by Mack Maloney
Nolan knew exactly where Batman was coming from. It was always about the money with him, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But he had wondered if it was wise to spend any more time out here, while so much else was going on. They had already frittered away almost an entire day before Ramon finally got inspired and led them to Big Hole Cay.
“But think about it,” Batman had continued. “If we find that sub, I’m convinced the Russians will not only pay us for the coordinates, I’ll bet we can get Bebe to drive our fee into the stratosphere. He’s got to have some pull with the Kremlin, right?”
Again, Nolan couldn’t disagree. In just three months of operation, using Batman’s financial philosophy, Whiskey had made more than $25 million, tax-free. It was hard to argue with that kind of success.
But it always came back to one problem: Ramon himself. His head was just too much in the clouds — pot clouds, that is. They flew around for miles with him. He kept spotting isolated islands and swearing that was the one where the sub was washed up, only to get there and find it either inhabited by a high-end fishing resort or empty of anything but coral, sand and a lot of sea birds. It was like flying a helicopter with a drunk driver as navigator — when he was awake, that is.
Finally, they’d agreed to make midnight their cut-off point, and just as they were reaching that time limit, the massive rainstorm moved into the area.
That was enough for them. They headed back to the Dustboat for good, willing to chalk it all up to a swing and a miss.
* * *
They landed safely and stepped out onto the windy, rain-swept deck. Ramon was taken under care by the Senegals, looking seriously like he needed a group hug.
But just as Nolan and Batman were about to seal up the copter for the night, Twitch appeared on deck.
He said simply: “I think I’ve found the island we’ve been looking for.”
Under the glare of a flashlight, as the rain continued to fall, he showed them a map he’d printed off Google. On it he’d found the island where Ramon said the woodcutters were supposed to have been taken. Then he found Big Hole Cay, the place they were most likely taken, at least for a while. And for some reason, possibly related to all the Bermuda Triangle material he’d read, Twitch had drawn a straight line from the first island to the second, revealing a line that went almost perfectly north to south. And from there, he drew a line to the east and found an island that, along with the other two, formed a perfect triangle.
“I call it the ‘Bahamas Triangle,’ ” he told them. “And I’ll bet it’s just about the only island you haven’t flown over tonight.”
Nolan and Batman were stumped. They checked Twitch’s map coordinates and sure enough, they hadn’t flown anywhere near the cay he’d identified.
“Don’t ask me why,” Twitch added, “but I’ve got a real good feeling about this one.”
With that, he handed Batman the map coordinates, thanked them, then retreated back inside the boat, getting out of the rain.
“It’s just our luck that he’s right, you know,” Batman said. “If he’d just told me the aliens had led him to this conclusion, it would have been hard not to believe him. He operates on a completely different level than the rest of us.”
“Boy, do I know that,” Nolan replied.
They didn’t say another word.
They just jumped back into Bad Dawg One, took off, and headed for the island Twitch had identified.
* * *
It was one of many cays on the far eastern edge of the outer Abacos that was too small to have a name.
Uninhabited, covered with stunted brush and low-hanging black mangrove trees, it was roughly an eighth of a mile long and only a couple hundred feet wide, with a small beach on its seaward side tucked under a craggy, shallow sand dune.
And maybe it was the darkness, the rain, the humidity, or the fact Nolan was exhausted and his special night scope was overheating, but at first, the huge, dark shape he spotted on this tiny beach looked like some kind of sea monster covered in storm debris. In the shadows, he thought he could see its head, its tail, its massive body.
But as they got closer, things came into better focus. The object was huge and black, and it had definitely washed up from the ocean.
But it was not a sea serpent.
It was a submarine.
* * *
When they first circled the island, Nolan and Batman thought the vessel was probably an old World War Two-era sub that had washed up here decades before and had been left to rust away.
But once they got down to wave-top level, they realized that while not state of the art, it was a much more modern boat. And when Batman brought the copter to a hover right over the debris-strewn hulk, they could see a large red star painted on the conning tower.
