The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  I exhale out through my nose and force myself to think. Think!

  I switch from trying to stop the frogman to trying to delay him. Mostly by shoving his head up and away to keep him from seeing.

  He’s going for my oxygen. We all need to breathe. But he’s a frogman on a wet team. His oxygen system and components are probably safely tucked away for hand-to-hand combat.

  I manage to get his head turned up away from me. His hands continue to probe and grasp at the back of my helmet. The area over his neck is soft compared to the hard plastic of the helmet. I squeeze with both hands.

  His hands loosen. He shifts upward away from my grip.

  Buoyancy! The turd may have his oxygen safely tucked away, but what about his mechanical fail-safe buoyancy valve?

  I drop my left hand from his neck and fumble around at his waist. If we weren’t fighting for our lives, he’d probably think I was trying to cop a feel.

  He jerks away from me. Guess he really doesn’t like a girl feeling around near his junk.

  There! Got it you smarmy bastard! But before I can twist that little valve for all its worth, he jerks upward.

  It’s then I notice another pair of helmet lights in the stairwell. Liáng!

  About fucking time!

  There’s also a familiar black band tied around the frogman’s waist: a balloon bag inflated to full positive buoyancy.

  The frogman shoots upward, until the balloon bag hits the underside of the stairs.

  “Panda!” I call out. “Where you been?”

  Liáng’s response is to tap his helmet over the ear.

  Damn. Either our comms are down, or they’re jamming us.

  And if they’re jamming us, the source is likely the frogman floating ten feet above us pinned against the underside of the stairs.

  I give Liáng the “okay” hand-sign and motion up toward the frogman, who is rapidly working on freeing himself.

  Liáng nods and pulls out a knife and swims up to meet him.

  I have a half-second hesitation before I grab Liáng’s leg and motion “no” to him carrying the knife. All I can think about is what Winn would think.

  Liáng nods his understanding.

  It is not okay for Liáng to kill the frogman. It was never okay to take a life. That’s always been true, even way before I ever met Winn. It’s not who we are. Not who Puo and I are. We’re smarter, faster, better. We don’t need to take life in order to get the job done.

  But all I can think is that if Winn hears about this, he’s going to hear about a zero body count. I am not going to fuck this up again.

  Confident Liáng got the message, I head back to my DPV to grab my own knife. While I feel strongly about not taking human life— robot life, not so much.

  I keep an eye on Liáng and the frogman as I swim back from my DPV into the stairwell, my elbow still throbbing from where I smashed it into the frogman’s helmet. It looks like Liáng has a handle on the situation by coming in from above between the balloon bag and the frogman.

  Where are the frogman’s friends? I wonder. Where is the other member of his wet team? There’s no other sign in the stairwell of anybody else. Was he out scouting on his own?

  Sure enough, the frogman’s DPV is behind the door that I tried to crush him with. I use the commando knife and stab the DPV through the engine. Thunk. Well, I tried to stab it through the engine anyway. Turns out, fiberglass: not so easily stabbed.

  Freaking military DPV.

  I sort it out soon enough and find the latch to open the panel to the engine. Guess the military engineers chose to defend against a long-range attack, rather than a close-in attack by a sexy underwater reclamation specialist.

  Stabby! Stabby! Stabby!

  Yeah, that DPV ain’t going anywhere any time soon. Now that that’s taken care of, let’s see what he’s got in the carrying compartment: Oh-ho-ho! A handheld mapping sonar device. Sweet.

  “Queen Bee,” Liáng says, “You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, Plump Panda,” I respond. I grab the handheld sonar and look up toward Liáng. “Good to hear your voice again.”

  “Agreed.” Liáng is descending from the frogman.

  The frogman’s hands are bound by zip ties behind him. We packed them with the balloon bags—damn useful things and you never know when you’re going to need them

  “Nice,” I say. “How’d you get him to cooperate so nicely?”

