The Ocean Dark

by Christopher Golden

  Alena turned to Ridge. “Paul, I want rubbings of as much of this as you can get before we have to dust off.”

  He nodded but did not turn, his focus entirely on the wall markings. “You got it.”

  The explosion shook the entire grotto, from sub-chamber up through the bowl to the rim. The stone shelf bucked beneath Alena, knocking her off her feet, and she let out a scream as the black rock splintered and gave way beneath her. A cloud of dust billowed up through the old volcano’s throat and though the blast had muffled her hearing, the shouts and curses reached her even as she fell in a tangle of limbs and stone, flailing for a ledge that had been part of the broken shelf.

  She held her breath as she fell, and a tiny, incoherent prayer filled her mind.

  Then she hit the water and plunged into darkness, and the real fear began.

  ~75~

  In the launch that carried her from the Coast Guard ship Kodiak to the USS Hillstrom, Angie Tyree stayed in the enclosed cabin behind the wheelhouse. The launch wasn’t much bigger than the lifeboat that had saved her, but it sat higher on the water and must have had a deeper draft. Agent Plausky, who had been as kind to her as she supposed she could expect, watched her from the door that led to the aft deck, but Angie did not want to budge from the bench where she sat.

  Still, she had a question. She had caught a glimpse of the Antoinette in the distance just before Plausky had taken her below to get her on board the launch.

  “All of these ships are moving away from the island,” she said. “What about the people you’ve sent ashore?”

  Plausky glanced back toward the Kodiak, as though he could see right through it to the Antoinette and the island on the other side.

  “The helicopters will bring them back. A half mile or so isn’t going to cause any problems.”

  “So why pull back?” Angie asked.

  “We’re not getting distance from the island,” the FBI agent explained. “We’re retreating from the Antoinette.”

  A shiver ran through Angie. “Why? Didn’t you send people over there to kill the ones on board?”

  Plausky nodded. “Yeah. And I guess they did the job. But as long as the Antoinette’s there, it’s going to be a safe haven for them. And if we left it there, it might draw undue attention. Someone might see it and want to explore the ship, and then the island. Probably a lot of salvage on board, not to mention inside the containers themselves. Better for everyone if it just goes away, like the wrecks Dr. Boudreau has the Navy and Coast Guard out there burning.”

  “You’re going to burn it?” Angie asked.

  “No. They’re going to blow it up.”

  She stared at him, surprised to find herself sad at the idea of the Antoinette’s destruction. Not that the ship had ever been home, but it was a place for her to belong, and she doubted she would ever find such a place again.

  The boat rocked under her and she hugged herself tightly. The conversation with Plausky helped keep her distracted, which was good. Sunlight or no, she couldn’t help but think what might be swimming right beneath the launch. Everyone seemed to think the sirens didn’t come this far from the island, but she didn’t want to bet her life on it.

  Through a side window she could just make out the Navy ship ahead and she let out a calming breath. Just three steps, now. Get onto the Hillstrom, then onto the chopper, and fly back to St. Croix. Whatever they wanted after that, wherever they let her go, at least she would be away from here.

  As if summoned by her anticipation, a low buzz that had been nagging at the edges of her hearing grew into a sudden roar, and she angled her head to peer into the sky above the launch. After today, she would always welcome the sound of a helicopter, but what she glimpsed as she looked up made her draw back in confusion.

  “What the hell is that?” she asked. “Is it…wait…”

  The helicopter passed above, headed for the deck of the enormous Navy ship. A long metal box hung on chains below the chopper, paint chipped and slightly rusted—one of the containers from the Antoinette.

  “Agent Plausky,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice, “why is the Navy taking a container off my ship?”

  The FBI agent came into the cabin and over to the bench where she now kneeled. He bent over to look out, watching with her as the chopper took up a position above the Hillstrom and began to maneuver the container into place.

  “One of the operation’s goals is to have one of the creatures for study. It seems a little extreme, but I guess they figured to keep it out of the sun and make sure it had no chance to escape, transporting it in a locked steel box made more sense than trying to chain it up.”

