Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  The ruse. They have found out. How?

  Sealing the hatch, he dashed down the ladder to find the Uzbek submarine engineer listening intently on a set of headphones.

  “Our whole journey, the frigate was using her diesel…” Samarkandi said.

  “How do you know it is her?”

  “I have been building submarines for a long time and I know quite a bit about sonar. Every ship has a distinctive signature. Our sonar is rudimentary but I can recognize a boat I’ve been listening to for the last day and night. It is the Sucre.”

  “Call Omar!” Zougam ordered.

  “I already tried,” Samarkandi said. “There was no response.”

  “The Venezuelan Navy’s channel. Now!”

  Colonel Muñoz had been kind enough to provide them with the frequency needed to eavesdrop on Coast Guard and Navy units and Samarkandi switched over to it.

  “…destroy it on sight. Repeat, to all assets of the Bolivarian Navy and Coast Guard, this is the Mariscal Sucre. Terrorists have taken control of a cartel submarine and are believed to be located near Isla de Aves. All units are ordered to converge on the area, locate the submarine, and destroy it on sight.”

  “Dive!” Zougam roared.

  Samarkandi was already up, flipping the required switches to flood the ballast tanks. “I’m bringing us to a hundred feet. I already checked the depth and it’s fairly shallow close to the island, only two hundred in places. Lenox, I need you on the sonar while I man the conn. How bad is your wound?”

  Lenox sat down at the station, one hand clamping a towel stained red with blood to his shoulder. “I can bleed and listen at the same time.”

  Samarkandi glanced at the GPS, fully updated from their time at the surface. “I’m going to take us to the east—” he began.

  “Active sonar!” Lenox said. “Same bearing as the engine noise.”

  Sonar operated in two primary ways. Passive sonar was essentially “listening”, quietly picking up sounds in one or more receivers and interpreting those sounds to determine identity and bearing. Active sonar was different, a sharp ping being sent out to strike solid objects, then bouncing back to a receiver. This was useful for spotting reefs and the ocean bottom—or a quiet submarine.

  “Can they find us with that?” Zougam asked, anxiety masking his face. He was not afraid of death—failure, on the other hand, terrified him.

  “The frigate is too far away to get a return from us. And while she’s pinging away and steaming at full speed, she doesn’t have a chance of hearing us with her passive sonar either. I’m increasing to full speed to put some distance between us and Aves Island. The science station may have spotted us before we dived. In a moment, I will turn south and reduce speed.”

  “South? But that takes us away from—”

  “I know… but they are expecting us to go north. They may even know that our target is Saint Thomas if Omar or his men have been captured. We cannot do what they expect.”

  “Nor shall we,” said Zougam. “Once we lose the frigate, swing around the island and head for our alternate target.”

  Aboard the Mariscal Sucre, Commander Moreno ground his teeth as he gripped a fresh mug of rum with a dash of coffee. The ship had reached the waters to the west of the science station and there was no sign of the sub on radar. They were right where an eagle-eyed scientist had spotted muzzle flashes. Two of the science staff and a boat were missing. When Moreno had asked for their names, his fears were confirmed. They were both cartel—probably lured out by Colonel Muñoz’s false orders.

  “Aviation, get that helicopter airborne!” The helo was supposed to be fueled and ready but there had been a mechanical issue—the helicopter was a Chinese variant of the French Dauphin. Why couldn’t we have bought the real thing? “Radar? Still nothing?”

  “No, sir.”

  The bastards have dived. “Sonar! Blast them with active. Three sets of three. Then we’ll listen and see if the rats are scurrying.”

  “No contacts, sir,” the sonar operator said several minutes later.

  Well, we know where they’re going. “Conn, take us north-northwest, twenty-five knots for one minute, then kill the engines and drift for one minute, then repeat.”

  The next hour was surprisingly tense for a group of men who were already sailing to their deaths. The passive sonar detected the frigate reaching the spot where they’d met the rubber boat and lingered there for a while—silent at times, no doubt listening, then blasting away with active sonar before returning to silence.

  “She’s trying to flush us,” Samarkandi said. “Make us panic.”

  Samarkandi had brought the sub deeper and killed the engines; they were hovering at a point that was just below a likely thermocline. The abrupt change in temperature between the water layers would further degrade the sonar on the frigate. He watched his commander sweating profusely. “Brother,” Samarkandi spoke softly. “As I said before, this Lupo class of frigate is not known for its anti-submarine capabilities and they are quite far away. They would need a lucky bounce from their active to even have a chance of finding us.”

  “I am glad you are so confident, Hamid.”

  “They are moving again,” Lenox whispered. He pressed the headphones to his ears. “Away, I tink. More pings!”

  “Here, let me,” Samarkandi said, taking over the sonar station. The Uzbek listened intently. “Yes. Give me a few minutes.” After the time passed he handed the headphones back to Lenox. “They are heading toward the north-northwest.”

  “Toward Saint Thomas?” Zougam asked.

  “Roughly, yes.”

  “Excellent. They go to defend the wrong place. As soon as you feel it is safe to do so, begin the turn and take us to our new target: Sint Maarten.”

