“Winged him, sir!” Cunningham exulted as a round tore into the fast-moving pliosaur. It was almost on top of Antrodemus. Tied helplessly to the other sub’s bow, the unconscious cow was oblivious to the larger predator headed for it.
“Time to finish the job,” Cunningham said.
BRRRRR—
“What the--?” the CSO’s face contorted as the weapon stopped in mid-burst. He checked the round count, bewildered when it showed nearly seven hundred shells remaining.
“It’s the new safety,” Garm announced, springing to his feet. “You obviously didn’t read the manual.” He strode toward the main viewer, helplessly watching as the giant Kronosaurus closed on Antrodemus. “LADON senses other American subs and automatically disengages to prevent friendly fire incidents.”
Ho snorted derisively. “In other words, it just saved you from getting court-martialed, dumb ass!”
Cunningham’s wounded expression and subsequent response was drowned out by what sounded like two tractor trailers colliding, as the pliosaur smashed into Antrodemus’s sail and kept going. Metal fragments exploded out from the point of impact and the big sub issued an eerie groan as it tilted on its axis.
“Jesus, they’re hit!” Cunningham yelled. “Preparing to fire tubes one and four!”
“Belay that!” Garm bellowed. His CSO froze, finger literally on the trigger. On the viewer, the wounded pliosaur began to fade in the distance, every stroke of its powerful flippers carrying it further away.
Cunningham’s face was a mask of confusion. “Sir, it’s escaping! We can kill it with our last two fish! They’re set for acoustic tracking. We can lock onto its sonar and--”
Garm leaned in close, speaking low so only the two of them could hear. “Kyle, take a deep breath and listen. It’s stopped emitting. If we fire, what sonar projector will our torpedoes lock onto?”
Cunningham stared at him. Then he glanced at the listing Antrodemus on their bow viewer. He looked at Garm with fear-filled eyes.
“My God . . . I-I would’ve killed--”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Garm assured him. “You’d have realized in time, or hit the self-destructs, if need be.” He rested a hand on his shoulder before turning to the remainder of his crew.
Ho glared angrily at Cunningham but remained silent.
“Communications, that hit may have taken out Antrodemus’s photonics mast. See if their communications are functional and get me their status.”
“Yes, sir!” Rush sprang rigidly upright. As she slipped on her headphones, she cast a sympathetic glance toward Cunningham. A moment later, she cleared her throat.
“Sir, I’ve got an incoming message from Captain Dragunova,” Rush announced. “They’re using the transmitter from their Remora. Message reads: ‘We’ve lost communications and external viewers. Have sustained outer hull damage to sail. Pressure hull intact. Sonar partially functional. Request Gryphon take point. Will follow you in.’”
Garm pursed his lips and nodded. “Tell Captain Dragunova will do. As soon as they’ve confirmed the package is secure we’ll get under way.” He turned to Ho. “Helm, pop the shield and plot a course for Rock Key. Engage as soon as they give the green light. Antrodemus will be slowed by drag, so match her depth and keep our speed under 25 knots.”
“Aye, sir,” Ho nodded.
“Stay alert, people.” Garm said, folding his arms. “We hurt him, so I doubt the big bastard will be back. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Plus, we’ve got a very unpleasant package to deliver. Let’s get to it.”
As the rest of the bridge crew went about their business, Garm dropped down beside Ramirez. “Give me everything you’ve got on the thing that attacked us,” he said quietly.
“Of course, sir.” Ramirez hesitated. “May I ask why?”
Garm’s pale eyes narrowed. “Because I think we just had a run-in with the monster they’ve been looking for.”
CHAPTER
4
He was almost there . . .
He couldn’t believe he was finally going to do it.
Victory was a foregone conclusion. But when his heart started racing, Dr. Derek “Dirk” Braddock decided he better slow his roll. Head down, he braced one hand against the wall of the brightly-lit corridor and sucked in a couple of breaths, steeling himself for the unpleasant task ahead.
There would be no backing down now. This time he was committed. This time there was no reason for him to--
A mere fifteen yards from his mom’s office, Dirk’s knees locked up. He stood there with a tablet tucked under one arm, a forlorn expression on his face, and all but ignorant of the muttering technician who rushed past, pushing an unwieldy supply cart.
