EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  “The one who’d separated?” Thackett asked.

  Daniel nodded.

  “Do you know who it is?” Horace asked.

  “Only his ID number,” Daniel replied. “5-2-3.”

  “Perhaps Jonathan McDougal can help,” Horace suggested.

  “That’s what we thought,” Daniel said.

  Thackett sighed. “We have little choice. Do it as soon as possible,” he said and took a deep breath. “Now we have some news for you.” He nodded to Horace.

  “One of our subs was sent to explore the western Antarctic coast, about a 150 kilometers from the beacon,” Horace explained. “They discovered a trench beneath the Brunt Ice Shelf. They followed it to the coast, where it turned into a cavern that extended inland – an underwater cave leading into the Antarctic continent.”

  “Seems like treacherous business,” Daniel commented.

  “And proven so,” Horace said.

  “What do you mean?” Daniel asked.

  “They discovered two sunken World War II-era subs,” Thackett said. “One near the mouth of the trench, a German U-boat, and one inland – American.”

  Daniel wasn’t surprised. Dead subs from the Second World War were found in all sorts of peculiar places.

  “The importance of the find is not that the subs are there – even though the location is unusual,” Horace explained, reading Daniel’s thoughts. “The mystery lies in which specific subs these are.”

  Thackett reached into his briefcase, extracted two photographs, and handed them to Daniel.

  The images were fuzzy. He could make out the shapes, but couldn’t read the markings on their hulls. “I can’t read this.”

  “No need,” Thackett said. “We already have.”

  “And?” Sylvia said, tension in her voice.

  “The American vessel is the SS-193, or the USS Swordfish,” Thackett explained. “It’s quite an historical submarine. It was the first sub to sink a Japanese ship in the war.”

  “Okay,” Daniel said. “What’s the mystery?”

  “The Swordfish was sunk by a Japanese depth charge January 12th, 1945,” Horace broke in. “In the Pacific.”

  “Oh,” Sylvia gasped.

  “Well that is a mystery,” Daniel said. “And the other vessel?”

  Horace raised an eyebrow. “U-530.”

  “That’s impossible!” Daniel almost yelled, and jerked forward involuntarily. His face flushed with embarrassment. “U-530 surrendered itself at Mar del Plata, Argentina, after the war. That’s the one in the pictures. The Red Falcon emblem was on Wermuth’s papers –”

  “Yes, yes, Daniel,” Horace said, holding up his hand and trying to calm him.

  “It was brought to the United States and sunk as a practice target in 1947,” Daniel added, more softly now.

  Thackett reached into his briefcase, pulled out another photo, and handed it to Daniel. “This is an enhanced image.”

  Daniel grabbed the photo and looked closely, even though it wasn’t necessary. The number was clear: 530. “I don’t understand,” Daniel said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Neither do we,” Horace added, grinning.

  Daniel shook his head. He was now more lost than ever.

  4

  Thursday, 21 May (9:43 a.m. EST)

  Daniel took a bite of an apple as he studied the scribbled words and timelines on his whiteboard. Almost every dark project he’d crossed in his career as an Omni was represented. Each had some connection to the beacon – some loose, some substantial.

  He retraced the complicated timeline, starting with the journey of Germany’s Schwabenland and ending with the American nuclear operations of 1958, Argus and Blackfish. The details of Blackfish were particularly suspicious, as two nuclear devices had been detonated in the ocean near the beacon. Were they trying to destroy it?

  Now there were more details to add to the mess. A tunnel penetrated into the Antarctic mainland, and inside were two dead submarines, one German and one American. Both were misplaced, historically speaking.

  Daniel sighed. He could explain nothing, and Horace’s words constantly pressured him: existential implications.

  He had an idea, and called Sylvia over to the meeting area.

  “Find something?” she asked and sat on the couch.

  Daniel took Horace’s chair. “No,” he replied, “but perhaps we can take a different approach – speculate a bit.”

  It contradicted their training. An unreferenced speculation proven incorrect in an Omni’s monograph was a gaffe that could result in termination. Daniel didn’t know what termination meant, exactly, but he was sure it would be something like being reassigned to some mundane analyst job. The possibility of being assigned to research the farming economics of a place such as Nicaragua, or Burundi, was a strong deterrent.

  “What choice do we have?” she asked. “We’re under time pressure. It would take years to go over everything we have. We’re not writing a monograph here.” She nodded for him to continue.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said, relieved. “We start with the beacon and assume that, when all of this started, someone knew much more than we do.”

  “Seems reasonable – it’s clear we’re still missing information.”

  “And we have to assume we’re not getting more.”

  “What’s your theory?”

  “We assume that everything we know about the history of that location, the Weddell Sea and the surrounding area, has to do with the beacon,” he proposed. “The beacon is the center of everything.”

  “So the mission of the Schwabenland, and the U-boat with which it rendezvoused, was to do what?”

  “The Germans knew of the beacon before the Schwabenland sailed,” Daniel explained. “Its mission had nothing to do with whales, or even submarine bases. They were there because of the beacon – to study it with the hope that it could be useful.”

