Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  “We lost two people on this particular mission, a doctor from the University of Chicago and a student from LSU. They thought it was worth dying to bring it out.”

  Collins stepped past McIntire and into the small theater-style room. Four spotlights shone down on a four-foot-wide-by-eight-foot-long glass box, with latex hoses running into its sides from the aluminum panel embedded in the wall. The room was cool and smelled of wet stone. Inside the glass box was a decomposed body lying on a slab of gray granite. The tattered remains of khaki-style clothing hung off the exposed bones, and the remains of short-topped boots were visible through the glass. The blondish red hair was short and still held a part just left of center of the head. There was a nice clean bullet hole in the side of the skull.

  Sarah stood motionless for a long time until finally placing her small hand over the glass as near as she could get without contacting it and seemed to gaze forever at the figure inside.

  “The Yakuza killed our people over her,” she said in reverence, seeming to show deference to the dead.

  “Come again?” Collins asked.

  “Japanese organized crime.”

  “I know the Yakuza. Why did they kill a student and a doctor?”

  “They thought it was important enough to kill for.” She turned to face Collins. “The head of the Yakuza today is named Menoka Ozawa. He had a grandfather of not very high standing in the Japanese army in 1938.” Sarah looked at the body through the glass again as she felt a kinship with it every time she was near it. “It was that man that was responsible for the bullet hole you see.” She once again watched Collins for a reaction, and when none came, she continued, “This woman was executed on a small island in the Pacific for being an alleged spy, her and a man named Fred Noonan.”

  Jack looked closer at the skeletal remains. He smiled. It was the small gap in the cadaver’s front teeth that clinched it for him.

  “Amelia Earhart,” Jack said, looking from the coffin to Sarah.

  “How did you guess?”

  “Believe it or not, I saw it on Unsolved Mysteries.” He smiled. “So why not tell the public?”

  “I can only assume, since the senator and director don’t take me into their confidence.”

  “Assume away then,” he said, sweeping his arm in a mock bow.

  “She was on a stunt, that’s all. That is until President Roosevelt and Naval Intelligence asked her to gather some information on Japanese movements and bases in the central Pacific, which she did. That was one of the unflattering things about Roosevelt.” Once again Sarah looked at the major. “He played on her womanhood at being needed and accepted for his own ends. She had mechanical problems and her Electra aircraft went down. They found her and executed her without really knowing or caring who she was. A typical military response, if I may add. Anyway, this Yakuza fellow didn’t want any bad taint to fall on his grandfather, who had left a detailed accounting of the incident in his personal journal. Thus he was willing to kill to keep the body right where it was found.”

  Sarah started for the door, pausing to look at the major as he was still taking in Earhart’s body. He stood motionless for a moment, a sad look crossing his features.

  “She was something, though, wasn’t she?” he asked, still looking.

  “In my opinion, one of the bravest women in history.” Sarah thought a moment, then added, “Major, did you meet the old gunnery sergeant at Gate Two?”

  “Campos, if I remember right.”

  “One of our people went on vacation ten or so years back and adjusted the thinking of this Yakuza person. They found him hanging in his rather expensive apartment one day. The person who vacationed in Japan that year was Gunny Campos.”

  Collins turned and looked at Sarah, wondering if viewing this particular vault had been a deliberate way of showing the worth of women, such as Earhart, or old people, such as the gunnery sergeant, or if it was just a fluke. He suspected Sarah was a person to watch.

  “Well, anyway, her body is being flown back to Hawaii next month. We have arranged for Ms. Earhart to be found by a professor from Colorado State University and a University of Tokyo faculty member, both of whom had brilliantly proven this theory linking the Japanese and Earhart. So they deserve to find the body after we place it back.” Sarah looked once more at the body. “Amelia deserves far better than this,” she said as she gestured to the glass enclosure.

