by Mark Aitken
The water level hit the Sea Otter’s ceiling and Gallen prayed quickly as the BIBS roared with noise inside the helmet. Looking down into the cockpit, through the red glow, he kept his eyes on Hansen. Come on, you old salt, he thought. Stay alive for another five minutes.
The cold gnawed at his neck and shoulder blades, and he fought to stay calm. Then Hansen turned, looked at Gallen through the red water, and gave him the thumbs-up.
Struggling with the hatch lock, his arms and fingers almost useless in the cold, Gallen grunted to release the lock and pushed upwards as it gave. Easing up into the blackness, Gallen rested on top of the Sea Otter to pull his extended BIBS hoses through: he wanted them coiled on the sea floor, not getting snagged in all the superstructure on the flat roof of the submersible.
He was exhausted by the time he’d coiled the BIBS hoses on the sea bed and pushed off the roof into the mud. The cold was so taxing on his breathing and muscular control that he almost couldn’t think straight, let alone move normally.
Making himself take one step at a time—held to the bottom by a weight belt—he struck out through the mud for the fifteen strides to the reactor, moving like a tin soldier with no leg flexibility. He was dying.
Panting by the time he reached the reactor, he could already feel the heat coming off it. It shimmered like bent light and a plume of silvery water rose above the reactor.
Reaching out, he touched it through his dry-suit mitts. It was hot, but not unpleasant, and he put his other palm on the smooth steel until it was too hot to touch.
There was no ladder on the reactor and the hatchway was on top of the structure. Gallen walked around the reactor and saw the caisson rising out of the mud. Putting his hands over the lip, he pulled himself up to the edge, making sure he didn’t tangle the BIBS lines in the process.
Sitting on the caisson, he was now at the level of the reactor’s roof. Rising to stand on the concrete, he pushed himself away from the structure and stepped out onto the roof. Heaving for breath as he gained his balance, he felt the heat powering up through his dry-suit-booted feet. He hopped slightly, the incredible cold not enough to combat the heat.
Realising he’d have to act quickly, he kneeled by the hatch lock and twisted. But he was too weak; the water pressure and the cold had already drained most of his strength. Then the heat surged through his knees and into his bones.
‘Shit,’ he said, leaping back from the reactor and onto the caisson lip, where he windmilled his arms, trying to maintain balance. If he fell in that caisson, that would be it: mission over.
Looking at the Sea Otter, he saw the four front portal windows staring back like a big insect; Hansen and Aaron were behind them, lost in their own reveries and fears.
Regaining composure, he thought it through. He’d have to land on the reactor and twist the hatch lock open in one go. And he’d have to do it quickly because the reactor seemed to be progressing into its meltdown state.
Leaping onto the roof again, he leaned over and summoned every ounce of his strength, both hands straining at the lock as the heat burned into the soles of his feet.
‘Shee-it!’ he yelled to himself and then, slowly at first, the lock moved and he pulled up the hatch.
Steam exploded out, flipping the hatch back hard and throwing Gallen backwards. Sailing through the illuminated sea, he hit the mud back-first and sank into it.
Struggling against the sediment and the sucking sensation, Gallen sat up, checking his BIBS line with his hands. The sediment swirled around him as he stood, the oxygen still making it to his mouthpiece.
As he climbed back to the lip of the caisson, his motor skills had degraded to the point where he even had to think about breathing and how to use his hand. He was shutting down and even on the caisson he could now feel the heat from the reactor. He swooned, blinking hard to focus.
A body floated out of the reactor’s hatch as Gallen stood and readied to step across. The Israeli technician drifted out of the hatchway and into the depths, held aloft as if someone was lifting him by his armpits.
Gallen made it across in one step and felt the heat burning into his feet. Finding the internal ladder, he climbed down into a tiny space that was heated like an oven. It was a space big enough for one man to stand, and there was a small seat that folded down from the wall.
Buttons were arrayed across a dashboard that was set into the dark-grey steel structure of the reactor. The light was dim, coming from a single engineer’s bulb, and Gallen was quietly amazed that such a small plant could power a drilling rig.
Making himself shut out the sensation of intense heat and cold, he focused. The code, he thought. He had to start with the manual override code.
There was a panel of numbers arranged like a phone pad and above it was a line of buttons, one of which read Manual override.
Taking it slowly, even as he felt his feet cooking, Gallen input Florita’s birth date: 08211970.
Double checking on the numbers, Gallen danced slightly to ease the pain in his feet, and pressed Manual override.
He waited. And nothing happened. Pushing at the buttons, he tried it again, his face screwing up with pain as the heat etched itself into the soles of his feet.
Still nothing.
Turning, he clambered onto the ladder, but the rungs were hot too. His face ran sweaty inside the helmet and his breathing was ragged. Lifting his G-Shock to his face, he checked the mission clock: eight minutes more of air, and then the BIBS system would be empty.
Think! He had to think.
If it wasn’t her date of birth, then what? Did she use a fake DOB? Was Florita even her real name?
