Bane gasped. “She didn’t.”
“Yep. She opened the book to a random page and announced that, whatever god or monster’s name was on it, that was me.”
“Didn’t your father have anything to say about it?”
Garm planted his hands on his hips and stared at the floor. “What could he say? After making such a big deal about Derek, he’d painted himself into a corner.” He cricked his neck to one side, loosening tense muscles. “Of course, the funny part is, when Derek turned five, mom hung the ‘Dirk’ nickname on him, anyway. Now everybody calls him that. So, in the end, she won.”
Bane smirked. “We usually do. So what does ‘Garm’ mean?”
“According to the Vikings, a gigantic wolf that guarded the gates of Hel. On the day of Ragnarok he broke free and engaged Tyr, the god of war. They killed each other.”
Bane stared at him. “Well . . . it could’ve been worse.”
Garm chuckled. “Hell, yes. I could’ve been named Frigg, after Odin’s wife!” He gave an exaggerated shudder.
“You’re an extraordinary man, Captain Garm Braddock.” She gave him an admiring smile. “Your mom must be very proud.”
Garm’s eyes swept forward. A hundred yards ahead, the hundred-foot opening of the Tube waited. Carved into the dense rock of the island, the underwater tunnel ran over five hundred yards, terminating in the very heart of the complex. In the interest of security, the Tube was unlit from the outside. It appeared as an uninviting hole in the rock, its edges craggy with coral and overgrown with long strands of seaweed and kelp that hung down like a billowing green curtain. The end result was like swimming into the black, bearded maw of Poseidon himself.
“Helm, remember: slow and centered,” Garm said.
“Noted, sir,” Ho replied, one hand gripping her steering yoke while the other stabbed buttons too fast to follow.
“Sonar and fire control, once we’re inside, Antrodemus is on her own,” Garm announced. “Let’s pray nothing goes awry.”
“Yes, sir,” Cunningham and Ramirez replied in unison.
“Communications: update the receiving dock on our status and make sure they’ve got a transfer rig ready, as well as engineers on hand to assess damage to Antrodemus.”
“On it, sir,” Rush said. “Should I request a medical team?”
Garm nodded his approval. “Good thinking.”
He waited a moment, watching his team do their thing, before resuming his conversation with Dr. Bane. He ground his molars for a moment. His mother’s friend or no, it was time to test her mettle. And to see if she had any idea what was coming her way. “It appears Grayson’s people weren’t exactly forthcoming when they gave you your assignment. Did they tell you what goes on in this place?” he indicated the fast-approaching submarine tunnel.
“Other than the names of my teammates and that I’m supposed to be solving a pathogen problem, no,” Bane replied. The deck shifted beneath them and her eyes betrayed a hint of fright as Gryphon’s prow dipped into an oncoming trough and then angled upward. It was aiming for the Tube’s mouth. “It’s common knowledge that Grayson’s parent company, GDT, makes advanced weaponry for the military, and that they acquired your mother’s robotics technology firm via a leveraged buyout a few years back. Other than that, Rock Key is pretty much a mystery.”
“The base isn’t called ‘Rock Key,’ doc,” Garm advised. “That’s just the island. You’ll be working in Tartarus.”
“Tartarus? Was that your mother’s choice as well?”
“No.” Garm grinned mirthlessly. “Tartarus is the CDF’s southeast coast base of operations, as well as home to the most advanced bio-weapons technology on the planet.”
Bane’s eyes rounded. “Bio-weapons? Wait, I wasn’t told about any--”
Garm rolled right over her words. “Ironically, in Greek mythology, Tartarus was where the Titans were imprisoned after they were overthrown by the gods of Olympus.”
Like a monstrous artillery shell inserting itself inside the barrel of the world’s largest howitzer, Gryphon slipped soundlessly into the Tube. The sunlit, blue and green sea and all of its life vanished, and the sub’s prow became a window into a lightless void. Ahead, a series of red navigation lights lining the tunnel walls clicked on systematically. For the bridge crew, the effect was like falling into a pitch-black lava tube, ringed with glowing embers.