No doubt about it. It was the missing Russian submarine, Irktisk. The one that was supposedly lost in the mini-hurricane.
“Hey, we actually found the damn thing!” Batman exclaimed, high fiving Nolan with his hooked hand. “This has got to be worth a couple million anyway — and that’s before Bebe can work his magic.”
“We’ll have to cut Ramon in for a piece,” Nolan replied. “Or maybe a couple pounds of inspiration will do it.”
Even with so many P-3s and C-130s flying over continuously, it was easy to see why no one had previously spotted the submarine. In addition to its extremely isolated location, it was lying on the beach in such a way that debris from the storm and the tides had covered over one half of it, and blown-down or bent mangrove trees had just about covered the other half.
But even with all this flotsam in the way, they could see the sub had suffered very little damage to its hull. Certainly not enough to have caused the ship to be lost.
“I wonder what happened to it?” Nolan said zeroing in on the wreck. “It barely has a dent in it.”
“We’ve got to check it out,” Batman told him.
* * *
Batman put the copter down on the beach next to the huge metallic hulk and they got out, carrying their M4s with them.
The sub seemed enormous up close. It stretched at least 120 feet from one end to the other. It was lying partially on its side with its conning tower tilting about 70 degrees from the ground.
Despite all the debris covering it, they could tell the sub hadn’t been there very long — a few days at the most. It was still steaming in some places, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the beach, confirming that it was a conventionally driven sub.
They went around the bow and saw that while it was slightly bent, it was clear the sub hadn’t even partially sunk, nor had it been the victim of some structural problem. Other than being beached, it appeared to be in fairly good shape.
Yet there were no signs of human presence anywhere. No footprints. No evidence that anyone had gotten out or tried to signal for help.
“Did no one survive this?” Nolan asked.
“If they did,” Batman said, “they’re still inside.”
They walked the length of the sub and noticed something else. There were various hatches and release valves up and down the hull, especially up near the deck. But all of them had been welded shut. Even the torpedo tubes appeared to be sealed.
“Is this how it’s supposed to be?” Batman wondered.
“Maybe that’s the Russian way of preventing leaks,” Nolan said. “Just weld them up and hope for the best?”
They had no idea. But one thing was for certain: The welds looked fairly new, if crudely applied.
They clambered up the conning tower to the open bridge, with Batman saying: “We gotta get inside this thing.”
This proved easier that they thought. Once up on the bridge, they discovered the main hatch leading into the sub was wide open. And down inside, they could see the bare glow of what they assumed was emergency lighting.
“The Russians make great batteries,” Batman said. “Those things are probably meant to last for weeks.”
Nolan stuck his head down th
e hatchway.
“Do you hear … music?” he asked Batman.
“You mean the music that’s always playing in my head?” was the reply.
But then Batman listened for a moment and nodded emphatically.
“Yeah, I do hear something,” he said. “Where’s that coming from?”
There was only one answer. The music was coming from somewhere deep within the sub.
“You want to go down there first?” Batman asked Nolan, looking through the hatch and into the sub’s interior beyond. It was a little like looking into a real, dangerous fun house. Considering the circumstances, anything could be down there.
“I’ve got one eye … and you’re asking me to go first?” Nolan replied.
Batman held up his hooked hand.
Nolan didn’t say anything; he just climbed onto the ladder and started down the hatch.
The music got louder — and it was definitely Russian music. Sad, mournful and cold. And it was coming from somewhere very deep inside the sub.
Nolan went down two levels and stopped. The emergency lighting here was more of a red tinge. It gave his special night scope fits, but gradually he was able to make out most of his surroundings.
He was in the control room, but it was nowhere near as elaborate as those he’d seen in U.S. Navy subs. This place looked like something from a 1950s sci-fi movie: all hand cranks and spinning wheels and computers with reel-to-reel tapes.
“Anything interesting?” Batman yelled to him.