  Liáng answers, “I wedged the knife between one of his breathing tubes and his back. He complied quickly enough. If he moved suddenly while I was tying up his hands, he’d of cut off his own air supply.”

  I grumble in response. It’s right there on the moral boundary. But I’m not sure what else Liáng could’ve done to tie him up.

  The frogman’s hands are not only zip tied together, they’re not moving at all. Nothing on him is.

  “Panda,” I say, my internal alarm growing, “Why isn’t the frogman moving?” Did he accidentally cut the breathing tube?

  “I suspect,” Liáng answers in his dry voice, “that he’s conserving heat until his cronies can come bail him out. The only way I could kill his jamming while keeping him alive was to kill his power.”

  It’s a death sentence. A slow one, but a death sentence all the same. Without power driving the internal heater of the dry scuba suit the cold of the water water will seep through and he’ll freeze to death eventually.

  Damn it.

  The frogman must’ve called for help when we first engaged. His compatriots are almost certainly going to save him. But if they take too long, or can’t find him, he’ll die.

  Winn’s paling face from back in Colvin’s library is vivid in my mind. I can smell his sweaty, black curly hair matted on the back from blood. I can see his disturbed face backing up from the tablet on Colvin’s fancy wooden desk. The profound silence from that library overwhelms me all over again. The haunting look in Winn’s clear blue eyes are forever seared in my memory.

  “Panda,” I say. My voice sounds disembodied to me. “We can’t leave him like this.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t leave him like this,” I repeat more vehemently. “We can’t leave him in a state where he’ll die. Zero body count.”

  “He won’t! His friends are coming for him.”

  “Restore his power, keep him tied up.” There is no doubt that his friends are coming. But I don’t know how long they’re going to take.

  “He’ll restore the jamming,” Liáng argues.

  “Agreed,” I answer. “But zero, fucking, body count.” Then I turn around at Liáng and gesture with my hands.

  Liáng pulls his head back a bit at my gestures then gives me the “okay” sign. The he mutters, “I don’t know why I listen to you.”

  Because Shǐ told you to, and you have an unhealthy crush on your captor.

  Liáng understands my hand gestures. Or at least, he’s doing as he’s told.

  Quite a lot can be communicated nonverbally—especially when both parties know that verbal communication isn’t possible.

  Liáng carefully ascends to the frogman and restores his power, then drops back down quickly.

  The frogman moves his helmet around. Kicks his legs a bit. Then he looks right at me and gives me the slightest little head nod.

  I tap my helmet over the ear in response. Save your damn little head nod and restore my communications.

  The frogman shakes his head “no” and shrugs at me.

  Gah. Bastard. And my elbow still freaking hurts.

  Liáng and I swim back to our DPVs and maneuver them into the stairwell heading downward, passing under the trussed up, jamming frogman.

  Still no word from Puo. And now we know there won’t be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE STAIRWELL bottoms out after one flight of stairs to another brown metal door. I have a second’s hesitation before pushing the door open. Was the frogman coming down the stairs? Or going up? Where is the other member of his t
eam?

  Unfortunately, the handheld sonar I reappropriated can’t see through doors.

  The door opens to a horrible screeching as the rusty metal hinges rub against themselves. Lovely. I’d like to believe that’s a good sign. That we would’ve heard that awful noise if the frogman was coming up from down here. But then where are his compatriots?

  The tunnel is clear. Both from hounding wet teams and silt. Our helmet lights penetrate out beyond fifty feet down here.

  The tunnel is one long brick tunnel that looks to be gently sloping downward, no vault doors.

  I use the frogman’s handheld sonar and look down at the four-inch-square display. The tunnel is mapped out in surprising detail and cycles through a short, few-seconds movie of moving through the tunnel. It even mapped out behind us some and a little bit down the “T” ahead of us that our helmet lights can’t yet see—freaking cool.

  This is going to be a sweet little bonus toy. Puo’s going to love pulling this thing apart.

  The thought of Puo makes me a little queasy that we haven’t talked to him since we were in the vault. He’s unaware of our run-in with the frogman. Unaware of the jamming.