  After Jack quietly left the vault, Sarah closed the door and it locked automatically. Then she turned and walked down a hundred feet before stopping at a larger, more heavily built door. She let Collins catch up before she turned and slid her access card into the slot. Instead of sliding up or into a wall, this one just clicked, and there was a gasp of air as it only opened an inch.

  Sarah swung the large vault door open and stepped inside and the lights came on automatically.

  Jack was amazed to see the metal ribs of a boat. It was long, about three hundred feet in length, he quickly deduced. The stern disappeared into the vastness of the vault. He made out hull plating that covered about a third of the vessel and the huge metal rivets that held them in place.

  Sarah asked him to follow her up a large metal staircase that was permanently attached to the floor, allowing people to reach the top deck and travel the length of the find. As they reached the top, Collins saw what looked like more metal covering of what was once indeed a deck, which led to a tall structure that resembled a rusting conning tower of a submarine. Only this tower was rounded at the top with long diving planes attached to its sides. He could see large rusted-through holes that afforded a view of the interior, which was lit up by lighting that had been placed inside. He made out rust-encrusted gauges and levers.

  “Resembles a submarine,” he said.

  Sarah didn’t respond; she nodded her head and made her way along the catwalk. She stopped toward the stern and pointed down into a compartment that had been cut away.

  “See those boxy-looking things lining the floor?”

  Jack followed her finger and saw several hundred large, rusty boxlike rectangles. “Yes, what are they?”

  “Batteries. This is an electrically powered submarine, Major.”

  “World War Two? But I’ve never seen a class of boats that had as strange a bow as this one. I don’t think they had a spherical bow in the forties.”

  Sarah smiled. “No, they didn’t. Our most advanced classes of submarines for most of World War Two were the Gato and Balao classes; they fought mostly in the Pacific campaign against the Japanese.”

  “So what are the dates on this craft?”

  “Well, she was a little ahead of her time. Would you believe 1871?”

  Jack looked at Sarah as if she had fallen off the deep end.

  “This is what we know for sure. The boat was discovered off the coast of Newfoundland in 1967. She was totally buried in mud and she came up basically as you see her today. We have confirmed that she was electrically driven and, according to our engineers, had a top speed of twenty-six knots submerged, far faster than our boats in the war, and very comparable to our attack subs today. She had a crew complement of close to a hundred men and carried rudimentary torpedoes that ran on compressed air. For obvious reasons they are stored in a different vault. She had a ramming spike on her bow that has yet to be recovered, but we know it was there because the mounting for it is still bolted to the window frame. She had a glass nose made of quartz crystal for underwater viewing. She’s just like the vessel described by Jules Verne in his novel Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

  “You have got to be joking.”

  “Major, all I can say is, there she is. You decide. Her electrical-powered engines are in some ways far more advanced than what we have today and far more efficient. We’ve had people from General Dynamics Electric Boat Division here who swear this thing was a model of efficiency.”

  “Don’t tell me this is the Nautilus.”

  “No, I’m not telling you that because we know her re
al name. We discovered her commissioning plaque only five years ago encased in mud just aft of her control room. Her name was Leviathan. The senator suspects that Mr. Verne may have modeled his vision after a real craft. It’s just speculation of course, but a sound theory.”

  “Her crew?” Jack asked.

  “Went down with her. Carbon-14 dating places her right around 1871, but her demise could have been anytime within fifteen years of her commission. We know she was manufactured in 1871 because of the engravings on her gauges. That coupled with testing is tantamount to gospel.” She hesitated. “Only thirty-six of the crew remains were discovered inside the Submarine. But we know her ship’s roster was close to a hundred due to the berthing areas we found.”

  “Amazing,” Collins said, looking at the rusted skeletal remains.

  “We have all the data there is to collect. The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute has been working on her for the past thirty years.”

  Collins acknowledged the name of the prestigious oceanographic institute. “Are they a part of the Group?”

  “A few are consultants trusted with our existence. They owe us for”—she paused for dramatic effect—“certain things we’ve sent their way.”