“Yeah, lots of dancing girls — come on down,” Nolan replied.
Batman arrived a few seconds later, and together they scanned the control deck for clues, but found nothing.
They began moving aft, heading toward the music. It was hard walking on a tilt. But after managing to squeeze through a dozen or so dense, chaotic compartments, they finally reached the crew’s mess.
It was dark inside and smelled of diesel oil, human sweat and urine. Typical on an old sub. But there was another smell, something vaguely familiar to the team.
And here, they found a large, ancient-looking reel-to-reel tape recorder playing a loop of an old Russian folk song. Batman slapped the recorder once and it stopped.
At that point, it became apparent that they were standing in some dark, thick liquid.
Hydraulic fluid, Nolan thought at first.
But on closer inspection, he realized it was blood. Lots of it.
And slowly, they began to make out the shapes of bodies, hidden in the shadows all around them. Crumpled against the bulkhead, facing inward.
Thirty-four of them in all, Russian sailors and officers.
Each with his throat slashed.
Each with his right ear cut off.
27
The Bad Dawg One slammed down on the Dustboat so hard the small coastal freighter shuddered from one end to the other.
Nolan and Batman leaped from the copter, not even shutting off its engines.
They had to talk to Ramon.
They ran below, going right to the cabin they knew he’d be using. They found him stretched out on a bunk, half asleep, singing to himself.
Nolan rousted him. “Get up, dude. Naptime’s over.”
Ramon came to life, smiling broadly at first. But one look at Nolan and Batman’s faces, and he quickly lost his grin.
“When did you first see that submarine?” Nolan asked him.
Ramon automatically went into his Rasta act.
“You found it? Wow — far out, mon—”
But Batman grabbed his shoulder and shook him once, hard.
“Knock off the spaceman shit,” he said, deadly serious. “When did you first see it?”
Ramon was stunned. He thought a moment. “Five days ago,” he said. “Six, counting today, I think.”
“Was it after the storm hit?” Nolan asked him.
“What storm?”
“The big fucking storm that went through here a few days ago,” Batman growled at him. “You told us you got caught in it.”
Ramon actually slapped himself upside the head. “Oh, yeah right. The storm. It was before that, I think. I run out of gas. I was drifting, out to sea. I saw the sub, then the storm came and it blew me back into the islands. I gets shipwrecked, then I gets home when the weather cleared. Yep — that’s how it happened.”
“OK — so now listen very carefully,” Batman said. “Did you see anyone near that wreck as you were floating by? Any ships or helicopters or anyone around that island?”
Ramon thought some more, then shook his head. “No, mon, it was just me and the sea. If I saw anyone, I would have screamed for the help.”
Batman looked up at Nolan, who nodded curtly. Batman pulled out a wad of cash and threw two $500 bills at Ramon.
“OK, again, listen closely,” he told him in an extremely stern tone. “You keep your mouth shut about this. If we find out you’ve told anyone, then I guarantee, you will go for a ride in space — but it ain’t going to be on a UFO. Do you understand?”
Ramon looked right into Batman’s eyes.
“I understand, mon,” he said. “One hundred and ’tirty percent.”
“OK, get ready,” Batman told him. “We’re flying you home.”
The rest of the crew was standing in the cabin doorway by now, alerted by the commotion. Even the Senegals looked concerned. They knew something big was up.
“Can you get our friend up top please?” Nolan asked Gunner and Twitch.
They immediately took Ramon by the arms and hustled him out of the cabin.
“We’re going back to the Mothership toot sweet,” Batman told the Senegals. The African sailors were already in motion. They ran up to the bridge and started the engines.
Only then did Batman take off his crash helmet and rub his weary head.
“Man, this is one very fucked-up situation,” he said to Nolan. “What happened to those Russians? Before the storm? After the storm? Were they shipwrecked and then killed? Or were they killed and then shipwrecked?”
