by Nick Thacker
Knock, knock, knock.
Sylvia was beating on the side of the sub.
“Let me in! Please!”
Jen was shocked to hear a voice outside the sub—the woman’s. She didn’t dare speak, but instead turned to Mark.
He shrugged, and the ground beneath their feet shook harder.
“She thought it would be cute to start that machine again,” Nelson said. “Pretty sure this is exactly what she was trying to do. I say she stays out there until it’s over.”
No one argued, even as the knocking continued. Jen looked up to the cockpit and caught Reese’s attention.
“She was nice to me, but I think she was pretending the whole time,” he said.
Knock.
“Help me! Let me in!”
The voice was softer, as if it understood already that it was condemned.
Jen heard a loud creak as the station lilted sideways and came to rest. The sub was still shaking, and she heard two more pops from outside the sub.
“Hold on to something,” Nelson said. Everyone grabbed at the nearest handle, pipe, or protrusion on the sub’s interior as a massive force hit them from the side.
“It collapsed!” Saunders yelled. The water had overcome the station, the bubble no longer able to withstand the pressure with numerous holes in its frame. Outside, the sub was bombarded from all sides, and Mark, Saunders, and Jen fell to the floor.
Jen reached out for something and felt a hand. She grabbed at it, gripping it with her life. Nuts and gaskets popped from their decades-long home and shot through the sub, narrowly missing its occupants’ heads, but the sub held fast.
A dent appeared in the wall above Jen’s head, and she closed her eyes. She could hear the pressure condensing around the metal tube, putting years of engineering to the ultimate test.
The barrage continued for another minute, causing two more dents to the sub, each larger than the first. Finally the noise stopped and a deathly silence filled the cabin.
“Is that it?” Nelson asked. “You know, I almost expected worse.”
“That was it,” Saunders said, “but that’s not a good thing.”
“What do you mean?” Jen asked. “The submarine withstood the pressure. That’s what the question was, right?”
“Part of it.” Saunders was busy flicking switches behind Nelson’s seat, but stopped for a moment. “I can’t get this thing to turn on.”
“It doesn’t need to be on, right?” Mark asked. “I mean, we just need to rise. Can’t we just release the ballasts, or whatever it’s called?”
Saunders nodded but didn’t respond. She continued flicking switches. A dim light appeared in the entrance hatch, but nothing else she did had any effect. “It’s got to be here—”
She stopped after another few seconds. “There’s… there’s nothing…” She lowered herself to the floor. “No,” she whispered.
“Saunders,” Nelson asked. “What is it?”
“I tried everything,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to turn the thing on; I was just trying to get us to rise.”
“And you can’t?” Mark asked. “Is it broken?”
“No, that’s just it,” she said. “It’s fine. The ship’s responding well enough. It won’t navigate, or turn, but the tanks should be working fine. They’re registering control, but we’re not going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
She turned to Mark and Jen and looked up at them. “We’re not going anywhere because this thing’s bolted to the ground.”
58
They remained in the old submarine for over nine hours. Their bodies were each now stretched out as much as their quarters would allow them. Mark, Jen, and Reese all sat against one of the curving walls.
No one spoke. Each had considered the finality of death, but none had voiced it.
There was no food or water in the small space to keep them alive, but it would be the increasing level of CO2 in the air that would finally take their lives.
Saunders was still sitting on the floor of the sub, defeated. Nelson stirred, having slept with his head against a metal frame. He rubbed at the back of his head and sat up, still trying to find a way out, a loophole. He started fumbling with the switches at the top of the control panel, turning each one on and waiting for a reaction.
“There’s gotta be something—”
“Nelson.” Saunders’ voice stopped him cold. “There’s not. I told you. Those are the external lights, and this one’s the internal switch.” She pointed at some of the switches hanging above her head in the cramped space of the research submarine. “The ballast tanks are responding fine, but nothing’s happening. We’re dead in the water.”
“You got that right,” Nelson said. “So what do we do?”
Jen had to give him credit. She’d given up long ago, and he was still fighting, still trying to find a way out. His stubbornness had gotten them this far, and she assumed he wouldn’t let up until the ocean finally found its way into the sub.
No one answered him. For minutes, they all just sat, calmly silent. Jen wished she could pace around, but the tight quarters prevented anything but rocking gently back and forth in the claustrophobic space.
“Turn the lights on,” Nelson said.
“What?”
“Turn on the lights, Saunders.”
“Hog—come on, man,” she said. “I told you: we’ve got the single bulb in here. The others are burnt—”
“No, the exterior lights. Turn on the panel lights; get that spot going.”
Saunders didn’t respond, and Nelson didn’t wait. He rose from the chair and stepped toward her. “Which one is it?” he asked.
