Forward, at the Rube Goldbergian structure of the Project Norway device and the detonation mechanisms of Herr Kress.
Everyone moved.
Lunging for him. Hands reached out from both sides—Hawthorne and one of the crew—and even though their talon-like fingers caught the hood and shoulder of his parka, he twisted and stretched as he fell.
“Get him!” yelled Sinclair.
Erich felt his body stretching, laid out almost horizontally, as if he were trying to fly toward the bomb. And it was in that instant that he realized how old he actually was. Despite his mind being sharp and clear and as agile as it had been so many years ago, and despite the curious refusal of his body to age at a normal rate, he had still become weaker than he wanted to admit.
And therefore, what he intended and imagined as a forceful, lunging attack was nothing more than an attempt at a rapid movement in mocking painful slow-motion.
But in spite of this, he had instilled a great instantaneous panic in all of them around him, and they didn’t dismiss his age or his lack of mass or power. They converged on him and physically detained him, freezing his progress and yanking him backward from the device.
He had failed.
And everyone seemed to expel their pent-up, fear-choked breaths at once.
All but one.
In that brief interlude of collective relief as the men relaxed, knowing they had stopped him, and were transporting him back and away from his target, Erich saw rapid movement at the periphery of his vision.
So quick. Almost a blur. Like a torpedo at launch, the shape burst past him and the bodies who held him.
Tommy.
And in that instant of belated realization, he was beyond them, flying through the air like a linebacker making a tackle. One of the crewman rose up to meet him, to collide, to stop him.
And he did, but not before Tommy reached out with a final surge of power and will, his thick, gnarled fingers barely touching the wires.
The wires that connected the frozen timer with the detonator cap embedded in the waterproof pack of explosives.
The wires running through the dead man’s switch.
Turning, Erich saw the red wire slip free, and—
—flash
—white
—nothingness
Epilogue
Dex
Fort Meade
Counter Terror Group HQ
Three months later, and he still thought about that moment on a daily basis.
The interval between the Dragonfish pilot saying he’d lost the buoy’s signal and the shattering fury of the explosion had been less than an eyeblink. The shockwave of heat and energy had forced the inland sea downward, vortexing the massive plug of water through the subterranean passage where the DSAR vessel had just entered.
Like a bullet rifling through a barrel, the submersible had been propelled out into the sea. The G-forces bordered on lethal and Dex had blacked out, remembering nothing until they revived him in the Cape Cod’s sick bay.
Measured against contemporary yields, the German device had not been large, but it had been more than up to the task of obliterating the secret Nazi base. And of course everyone present. Dex had no idea what had gone wrong and his only consolation was that his friends had never felt a thing.
The loss so stunned Admiral Whitehurst, he’d wanted to retire, but even the Pentagon found no one to blame this time. Either the top brass knew more than they were saying, or they were feeling particularly benevolent that day.
Yeah, right.
Dex knew there were details of the incident that would never reach the public eye.
Which brought him to his own situation.
Having been a part of the entire classified operation, Dex represented a bit of a problem to everyone. To let him wander off the dock at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and stand behind the counter of Barnacle Bill’s Dive Shop in Annapolis, Maryland was probably not the best idea. Especially considering the extremely trenchant fact the Guild knew where he lived, knew his computer and voicemail passwords, and anything else of value or importance to them. There was no way to know if, or when, they might decide to “reconnect” in his life.
Thankfully, there was an alternative arrangement and a very palatable one.
Despite his honorable discharge from the Navy, Dex found himself re-upped with a bump to the rank of Commander as a CTG liaison under Admiral Whitehurst. His security clearances had been almost easy because of his DSRO service which had involved the most classified submarines in the world.
Easy was one of those relative words, however—especially in the twenty-first century.
The “arrangement” Whitehurst had given him wasn’t so bad, really. He’d taken a loyalty oath to remain silent on all aspects of the Greenland Shelf and U-5001 incidents, and that had been a blessing. The less he spoke of the entire chapter in his life, the better off he would be. But that wouldn’t happen until every conceivable agency had wrung every possible fact from the entire operation. The amount of time spent debriefing everyone involved in the events required months and a full-time staff. During that span, Dex had not received any permanent orders or station, but he knew that would change one of these days.
And he was thinking that today might be the day.
Parker Whitehurst was waiting for him in one of the countless E-Ring briefing rooms.