Nolan just shook his head. “Whatever happened to them, with the slashed throats and the cut-off ears, they died just like those Muy Capaz guys. And that doesn’t make an ounce of sense.”
He looked over at Batman. He’d never seen his friend so worried before. “What the hell is going on here, Bob?” Nolan asked him.
Batman began nervously pulling on his beard.
“I don’t know, Snake,” he said. “But I say, let’s drive Beevis home and then we go find out.”
They hurried back up to the main deck and headed for the helipad.
But just as they were about to climb aboard the helicopter, Nolan’s sat-phone began vibrating. He took it out and stared at it for a moment. Someone was sending him a text, something that never happened.
“What the fuck is this?” he said.
He opened the phone and called up the message on the small screen.
It was from Crash.
He read it out loud:
“Hey Dudes. Wish you were here. Having lotsa fun. Infilled Russian cargo ship in Havana, looking for bad guys; didn’t find any but blew off ship’s ass anyway. Went aboard raghead LNG carrier, looking for same. No dice, but found/dumped ton of smack to the fishes. Just returned from largest fucking cruise liner ever. We wired it for TV; if bad guys move on it, we’re on them like white on rice. SEALs rule. Peace out. Crash.”
Nolan could hardly believe what he was reading. Neither could Batman.
“Cargo ship? Cruise liner? LNG carrier?” Batman said. “Those are our kind of gigs. How come they’re doing them?”
28
Aboard the Sea Shadow
It was probably the most unusual mission Crash had even been asked to do.
It all started when Commander Beaux came to him shortly after Crash had sent the text to Nolan.
The ex-SEAL was in his bunk, trying to get some rest. The only sleep he’d had in the past forty-eight hours was the nap on the beach prior to the Queen of the Seas missi
on. He’d been running on pure adrenaline the rest of the time.
Beaux said he was looking for volunteers. The Sea Shadow was back at the small, remote, unnamed cay, hidden under the strangler figs in the island’s deep inlet. But it would be leaving again soon for a more populated island nearby called Turnip Cay.
Turnip Cay, as Commander Beaux described it, was an entirely unexceptional place. A few thousand people. A few hotels. A small airport — and, of course, lots of sport fishing businesses. It was just like many of the hundreds of small islands found throughout the Bahamas.
Except it had one thing a lot of them didn’t.
It had a FedEx box. A very unusual one.
And 616 had to send something that absolutely, positively had to get there overnight.
Could Crash handle it?
* * *
He went along with it, of course.
The package was going to Admiral J.L. Brown up in Naval Station Norfolk. Inside was a CD containing all the video footage Crash had shot in the past forty-eight hours. Commander Beaux said it was crucial the CD reach the admiral by noon later that day.
For security reasons, e-mailing or text messaging it was out of the question; sending it FedEx was the only other way 616 could think of. But it wasn’t like they could just tie up the Sea Shadow at some fishing dock and arrange a pickup.
So Crash’s covert mission was to bring the package ashore, walk into Turnip’s main village and send it to Admiral Brown, who just happened to be in charge of all naval security systems at NS Norfolk, which meant for all of U.S. Navy Fleet Forces Command.
If Crash made it there before midnight, the package would be on the last plane out, and would be on the admiral’s desk by lunchtime tomorrow.
* * *
The mission, such as it was, took less than thirty minutes.
It was 3:30 A.M. when Crash left. He was back in the same clothes he’d worn for the Queen of the Seas mission. The Sea Shadow sailed to a point about a quarter mile off Turnip Cay’s isolated north side. Crash jumped into their rubber life raft and paddled to shore as the Sea Shadow headed for deeper water. He double-timed it to town and dropped the pre-marked, pre-addressed package into the special FedEx overnight box at precisely ten minutes to four. Then, as part of a smaller mission, he went into the twenty-four-hour drugstore nearby and bought a dozen blank CDs for downloading further footage from the video camera. He raced back to the beach, paddled back out and waited until the Sea Shadow came along and picked him up again.