Deep Blue

by Randy Wayne White

  He blinked and looked again. Seabirds . . . Waxen waves; a few white breakers. Wind was freshening. In the sun’s copper glare a hundred yards away, a plume of spray rained upward, then another geyser misted the sky. It was a school of porpoise. No—off the stern, a huge gray fin pierced the surface and cast a gliding shadow that sounded beneath the monster boat’s hull.

  The killer whale’s dorsal looked different in the afternoon light.

  “Stay,” he told the dog. “I’m not going in after you if you turn stupid again.”

  The western horizon lifted and descended. The vessel he’d spotted had vanished. He checked the radar. It was true. Only the big tanker pinged the screen from eight miles away.

  Impossible.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was still puzzled when then the sea began to boil, and a conning tower breached the surface.

  “Your radio has been jammed,” a booming voice warned. “Prepare to be boarded.”

  The conning tower levitated above a streaming waterfall. Beneath the falls, a fuselage the size of a private jet bubbled to the surface. The craft resembled a beluga whale with dwarf wings and a four-bladed tail. Camouflage colors of blue, gray, and green created a seamless skin until a hatch opened. A man with porcelain hair appeared and called over, “I’d like to show you around, Dr. Tomlinson.”

  Julian Solo. Tomlinson had been right the first time—the crazy bastard did have a submarine.

  • • •

  Julian’s head was oversized, his shoulders narrow. He smelled of electrical conduit and lavender. Tomlinson couldn’t look into the man’s eyes, which were a dark, vitreous blue, without seeing Ava’s bloody wrists. Years of dealing with pissed-off cops, however, had schooled him in the art of pretending to be amiable and attentive.

  “How much did this thing set you back?” he asked—another inane question to mask what he was really thinking, which was I’ve got to kill this man. But can I do it?

  Hydraulic steps had led them to the flybridge, where the only crewman—Watts was his name—left them while his boss gloated over the spaceship control panel. There was a pressure compensated radar dome, anti-roll stabilizers, and a Bluetooth-linked redundancy system that, from a distant laptop, could turn this 40-foot vessel into an unmanned drone.

  “I stay too busy moving to keep track of expenses,” the billionaire replied with a slight Aussie accent. “In Dubai—have you ever been to the Jebel Ali Free Zone there? Man, it is truly awesome. Anyway, Exomos—that’s the company’s name—they have a showroom there. By appointment only, of course—some of the world’s top security people check you out first. Exomos builds luxury submersibles; totally top secret, so people like me don’t have to sweat publicity. You ever hear of them?”

  Tomlinson looked down at Ford’s boat, anchored alongside where the dog, Pete, stared up with blazing yellow eyes. “Wow, you could have one heck of a party on this thing. I had no idea, man.”

  “About Exomos? In Dubai, you can choose from a dozen models. Actually tour through them—picture small subs on the showroom floor instead of RVs or Lear jets.” Solo, dressed like an Apple nerd in a black crewneck, chuckled at that. “Base price for this one—she could sleep ten, but I only wanted two staterooms—the price starts at around twelve mil, U.S. There’s a company out of Portland, too. U.S. Submarines. They built my big submersible. This one I like because I can carry it around port to port and drop off anytime I want. More of a recreational thing, really.”

  Tomlinson looked to the southwest. From the tower, he could see a distant silhouette that was familiar. “You use an oil tanker as a mother ship?”

  Solo stared at him. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I was telling you about my primary submersible—a Phoenix 1000 is the standard model. She’s sixty-five meters, and has an indoor gym and a pool, but”—now he was hoping for a reaction—“everything I own is built for me. No one else. I am nobody’s puppet. Get it? Man, I cut the strings.”

  Geezus. Tomlinson felt momentarily dizzy because he recognized the line he’d written long ago. “Are you saying, uhh . . . or maybe—”

  “When I was in school,” Julian said, “this prick of a shrink had me institutionalized. Shock treatments, the whole nightmare protocol. Yeah, I could really relate to your book. A lot of the writing was fuzzy-wuzzy mystic crap—hey, we all have to make a buck, right?—but some of it helped pull me through. I admit it. I don’t want to give you too much credit, though. I’ve never met anyone—movie stars, kings, politicians, you name it—they all disappointed me when I finally met them. So let’s put it this way”—he smiled—“why do you think you’re still alive?”