  “Pre-war or wartime, it was quite a commitment just to study it.”

  “They must’ve known something we don’t,” he suggested.

  “Could they have constructed it?”

  “No way,” he answered. “It’s unlikely that any country could do it – even in the present day.”

  “Did they think it was a weapon?”

  “Perhaps,” he replied. “Or an advanced technology of some kind – like we do – maybe extraterrestrial. For the sake of argument, let’s just assume that they knew it was important, and potentially powerful.”

  He winced and shook his head. It unnerved him to make assumptions he couldn’t corroborate. “And I’m assuming their efforts weren’t based entirely on Captain Cook’s log – there must have been more.”

  She shrugged. “How was Red Falcon involved – as implied by its emblem on the crates and files?”

  He shook his head. He stood and went to the whiteboard on his side of the room. Sylvia followed.

  He mapped out what they had just discussed. The differences between the verified facts on the left side and the list of conjectures on the right were revealing.

  “Supposing the beacon is the reason for all of this,” he continued, “then why not jump into the deep end and say it was the underlying purpose of Red Falcon, and maybe even of the war itself?”

  “The reason for World War II?” she asked with an expression of skepticism. “It’s Unlikely. There would’ve been battles in the Antarctic region.”

  “Not if the Germans kept it secret.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think this is leading anywhere.”

  Daniel may have felt the same if his mind hadn’t gone into overdrive. His subconscious was milling away at something his conscious mind was too distracted to notice. He looked at the board; something was hiding in that tangled mountain of facts and conjectures.

  5

  Thursday, 21 May (10:40 a.m. EST – Antarctica)

  McHenry breathed heavily as he shook the sleep from his head and picked up his buzzing communicator.

  “You�
�re needed on the conn,” the voice said.

  He got up from his bed, pulled on his hat, and exited his quarters for the control room. As he passed through sonar he noticed the men were all staring intently at their computer screens. He arrived at the conn and joined a half-dozen others staring at the bank of monitors.

  His first officer was leaning over a consul next to a navigator.

  “What do we have, Diggs?” McHenry asked.

  Diggs popped up his head. “Have a look for yourself,” he said and pointed to the monitor of the forward camera.

  McHenry studied the image as he walked closer. His stomach tightened immediately. It appeared that the tunnel narrowed drastically, like a pinched copper pipe. “Tight fit,” he said. “The question is whether it stays that narrow, or widens afterwards.”

  “We’ve imaged the best we can using mounted sonar. There’s a good chance that it’s only a temporary constriction,” Diggs explained. “But we can’t tell for sure.”

  McHenry wished they still had Little Dakota. There was no way he was blindly taking the North Dakota into a tunnel with such little clearance.

  “Send out the dive team, sir?” Diggs suggested.

  “What’s our depth?”

  “Ninety meters,” Diggs replied. “We’ve elevated slightly in the last few kilometers.”

  “Get as close to the ceiling as you can and send them out,” McHenry ordered and turned to Diggs. “Let’s talk.”

  McHenry followed Diggs to the ready room.

  “I take it that we’ll be continuing on if the tunnel widens again,” Diggs said as they went inside.

  “Yes,” McHenry replied, as he closed the door behind them. “We’ll take it as far as it goes.”

  “Where do you think it ends up – what’s at the end?” Diggs asked as they sat across from each other at the table.

  It was a question McHenry asked himself about every ten minutes. One answer was that it led to nothing, the tunnel would just terminate at a wall and that would be it. Then they’d have to find a way to turn the North Dakota around.

  “There’s something of significance in here – or there was,” Diggs said.

  “Possibly,” McHenry agreed. “Or it could just be a case of two subs chasing each other and ending up in here – making it look like it has some importance.”

  “Pretty big coincidence,” Diggs said, “being in such close proximity to the beacon.”

  “It’s not that close.” On a global scale 100 miles seemed close. But searching for something within 100 mile radius meant covering over 30,000 square miles.

  “It’s the closest landing point to the beacon,” Diggs argued.

  “It’s just an ice shelf. What would be the utility?” If the beacon were active during that time, those subs were well aware of it. Diggs was right; it was about the beacon.

  After an hour of consulting with Diggs and downing a finger of whisky, McHenry’s communicator chimed. He picked it up. “Status?”

  “Divers are back,” the man said.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Tunnel widens again after the constriction, but it will be a tight fit,” the voice said. “Also, the divers want to talk to you, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “They found some manmade structure on the other side.”

  McHenry twitched as his heart picked up pace. “On my way,” he said and then turned to Diggs. “Looks like you might be right. Let’s go.”

  6

  Thursday, 21 May (10:01 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

  The Bullfrog wasn’t as busy as it had been the first time he’d been there, when he’d rendezvoused with Jennings and Natalie Tate. Now Jennings was dead, and Natalie was back in her FBI home office in Chicago. Will hadn’t heard anything from his FBI handlers in days. His patience had run out.