“Commander McCauley. Right on time. Good to see you.” It was a running joke. They saw each other almost constantly, but Dex always smiled anyway.
Whitehurst smiled back, indicated he take a seat. “Relax. This won’t take long.”
“Okay.” Dex tried to be comfortable in the soft swivel chair, but his anxiety wouldn’t let him. Something was in the fire and he was going to be invited to the cook-out. That could be very good news. Or not.
“The science-guys and the brass don’t have enough answers,” said Whitehurst. “All the information we’ve pulled together hasn’t satisfied anybody. Made it worst, actually. All it’s done is spin the theoretical guys off into deep space. They want more. We all want more.”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
Whitehurst paused, as he didn’t know what face to project, a grin or perhaps something more serious. He settled for a more neutral expression which suited his thin lips and ruddy complexion well enough. “We’re putting together a mission. To go back to the Shelf.”
Dex leaned forward, surprised. “What? Why? There’s nothing left. It’s all gone, isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s kind of the burning question of the age, isn’t it?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Some of the geologists and physicists have theorized that the nuclear device may have only affected a portion of the area. A fairly small portion. Based on Bruckner’s eyewitness account, plus recent satellite imaging and magnetometrical readings, there might be plenty still there. Below. Deeper into the earth. Below the ice. Below the shelf. Who knows…?”
“You agree with them?”
Whitehurst steepled his hand in front of his face, assumed a thoughtful pose. He raised his bushy, silvering eyebrows. “I guess maybe I do. I volunteered you for the mission.”
Dex nodded. “Because of my clearances.”
“That’s one of the reasons. I figured two other ones might be Bruckner and Chipiarelli.”
Dex said nothing. He didn’t have to. Given a chance to do something—anything—that might give more sense, more meaning to the death of his friends, well, Dex would go for it. Some of the images from Bruckner’s diary would never leave him, and the chance to see things for himself would trump any other concerns. Besides that, the experience might help him with one final loose end.
“What’re you thinking, sailor?” Whitehurst had leaned back, more relaxed now that he knew Dex was onboard.
Dex looked at him. “I don’t know. Did you ever think we have a real talent for never seeing all the consequences of what we do? Until it’s too late.”
“Part of being human, I guess.”
Dex nodded. “That’s what bothers me the most about One Eleven.”
“Go on,” said the Admiral.
“Well, we both know it’s not just the Nazis we’re talking about here.”
Whitehurst said nothing, waited for him to continue.
“All the years and all the technology didn’t save them—whoever they were,” said Dex.
Whitehurst considered this. “Maybe that doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter who they were. The important thing is—they’re not us. We’re different because we are still here, and as long as that’s the case, then we have a chance to get it right.”
Dex smiled. He thought about how his commanding officer might be on to something. And that made him think about that one final loose end.
The one that led to a grave marker in a small, forgotten cemetery, and to an old ammo box buried there.
Sooner or later, Dex was going to have to make a decision regarding the contents of that box and whatever profound changes it could ring upon his world.
Whatever he did, it was going to be very interesting.
About the Author
Thomas F. Monteleone has published more than 100 short stories, 5 collections, 7 anthologies, and 27 novels including the bestseller, New York Times Notable Book of the Year, The Blood of the Lamb. A four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, he’s also written scripts for stage, screen and TV, as well as the bestselling The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel (now in a 2nd edition). His latest novel is a global thriller, Submerged. He lives in Maryland near Baltimore and loves the Ravens. He is also co-editor of the award-winning anthology series of imaginative fiction, Borderlands. He is well-known as a great reader of his work, and routinely draws SRO at conventions. Despite being dragged kicking and screaming into his sixties and losing most of his hair, he still thinks he is dashingly handsome—humor him.
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The McAdams family is cursed. At least, that’s the legend, and it certainly does look that way. Forty years ago, Charlotte discovered her friends murdered in the school gymnasium, which drove her insane. Her brother, Sim, became an alcoholic with a failed marriage. Now he’s seeing a face from his past staring at him from the mirror. His son and grandsons are haunted too, by eerie figures from their own pasts. And their friends have begun dying in violent and bizarre ways. Whatever is haunting the McAdams family, it clearly won’t be satisfied until they pay…with their lives.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Submerged
Copyright © 2016 by Thomas F. Monteleone
ISBN: 978-1-61923-093-4
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Scott Carpenter
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2016
www.samhainpublishing.com
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