Garm took a half-step closer and deliberately loomed over Dr. Bane. He locked gazes with her, knowing from experience that, bathed in the Tube’s navigation lights, his pale eyes gleamed a frightening scarlet. “When you see what’s at the other end of this tunnel, I think you’ll find the name my mother chose for me ended up being uncannily appropriate.”
Although she swallowed nervously, Bane stood her ground. “I’m really looking forward to seeing your mother again, Garm Braddock,” she said. “And to finding out about these bio-weapons you mentioned.” Her own eyes narrowed. “While I’m at it, shall I tell her how you tried to scare me, just now?”
Garm scoffed and turned back to the bow window. “You won’t be telling my mother anything.”
“And why is that?”
He shook his head and spoke over his shoulder. “It’s unbelievable. You really don’t know anything.”
Bane’s eyes flashed angrily. “Apparently not. So why don’t you enlighten me, captain. Why can’t I speak with Dr. Amara Braddock?”
“Because she’s dead.”
CHAPTER
6
C’mon, Derek. You’re my big boy. You can do it!
As the sound of his dad’s encouragement faded into wistful memory, Dirk sagged backward, one hand clamping onto the nearby doorjamb. He shook his head. His dad was gone and he wasn’t some baby, walking unaided for the first time. He was a man and it was time he started acting like one. It had taken him six months, but he’d finally found the courage to enter his mother’s office.
Dirk had anticipated a sense of relief from walking through that door, but the way his heart was pounding, it felt like the damn thing was chewing through his sternum like some alien parasite. Any second, he expected to feel his ribcage splitting apart. He could picture it in his head; it would plop to the floor like some demonic cephalopod, waving its bloodied arterial stumps like tentacles as it scuttled across the--
Jesus, get a grip, Braddock!
Cursing himself for staying up late watching old horror movies, Dirk forced his imagination back into the closet where it belonged and focused on actualities. It was a smart move. In Tartarus, reality was more terrifying than illusion. Here, letting your imagination run rampant could get you killed.
Dirk drew in a lungful and let go of the doorjamb. His fingers were practically numb and he grimaced as he shook out his hand. Ignoring the staccato beat of his heart, he turned on the lights.
As the powerful overheads clicked on and forced him to squint, he felt like he’d entered a tomb. In some ways, he had. His mother wasn’t buried here, but this was where she died.
Dirk’s eyes ricocheted around the place. Unlike his office, which was situated in Tartarus’s lower levels, his mother had chosen a work station high up, overlooking the facility. On one side, her office walls were traditional cement and drywall: a decorator’s attempt to add smoothness to rough-hewn rock. On the other, walls of crystal clear Celazole soared nearly twenty feet, terminating against Tartarus’s natural stone roof. The transparent sections were segmented and formed a 100-foot arc, giving an impressive view of the lower levels, as well as the facility’s huge amphitheater. The durable polycarbonate was installed in ten-foot pieces and braced with interlocking beams of brass-coated steel. Further down, a fifty-foot observation deck curved outward. There, the clear walls were replaced by a four-foot high railing of thermoplastic and steel, allowing visitors to gaze down from a dizzying height.
As he turned left and willed his feet forward, entering the office proper, Dirk felt a mountain of shame press down on him. After waiting so long, he felt li
ke a morbid invader. This was strange, since Amara Braddock had always welcomed visitors with a big smile and open arms.
Dirk surmised his misgivings were most likely a result of the stark contrast between then and now. His mother’s office had been her private sanctum: a much-needed refuge in a facility that housed the world’s greatest horrors. There, she was able to focus on what mattered most. Namely, resolving the problems plaguing Earth’s oceans and protecting the people that depended on them.
The young scientist sighed. Now, her defunct sanctuary was little more than a shrine. He shuffled past chalkboards covered with marine ecology equations; underneath them were towering stacks of scientific journals and newsletters. On one wall, a huge bulletin board was plastered with pages from magazines.
Dirk felt a tiny spasm of pain as his cheeks contracted into a sad smile. Despite access to unlimited technology, his mom loved pinning physical copies of pertinent articles in plain sight. “I’m like the ‘dinosaurs’ we’re trying to deal with. I’m too stubborn to adapt to the modern world and determined to make it bend to my will,” she’d say.