He breathed slowly and tried to stay calm. The discomfort in his body was overwhelming him, the cold seeping around his throat and the heat burning into his feet. It was too much.
He racked his brain for clues about Florita; what would she use for a code? What did he know about her? She favoured tailored blouses and she wore perfume that he couldn’t identify. Her car was a modest BMW but none of the model numbers would run to eight digits.
As the heat rose again and the reactor made a roaring sound, Gallen had an idea. Florita’s house was on a street in Westmount, Calgary. He tried to remember it; he’d spent fifteen years in special forces having to remember every registration, passport number and endless RV times. He’d trained himself to absorb the details that others ignored or could store in a phone or diary. Gallen, like other recon soldiers, had to memorise everything from a train timetable to a helicopter registration decal and he couldn’t write it down on a beer coaster. He knew that if he concentrated, Florita’s address was in there somewhere.
Mouthing numbers to himself, he felt like a lobster in a pot. He was cooking! And then it came: her house was on a wide block and the street numbers were 1702—1706.
Sliding down the ladder, onto the red-hot steel again, Gallen turned for the keypad. Punching in the eight digits, he hit the manual override button and the full panel lit up, just as Aaron had promised.
Scanning the buttons, his feet on fire, Gallen saw the Safety reset button illuminated, and hit it. It started flashing. Gallen couldn’t remember what to do when the button flashed. Looking at the other buttons, he couldn’t see an alternative. The heat pressed in on him and then it happened.
The air failed.
Hitting the Safety reset button again, he pushed out of the hatch and into the cool of the Arctic Ocean. He saw the fading lights of the Sea Otter, knew that Hansen and Aaron must be either gone or close to it. A few last tendrils of air wafted through the demand valve into his mouth, but it was over. Gasping, he let himself drift off the reactor, towards the muddy bottom, where his feet hit the softness and he let himself fall into it like he was landing on a goose-down mattress.
He was cold again and as he felt himself drifting off he thought about his mother and his father and wondered if his marriage might have been different if he’d had kids. His head sang and he was drowning—he shut his eyes and
thought about Mindanao, about Basilan Island and how he’d do it differently.
He drifted into sleep and lights came down on him, bright lights . . . from heaven?
A monster who looked like the Michelin Man leaned in on him, pulled him by the shoulders, his light flashing in Gallen’s eyes. The monster had a human face . . . Mike? Mike Ford?
He was too far gone: was it a dream? And then he was being lifted, carried up, and there was nothing.
~ * ~
CHAPTER 67
Gallen vomited into the face mask as he was lifted and then he was squinting into the lights and hands were dragging him down, putting another mask on him. The oxygen flowed and Gallen heaved with vomit again, sea water pouring out of him as he was pushed onto his side on the steel grating.
He felt like shit, but he was alive. Panting and looking up, he saw crew from the Ariadne tearing his dry suit off and a silver blanket hovering over him. As he tried to sit up, an arm grabbed under his armpits as he dry-retched. He sucked at air and a hand put the oxygen face mask on him again.
Across the divers lock of the Ariadne, a yellow atmospheric diving suit was being winched out of the water, a man’s face visible in the glass dome.
Another diver appeared in the big watery bay, and the personnel ran to take off the body that he held out.
Aaron!
The body was limp. Gallen felt nausea erupt and then he passed out.
~ * ~
His jeans and shirt had been cleaned and folded. Pulling on clean thermals first, Gallen wrapped up in flannel shirts and a pair of Wranglers as he watched the blizzard outside the window, pounding through the streets of Barrow, Alaska. It felt good to be back in real clothes.
‘No need to get dressed up,’ came a voice, and Gallen turned to find Mike Ford and Kenny Winter in his room.
Liam Tucker wandered in, sheepish. ‘Hey, boss.’
They shook and Gallen sat on the bed as he rolled on his socks. ‘Nice timing, guys. I’m assuming that was you two down there?’
‘Mike found the damsel lying in the mud,’ said Winter, playing with a cigarette but not lighting it. ‘I got to Aaron in the tin can.’
‘Hansen?’ said Gallen, pulling on his boots.
Winter shook his head. ‘Didn’t make it.’
‘What about that reactor?’
Ford helped himself to gum and offered it around. ‘You shut it down pretty good, boss,’ said the Aussie. ‘The US Navy guys retrieved it about half an hour after we found you but they said it was stable and contained.’
Standing, Gallen took it easy. His balance hadn’t been good over the past twenty-four hours. Ford packed the rest of Gallen’s stuff and carried his overnight bag as they walked out of the hospital.
Gallen wanted answers as they drove to the airport. ‘So you took the Ariadne down to us?’
‘There was no submersible,’ said Winter. ‘So this Aussie lunatic starts up about how the Ariadne is a submersible, and we’re going to the bottom and he’s not leaving his team down there.’
Gallen smiled, the first time in a long time. ‘How’d the Dutchies go with that?’
‘Mike only offered to fight the lot of them, and none of them were up for it.’
‘Hah!’ said Gallen, feeling better. ‘Guess that leaves us with one outstanding.’