As Dirk wallowed in a self-made mire of indecision, he realized that, in addition to his legs cramps, something was wrong with his hearing. Other than the sound of his own ragged breathing, everything was muffled. The ongoing thrum of machinery, assorted human voices, and occasional inhuman grunts and bellows that made up the typical “white noise” in Tartarus were all but indecipherable
Tartarus.
As he stared apprehensively at Dr. Amara Braddock’s sturdy door, Dirk contemplated the appropriateness of the facility’s name. In Greek mythology, Tartarus was the abyssal dungeon wherein the wicked were tortured for all eternity. It was also where the monstrous Titans were imprisoned after they were overthrown by the Gods of Olympus. Other cultures and religions had their own names for the place: Gehenna, Hades, Sheol, Perdition, or just plain old Hell.
Tartarus worked just fine.
Dirk’s nostrils ached as he snorted a harsh breath. He stared at his size-10 shoes, cursing them for bringing him this far, only to come up with another pathetic excuse to turn away. He was going to take the coward’s way out; he knew it the moment he got up this morning. He’d just been deluding himself.
Of course, he actually did have a mountain of projects to catch up on. He had to compare all their records with the results from recent findings, organize the presentation for the incoming envoy, and then there was the new specimen to prep for . . .
Dreading all the work that awaited him, Dirk ran a hand through his unkempt hair. The motion told him he was both sweaty and in need of a trim. His locks were glossy black, like his mom’s. At five-foot-eleven, he was about the same height she was. He had her 160 IQ, too. But, of course, he didn’t have her amazing eyes. Those were reserved for his brother Garm, naturally. Garm had it all: the height, the looks, and the godlike physique. At a fit and trim 170 lbs, Dirk was nothing to sneeze at. He had a lean, athletic build, but he was hardly the wide-shouldered, towering Adonis his twin was. Women literally threw themselves at the guy. He’d lost count of how many.
Dirk’s brows scrunched down over his eyes. Maybe that was why his mother always doted on him more than his brother. Was it pity? Despite what people assumed, it was Amara, not Jake, who hung the “Dirk” moniker on him. “It’s the perfect nickname for someone whose daddy is a fencing champion. A ‘dirk’ is a small sword, sweetie.” She’d smiled and kissed him on the forehead as she said that. All Dirk heard was “small.”
As he raised his tablet to eye level, Dr. Grayson’s stern face unexpectedly appearing on its screen gave him a start. His aging mentor had these dark, implacable eyes that radiated purpose and vitality, despite being surrounded by a forest of silver. Those same eyes softened the moment he spotted Dirk.
“Ah, there you are, son,” Grayson said, smiling. His smile dipped and his brow lines deepened as he glanced down. “Hmm. I see from your tracker you’re outside your mother’s office again. Did you . . .?”
Dirk force-fed himself a grin and resisted the urge to scratch at the itchy cybernetic implant embedded in his forearm. “Actually, I was just passing by on my way to see you. I thought we’d confer on today’s findings.”
“Ah . . .”
Dirk tried not to tense as Grayson studied him. Even remotely, the old man was uncannily good at reading people.
&nb
sp; “Good thinking. Come to my office.”
Dirk closed out the call and got his sorry butt in gear. As he walked, he realized with more than a little guilt that, the farther he got from his mom’s office, the better he felt.
* * *
As he neared Dr. Grayson’s expansive office/quarters, Dirk hesitated. There were two members of Tartarus’s private security force stationed outside, instead of the usual one. Dressed from head to toe in black military fatigues, with crew cuts and boots more befitting a state trooper, all the facility’s guards came across as big, hulking thugs – the kind you’d avoid on dark, deserted streets.
“Thug” was an apropos description. Dirk had surreptitiously checked their records. Every one was some sort of career criminal who was either facing life in prison or worse. Grayson called them his “last-chancers” and prided himself on taking men whose lives – admittedly, through their own wrongdoing – were destroyed and giving them a fresh start. Working at Tartarus, they received a clean slate; they got to support the men and women who helped safeguard America’s waterways and were paid a decent salary for doing so.