  The words hit her like blows. Angie flinched with each one, but Plausky seemed barely to notice. Only when she began to shake her head and slide down to the floor of the launch did he turn toward her.

  “Alive?” Angie asked. “They’re bringing one on board alive?”

  Understanding lit his eyes. “Yeah. They are. But, listen, there are lots of guys with guns on that ship. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I’ll get you on that helicopter and you get to leave.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, feeling herself falling apart. “I can’t…I’m not getting on board with one of those things.”

  Plausky crouched beside her. “Yeah, you are. Yes, Angie, just… Ssshhh, just listen. The sun’s still shining. It’s all right. Listen, all you wanted was to get out of here, and this is your shot at that. You’ll be fine.”

  Frozen, she stared up at the window from where she’d landed on the floor. The sound of the chopper rotors filled her ears. She couldn’t see the helicopter or the container or even the navy ship, not from this angle.

  Angie Tyree closed her eyes and tried to think of home, of the place where she’d been a little girl. But in the darkness inside her own mind, the sirens waited, and so she forced herself to keep her eyes open. And, silently, she prayed.

  ~76~

  Special Agent Tim Nadeau had no love for profanity, but he cursed a blue streak as he picked himself up off of the rocks in front of the grotto mouth, the surf rolling up to soak through his shoes and pants legs before he could rise. He’d torn a hole in the knee and blood had begun soak into the fabric. When he’d thrown out his hands to catch himself, he’d scraped skin off of his left palm and ended up hitting his head on a rock anyway. Now he felt the lump rising and winced at the tenderness of it, his fingers coming away streaked with red.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered.

  For those few seconds, the rest of the world had retreated. Now, like throwing a switch, the rest of his senses opened up and reality rushed in. He heard voices shouting in panic and looked up. That simple movement nearly made him lose his balance, and he understood that he had a concussion. But he understood other things as well.

  The left side of the bowl had given way. One of the descent team, planting explosives on the walls of the sub-chamber, had screwed up royally and a charge had detonated. Whoever had fucked it up, it no longer mattered. The Navy would have a hard time finding enough pieces of him to put in a box for a funeral. But the running and shouting up on the rim—people were being careful not to get too close now that some of it had sheared off and fallen in—told him that the guy who’d exploded was the least of their concerns.

  Nadeau grabbed his radio. “Josh, it’s Tim. Come in.”

  Static hiss. No answer. “Agent Hart, this is Nadeau, do you read?”

  Off balance, Nadeau started to scramble across the rocks toward the nearest sailor--a blond kid who looked completely frantic.

  “Hey!” he shouted, and the sailor twisted toward him. “Any casualties?”

  The sailor looked mystified, so Nadeau passed him, working his way over to a severe looking, dark-haired woman wearing an ensign’s bars. She had a small comm. unit tucked into her ear, the cord dangling past her cheek.

  “What’s the story?” Nadeau asked. “Ensign! I’m talking to you! Did we lose anyone?”


  The woman turned to him, her eyes haunted, and threw a hand up toward to the ruined bowl. “Take a look! What the hell do you think?”

  Steadying himself, Nadeau put a hand up to the bloody lump on his skull, his head throbbing painfully. “You can do better than that.”

  The ensign shook her head. “Christ. Sorry, come with me.”

  As they climbed the steep, rough hill beside the grotto, she started talking. “At least one casualty—whoever set off that charge—but they’re trying to figure out who it is. When the thing gave way, seven of my shipmates went with it, including Lieutenant Commander Sykes. Dr. Boudreau fell into the hole, too, along with the geologist she had with her.”

  “What about Agent Hart?”

  The ensign gave him a blank look.

  “The other FBI agent who was here? With his arm in a sling? He had the woman from the Antoinette with him?”

  But the ensign’s only reply was a shrug of apology.