  Commander Moreno returned to the bridge with a fresh beverage, this time with more coffee in it. The search had been fruitless thus far. If those terrorists strike their target, I will be lucky if I am merely court martialed.

  “Commander! The helicopter has a contact!”

  As the frigate had gotten further and further from Isla de Aves with no sign of the submarine, Moreno had become increasingly nervous. What if he had missed it? What if it had been sitting on the bottom, silent, and had simply allowed him to rush by? When the maintenance crew had declared the chopper airworthy, Moreno had sent it back to the spot where the science base had seen the muzzle flashes and ordered it to use its dipping sonar.

  “Put them on speaker.”

  The radio crackled to life and the background whine of the helicopter’s engines filled the bridge. A voice was finishing a sentence. “…arming torpedo.”

  “This is Commander Moreno. Report!”

  “We have a contact, solid object, likely metal, stationary in the water column. Depth: seventy feet.”

  “Is it near where the scientists saw the gunfire?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Excellent. “You are weapons free! Sink that bastard!”

  “Dropping Mark 46 now now now. Weapon away.”

  Beneath the helicopter, the small anti-submarine torpedo dropped free. The helicopter bucked up from the loss of weight before settling back over its dipping sonar. The tiny active pinger continued to generate returns from the object, a half a mile away.

  The Mark 46, one of the few American-made weapons left aboard the Mariscal Sucre, streaked toward the target at forty knots. Moments later, it detonated.

  The helicopter crew watched as a geyser of water appeared in the distance. The pilot continued to hover as the sonar operator monitored the contact. It was sinking.

  Beneath the waves, the metal oil drum sunk toward the bottom. Holed by pistol rounds, it had reached a neutral buoyancy and had been floating in the water column—now, blown apart by the torpedo’s warhead, the metal sank and its contents, less dense than water, began to r
ise.

  Thirty minutes later, as Moreno paced the bridge, a call came in from the science station. After the helicopter had asserted that they had sunk the target, Moreno had turned the frigate around and ordered the scientists to send a boat out to search the area until he arrived.

  “Commander, we found a body and he’s not one of ours. He is Venezuelan and judging from a tattooed number we believe he may have been in one of our prisons. The body is badly damaged from the explosion but he had I.D. on him. “Jesús Martinez.” And he had literature of… well… of an Islamic nature.”

  “What is the number on the tattoo?” Moreno asked.

  “7C-84-2015”

  “What about debris?”

  “There is oil on the surface. Not a lot, but it’s definitely there.”

  I got them! For the first time in hours, Moreno relaxed. “Take photos of the body and forward all intel to our intelligence service.” He turned to his XO. “Contact them as well. See if they have anything on this ‘Jesús Martinez’. Have them check the prisoner rolls.”

  Aboard the Pelicano, the radio crackled to life. “Lieutenant Rojas, this is Moreno. You may inform your friends that we have sunk the submarine.”

  “Are you certain, Commander?”

  “Our helicopter had a solid contact and dropped a torpedo on it. Subsequently, we discovered an oil slick and a body. I have just received confirmation as to the identity of the body: Mohammed Martinez, formerly Jesús Martinez. Radicalized in prison and recently escaped from the Helicoide in Caracas with the help of men armed with assault rifles.”

  “The headquarters for the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service? That place is a fortress!” Luis Rojas said.

  “I know of this escape,” Ana Muñoz said. “It was surprisingly sophisticated. The intelligence service tried to cover it up.”

  “Why?” Boone asked.

  “Embarrassment.”

  Boone frowned. “If they covered it up, how do you know about it?”

  “Because the cartel’s got people in the intelligence service, too,” Luis muttered.

  “Commander, have you found any debris other than the oil?” Rick Claassen asked.

  “Yes, but it is from a small skiff the base sent out to the submarine. Two bodies of science staff were found with numerous gunshot wounds. No debris from a submarine so it probably sank straight to the bottom.”

  Boone leaned in. “Ask them if that terrorist they found had any bullet wounds.”

  Luis asked and Moreno answered. “Hard to tell. The corpse was partially blown apart.”

  Boone frowned, thinking. Rick spoke up again. “Commander, does the Venezuelan navy have any assets capable of deep water salvage or imaging? Given it was one of our territories under threat I’m sure the US Navy would be eager to offer any and all assistance.” Rick had already asked Luis to alert the Joint Interagency Task Force in Key West and he was certain wheels were already in motion in the waters off Saint Thomas.

  “Your offer of help is generous, but Vice Admiral Gaspar is sending the Punta Brava. She is an oceanographic survey ship and should be able to locate the submarine’s wreckage. Since it appears some of our servicemen have been killed both here and at the lighthouse on Sotavento, President Maduro considers this a Venezuelan matter. I will alert you if we find additional proof of the vessel’s destruction. Moreno out.”

  “The man can be efficient once his ass is on the line,” Ana said. “Lieutenant, I require transport to the mainland of myself and my father’s body.”

  “I told you, I am not one of yours, Señorita Muñoz.”

  “No, but I’d be happy to have ‘one of mine’ order you to take me there. Maiquetía would be sufficient. My people can take me to Caracas from there.”