Although he wasn’t as adept as Dr. Grayson, Dirk considered himself a pretty good judge of character. He’d interacted with quite a few of their last-chancers over the years and they were hardly the type to turn over a new leaf. To a man, they were crude, sneaky, and violence-prone. He also knew their salaries, and they certainly weren’t doing it for the money. It was fear of the needle, pure and simple. When given the opportunity to have their sentences commuted in exchange for committing to one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet, they readily agreed.
Dirk suppressed a grin. They must have figured it was the lesser of two evils. Until they arrived at Rock Key, that is, and saw the evil they’d be guarding. It was no wonder so many of them went AWOL.
“Good morning, Dr. Braddock,” the nearest guard monotoned as he approached. Dirk politely flashed the man his ID.
He recognized him. It was Sgt. Bryan Wurmer, the cruel-faced ex-marine with the salt-and-pepper mustache. He’d replaced Sgt. Wharton after he’d put in his time. Dirk did a quick mental check. Wurmer once ran a Cuban refugee camp outside of Miami. He’d been convicted of running an underground sex-trade using the teenage boys and girls under his care, some as young as twelve. Intimidating and violent, he treated his “hoes” like most pimps did.
When he wasn’t beating them he was sexually abusing them.
As the other guard held the door, Dirk was grateful shaking hands wasn’t a requirement. Corporal Kevin Griffith was a former farm hand from Oklahoma. At first glance, he came across as an innocent country boy: freckle-faced, rawboned, and sporting a gap-toothed smile. He was also a big animal lover – literally. He’d gutted his previous employer with a pitchfork after getting caught in the barn, engaging in coitus with several of the farmer’s prize heifers.
Dirk grimaced; they had plenty of livestock pens in Tartarus. He shuddered, wondering what process Grayson used to screen his candidates.
As he entered his mentor’s office, Dirk spotted him leaning over the big saltwater aquarium he kept behind and to one side of his desk. The antique desk, itself, was elevated a few feet above floor level, situated atop a set of carpeted risers, and flanked by an ornate pair of 15th century braziers that must have been seven feet tall. It gave Grayson a nice overview of his well decorated office. The décor was impressive. An eclectic mixture of expensive antiques and state of the art technology, it was as if history was at war with itself, the past versus the present.
One thing Dirk always found interesting was that, despite the fact Eric Grayson was the founder and CEO of a company that made all sorts of pricey weapons for the military, the eccentric billionaire had none of them on display. Unlike Dirk’s dad, who, despite occasional disagreements with his mother, had an entire room in their house devoted to his extensive sword collection.
Dirk noisily cleared his throat. “I’m here.”
“Ah, come up, Derek,” Grayson responded, still hovering over the ten-foot tank. “Do mind Raphael,” he cautioned, as Dirk started up the risers.
Dirk glanced down, narrowly avoiding stumbling over the snoring Neapolitan mastiff behind Grayson’s desk. The old man had a pair of the big, foul-tempered canines. Raphael’s partner in crime, “Uriel,” lay a few feet away. As Dirk moved toward his owner, Uriel hoisted his broad head, his beady eyes sleepily studying him. After having assured himself that the young scientist posed no threat, the brindle-coated mastiff lowered his jowls back onto the carpet and resumed battling his litter-mate in the world’s loudest snoring contest.
“What’s with the extra security?” Dirk asked. His nose crinkled up as the heady odor of unwashed dog invaded his nasal passages, and he resisted the temptation to ask how long it had been since the smelly Neapolitans were bathed.
“Oh, just putting on a show,” Grayson replied distractedly as he fished noisily around inside a pull-out drawer from the aquarium’s ornate wooden stand. “We’ve got Admiral Callahan and his cronies flying in for the demo, remember?”
“Ah . . . Sorry, I forgot.” Dirk said, watching with interest as Grayson emerged holding some sort of multi-colored cube. Despite his seventy years and severe arthritis, his mentor’s energy levels rarely waned – especially if there was an experiment afoot. “So . . . how’s Einstein?”