He started flicking the switches, frantically searching the control panel. Saunders finally pointed toward one. “There,” she said. She dropped her hand but continued to watch Nelson.
“Ah, right.” He flipped the small tab protruding from the circular button and immediately the small porthole at the front of the sub was illuminated in a yellow glow. Reese returned to the copilot chair and hunched forward on the seat, peering through the thick pane of glass at the distorted world beyond, Level Four, now filled with water.
Nelson looked back at Saunders, then at Mark and Jen. “You said the president was escorted here, right?”
Mark nodded.
“Then they’re waiting for him. You know they wouldn’t just let him vanish.”
Jen frowned. “Waiting? How? In another sub?”
“At least another sub, right?” Nelson said. “You heard Austin. They brought him down here, watched the sub dock, then stood by as the president came aboard, the docking station exploded, and the research station collapsed.”
Mark stood quickly, crouching and bending his neck to prevent his head from colliding with the ceiling. “No.” He said. “When the president docked, Austin killed the rest of his Secret Service and military team, remember? After that, wouldn’t he also have made sure their submarine was destroyed?”
“Maybe,” Saunders said. “If Austin’s plan was for everyone, including the president, to die, then yes. But if he needed a leader in this ‘new world’ idea of his, it wouldn’t have been smart to get rid of that guy’s only ride home.”
They all considered the options, and realized they only had one.
“We have to wait it out either way,” Nelson said. “If the sub’s out there—or anyone’s out there, they might see our light once the debris clears and the currents settle again. That machine underneath us may have been stopped by the water pressure just in time, but the vibrations probably caused more than a few radio operators up there to pee their pants.”
“If we can wait it out, the light will be plenty bright enough to alert them,” Saunders said, excited. She had regained her usual confidence and was now standing as well.
Just then, Jen felt a slight rumble. “Was that the machine?” Panic set in as she realized the power plant may have in fact finished the final rotation, and the two trench walls around them
were finally breached.
“I don’t think so,” Saunders said. “It’s regular, more like an engine.”
They were all standing now, with the exception of the president who remained hunched in his chair.
“They’re coming! That has to be it!”
Minutes passed, and Jen waited for another sound. Nothing.
The ocean around seemed to grow quieter every second, until finally the loudest thing she’d ever heard resonated from directly behind her head.
Whump.
The noise was dull but powerful; immediately close and yet unrecognizable.
Whump.
Another sound, this time from the opposite side of the sub.
“They’re pulling us off the concrete block!”
59
It had taken over four hours to spot the tiny submarine, but one of the radio crew finally found it. Someone on board had decided to turn on the exterior lights, shining a green-cast light outward and letting the advanced sighting technology on board the ship do its job.
Immediately, a submarine crew was in the water. They were lifted off the deck of the ship, a borrowed research vessel christened The Emory Strait. A number of Royal Marines and US Navy seamen guided the submersible, fitted with extended arms and a pulley-crane operation, over the edge and watched it sink into the water.
The two-man sub quickly descended, finally having a charted course directly below the ship. Sonar and communications systems, as well as the advanced targeting sights and construction arms of the sub, were quickly tested. Everything in working order, the sub continued its descent until it was lying just above the older, larger submarine mounted on the floor of the Atlantic.
The arms reached out and placed both of its telescoping drill heads near the two large bolts holding the submarine to the concrete base. It began to drill from both sides at once, taking advantage of the massive pressure of the deep ocean. The bolt left the base of the concrete with a soft pop, its head sheared from its shaft, and the small research sub moved around to the other side of its target.
It repeated the process two more times, shearing off three of the four bolts from the concrete. On the fourth bolt it stopped, placing one of its movable arms on top of the sub. It applied pressure, trying to prevent the almost-free sub from rising too quickly once the final bolt was severed.
The second arm drilled again, this time moving more slowly on its own. The final bolt broke free and shot away from the two submarines, and the now-free vessel began to push upwards. The two-man sub guided the other with the two arms, both allowing it to rise through the deep water but using its own ballast systems—both the main and redundant system now working in tandem at twice the power—to keep the submarines from shooting upwards like a cork.
The ascension process took all of two and –a half hours, each man in the sub taking careful note of the surrounding pressure, the status of the onboard systems, and the placement of the two arms on the neighboring sub’s back. They checked in regularly via radio, giving the surface team an accurate prediction of the surfacing time.
When the two submarines popped out of the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, deck crews cheered and began hoisting the ship’s crane and pulley to the starboard side of the ship, where a diving crew had already swam up next to the old submarine. They hitched the crane’s lift supports and struts to the underside of the sub and signaled for the operator to begin moving the vessel from the ocean to the deck of the research ship. Within another half hour, the submarine was ready to be opened.
