The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  Damn that’s loud. As soon as there’s enough of a crack, I turn on my nightvision and look out. Yup. A plopper stands about fifteen feet away. At least the plopper is helpfully lighting up the area for me to see in.

  I’m about to turn on my comms to Puo when I notice the blue pixels becoming very well defined in a path carving its way straight for me: a squiddie.

  Shit.

  All I can do is watch as it zooms over. The crack in the panel isn’t big enough for me to squeeze out of yet. And I can’t stop the panel from opening or retract it. So I just sit there, like a delicious trapped piece of meat in a stone shell slowly and loudly shucking itself.

  The squiddie stops at the entrance to whatever room I’m in, lingering over the plopper.

  My heart thuds in my chest. I keep my hands below what I hope is the sight line into the panel from the squiddie and search the equipment bag between my legs for a stunner.

  It wasn’t possible to stick the stunner on a pole this time—it wouldn’t fit inside the panel. If we’re going to use the stunner on this job, the squiddie is going to have to be close enough for us to see its dull, dead eyes.

  It’s as if the evil, gangly creature can read minds. The rounded front of the squiddie swivels suddenly toward me. It stares for one heartbeat. Two heartbeats—

  It shoots over toward me, traveling so fast its eight appendages stream out behind in a near straight line.

  I play dead, my helmet turned to where I can keep it in view.

  The squiddie stops an arm-and-half-length away. Just out of reach of my stunner.

  It’s eight appendages articulate so that all of them and their sensors are pointed at me.

  The ploppers alarm keeps blaring. The squiddie is making small motions this way and that as it examines me.

  Fuck! It’s not going to try and drag me out through a crack too small for me to fit, is it?

  Not while I have the stunner it’s not. Come here you stupid mechanical bastard. Just another few feet.

  The whole point of dropping so many of these damn panels was to confuse the shit out of everything. And now I’m not even out and they’ve found me already. But they sure as hell haven’t gotten me yet. Except now they know where to dedicate their resources—

  The squiddie suddenly reverses course and shoots off.

  What?

  It settles over the plopper again.

  Calling for reinforcements? Reporting what it—?

  All eight of the squiddies appendages shoot down onto the plopper and start dismantling it.

  The alarm cuts off. The squiddie is still going to town on the plopper.

  More distant alarms are still sounding in the museum.

  The squiddie stops and turns back toward me. Waiting expectantly.

  I use the unexpected opportunity to calm my breathing enough to go through the retina displays and turn on comms to call for help.

  “Chameleon,” I whisper. “Queen Bee here. Do you—?”

  “Oh, thank God,” Puo breaks in over the line. “I thought you were dead. Why the heck weren’t you answering me?”

  “There’s a squiddie—” I try and stay calm.

  “Yeah, that’s me.” One of the squiddie’s appendages waves at me. “Duh.”

  Oh, thank God. I exhale once again through pursed lips. “How the hell did you get here so fast?” The crack from the panel is almost large enough for me to fit through finally.

  “I tracked your descent. You’re dropping in the middle of a thousand-pound panel, smashing through buildings. You didn’t think I was going to keep an eye on you?”

  He asks that last question like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I have no idea how he managed to do it. And right now, I don’t care.

  “Thanks, Chameleon,” I say, using his preferred moniker twice in a row now. Very unlike me—I must be grateful.

  The crack is finally large enough. I start to squeeze through.

  “Aw, shucks,” Puo says.

  Once I’m free, I turn my helmet lights to low power and keep my nightvision on. “Let’s go get Plump Panda.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NOW THAT I’m free I can see that my panel landed on the ground floor in the middle of the western portion of the museum, just off the original west wing and very close to the Parthenon gallery.

  “Do you know where Plump Panda is?” I ask Puo, pulling my DPV out of the equipment bag. The vehicle looks like a thick pair of motorcycle handlebars but with enclosed propellers underneath.

  “Somewhere in the northern section,” Puo answers.