  He walked up to the bar and ordered a beer. Mounted high on the back wall above rows of liquor bottles were five large television screens, four of which showed sporting events. The fifth showed a CNN News report on naval exercises near Antarctica.

  Five men sat around a tall rectangular table on the far side of the bar and drank beer. He recognized three of them from his first visit to the Bullfrog. The two newcomers also had bumps on their foreheads, like the others. They talked amongst themselves and didn’t seem to pay much attention to what was going on in the rest of the bar.

  Will searched for a place to sit where he could lean against something to keep him upright. He spotted a booth far from the men and with a view of the games. He walked over to it and slid in, close to the wall. He pulled his baseball cap down low over his eyes, and put his phone on the table so he had an excuse to lower his gaze. He took a swig of beer and concentrated. He separated, and looked upon his body from above. It looked stable.

  He moved about 50 feet to his left to a position directly above the men and listened. At first the sound of music and patrons drowned out the men’s voices. He moved closer and concentrated, filtering out the intruding noise.

  One man talked about getting food and another about a movie that was playing at a local theater. It was small talk. They seemed to be waiting for something.

  After some unknown time he began to feel tired. Just as he was about to go back to his body, one of the men looked up and said, “Here he is.”

  A scrawny, unshaven man walked towards them from the entrance. His gait was odd – as if his stride was too long for his body, making his head bob up and down. His black hair was thick and fell over his eyes, but it didn’t conceal the blemishes on his forehead.

  “We have everything we need,” the man said as he sat down, directing his words to a massive man wearing a black bandanna and sitting directly across from him.

  The other men nodded in approval.

  “I want them all,” the skinny man said, hardly above a whisper. “Management, engineers, accountants – everyone.”

  “Won’t there be some in there that have no idea what the company has been doing?” the man in the black bandana asked.

  “I know who the guilty ones are,” the skinny man argued. “Only needed the names.”

  “You have them?”

  The skinny man nodded.

  Will suddenly found himself back in his body, staring blankly at a young blonde woman with a purple and gold bow in her hair.

  “Sir?” she asked. “You okay?”

  Will forced a laugh. “Must’ve dozed off waiting for my wife to call,” he said, and glanced at his phone.

  She smiled. “Did you need anything?”

  He glanced at his half-full beer glass. “No, I better wait until she gets here.”

  The woman nodded and went to another table.

  His thoughts went back to the conversation he’d just heard. The men had some plans and, better, they had names. At first he was tempted to let them go ahead with it, but then he reconsidered. As hard as it was for him to swallow, he acknowledged that there were innocents who worked for the company. That meant engineers and accountants – Syncorp also developed legitimate medical technologies. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to turn these thugs in to the FBI. He only trusted Denise and Jonathan, and he wasn’t going to drag them into anything yet. He needed more information.

  He’d wait for the men to leave, and then follow them home.

  7

  Thursday, 21 May (11:55 p.m. EST – Washington)

  The traffic was thicker than normal for a Thursday night in DC. As Daniel pulled in his driveway, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard and estimated that the trip took him 20 minutes longer than most nights. The house was dark. He got out and opened the back door of his Toyota Corolla, leaned in, and pulled his jacket and briefcase from the back seat. When he closed the door, he yelped before he knew what caused his reaction.

  A man stood an arm’s length away, staring at him.

  Daniel tried to speak, but his mouth only expelled air, like what happened to him sometimes in nightmares – a common occurrence as of late.

>   The man spoke instead. “Daniel Parsons,” he said. His voice was deep, and had a subtle accent. The streetlight glared just above and behind the man’s right shoulder, concealing his face in shadow.

  “Who are you?” Daniel asked. He was frightened by the panic in his own voice.

  “Please,” the man said. “I mean you no harm.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk. There’s a restaurant around the corner,” the man said and tilted his head over his left shoulder. “Let’s go sit in there for a few minutes.”

  Daniel stood still, considering.

  “I have something that will help you with your investigation,” the man added, “and might keep you alive.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Daniel said, now worried that his Omni identity was blown.

  The man grabbed Daniel’s right arm with a large hand. “I know about the beacon.”

  Daniel had no words.

  The man released his grip. “Please,” he said, and again gestured in the direction of the restaurant. “Our interests coincide.”

  His brain seemed to freeze for a second before he finally agreed and reached for the door of his car to deposit his briefcase.

  The man grabbed his arm for the second time. “I’m armed,” he said in a low voice.

  Daniel shuddered. “No, I … I’m not …”

  The man let go, and seemed to watch nervously as Daniel leaned into the back seat. Daniel made sure his hands were clearly visible as he backed out again.

  They walked down the driveway and turned right, toward a diner on the corner of his street and a larger boulevard.

  They walked in silence for five minutes and then entered the restaurant. A young woman showed them to a booth. The smell of coffee and breakfast food soothed Daniel’s nerves. The man removed his jacket and hat and sat across from him, finally revealing his face in the light. He had a dark complexion, black-grey hair and eyebrows, and intelligent, brown eyes that turned down at the corners.