  Solo waited for an answer while Tomlinson thought, This kid’s as crazy as Ming the Merciless.

  “I’ll tell you why,” the kid billionaire said, “but first we’re going to recover those drones your asshole pal stole from me. I know they’re here, but the telemetry signal is weak, like it’s being blocked by something. So you’re going to help me. Right?”

  Tomlinson played along, saying, “Hey, man, what’s yours is yours. They’re on the bottom, inside a sort of limestone crevice. That could be the problem.”

  Watts reappeared in his naval whites, carrying an iPad. “Security is tracking two helicopters, probably Coast Guard. One out of Key West, the other out of Tampa. Do you want to sit out here in the open, Julie, or do you want to dive?” An informal formality was acceptable on this recreational sub.

  “Were they scrambled? What’s their heading?” Solo’s wide, pale face pivoted to the sky.

  “There was a distress call a few minutes ago. It’s not routine. A vessel seventy miles off Marco Island is taking on water, so that’s probably it. Here”—Watts showed him something on the iPad—“this is their projected course. The system will alert us if—”

  “Yeah, play it safe. Let’s get moving.”

  “Whoa,” Tomlinson said, “I need to hop down and make sure my dog hasn’t turned over his water bucket. Or bring him aboard—he’s nuts when it comes to retrieving. I’m afraid he’ll follow us. Seriously, even underwater, which he—”

  “He belongs to your asshole pal,” Julian cut in, “not you. Just because I didn’t send your rap sheet along with the others doesn’t mean I don’t know every detail about your life.” He turned to Watts and gestured toward Ford’s boat. “We’re going to sink that piece of junk, so take us down and float the scanners. Then I have a real treat for you, doctor—or can I call you Tomlinson? You understand why I don’t use bullshit titles.”

  “Sink my . . . but why?”

  “It’s not your boat and that’s not your dog,” Julian replied in a nettling manner that probed for weakness. “Or how about Zen Shyster? I’ll never get to know you well enough to call you Tom, let’s be honest.”

  Tomlinson’s amiable mask vanished. “Dude, if you read my book, you know all about karma. Hurt that dog, you’ll burn for it. Hear me? Burn.”

  Julian liked that. “Good. You’re not the pussy I thought you’d be. Come on . . .” He started toward the steps. “Below, in the salon, I’ve got a high-def big screen. Thanks to you—well, your book helped a little—I cut the strings. Now I’m finally going to kill the puppeteer. Get it? That lying old man you had so much fun doing drugs with in San Francisco, or wherever it was. I want you to be there when he dies.”

  Tomlinson said, “Kill your father. What’s that have to do with Marion Ford? Unless he was somehow involved in . . .” He shifted to a safer approach. “Listen to me. Karma is the wrong way to destroy yourself, if that’s what you’re trying to do. It’s not too late to turn this around.”

  Julian rolled his eyes while Tomlinson continued, “Take your drones and go home. I don’t give a shit where you live. Dude, you don’t have to stop the momentum. You understand? Just change the polarity. I can show you how. But killing your own father is just flat out balls-to-the-wall nuts.”


  “His name is Winslow Shepherd. Okay? Please stop with the lectures. This is business. You’ll watch it all happen in real time. After I don’t know how many millions in lawsuits, poor old Winslow will finally hand over documents that confirm he’s been lying all these years and . . . Well, the details aren’t important. You’re worried about a dog? Just wait until you see what happens to your asshole pal—that’s Winslow’s final payoff before I get what I want.”

  Julian did it. From below the surface, from a football field away, he touched a button on a periscope and exploded Ford’s boat with what Watts, the slinky first mate, referred to as a sonic grenade.

  Tomlinson felt the percussion but refused to look at the screen until it was over. Inflated Kevlar tubes floated upside down among debris that did not include a swimming dog.

  • • •

  Julian had to ask himself, Why is this famous Zen master fraud so damn eager, suddenly, to help recover the drones?