  “You didn’t track him as tightly?” I seal up the equipment bag, and slip it on my back, getting ready to jet off.

  Puo lowers the power on the squiddie flashlights for my nightvision to pick up. “No,” Puo answers simply. “Once you two hit, I could only track one of you in any detail.”

  I’m about to say thanks again, when Puo says with the regular swagger we use to banter with, “I know where my meal-ticket is.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” I say. At least we’re settling in.

  “I would … never!” Puo mocks.

  I grip the DPV’s handles and start it up with a whir. It gently accelerates to pull me prostrate behind it. The water flows over my form as I exit out of the room down a short stairway into a square room. I can see the Great Court to my left and where they housed the Rosetta Stone (long since recovered). There’s a distant roar, underneath the piercing sound of the alarms, of heavy rain steadily pelting the undulating sea surface and the sound of waves breaking.

  Several rooms to my right should be the Parthenon gallery. But that direction is visually impenetrable in a silt cloud of blue pixels that I can’t see beyond. I’m tempted to go into the gallery and survey the damage. Two of the bubble-jet panels were targeted there to underscore the Greek connection. But all the damn alarms sounding are crawling under my skin.

  I try to contact Liáng on the comm-link. When Liáng doesn’t answer, I ask Puo, “What’s the best route to Plump Panda?”

  Puo’s quiet on the other end for a few seconds and says. “It’d probably be best to pass through the interior rooms, go through the Egyptian Sculpture room, and swing through the back rooms that connect the west and north wing. The interior rooms aren’t as heavily guarded.”

  “Roger, that,” I say. I swing the DPV to the left toward where the Rosetta Stone used to be. There’s a plopper sitting right at the entrance to the Egyptian Sculpture room from the Great Court. The trashcan-sized plopper looks small compared to the soaring ceiling of the Sculpture room. This room must have once been impressive, now it’s a decaying mess.

  The plopper’s alarm is damn near earsplitting. “Chameleon,” I say, “there’s another plopper.”

  “I’m on it.” Puo’s squiddie launches out ahead of me to dismantle the plopper.

  I direct the DPV deeper into the room and turn north.

  “Are our goodies deploying?” I ask. All of the fake-Elgin panels that didn’t house humans had several runners inside programmed to take off as soon as the panel split open—including at Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. About two-thirds of the runners also had stunners attached and were programmed to take out ploppers as they encountered them.

  “They’re deploying,” Puo confirms.

  Puo’s squiddie stays ahead of me, providing enough light for my nightvision as we travel down the long room and then turn right through a stairwell.

  It’s an odd feeling to be comforted by a squiddie swimming along ahead of me. They’ve been our nemeses for so long, it’s practically ingrained to run or freeze on sight of them. Perhaps we should use this trick again in the future. Isa Schmidt—mistress of the squiddies.

  Thinking of the squiddies. Where are they?

  “Yeah,” Puo says, not realizing I hadn’t meant to voice that out loud, “damn good question. I had been hoping to run into a few.”

  Better to avoid them for the moment. “What are the Muppies u
p to?” I ask as we glide through a set of smallish rooms. The sounds of the storm diminish. The ceilings here are only nine or ten feet tall, and plain. They’re nowhere near the majestic scale of the other rooms we just came from. “Are they responding?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Puo says. “Yeah, they’re responding all right. HiDARs are en route—”

  Which should be mostly pointless. All the action is within the buildings, where the HiDARs won’t be able to see us.

  Puo continues, “—Cruisers have been alerted and are beginning to mobilize—”

  “How many?”

  “At least three—”

  Fuck! “That’s why there aren’t any squiddies!”

  “Why—? Oh,” Puo says dumbly as he realizes it.

  Wet teams. The authorities are sending in highly trained, actual people down after us.

  * * *

  Wet teams are made up of two frogmen and are rare. Very rare. There’s just too much underwater real estate to protect to make them economically feasible for governments—which is why governments rely on squiddies as the backbone of their defense strategy.