  Nadeau swore under his breath and kept climbing. When they reached the rim of what had once been the bowl, his heart sank. A third of the stone shelf that had made up the bottom of the bowl had given way, crumbling into the dark chamber far below. There was no sign of Josh and Tori, and he knew they must have fallen as well. Nadeau saw sailors moving, lowering lights into the darkness, and members of the descent team abandoning the explosives they had set on the walls below to work their way lower on their ropes, calling into the void, then pausing to listen.

  Echoes were their only replies.

  ~77~

  Voss stood in a cluster of Coast Guard officers and seamen on the deck of the Kodiak and watched as Lieutenant Stone switched on the detonator, under the watchful eyes of David Boudreau. A shuddery anger rattled through her with every breath and she glanced over at Ed Turcotte, who stood slightly apart from the rest of them, his eyes downcast.

  “Asshole,” she muttered.

  David raised an eyebrow and gave her a sidelong glance, but Voss pressed her mouth shut and didn’t say another word. She pushed away from the railing and threaded her way through the seamen, who separated to give her an exit.

  “You don’t have any fight left in you at all, huh?” she said, hands balled at her sides. Voss hadn’t thrown a punch in a while and didn’t intend to start today, but her fists ached.

  Turcotte looked up. “Excuse me, Agent?”

  “You heard me, Ed.”

  “Oh, it’s Ed now, is it? We’re friends?”

  Voss laughed. “Not fucking likely.”

  “I’m heartbroken.”

  “We had an hour, you son of a bitch!” she snapped, raising her voice to be heard above the growing roar of the Navy helicopter that even now moved toward the Hillstrom, long rusty container swaying on chains beneath it. The sight made her sick.

  “An hour for what? What would have been the point?” Turcotte asked with a hollow laugh.

  “The point? Do you have any idea how much time my squad put into this case? I almost lost my partner—“

  Turcotte jabbed a finger at her. “Because you put him in jeopardy!”

  Voss slapped the hand away. “Fuck you!” she shouted over the helicopter’s noise. “You think anyone could have seen this coming? The whole case is slipping through our fingers, but we had a chance to search Rio’s ship, maybe salvage something to help us take down Viscaya, and you wouldn’t even let us look! It’s dereliction of duty, Ed. You turned your back on the job!”

  With a sneer, he shook his head. “You kill me, Rachael. You’re going to write me up? The D.O.D. will eat you alive. Don’t you get it? They’re going to make this whole thing vanish! Stuck in a black box and put away, like it never happened. What evidence could we have found that they would have let us use? Nothing! You want Viscaya, you’ll have to do it the hard way. And if you want to come at me, by all means, try your luck. But nobody’s going to let you breathe a word about the Antoinette or this island or anything about this case, so you might want to think twice about what happens if they decide your little grudge against me is bad for national security.”

  She glared at him, but Turcotte turned and stared out across the blue water. They were nearly a mile out from the Antoinette now, a safe distance, and from here the island seemed so small and ordinary and unthreatening that the entire scene became unreal.

  “Damn it,” she whispered, dropping her gaze and staring at the small waves lapping against the side of the Kodiak, down below. “Damn you all.”

  The roar of the helicopter had diminished. By now, they’d be putting that container down on the deck of the Hillstrom. They’d brought the devil on board, and she was just glad Alena Boudreau had chosen the navy ship as her base. Voss didn’t want to be anywhere near one of those things.

  The Antoinette detonated in three explosions, one on top of the next, a staccato eruption out on the open sea. Voss looked up to see fire and debris raining down around the swiftly sinking, ravaged remains of the container ship. It slid into the water in smoking pieces, all of its crimes and dark secrets engulfed by the blue Caribbean.

  The thunder of the Antoinette’s destruction was still echoing in her ears when she heard someone shouting her name. Voss and Turcotte turned as one to see McIlveen hurtling along the Coast Guard ship’s deck toward them, with Dan O’Connell hustling along in his wake. Mac looked grim, but it was the shock on O’Connell’s pale, drawn features that told her something awful had happened.