  He took Watts aside. “You searched him?”

  “Always. I’m surprised you brought him aboard.”

  “And used the scanner?”

  “Look at him,” Watts said. “What’s to search?”

  Their guest was in the salon, where transparent acrylic panels transformed the walls into an open-sea aquarium. The man was barefoot, wearing baggy shorts, a purple tank top, and a red bandana to tie back his hair.

  “He’s a druggy,” Julian said. “I grew up around freaks like him and they’re good at hiding their stash. That’s why you should have used the scanner. Instead of a stash, he might have something else.”

  Watts had been with Solo long enough to be afraid, yet still function as his confidant and aide. “Julie, relax. I found it. A little kef box, and a couple of joints in a little leather bag. That’s all. Plus, the regular stuff: his phone and wallet—a couple hundred bucks—his driver’s license, a few phone numbers on a bar napkin. He’s a drunk, too. I can search him again, but I think we ought to get going.”

  “You’re worried about those helos.”

  Watts tapped the iPad. “So far, they’re still on course to the vessel in distress.”

  Solo looked for himself. “I want a satellite shot of that boat. It could be a decoy, so get the numbers or the registry and run them. Link every piece of data through the field servoid, and put Evergreen on alert.”

  Evergreen was a Panamax tanker built by the Chinese to transit the Canal. Now it was his office and, sometimes, mobile home.

  After another look at the iPad, he added, “The FBI couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, but the NSA . . .” He let that hang while he thought about it. “Just in case, send a reminder to our friend in D.C. Tell him I own Winslow as of today. If something’s going on, have him stop it or the truth about him and Winslow might just leak into cyberland. Tell him—no, hint; make it subtle—that I already have the old man’s confession, all legal and notarized, to back it up.”

  Watts nodded toward their guest, who stood mesmerized by drifting amberjack and a veil of silver herring that parted as the sub descended. “He’s not returning with us to—”

  “No,” Julian said. “The famous Zen mystic was killed when his boat’s fuel tank exploded. But we’ll save that for later. How much time do I have?”

  “Our guy’s meeting Winslow at five, Central Standard. They’ll be on whatever balcony he chooses by five-thirty—six-thirty, Florida time—and we’ve already got the satellite linked to—”

  “Then I have more than an hour,” Julian said and went down three Plexiglas steps to the salon, where there was a lounge area that faced a bulkhead and a bank of widescreen displays that showed camera views forward and aft. Another screen provided a global view of the sub’s location on a live feed satellite view of the Earth. Sprinkled across Europe, the Middle East, the Americas, and Asia were hundreds of tiny red LED lights.

  “Know what those represent?” he asked Tomlinson.

  The skinny man jolted as if he’d been dozing. “Lights . . . ? I don’t know. Cities? Doesn’t seem like there’re enough . . . or . . .” He lost interest and sniffed. “Let’s grab those drones, then talk about how the hell I’m getting home, before you give me the tour. Okay?”

  “Each light represents a cybercenter I control. Businesses. Name anything you want. Coffeemakers, eBooks, a mail-order bride. A team of mercenaries—anything, man. Prostitutes; hell, a block of fine hashish. Order today, our transport networks will have it at your door tomorrow. I created the software scaffolding for all that shit, now I’m developing drone delivery systems. In other words, I own it all.” Julian looked up at the taller man, thinking he would be impressed.

  He wasn’t. “Dude, I’ve got a date tonight. The kind that’s not inflatable, so do you mind?” Tomlinson wandered away and pressed his nose to the glass as if he preferred the company of fish on the other side.

  That would soon happen.

  Julian tried again. “I expected you of all people to understand. Take another look at that screen. There are no bullshit outlines of countries—countries don’t exist anymore. They’re just parking lots with flags. Those lights represent the real power centers. You want social change? You want peace? Fuck the White House, contact Microsoft, or Amazon—or me. That’s what I’ve accomplished.”