  Collins caught the innuendo. One thing he knew on the subject of the Woods Hole institute was that the oceanographer Dr. Robert Ballard was a part of the institute, and it was he who discovered the resting sight of RMS Titanic. He just shook his head.

  Sarah was just turning to go on to the next Event vault she had in mind when they were interrupted.

  “Attention, all department heads are to report to the main conference room immediately, all department heads to the main conference room. This is Code One Active. Major Collins, please contact 117, please call 117.”

  “Well, Major, I’ve never heard that call sign given since I have been here.” Then she explained, “That’s the director; code one active is an alert for an Event, the big kind. The phone is right there.” She pointed to a wall line next to one of the vaults.

  Jack removed the handset and punched in the number 117, then looked at Sarah, who was ashen. There was an audible click and then Alice picked up.

  “Major, please meet Mr. Everett up on level seven. He’ll show you how to get to the conference room, and step on it, Major, Director Compton is ready to bust about something,” Alice spoke quickly, and hung up.

  “Sorry, Sarah, I have to cut this short.” He turned away toward the circular hallway and the elevators beyond.

  “I understand. In the elevator hit the red EXPRESS button, that will ensure no stops between here and seven,” she called after him.

  She watched him vanish beyond the curve of vaults.

  Code One Active. Sarah shivered at the thought of those three words. She had heard rumors of what those words represented. Code One Active—a possible Civilization Altering Event.

  FIVE

  Superstition Mountains, Arizona

  1450 Hours

  The sound of a small engine perked Buck’s ears up. Both sets of eyes were drawn to the desert to their right. The old man saw the small dust cloud and shook his head.

  “That damn fool kid’s gonna break his neck someday on that smelly thing,” he said aloud as he started his trek toward the mountains again.

  The noise grew louder and the old man finally spied the red, four-wheel ATV and its small rider. The all-terrain motorcycle was zooming through the old washouts and jumping clear to the opposite sides. Then the rider noticed Gus and Buck and turned their way, one hand in the air, wildly waving. As he approached, the kid didn’t see a rather large dip of another wash. While his hand was raised in greeting, disaster was there to welcome the boy as the front wheels hit the dip and dug deeply into the sand. The only thing that Gus was able to see from his vantage point was the rear end of the small machine go flying up in a cloud of sand and dirt, obscuring the bone-breaking crash Gus knew to be happening.

  “Son of a bitch, he did it! Went and kilt hisself!” he yelled as he dropped Buck’s reins and ran to the scene of what he knew must surely be the boy’s death. Pots, pans, and shovels clanged as the mule ran along noisily behind.

  When he arrived, he saw the kid sitting on his butt, splay-legged and trying to remove the red helmet he wore. Besides being covered with dust and a little blood on his upper lip from a nosebleed, he looked alive. Gus jumped down into the small arroyo, carefully avoiding the still-turning front wheels of the ATV.

  “Good goddamn, William! You took a good enough spill that time, boy.” Gus placed his arms under the boy’s and lifted him up.

  “What happened?” Billy Dawes asked when he finally twisted the helmet off.

  “What happened? You got throw’d is what happened, you young fool.” Gus held him at arm’s length to look him over.

  “Damn,” the boy exclaimed as he brushed the dust from his face and clothes.

  Tilly released him and stepped back to take the boy in. Nothing looked broken. The small motorcycle-lookin’ thing looked all right. Just to be sure, Buck, who had come down into the washout without being heard, nudged the boy with his nose, knocking him down across the ATV.

  “Hey!” the boy cried out. “What ya do that for?” he asked the now innocent-looking mule.

  Gus helped the eleven-year-old to his feet again and brushed him off. Billy just looked at Buck and shook his head. The mule just twitched his ears.

  “Now you watch that mouth of yours, boy, your ma wouldn’t appreciate your cussin’ like old Gus none too much.”

  “No, she would probably take the soap and scrub my mouth some.”

  “Does your mama even know you’re out here?” the old man asked, squinting his left eye and leaning toward Billy.