  Off to her right, Lieutenant Stone had started to shout into his comm, and David Boudreau had turned deathly pale.

  Something had gone wrong on the island.

  Voss hung her head, running a hand through her hair.

  “Josh,” she whispered, or thought she did. Maybe she had only thought his name, along with the one other thing that swam up into her mind.

  What now?

  ~78~

  Josh broke the surface choking, coughing up water, and gasped for air. Shafts of sunlight made shining columns in the dark chamber, plenty of light to see by, and maybe enough to survive by; he didn’t know. He threw out his right arm, pulling toward a rock ledge a dozen feet away, but his waterlogged clothes and boots dragged at him and he sensed the predatory abyss beneath him. Images flashed through his mind of white flesh, needle teeth snapping shut, and black eyes gleaming. He could feel them there, under him, and whether they were actually there mattered not at all.

  Without both arms, he wouldn’t be fast enough. And if the creatures didn’t snag him from below, he might drown anyway. Struggling out of his sling, he cried out in pain as the knitting flesh of his bullet wound tore anew, but the pain drove him on. He set his jaws tight, hissed through his teeth, and swam, cursing the wound, the bullet, and the dead Miguel Rio for shooting him in the first place. The beautiful haze the Vicodin had provided had evaporated.

  Something splashed behind him--maybe a rock falling from above, but maybe something else, something hungry. Ahead on the sun-splashed ledge, others were even now pulling themselves out of the water. Some were cradling injured limbs, one sailor bleeding from a gash on his face, and he saw Tori kneeling at the water’s edge. Her eyes locked on him and he saw relief spill across her features. She urged him on.

  Then he was there, at the ledge. He hooked his right arm onto the rocky outcropping and tried to climb, but he could not raise his left. His head and arms were in sunlight now, but the water remained dark and deep and he felt the vulnerability of his legs so keenly that a scream began to build inside him. Frantic, he tried to scrabble up the jagged rock ledge.

  A hand clamped on his right wrist and, as he looked up, Lieutenant Commander Sykes hauled him bodily from the water, pulling him out with such effort that the two collapsed on the slick ledge. As Sykes regained his feet, Josh took long, gasping breaths, and the pain in his shoulder throbbed into hideous life. He held the arm against his chest and looked up at Sykes.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.” Though he knew getting out of the water was not the
same as getting out alive.

  Then Tori knelt beside him, her wet hair plastered to her face, eyes alight with fear and with something akin to fervor.

  “You’re all right,” she told him. Only instead of reassurance, it sounded like a command. “Come on, get up. We have to get out of here.”

  But as Josh rose and glanced around, he saw that would be easier said than done. They were in the vast sub-chamber beneath the bowl—beneath the level of the grotto entirely. A broad section of the bowl had caved in, but not everyone had been fortunate enough to hit the water. In the illumination from the shafts of sunlight that came down from above, he could make out at least four bodies--sailors who had struck the rocky edges of the pool--and one tangled wreck of limbs half-buried in the pile of shattered black stone. Someone from the descent team, he figured, who had been hanging underneath the shelf before it gave way.

  Alena Boudreau had survived, and stood talking quietly to Dr. Ridge, her geologist, a few feet away. Both were saturated with water, the woman’s silver hair wet and stringy, making her suddenly look her age. Regardless of how well she’d maintained her body, this had to be hard on her.

  Three sailors stood with Sykes right on the ledge, searching the water for signs of anyone else who had survived. But some of those who had landed in the subterranean pool had not surfaced. Josh knew without question that they would never surface. They had either been injured in the fall and drowned, or fallen prey to what swam in those waters.

  “There!” one of the sailors shouted, pointing. “Did you see it?”

  But Josh didn’t, and no one else seemed to. At least, no one spoke of it. Tense moments passed with all of them holding their breath, but no streak of white surfaced in the pool or darted just below the surface.

  “Kaufmann,” one of the sailors said, the word either a curse or an indictment. “Fuck, Teddy, Kaufmann’s dead.”