  Puo should be physically safe if they capture our squiddie. But how long will it take them to extract incriminating evidence from it?

  Liáng and I swim up to the “T” in the tunnel. The cross-tunnel is much wider and taller than the tunnel we just came from. There’s a narrow railway built into the floor of the tunnel—it’s clear this tunnel was used to move some big deliveries around—like off of secret trains.

  I use the handheld sonar in both directions.

  Water turbules wash over my right shoulder from Liáng maneuvering to look at the sonar screen. My dry scuba suit continues to keep me nice and cozy warm, while the throbbing in my elbow has subsided to a dull ache that can be mostly ignored.

  No frogman. The tunnel to the right continues to slope downward, while the tunnel to the left slopes upward and gently curves away.

  We take the tunnel to the right, and stop every twenty to thirty feet to use the handheld sonar to make sure there are no surprises up ahead.

  After the third such stop it’s clear we’re on the right track. The sonar screen shows this tunnel emptying out onto a train platform and a cavernous space beyond.

  As we descend farther down the tunnel, the cackle on the comm-link increases. “Panda?” I try again. “Can you—?”

  “I hear you,” Liáng says through a high amount of cackle.

  It’s low signal-to-noise ratio. But at least we can talk again. We must have traveled far enough away from the jammer. The jammers must rely on line-of-sight, or at least not heavy amounts of brick between the jammer and jammed, which actually sparks a disturbing thought of: how long had we been jammed before? And how physically close were they to jam us?

  The handheld sonar is painting a more complete picture of the underground tube station as we approach. There are two train tracks and a wide platform. The sonar even looks like it picked up some kind of loading device down a bit on the platform, though it’s still fuzzy at this point.

  Liáng says through the cackle, “Since we can talk at the moment, would you like tell me the rest of the plan?”

  That’s a perfectly reasonable request in light of the jamming. “No.”

  In between the straps holding the two balloon bags rising up from the DPV, I can visually start to see the underground station. The platform is concrete that’s painted brown, or at least I think that’s brown under the cream to sand-colored silt. There’s also a yellow strip indicating the edge.

  The station tunnel ceiling is curved with square, coffered tiles. The curved portion of the walls is covered in classic white subway tile.

  We emerge out of the tunnel into the station. No sign of Puo. Damn.

  I use the handheld device to paint each direction in the station in more detail.

  Would you like to tell me the rest of the plan? Nope.

  “Hey, Panda,” I say, “You hear me?” There’s no cackle on the line, and it’s unlike Liáng not to respond in some fashion to the denial for information—likely some prim, holier-than-thou response.

  Liáng doesn’t answer.

  I look back at Liáng and tap my helmet over the ear.

  Liáng shakes his head no.

  If we’re being jammed again, then something is close, or closing. I motion to Liáng to look around, while taking another reading with the handheld sonar.

  It’s a squiddie. Down the tube tunnel. Closing fast and jamming us.

  Without taking my eyes off the screen I try to motion to get Liáng’s attention. Is it Puo’s squiddie? He’s supposed to meet us down here.

  I ping the sonar again.

  Definitely not Puo’s! A dozen more squiddies just materialized behind it. Shit! Looks like we just found where the squiddies were hiding.

  I scramble to my DPV to swing back the way we came, keeping the handheld sonar out.

  Our only chance is to get out of the open tunnels and into somewhere more confined where the squiddies can’t move as well and, therefore, might not be able to detect us.

  Liáng may not know about the small armada of squiddies, but he recognizes my oh-shit-gotta-get-out-of-here motions and hurries up to follow me.

  Our DPVs whir as we rush out of there and back up the tunnel.

  The handheld sonar picks up another squiddie heading down the main tunnel toward us. Fuck! They’re closing us in.

  I estimate some quick distances. I think we can get to the side tunnel that leads back toward the stairwell before the squiddie reaches us. Except it’s the stairwell that holds the frogman who’s called his buddies—

  That must be why the squiddies are here. Held in reserve for the wet teams to deploy. Wonderful.