Winter sneered. ‘Two, if you count payback.’
‘Let’s find Florita first, okay?’ said Gallen as they arrived at the northernmost airport in Alaska. ‘Then we decide what we do with our filmmakers.’
~ * ~
The private jet landed in Calgary shortly after eight pm. The Oasis chauffeur loaded them into the Escalade and sped them across the city to the Sheraton Suites. When Gallen was unpacked, he phoned Aaron, who called them into his suite.
There was a bottle of champagne in a room-service bucket when the four of them filed in, but Aaron quickly found them some cold beer. Toasting one another, they tried to joke about the mission and the ill-fated Ariadne.
‘So, you’re NSA,’ said Gallen, as he took a seat on a white sofa. ‘But you’re still VP, security?’
‘Guess I am,’ said Aaron. ‘Which reminds me . . .’
Pulling four manila envelopes from his briefcase, he handed them out. Gallen had a peek: a letter of termination and a healthy cheque.
‘We sacked?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Aaron, surprised. ‘Thought I’d get you guys a nice payout before the new owners start throwing their weight around. The terminations are valid when you sign.’
‘We’ve discussed it,’ said Gallen, enjoying the beer. ‘And we intend to complete.’
‘Complete what?’ said Aaron.
Winter cleared his throat. ‘Those ArcticWatch dudes still have our employer.’
‘Yes, Kenny, but Florita was under surveillance by the NSA. Her links with the Bashoffs and the secret nuke business . . .’
‘Don’t concern me, Aaron,’ said Winter, flat and non-threatening. ‘NSA needs information, just ask. But when someone’s under my protection, no one just walks in and snatches her. Not how it works.’
Tucker nodded. ‘Damn right.’
Aaron looked at his champagne. ‘Well, the FBI is on to this and NSA has a watching brief. So how would it work? ‘
‘Keep us on the books for seven days,’ said Gallen. ‘Then we sign the documents, take our cheques and go home.’
Aaron looked out the window. ‘I was going to resign tomorrow. Been recalled to Washington.’
‘You’d rather go back with all the loose ends in the bag, right?’ said Gallen. ‘It would suit your career to have Florita Mendes in tow.’
‘Who says Washington is in any hurry to bring her in?’
‘She’s obviously an embarrassment,’ said Gallen. ‘But what if we bring her in anyway?’
Aaron looked at him. ‘In that case, I’d be the one bringing her in.’
Gallen looked at his team. ‘Suits us.’
Standing, Aaron walked to his briefcase and took a device the size of a PalmPilot from the side pocket, handed it to Gallen. ‘Then you’d probably want this.’
The screen showed a map with a dark dot pulsating on a grid.
‘What’s this?’
‘That’s Florita,’ said Aaron, sipping. ‘Whatever else they’ve done with her, they haven’t taken her crucifix.’
~ * ~
CHAPTER 68
The flight from Calgary to Wiarton in Southern Ontario landed as the sun rose, almost colourless against the slate-grey of pre-dawn. Chase Lang’s Toronto representative—a thickly set Lebanese named Arkie—ushered them into the black Chev Suburban which was left running to keep the heat pumping.
‘The gear’s all there, in the back,’ said Arkie, his Zapata moustache jumping up and down with his furious gum-chewing. ‘Chase say you might need a crew also, right?’
‘We might,’ said Gallen. Surveying the ground he noticed that Wiarton Airport was without prying eyes this time of morning. ‘You got ‘em handy?’
‘Close by, and helo capacity too.’
Gallen nodded slowly. He would like the added numbers but for now he wanted a stealth operation. And he didn’t want to be indebted to a major mercenary player like Chase Lang.
‘Anyhow, you need a crew, call me,’ said Arkie, handing over a card with a single cell phone number on it. ‘I got five guys ready to go; ex-special forces and no bad backs. Let me know.’
‘Thanks, Arkie,’ said Gallen. ‘We’re fine.’
‘You sure?’ said the mercenary. ‘You are not looking so good in the face, Mr Gallen. Maybe you need the help?’
Gallen laughed. ‘Tell you what, Arkie—I get in a bind, I’ll call. Okay? ‘
Arkie shook his hand and moved to the other Suburban parked alongside, hopped in and sped across the concrete apron.
‘So, boss,’ said Ford, ‘we got a plan?’
‘How about eggs over easy with a big side of bacon and a mug of black coffee?’ said Winter.
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br /> ‘When in Canada,’ said Gallen, nodding for Ford to drive.
They consulted the maps while they ate, then drove south for an hour, down Highway 6 as the sun peeked over the horizon, shedding reluctant light and no heat. At Mount Forest, they turned left and drove the back country road east through redneck rural country, populated with F-250s and John Deere tractors and endless tracts of pasture and wetlands.
Asking Ford to pull over near a bridge, Gallen sorted through the bags in the cargo area and found the stick-on sign for the sides and back which said Ministry of Natural Resources, with the Ontario government logo printed alongside. Applying the stickers with Tucker’s help, they continued east, turning left onto a crossroad and finding Southgate Road 12 after ten minutes.