  We know the British Royal Navy has an agreement with the Muppies, but even then the British Government doesn’t have the manpower to deploy wet teams to three sites like this.

  I check my timer that’s snapped to the passing museum wall. It’s only been four minutes and change since it should’ve become apparent to the Muppies that buildings weren’t randomly imploding.

  It’s close to three in the morning. We specifically chose this time to be three-fifths of the way through the Muppies’ night shift, when the night is longest and heads are prone to nodding.

  “Keep an eye on them,” I say. I guess we’re going to find out how fast the Muppies can mobilize. “Let me know when they dispatch.”

  “Roger, that,” Puo says and then adds diplomatically, “Duh.”

  Puo’s squiddie swims out ahead of me and takes out another plopper.

  I emerge into a much larger room with shattered glass cases at the four corners and several empty stands where sculptures would go. It’s the room directly north of the Great Court. There’re three other doors besides the one I came in. The door opposite me looks cloudy and disturbed, which is promising.

  I direct Puo to have his squiddie take the lead. A shiver of cold water traces its way down the middle of my back as the DPV pulls me across the room—a weak spot in the suit. The rest of my suit is nice and toasty, a little warm in the chest actually.

  I try, and fail again, to link up comms with Liáng.

  We have a small time-window before the Muppies get here. The authorities holding back the squiddies is a mistake. Yes, squiddies are just as likely to drag the good guys to the surface as the bad guys. But if I were the Muppies, I’d be using the squiddies to do reconnaissance, and then pull them back. Sure, that’d announce the wet team’s presence, but hey, we’ve already figured that out.

  But something still just doesn’t feel right. The wet teams can’t cover all three sites. Is that why they’re hanging back? Waiting to figure which site to deploy at?

  Wet teams are bad news. They’re highly trained, difficult to fool, and approved for lethal force.

  Wet teams’ rules of engagement are made widely public. The governments want to deter and stop crime before it even happens. All underwater reclamation specialists have them memorized:

  Protect undersea heritage sites from unlawful looting and vandalism. This includes:

  1. The disruption of any and all unlawful activities, while protecting and preserving our cultural heritage.

  2. Capture trespassers alive if possible. (Emphasis theirs.)

  3. Use of lethal force is authorized.

  I have no idea why they emphasize number two but not three. The inconsistency and redundancy has always irritated me. But they even have a little saying: “Stay alive. Don’t dive.”

  There’s also some interesting wiggle room in there if you know where to look. But mostly, the government wants you to know they’re willing to kill you over this. There’re no police body cams down here. No third party cameras. No crowd with personal recording devices. It’s strictly a he said/she said situation where dead, bloated bodies can’t talk.

  The screeching alarm from inside the room Puo’s squiddie just disappeared into abruptly shuts off. The distant patter of the rain rushes in to fill the sound void.

  “Queen Bee,” Puo says. “You’re free to flutter in.”

  “Roger—”

  The shifting of heavy rubble shudders deep within the museum.

  “You hear that?” I ask Puo as I enter the cloudy room.

  “Yeah, the infra-sound sensors just lit off. Better find Plump Panda and hurry up.”

  “Any visual of the Panda?” I ask. I can’t see anything in any detail except an arm’s length in front of me. I try to contact Liáng on the comm-link again but to no avail.

  “The panel is split open about fifteen feet in front of you to the left of your current position. It’s too cloudy for me to tell if there’s anything in it.”

  We treated the dry closed scuba suits with the same infrared protection the anti-gravity suits have (but not telling Liáng about the source) so squiddies (including Puo’s) shouldn’t be able to detect our heat signatures. Light, sound, and movement though—all still very detectable.

  I’m about to tell Puo to keep his distance from the panel thinking of what I was going to do with the stunner, when Puo screams, “WHOA! It’s me! It’s me, Plump Panda! Stand down! Stand down!”

  Puo’s squiddie backs up rapidly, whooshing through a cloud of blue pixels.

  I hurry my DPV forward, trying to take the most direct route to Liáng while avoiding the squiddie’s flailing appendages.