Einstein was the old man’s pet Octopus vulgaris, a common octopus, except there was nothing “common” about Einstein. Grayson purchased him a few months back from a Sea Crusade research vessel, after the yard-long cephalopod exhibited the uncanny ability of climbing the conservationist ship’s anchor chain under cover of darkness, prying open their aerated holding tanks, and slipping inside to gorge on their specimens. “Any octopus that smart doesn’t deserve to be served up as sushi,” he’d announced.
“He’s absolutely amazing,” Grayson stated. “Although I must say, keeping him mentally stimulated has become something of a challenge.”
“He gets bored?”
‘“Against boredom, even the gods struggle in vain.’”
“The Antichrist?”
“Very good, Derek. Nietzsche would be impressed.”
‘“One repays a teacher badly if one remains only a student.’”
“And now the pupil seeks to test the professor,” Grayson sighed as he peered through the glass at his prize. He glanced up at his protégé and grinned. “Thus Spoke Zarathustra.”
The twelve-pound cephalopod sat in a contented pile of suckers, rhythmically sucking in and expelling water through his mantle. Obviously familiar with his owner, Einstein’s swirling eyes followed Grayson through the glass, his skin subtly changing hues as he tracked his master’s every move. “I believe the theories are correct. Given their intelligence and documented tool use, if they had longer lifespans, the octopus might well have emerged as Earth’s dominant life form instead of us.”
“And to think we dip them in soy sauce,” Dirk chuckled. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating the colorful box Grayson held.
“A plaything for Einstein; it’s my octopus version of a Rubik’s cube,” he announced, holding it up proudly. “You’ll notice there are only four squares per side.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I had to dumb it down a bit. After all, it is just an octopus.”
“He’s able to solve that?” Dirk didn’t bother hiding his disbelief. As Grayson jumbled the cube’s sides, Einstein’s eyes lit up. His color changed to a ruddy pinkish hue and his breathing became more rapid.
“Oh, yes,” Grayson chuckled. His own orbs gleamed like blue sapphires. “He’s a real learner, this one. The first time it took him all night. The second time, around four hours, then one. Now . . . Oh, wait! Hold this!”
Dirk caught the tossed cube with his free hand, watching in bemusement as Grayson momentarily disappeared behind the big aquarium. He returned a moment later, carrying a one-gallon jar filled with seawater. In it was—
“A nice, fat, sh
e-crab, bursting with roe,” he said, setting the jar and its lively occupant in front of Einstein. Through the double layers of glass, the blue crab was oblivious to the presence of its natural predator. But the effect on the octopus was immediate. As Einstein ogled the well-armed crustacean, his body began to pulse, his chromatophores flashing like a neon sign run amuck. “Pregnant crabs are like cupcakes with caviar frosting to an octopus. We’ve got to get him motivated.” He winked at Dirk.
Dirk studied the cube. The scientist in him still believed it was some parlor trick and that the cephalopod had merely learned a set of prearranged moves. Impressive, to be sure, but not outside the realm of possibility.
“You’re wearing your Doubting Thomas face,” Grayson chided. “Why don’t you mix it up and give it to him?”
“Really?”
“Would I deceive you?”
Dirk didn’t hesitate. As a child, he could solve a Rubik’s cube in record time. Even Garm had been impressed; his hands might have been huge, but he could never summon the mental discipline to master it. Dirk’s fingers were a blur as he cranked this simplified version to the most difficult starting point he could think of. He approached the tank and, as Grayson unlatched and raised its lid, he dropped it in.
The weighty cube didn’t have a chance to sink. One of Einstein’s tentacles struck like a rattlesnake the moment it hit the water, and a half-second later he was all over it. Flushing a deep scarlet, he settled to the bottom, possessively cradling the puzzle. Like a child relishing a new toy, Einstein turned the cube this way and that. Then, with surprising dexterity, his clinging tentacles began to maneuver it. Several braced it tightly against his body and the bottom, while others encircled it, exerting steady, opposing pressure.
Click.
The first move surprised Dirk. Not only because it was hard to believe a mollusk could manipulate the cube in the first place, but because it was the same move he would have chosen. As he watched, fascinated, the octopus continued making moves, occasionally stopping to consider, then backtracking and redoing. All the while, its colors shifted to match its growing excitement.
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