  Tomlinson glanced back. “There’s a quote from my book you might remember: ‘We are only passengers in a brain that’s steered by the equivalent of a chimp—unless we banish his ass to the sex closet and aspire to a higher good.’ Dude, that’s your chimp talking.” He stopped and waited while the sub slowed with computer precision; a cloud of silver sand flooded toward them. “We’re on the bottom,” he said. “Are we using scuba gear?”

  Julian grimaced. “You’re even dumber than I expected. Come on, show me that ledge—and you’d better not be lying.”

  • • •

  So far, the old fraud’s reaction to what had happened was a disappointment. There had been no whimper of protest when the boat exploded, and no begging to search for the dead mutt’s body.

  Zen Shyster—that nickname, at least, irritated the hell out of this worn-out string bean hipster. Julian fed off the pain he inflicted, so he used the nickname again before saying, “You should try reading a few books instead of writing that pabulum you write. Why would I use scuba gear when I’ve got this?”

  They had moved aft through two pressurized doors into a conical space made of clear acrylic, just enough room for two men and a control panel. Drones could be deployed from the compartment, or recovered through an unpressurized closet below the deck.

  “If I feel like diving,” Julian said, “I flood this area, the hatch slides back, and I’m gone. But I wouldn’t bother with a spot that’s so damn boring.”

  The murk had settled to reveal a sandy desert where only sea fans and one giant hermit crab clunked along in its shell hideaway. Beyond, a low limestone crest angled downward into a hole in the desert floor.

  A thought popped into Tomlinson’s mind. “You said the telemetry signal was weak. If it was weak, how’d you know to look in this area?”

  “It would break your heart to know,” Julian chuckled while he punched in codes. “A neighbor of yours sold me the GPS numbers. He’s due to make a big chunk more money if things go right. Can the ol’ Zen Shyster handle that? Now shut up while I send out my recovery mule.”

  “Someone at my marina?”

  “You heard me.”

  The Brazilian sold us out, Tomlinson thought and watched a drone the diameter of a bowling ball jettison out onto the sand. The ball provided a cog for tank treads that powered the vehicle toward the ledge while the drone’s body sprouted camera eyes, and piercing LED lights. A sand cloud traced its progress to the ledge, where the vehicle vanished into the Captiva Blue Hole.

  Julian was having fun working buttons and a toggle stick. “Watch the monitor and
talk me in,” he said. “They bugger well better be there. One, I don’t care about, but the other one, an amphib, is a Penguin UAV that I retooled and fitted with miniature gelatin amplifiers. You wouldn’t understand, but the technology is proprietary and I could lose a bundle if it got in the wrong hands. The military will pay close to fifty mil.”

  On an iPad display, the mule’s LED lights transformed gray stone to pastels of green and blue. Tomlinson said, “There’s a small chamber to the left as you enter. The exact depth is . . . Damn, I had it written down somewhere.”

  “Got ’em,” Julian said, and there they were, both drones beneath a blanket of sand, each attached to an inflatable bag. “Why did your idiot pal use so much electrical tape? Sloppy bugger . . . but no problem. Watch this.”

  The bowling ball deployed claspers that clamped onto the saucer-looking drone. It tilted, pivoted, and tractored the larger UAV back to the sub. The floor beneath them vibrated and made a clanking noise when the vehicle was stowed in a compartment under the deck. The bowling ball reappeared, its claspers raised like claws on a scorpion. The zeppelin drone came next.

  Tomlinson had begun meditative breathing, prepared for what he was about to do. He touched a hand to the red bandana on his head as he asked, “Are you going to pressurize the area under the deck? Or are we surfacing first?”

  Julian was about to answer when Watts rushed in and said, “Julie, our guy in Mexico has already started.”

  “What?”

  “I know, I know—an hour early, but the live feed is coming in through the surface scanners. You’d better hurry because it’s happening fast.”

  In the salon, on the center screen, was Marion Ford on an open porch or balcony, palm trees in the background. The image was crisp but unsteady, and the sound was poor. The lens swung to Winslow Shepherd, who had aged and was in a wheelchair, then back to the biologist, who—my god—had pulled a gun, his arms extended, the gun dwarfed by two big hands. Shepherd was yelling, “I won’t do . . .” the last part lost in garble.