  The kid wiped the blood from his nose and lip, then grinned at Gus. His silence was answer enough.

  “Boy, you know this desert can kill you six ways from Sunday. What if you broke your legs and old Gus wasn’t here to help ya?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” young Billy protested. Then a look of deep thought suddenly crossed the boy’s features. “You ain’t gonna tell Mom I was out here, are you?”

  Gus pretended to be thinking this over, then turned his back on the kid. “I don’t know… that was a serious fall you took. You’re blooded and everything.”

  “Aw, it’s not bad, Gus, really, I never crash like that. You know I’m good at riding out here.”

  Gus tilted his head to let Billy think he was thinking this over. “All right then, you get back on that thing and scoot back to your ma.” Gus pointed to the overturned ATV.

  “Why can’t I go with you and Buck for a while? It’s Friday and you know what that’s like at the bar. I’d just be in Mom’s way.”

  Gus looked around and up at the noonday sun, half hearing Billy’s plea. He removed the old fedora and wiped the sweat from his brow once again. Then he replaced the hat and looked toward the mountains ahead of him a good two miles distant. For some reason just the sight of them today made him a little edgy. He shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Senility settin’ in,” he mumbled to himself.

  “What, Gus?” the boy asked, pausing for a moment from brushing at his clothes to look at his old friend.

  Gus turned and looked at Billy, then smiled, his false teeth gleaming in the sun. “It’s nothin’. Well, wouldn’t hurt none if you tag along for a bit, I guess. But I want you to head for the house when I say, deal?” He stuck out a gloved hand.

  Billy took the handshake and smiled as wide as the Cheshire cat. They both righted the ATV and Gus got Buck moving. But his eyes were drawn to the mountains again. They mutely returned his stare, almost daring him to come.

  “Did you hear that sonic boom earlier?”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard something,” Gus replied, not letting on that the something he spoke of had knocked him and Buck off their feet.

  “It sure must have been a big jet that did that one, huh?”

  “You scout up ahead and look f
or Injun sign, boy. If you’re going to hang with Gus, you gotta earn your keep and quit askin’ questions,” he said with a wink.

  “Yes, sir!” Billy answered, giving a not-too-bad hand salute. Then he placed the helmet firmly on his head, snapped the strap on, and turned the key for the bike’s ignition. He gunned the engine on the Honda and it shot forward, startling Buck and making him jump back a step.

  Gus watched the boy go as he was silhouetted against the mountains with the sun gleaming off the chrome of his scooter. The old man shook with a sudden chill. He thought he would camp in the foothills tonight and head up in the morning. As the day had worn on, he had decided he wanted little or nothing to do with the mountain this night. As he looked at the range, he started to understand the ghost stories that were told about the place. And maybe the Lost Dutchman Mine was lost for good reason, maybe men weren’t supposed to go there.

  It was two hours later that the trio had stopped and Gus had passed around his old canteen. Gus used his hat to pour Buck a drink as Billy stroked the area between the mule’s eyes and Buck nudged closer to the boy.

  “You better stop your flirtin’ with that mule and get your skinny butt home.” Gus looked around the desert and up the white-tinged mountain above. “Don’t want you to get caught out here tonight.”

  “How many people have been lost up there looking for that mine?” Billy asked, finishing with Buck and walking over to the small camp.

  “Not as many as the Indians and tourism people in these parts would like folks to think, that’s for sure,” Gus said as he glanced around at the still .desert.

  “How many?” the boy persisted.

  Gus finished laying his tarp down for his bedroll, then rubbed the whiskers on his chin and cheek. “Well, must be near to three hundred or so.” The old man watched the boy’s expression change from mere curiosity to apprehension. Inwardly, he smiled at his exaggeration. “Now you better get back on that scooter and skedaddle.”

  Billy Dawes took in the desert around him. The shadows were getting longer, and he did have to help his mom. “Yeah, I guess I better.”