As he made his way to his mother’s expansive office desk, Dirk felt himself calm. The sight of the custom-made wood and aluminum behemoth with its extensive system of drawers, all designed to her exacting specifications, brought back a plethora of fond memories.
With what bordered on reverence, Dirk rolled her ergonomic chair back and then eased himself into it. The chair’s casters needed oil and it creaked under his weight, but he was relieved when it failed to collapse as the paranoid voice inside his head said it must.
Resting his palms on his mom’s desk, Dirk’s eyes swept its dusty surface. He started pinpointing familiar objects. There was the yard-wide monitor she’d salvaged from her first mini-sub, a photo of her and her long-dead friend Willie Daniels, his parent’s wedding portrait and some family pictures, and the tooth fragment and skin sample from the gigantic cow pliosaur that ravaged Paradise Cove, thirty years prior.
Dirk picked up the weighty chunk of yellowed ivory and examined it before putting it carefully back in place. He shook his head as he pondered just how many deaths that one creature ultimately caused.
The sight of the smashed alarm clock sitting beside the old computer monitor shook Dirk out of his funk and caused him to chuckle. During their honeymoon in Maui, one of his parents had hammer-fisted the thing into a pancake, but neither would ever say who. It didn’t matter. His dad’s martial arts training notwithstanding, his mom’s foul, early-morning temper was legendary. It didn’t take a genius to deduce who the guilty party had been.
Smiling now, Dirk tapped the start key on his mother’s computer. While the system booted up, he opened one of her desk drawers and started exploring. His lips did the fish thing as he extracted a plasteresin cast of his and Garm’s baby hands. He snorted as he noticed their birth weights, carved into the sturdy material. Him: seven pounds, eleven ounces. Garm: twelve pounds, fifteen ounces.
Dirk blew out a breath. One day – hopefully, without paying off some therapist’s mortgage – he’d put his insecurities and jealousies behind him. It wasn’t like he didn’t love his brother. He did, more than anything. It was just that he hated him too. At least, sometimes.
Setting the cast aside, Dirk logged onto his mother’s system. Her wallpaper was a ten-year-old Christmas family photo. He smiled as he studied it, remembering the day it was taken. He and Garm had just turned nineteen: young, eager teens, filled with dreams and hormones, and his dad was wearing that hideous Santa Claus sweater they’d all taken turns knitting. Everyone looked so happy, especially his parents. He’d never seen a couple hit the half-century mark that looked so young, so vibrant, and so in love.
And alive.
It was hard to believe they were both gone. Nearly eight years for his dad now, and his mom so much more recently. She’d never recovered from Jake’s death. None of them had. Poor Garm took it hardest of all. He’d always been closer to their dad. With him, it was the opposite. He’d worshipped their mom.
Dirk scanned a score of video shortcuts that decorated Amara Braddock’s desktop like apples on a tree. He pursed his lips contemplatively, then clicked on one entitled, “Derek and Garm, 1st.”
It was the boys’ one-year birthday celebration at the old house. They were playing contentedly with magnetic blocks, when their parents came waltzing in with a lit cake. While his mom sat it on the table and kept on singing, Jake scooped up both boys in one arm and carried them like pillows to their highchairs. Once they were safely imprisoned and the candles blown out, he and Garm were each given a huge slab of cake, which they alternated devouring and using as face paint.
Dirk leaned forward, intently studying the video. He realized he’d never seen this portion. His dad was wiggling one of his thick fingers in front of him, teasing him until Dirk clumsily swatted at it. Then, he pressed his fingertip gently against the tip of his baby son’s nose and said, “Doink!” in a playful tone. Dirk giggled hysterically and bounced up and down as if he was on springs, cajoling his father to continue the game. After a dozen more “doinks,” Garm grew jealous and started squirming in his own highchair, demanding some “doinking” for himself.
Smiling sadly, Dirk wiped his eyes and closed the video. The whole “doinking the nose” routine was one of his core memories. In his mind’s eye, he could see it as if it was yesterday.