  Through the murky cloud of blue pixels I come upon the fake-Elgin panel split in half with Liáng pushing the stunner out of the side. I manage to stop just several inches short.

  If I can see him, he can see me. I tap my helmet over the ear.

  A second later Liáng’s heavy breathing comes in over the comm. “Hello? Queen Bee? Uh … Lizard … Thing?”

  “Chameleon,” Puo corrects helpfully.

  “We read you, Plump Panda,” I tell Liáng.

  “I’m trapped,” Liáng rushes, “I’m trapped. My helmet doesn’t fit through the crack.”

  “Okay,” Puo says. “Just take it easy. We’ll get you out.”

  I open a separate comm channel to just Puo where Liáng can’t hear us. “Chameleon, it’s just Queen Bee. Do you have something clever in mind, or just brute force?”

  “Brute force,” Puo answers.

  Yeah, I was afraid of that.

  Back on the party channel, Puo directs Liáng to slide as much of his body that will fit outside the panel.

  Liáng does as told and it looks comically like he’s eight years old and got his head stuck in a fence looking for a four-leaf clover.

  “Gee whiz, wiseguy,” I say to Liáng’s prostrated form. “Got any Vaseline?”

  “What?” Liáng asks, still a little panicked.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, “We won’t call the fire or police department.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Liáng says.

  “Yeah, Queen Bee,” Puo says, “you’re losing me—”

  Oh, yeah—I definitely know what we’re binge watching when we get back to the Seattle Isles.

  Puo continues, “—Get on the other side of him.”

  Puo’s squiddie and I take positions on each side of his stuck helmet. I’m able to stick my fins within the crack to get leverage and bend down to get a grip on the upper slab.

  “On my count,” Puo says. “One, two, three—!”

  I don’t even have time to strain before Liáng’s head pops free.

  “Whoa,” Puo says, “these things are strong.”

  “Thanks,” Liáng says at the same time I say, “Glad I could help.”

  “Grab your equipment bag,” I tell Liáng. To Puo I ask,
“How are the Muppies doing up there?”

  Puo’s silent for a second and then makes a “mmmm” sound over the comm. I can imagine his face, his lips pressed together, his eyes narrowed as he stares at the screen, his face serious.

  “That’s not a good noise, Chameleon,” I say. “What’s going on? Have they dispatched the wet teams?”

  “Not yet,” Puo answers. “But they’ve cleared the air space.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CLEARED THE air space.

  It’s a pretty standard response, and one we were expecting them to take. But taken along with the squiddies holding back and the impending deployment of the wet teams, it just feels off. Like that feeling you get on the back of your neck when someone is watching you without your knowledge.

  Liáng asks what’s going on with the wet teams as he gets his own DPV ready, and I bring him up to speed on our situation.

  “Chameleon,” I say, “lead the way.”

  Two of the bubble-jet panels were targeted to go through the Great Court’s glass roof in exactly the same place separated by a few seconds. There should be a large, gaping hole down into the bowels of the museum through the Great Court.

  “Roger, that,” Puo says. “Follow me.” Puo’s squiddie moves off the way we came and I reconnect with my DPV and follow at full speed with Liáng’s DPV whirring behind me.

  “Point of order,” Liáng says—the panic and heavy breathing are gone from his voice. “But if Chameleon is, in fact, Chameleon, as you’re referring to him, and not as Toad or Camille, as you have in the past, then may I request that ‘Plump Panda’ be retired in favor of Dragon?”

  “Negatory,” I say. “You’ll always be Plump Panda to me.”

  “But I am not, in fact, plump,” Liáng says.

  We enter back into the large, north room off the Great Court with the four shattered glass cases in the corners. The steady drumming of the storm becomes louder through the door connecting out to the Great Court.

  “Neither are you droopy,” I answer back to Liáng.

  “Droopy?” Liáng asks, exasperation creeping into his prim voice.

  “Droopy Dragon,” I explain.