EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum

by Shane Stadler

  The head electrician spoke. “It was a good thing the Germans were so organized,” he started, “we’ve identified the emergency power circuits and have them ready to energize on your go-ahead.”

  “Fire it up,” McHenry said.

  The man barked into his radio for an “all clear.” In a few seconds he got return messages from four teams. They were ready.

  “Pull the switch,” the main electrician ordered.

  A few seconds later, a loud metallic clank boomed through the bay area, followed by a ramping hum. One of the overhead lights exploded, raining sparks and glass onto the stone floor, and making McHenry nearly jump out of his shoes. A few of the other lights began to glow, and soon warmed to bright yellow incandescence.

  “We had to convert to 240 volts AC,” the electrician explained, and then went through diagnostics with the other teams over the radio. “A lot of burnt bulbs,” he said a few minutes later, “but the emergency systems seem operational.”

  “Could we power up the entire facility?” McHenry asked.

  “If the main circuits are intact, yes,” he replied. “We still have to find the other power panels – this place is huge.”

  McHenry walked off the North Dakota onto the steel platform, and then onto the stone floor of the bay. The space looked much larger than it had in the floodlights. It was as if he were in another world – another time. The giant Nazi banner reinforced the notion: it was like those he’d seen in old black-and-white documentary films. In this case, however, the illumination brought out the banner’s deep red color, reminding him that he was really there.

  The crew teamed around the facility for the next few hours, going in and out of the many doors in the bay, carrying equipment, and talking loudly. One man rode on a cable hanging from one of the overhead cranes and replaced lights. Light shone through the high windows on the far end of the bay, opposite the North Dakota and above the upper-deck walkway. Silhouettes of his sailors sporadically appeared and disappeared as their cameras flashed.

  So far, the elaborate torture facility was the most disturbing find, but hardly a surprise considering it had belonged to the Nazis. But did any of it have to do with the beacon?

  A young ensign ran up to McHenry. “Sir,” he said, out of breath. “Lieutenant Jenkins sent me to get you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A vault,” the young man answered. “A big one.”

  “Let’s go,” McHenry said, and followed the man up corrugated stairs to the second-level walkway.

  They went down a long corridor, up two more staircases, and then along another dimly lit hallway. The semitransparent covers of the emergency lights were a dingy yellow, giving the walls the ominous hue of decay. They passed more than a dozen doors before entering an open doorway on the right. Lieutenant Jenkins faced him as he entered, with three other crewmembers pilfering through desk drawers and filing cabinets.

  “Where is it?” McHenry asked.

  “This way,” Jenkins said, and then turned and walked deeper into the room.

  At the opposite end was another door. They passed through it and into a small foyer. In front of him was a stainless steel door that didn’t give away its age. It was a walk-in vault.

  “How on earth did they get that thing here?” he wondered aloud.

  “What do you want us to do?” Jenkins asked.

  It was a tough question. They certainly didn’t want to damage its contents, which ruled out a cutting torch.

  “The SEAL team has explosives on board, C-4 and some other stuff,” Jenkins suggested, “I think we could blow the hinges, and then grind away whatever is left.”

  It would have to do. Time was a factor, and they couldn’t take the vault with them.

  “Do it,” McHenry said and walked back to the first room.

  Another man approached him. “Sir, we found a room filled with books and papers.”

  “Show me,” McHenry said, and then followed him through a labyrinth of walkways. He entered the room and stopped in his tracks, stunned. There were rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with books, like a small library. On the front wall, to the left of the entrance, was a square map, ten feet on a side, illustrating terrain he’d recently seen – the Southern Sea and the tunnel that had led them to the base. His eye caught a detail: the beacon.

  “Take pictures of that,” he said, pointing to the map. “And make sure you get every inch in high resolution.”

  Three lights hanging from the high ceiling illuminated a sturdy wooden table, 6 by 12 feet, located at the front of the room near the map. Papers and notebooks were strewn about its surface, as well as more than a dozen bound books, a few of which lay open as they had for over a half-century.

  He stood over the table and examined the materials, careful not to disturb them in their fragility. The papers and notebooks were covered mostly with handwritten German script, along with symbols that resembled hieroglyphics. The bound books were exactly that – on the topics of hieroglyphics and other ancient languages.

  “Get pictures of all of this, but don’t disturb anything,” McHenry ordered. As he walked around the table to have a closer look at the map, he noticed a canvas on the wall. Black symbols resembling hieroglyphs were arranged in five concentric circles. It seemed like the Germans had been trying to decipher something.

  “Get a few shots of this right now,” McHenry said, pointing to the canvas.

  He left the room and headed back to the North Dakota. They’d take another day or two exploring the base until they were sure they weren’t missing anything, and then they’d get the hell out of there. The more he learned about the place, the more he wanted to leave.