  The high whine of our DPVs fills the tunnel. If the squiddie ahead of us couldn’t plain see us with its active sonar, the stupid whine of these vehicles would be a beacon for its passive sonar.

  I wonder if the military DPVs make this much noise. Or go this slow at top speed? Should’ve swapped mine out.

  The thin water glides over my form as we sprint up the tunnels. The water isn’t as pure as when we originally passed—flecks of silt filter through the water from before.

  I keep my helmet lights on. There’s no point now in killing them. All it’ll do is blind us without providing any kind of cover.

  The squiddie coming down the tunnel at us is coming too fast.

  We’re not going to make it.

  And I can’t coordinate with Liáng.

  Blood pounds through my neck. Can the squiddie even drag us to the surface from down here?

  The lights of the squiddie down the tunnel blare into focus. Two pinpoint lights growing rapidly in the tunnel as it barrels down on us.

  I drop the handheld sonar in exchange for my knife and cradle it close to my body, trying to hide it. It’s the only weapon close at hand—the stunner is an eternity away safely packed tight in the equipment bag on my back.

  We’re screwed.

  I ignore the avalanche of panic rising up, particularly about what to do with the balloon bags.

  The best play is to let the squiddie think it has us, and then at the opportune time: Stabby! Stabby! Stabby!

  The squiddie is close enough for me to make out the center black teardrop shape rushing toward us. The circular window in the center feels oddly alive. Its appendages are flared out behind it.

  I take a deep breath, preparing myself.

  Will Winn know if I die down here? Will he know if I get arrested? Will my image flood the news feeds?

  Will my father know?

  I bring the DPV to a stop and distance myself from it, trying to make myself an easy target. Nothing for the squiddie to get overexcited about.

  The knife blade is pressed flat against my forearm as I cup the handle. The saw-toothed edges dig in, beg for a better purchase.

  Here it comes. All eight appendages snap forward
, ready to pounce.

  I try to force myself to be limp to better handle the shock of the initial grab.

  I twist away and slam my eyes closed, bracing myself.

  Turbulent water whooshes over my head, bringing with it a wave of gritty silt. But there’s no sudden, violent grabbing.

  I open my eyes and jerk around to follow the squiddie.

  The squiddie screams over Liáng, toward the small armada of squiddie lights heading up the tunnel from the underground station.

  Puo? Or better to arrive en masse then go one on two?

  I briefly think of taking advantage of our momentary reprieve, but there’s no way we’re going to outrun them. Better to stick to the—

  The lone squiddie bowls through the group of squiddies. Clank! Ca-clank, clank! Right down the center.

  Puo!

  In the process one squiddie grabs another squiddie and holds it still, staring from teardrop center to teardrop center before releasing it. As soon as that squiddie is released it turns toward one of its companions and does the same thing.

  Oh, thank God.

  Pretty quickly all of the squiddies have been greeted thusly.

  The original lone squiddie (I think—hard to tell them apart) swims up toward us. The rest of the squiddie pack stays back, hovering in place as if confused.

  “Hey-ya, Queen Bee,” Puo’s voice breaks in over the comm-link. “What ya doin’ cowering down there?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “I AM NOT cowering,” I say to Puo, “Thank you very much.”

  “Nah,” Puo says, “You were definitely cowering.”

  Freaking Puo. How can he go from saving my ass and being the best, most awesome person in the world to needling me so effectively so quickly?

  “Where you been?” I ask Puo. “You know what? Never mind. Panda, you on the line?”

  Liáng answers, “Yes. I’m here—”

  “Great,” I say. “Let’s get out of here. Head back down to the underground station.”

  “Uh, okay,” Liáng says. “What is going on with the squiddies?”

  “Ah, yes,” Puo says smugly, “very mysterious indeed is the arcane practice of the digital magician. But fear not my analog muggle—”