  Luis Rojas didn’t agree verbally, but gave a reluctant nod instead. “Darcy. Can you return your friends to Bonaire?”

  “My ‘clients’, you mean? Of course.”

  “I’ll have one of my men take you to the pier.”

  Rick headed toward the stern but Ana Muñoz stepped in front of Boone before he could exit the bridge. She placed a hand against Boone’s chest. “I want to thank you for trying to save my father. I know why the big man and his brother did it—they are military men and it is their nature. But you? Darcy tells me you are a man who takes tourists diving for a living. Why did you help me?”

  “Miss Muñoz…”

  “Ana, please.”

  “Ana… respectfully, I didn’t do it for you.”

  She removed her hand. “I see.”

  “Knowing that terrorists were planning an attack and we had a chance to stop it… and knowing I could apply my skills and help? Well… there really wasn’t any question I had to go in with the Claassens.” He grabbed hold of her eyes with his gaze. “That being said, I’m sorry we weren’t able to save your father. Truly.”

  Ana’s eyes betrayed a hint of extra moisture but that was all. “I know. And I’m sorry I killed the man you had just saved.” She hesitated. “No, that’s not true. I’m sorry I killed him before we were able to interrogate him.” She straightened. “Boone… what is your last name?”

  “Fischer.”

  “Boone Fischer… I am in your debt. The Cartel de los Soles is in your debt. If ever you—”

  “No no no, thanks… we’re good. If you want to offer a life debt to Darcy, that’s fine by me but I’ve seen this movie too many times.”

  And with that, Boone exited the bridge, leaving the beautiful leader of the cartel behind.

  Skimming across the waves an hour later, Bonaire came into view, the red and yellow Willemstoren Lighthouse rising above the low-lying coast. While Rick attempted several calls over Darcy’s radio, Boone sat up on the bow, Emily alongside him, both wearing a couple windbreakers Darcy kept on board for refugees. Emily’s was oversized for her small frame, and she had drawn her knees up inside it. Behind them, the sun broke the horizon and threw a pink light across the world. Boone had been quiet since they left the pier and Emily had just leaned against him in silence, but the daybreak glow seemed to jump-start her.

  “How are you going to function without one of Martin’s breakfast belly bombs?” she said, butting against him with her shoulder.

  Boone turned to face her and smiled. “Good question. Been a long time since I missed having one.”

  “You’ll just have to eat double, tomorrow.”

  Boone’s smile melted. “Listen, Em…”

  Emily saw the change in his face and she abruptly sobered. “Oh, Boone, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t be joking around with you after what happened over there, but you know me… my coping mechanism, and all. Just wanted to see you smile, yeah? Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No… I mean, yes, I’ll probably need to see a therapist after last night, but that’s not what…” he trailed off as he remembered the shock on Emily’s face when Ana had killed the terrorist. “What about you? Are you alright?”

  “Not completely, no. It’s weird, though—when I realized why Ana shot that man, that her father had just died…. I dunno, it changes how I see it. Doesn’t make the violence any less…violent, but…” She fell silent, hunkering into the windbreaker.

  “Listen… there’s something else,” Boone said

  Emily looked up at him. Even though the sun had come up, she hadn’t donned her shades yet.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit of a coward. I didn’t tell you… I was going to, but after everything that just happened… I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “What? What do you mean? Did someone pass? A family member?”

  Boone shook his head. “You remember, when you first came here, that German guy with the curled-up mustache—Gerhardt, from Buddy Dive? He transferred to Little Cayman and that Aussie, Mitch, came in?”

  “Uh… yeah?”

 
“Well… I talked to Mitch about it—the idea of switching islands from time to time seemed kinda cool. New reefs, new food, new faces. Next day, I put in for a switch with a divemaster in Saba at Scenery Scuba. A few days ago, while you were in London, I heard that everything was approved. I fly out in the morning.”

  Emily stared at him for a long moment, then looked out to sea. “It’s your life, Boone,” she said quietly.

  Boone was silent for a time, then abruptly swung around to face her. “Emily, I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I just didn’t expect…”

  “Didn’t expect what?”

  I didn’t expect to meet someone like you here, Boone thought. But he couldn’t say that, could he? The divemaster from Saba was taking over his apartment tomorrow afternoon and Boone had a temporary hotel room reserved in Saba’s little mountain village of Windwardside. The dive op was expecting him. If he let Emily know how he felt about her, wouldn’t it make it worse? Besides, it was only in the last few weeks that he had started to think of her as something more than the goofy new girl.

  Emily picked up on his hesitation and rose, a glimmer of moisture in her eyes, her voice beginning to quaver. “We can talk later. We still have a little ‘later’ left.” She headed aft, leaving Boone alone.

  A few minutes later, Rick came up and thumped down beside him.

  “Your friend seems upset.”

  “Yeah. I’m… I’m leaving for Saba tomorrow. New job.”

  “And she didn’t know.”

  Boone was quiet for a moment. “I’m an asshole.”

  “Won’t get any argument from me. Self-knowledge is the first step to enlightenment. But jobs aren’t forever, are they?”

  Boone was silent for a moment. “Hey, Rick, lemme ask you something…”

  “Shoot.”