  7

  Monday, 25 May (11:45 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

  Will reread the troubling email Denise wrote and saved in their mutual account. First, she informed him that Jonathan had given the FBI the information he’d sent regarding the CP inmates’ plans to hit Syncorp. Will wondered if that was wise. Next, she notified him of a meeting she and Jonathan had with CIA operatives who claimed that he was in danger. He trusted the CIA even less than the FBI. Lastly, and most disturbingly, she described their encounter with Chinese “diplomats” who inquired about his whereabouts. It incensed him that she and Jonathan were being dragged into his mess.

  It didn’t alarm him that people were looking for him; the FBI and the Israeli had warned him that would happen. What disturbed him was that people knew where to look, and whom to contact, in order to find him. Next, he feared, they’d track down his family members to get information.

  He understood why he was being hunted; it was the reason that eluded him. What purpose did they have in mind for him?

  It reminded him of something that had happened to him while being tortured in the Red Box: he’d heard voices. Considering the extreme pain and psychological stress he’d endured during that time, it wouldn’t be surprising if his mind had malfunctioned to that degree. But it wasn’t as if he’d heard unintelligible whispering or ramblings. To the contrary, it was perfectly articulate and was always the same voice. And it had a name: Landau. He’d never seen Landau, and so had never been convinced that the conversations were real. His mind had gone to strange places during that time.

  Landau, the voice, had claimed that Will had a purpose, that there was a reason for what had been happening to him, and that his abilities would be a crucial part of it. His powers of separation had emerged during that time, and had expanded greatly since then, but he had no idea of their limitations. Will even thought that new ones might emerge over time. But if there was a purpose for him and his talents, he had no idea what it was. Was he meant to do things like prevent the attack on Syncorp? No. He couldn’t believe that the purpose of such extraordinary powers was for such ordinary results. The FBI could just go in and arrest those guys, and it would be over – nothing special needed.

  Besides, he was neither vigilante nor superhero. He had too much anger. He wanted revenge on Syncorp as m
uch as the CP men did. The guilt from giving them up made his stomach knot up, but he found solace in knowing that their efforts wouldn’t be for naught. Denise and Jonathan had the Syncorp lists, and would act on them—as would the FBI.

  But Will also had the information, and now he’d decide whether or not to use it.

  8

  Tuesday, 26 May (1:33 a.m. EST – Antarctica)

  McHenry poured a splash of whisky into his coffee cup and handed the bottle to Diggs, who poured some into his own. “We should get every bit of information that we can, and get the hell out of here,” McHenry said.

  “We have a lot to map,” Diggs said. “One of the teams has been out of contact for hours. The place has six floors – it’s the size of a large office building.”

  McHenry nodded. “Communicators don’t work well in here, either.” Although he wasn’t concerned that the men had gotten lost, he did worry about booby traps.

  “Can you believe this place?” Diggs said, smiling and shaking his head. “They have a power plant, supply stores, barracks, a library, kitchen, a sub base, running water, and I bet we find more.”

  “You forgot torture chambers.”

  Diggs nodded and his face turned more serious. “How many people you think were based here?”

  There were various barracks-like sleeping quarters and many private rooms. There were slips for a half-dozen subs, so they’d need to accommodate the crews. The staff of the base itself could be much smaller. All of that was assuming it was exclusively a submarine base. The enormous torture facility, and the research rooms, suggested it was more than that. “I’d say around 300 to 500 personnel, but maybe up to 1,000,” he said.

  “My estimate as well,” Diggs agreed. “Still, what was the purpose?”

  McHenry knew he was referring to the torture facility. “I don’t know, but we might get some insight into that when we get into the vault.”

  As if he’d willed it to happen, McHenry’s communicator buzzed. They were ready to blow the vault door.

  Leaving the second officer in command of the North Dakota, McHenry and Diggs made the walk deep into the facility, arriving at the vault ten minutes later. Mounds of plastic explosive and detcord were mounted along the hinge side of the door and symmetrically around the locking mechanism in the center.

  “Is this the safest way to do this, assuming there’s paper inside?” McHenry asked, wanting reassurance.

  “Yes, sir,” the explosives expert responded. “The door is hollow around the locking mechanism, so we calculated the charge so that it won’t penetrate into the vault itself.”

  “What about the hinge side?” Diggs asked.

  “We’re more uncertain about that,” the man answered, “but we have men with fire extinguishers on the ready.”

  “Do it,” McHenry ordered. There was no point in waiting. They weren’t leaving without the contents of the vault.

  Everyone walked out of the vault room, into the adjacent corridor, and covered their ears. The explosion thumped McHenry’s chest like a base drum and set his ears into a high-pitched ringing. Two men with fire extinguishers rushed in, and McHenry and the others followed closely behind.

  There was some smoke, but almost no dust, and an ammonia-like odor filled the air. The vault door, now tilting at a sharp angle as if it hung from a thread, was deformed on the hinge side, and had a gaping hole where the locking mechanism used to be. The blast did not seem to penetrate into the vault.

  Two men pulled on the door, and jumped out of the way as the massive piece of steel hit the floor and eventually settled.

  “All clear, sir,” a man carrying a fire extinguisher informed him. “No fire.”

  “Nice job,” McHenry said as he walked into the vault doorway, found a light switch, and turned on an overhead light.