A second video labeled, “Karate Lesson” caught his eye and he opened it. This one was from a few years later, and featured their father teaching their mother some self defense moves. Of course, this “sparring session” ended up the way almost every other one did, with his parents rolling around on the floor in a playful wrestling match that turned into a passionate make-out session.
Dirk chuckled as he closed the video. He was about to open one whose title struck him as odd when a distant crash, punctuated by a loud splashing sound, assailed his ears. He felt a chill creep up his spine on frigid spider’s feet and the hairs on his nape pricked up. It was coming from beyond the railing.
That railing.
Rising to his feet, Dirk moved along the polycarbonate wall until he reached the observation deck. He placed one hand hesitantly on the cool metal railing that topped the waist-high barrier. Then he glanced fearfully over the side. He wasn’t afraid of heights, just what he might see. Two hundred feet below, technicians were hosing down the reinforced concrete stage of Tartarus’s enormous aquatic amphitheater. He could smell the filtered seawater, even from this height.
Dirk breathed a sigh of relief; he’d forgotten about the big presentation scheduled for later that evening. His eyes swung sideways, focusing on the missing section of railing, twenty feet further down. His chest rose and fell as he espied the crisscrossing lengths of red police barricade tape that still adorned it like bloody bandages and he started forward. He could barely feel his legs. In his mind, it was like that final stretch to the gallows.
Dead son walking . . .
Suddenly, Dirk froze. Flashbacks from the video showing his mother’s horrifying death appeared before his eyes and he staggered sideways as if struck a physical blow. He gritted his teeth and fought to shrug off the haunting visual.
When he finally reached the ten-foot breach, Dirk stood there, trembling. His hair pushed back and the usual sounds of men and machines faded into the background. Soon, the only thing he could hear was the snapping sound of a loose piece of tape, fluttering in Tartarus’s artificial breeze. He swallowed hard and moved closer, still keeping a good five feet from the edge.
Something crunched underfoot. He lifted his foot and blinked as he caught sight of a small pile of dried flower petals. He dropped to one knee, scooping up a few and kneading them between his fingers, watching dispassionately as they turned to dust.
As Dirk stood up, something touched him on the shoulder. He cried out and spun wildly around, his hand on his heart. A sigh of relief escaped his lips and he chuckled nervously at the swaying plant
basket, hanging on wires suspended from the sprinkler pipes. There were several of them that once held his mother’s prized ivy gardenias. She’d doted on them daily, feeding and pruning them, even talking to them. With their ability to bloom for extended periods, they’d been her favorites, and under her dotage they’d blossomed.
Now, they were dried-out husks, their crumbly vines hanging limply down like the desiccated tendrils of some long dead cephalopod.
Reaching out and gently stopping the plant basket’s swaying, Dirk moved carefully around it and back toward the break in the railing. He inched closer.
It is an unnerving thing, to stand on the precipice of a loved one’s death.
Dirk’s pain-filled eyes raked the taped-off space and he shook his head. Just as he was turning to leave, a metallic gleam caught his eye. He moved to the right side support and dropped down on one knee, gripping the steel and brass post. The scientist in him took over and, for a moment, the horror of standing where his mother died was forgotten. He scanned the metal where the railing had parted, rubbing his thumb along the two connecting points and examining where the steel was sheared away.
Actually, it was only shorn at the top, he noted. The bottom connector was torn, as if a great weight had been applied to it. He checked the other side, and it was the same. There were no signs of corrosion or defects in the metal.
Dirk mentally calculated the weight of a ten-foot by four-foot section of Celazole versus the strength of the connectors. Something was off. Even with the weight of an adult human added to the mix the numbers didn’t add—
Baaaaaa! Baaaaaa!
The blare of Amara Braddock’s office phone nearly gave Dirk a heart attack. He stumbled toward her desk, his mind still on overdrive. A glance at the caller ID caused him to recoil in surprise and he hit the speakerphone.
“Hi, Dr. Grayson,” he croaked, hastily clearing his throat. “Yes, I’m finally here. You spend a lot of time tracking people’s locators.”
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