  He was astounded by both the size and layout of the vault. Shelves were mounted on the wall on the left, and large cabinets lined the one on the right. The wall straight ahead of him, opposite the door, was composed entirely of file drawers.

  The shelves contained books similar in topic to those in the library. He walked to the file drawers and opened one at random. It rolled out nearly six feet, and was packed with file folders.

  He pulled out a file at random and examined it. Its yellowing tab was labeled with German words that he knew meant “top secret,” and had the image of a bird of prey carrying the same swastika-like symbol that was on the banner in the submarine bay. He opened it and tried to read, but it was in German. His eyes tracked to the name typed in the upper-left corner. His mind reeled; it was Josef Mengele, the infamous Nazi doctor. It made sense. Mengele had carried out monstrous medical experiments in the concentration camps. The same kind of horror, probably worse, seemed to have been carried out in the base. What didn’t make sense, however, was that the document in his hand was dated July 5th, 1948. The war had ended in 1945. What the hell was this?

  He pulled another file. It was signed by someone other than Mengele, but dated 1947. The dates weren’t a mistake. He returned the second file to the drawer and slid the Mengele folder under his arm.

  He walked to one of the cabinets and opened it. On the bottom shelf was a circular object, 2 feet in diameter and about 4 inches thick, wrapped in cloth. With some struggling, he pulled it out, put it on the floor, and unwrapped it.

  It was a disk, the surface of which was smooth and white, except for black symbols inset into its surface, arranged in five concentric circles. He recognized it immediately: the symbol pattern was identical to that on the canvas on the wall in the library. It seemed the Nazis had been studying the object.

  “Wrap it up and bring it along,” McHenry instructed.

  He examined the other objects in the cabinets, but didn’t deem them important enough to take with them. He didn’t have time to figure it all out.

  “Take pictures of all of this,” he ordered. He figured the extensive photos should be enough to convince his superiors that a return trip was necessary. They’d take the file and the disc back with them.

  It was time to get the hell out.

  9

  Tuesday 26 May (2:44 a.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

  If the last light hadn’t gone off when it had, Lenny was going to make his move anyway. The best time for a job like this was between two and three in the morning. Most people were in deep sleep by then, and the third shift workers were well into their workday. Not many people would be on the road – although that could have its disadvantages.

  He was sure they had guns in the house, but he couldn’t risk it. He’d have to bring two of his own. He threaded a silencer on the first one and put it on the passenger seat. He did the same to the second and put it in the side pocket of his long jacket. He pulled a flashlight out of a leather bag on the floor behind him and grabbed the first gun from the seat. He was ready.

  He weaved around the four cars parked in the driveway, and crept along the left side of the house to the side entrance. He knelt on one knee and cursed under his breath as the screen door squeaked. He turned the knob of the inner door: it was unlocked. He wouldn’t need the toolkit he brought.

  Having scouted out the house and targets for the past few days, he thought he was as prepared as best he could for the operation. Even though he’d be in and out quickly, he hoped they’d forgotten to set the alarm. Otherwise he’d have just a minute to work before it went off. It would be enough.

  He pushed on the door. After opening it less than half an inch, a continuous, high-pitched tone sounded from somewhere inside. There was no going back.

  He stepped in, closed the door, and found himself in a dark kitchen. He moved next to the refrigerator and crouched. He had a good view of the lights on the alarm control panel near the front door and of the side door he’d just entered.

  Rustling and swearing came from the back rooms, and the sound of feet on carpet indicated someone was coming. A few seconds later, someone stepped in front of the panel. He was about to click on the flas
hlight and take his first shot when he decided to wait and see if the man would punch in the code and deactivate the alarm.

  To his delight, that was what happened.

  In a zombie-like shuffle, the man checked the side door without even looking in Lenny’s direction, and then went to the front door and tugged on it.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” a man yelled in a groggy voice from somewhere in the back.

  “Side door was unlocked,” the man replied on his way back to his room.

  It couldn’t have worked out better.

  He waited until he heard snoring, which took less than 15 minutes, and then moved quietly towards the back. He peered into the first room on the left. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the green light of a digital alarm clock illuminated the room well enough to see. Two men slept in small beds. The man in the bed closest to him was on his back, the other on his stomach. He walked in and closed the door.

  He yanked the pillow out from under the head of the closest man, put it over his face, and jammed the barrel of his gun into the pillow. He fired twice, hardly making a sound. The man on the far side continued snoring.

  He pulled the pillow off of the first man and examined his green-tinted face. One bullet hit him in the forehead, above the left eye, and the other went into the eye. He was dead.

  Lenny took the bloody pillow and walked over to the next bed. He jumped on the man’s back, put the pillow over his head, and shot twice. The man kicked sporadically, so Lenny fired a third time. All was still. He pulled the pillow up and a chunk of the man’s skull fell down onto the sheets.

  Two down.

  He walked to the door and listened for movement outside. Nothing. He pulled out the second gun and slipped the first one into the holster. He opened the door, went into the hallway, and spied on the next room to the left, making sure no one in the third room, on the right, was awake.