Detective Craig Larson stood by, watching the entire process. He smiled with the cheering crewmen and women, and approached the submarine when it was finally on deck. A soldier nearby nodded, and he stepped forward. Two young Navy men, Rogers and Cabrera, he believed, began working on opening the top hatch of the sub. They succeeded, and Larson walked up the platform surrounding the small vessel.
60
They rose through the water for another few hours. Mark lost track of how long it had been, but he knew most of the group had long since fallen asleep. He stayed awake, watching Jen and Reese at the side of the sub.
He couldn’t tell if they were rising, falling, or staying in place, but the sensation of movement was there. It was an odd feeling, moving around as a completely weightless object without a sense of actual direction. After another fifteen minutes passed, Mark felt another sensation: were they stopping?
Saunders opened her eyes, followed soon after by Nelson.
“We home yet?” he asked.
Mark shrugged, but a popping sound resonated through the sub as the wheel at the top of the hatch began to open. In a moment Nelson was at the hatch, looking upward. He shielded his eyes as a blinding light pierced the dark interior.
Sunlight.
Mark had never felt so elated in his entire life. The light filled every space in the sub; no corner was left untouched. He felt its warmth wash over his face and arms, and he turned to look at Jen.
“We’re home,” she mouthed, not making a sound. He nodded.
A United States Navy soldier shouted down from the open hatch, and Nelson responded. He reached up to the ladder and lifted himself upward. Reese followed, Jen close behind, and Mark waited for Saunders to climb out.
Mark walked to the exit of the sub and looked up. A Navy officer’s face greeted him.
“I have something here I’ll need a hand with,” Mark said. He retreated toward the back of the sub and waited until he heard footsteps descending the ladder. The young soldier dropped to the metal floor and looked at Mark. His eyes grew wide and he instantly jumped for the ladder again.
“I need some help over here!” he yelled. “I’ve got the president down here, alive,” he added.
Within seconds, three more sailors had gathered around the hatch, and Mark moved around and began to lift the president from the chair. Before he walked toward the exit, he looked down and shook him gently, waiting for the man’s eyes to open. He had been fast asleep, still affected by the drugs.
The president’s eyes met Mark’s and widened. Mark smiled, reached into his pocket, and retrieved the small device he’d pocketed earlier. He pressed the small button on the side and waved it near the president’s temple.
“This is for my family, Mr. President.” Mark waved it again, and the president’s eyes glazed over. He felt for a pulse.
Good.
The first sailor had reached them and pulled the president away from Mark.
“Rogers! Get down here and help me out!” He threw the president’s arm over his shoulder and turned to exit. “I’ve got one more civ down here, too. Give me a hand!”
The man turned and nodded. Mark smiled at the young man. “He’s hurt, I think. Obviously shaken up, but I think there’s something more to it than that. He’s been acting strange since he got hit down there. Must have hit his head pretty badly.”
The Navy soldier thanked him and lifted the president’s arms to the waiting hands of the crewman standing around the hatch. Mark followed him out and was immediately escorted to a waiting inflatable craft moored next to their sub.
He was ushered next to Jen and Reese, and he sat down in the middle of the boat, facing Saunders and Nelson.
Mark slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her close. Reese moved to sit between Mark and Jen, and rested his head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked as she turned to him.
She nodded, moved her hand to his face, and kissed him.
61
Epilogue
Harold Mathers sat motionless, watching the small television mounted on the wall.
“Reports indicate some sort of brain damage caused by anaphylactic shock…”
The newscaster was standing in front of a green-screened image of the White House front gate, reading from a prepared statement from his Chief of Staff’s office.
“…Initial estimates predict that the damage will be limited to an area no larger than five hundred square m
iles in the mid-Atlantic, and recovery crews from FEMA have already been dispatched…”
Mathers reached up to wipe a drop of saliva from his lip. He felt his chin. It was covered in whiskers.
When was the last time I shaved?
He felt the skin on his cheek flare up as his hand grazed a spot that he’d apparently nicked with his razor.
“President Frank McKinney, recently returned from his trip abroad, has been working with the former First Lady Mathers on a worldwide press tour to explain and apologize for the unbelievable events of the past month…”
His tongue rolled slightly out over his bottom lip. He focused his attention on pulling it back into his mouth. The drop of saliva grew, now rolling over his whiskered chin and resting on the divot on his lower lip.
“Starting with Canada and England, the duo visited thirty-five countries in two months and presented to audiences of almost one billion people across television and radio networks. The speech has been translated to almost twenty languages, and outlines the terrible computer malfunctions that led to twelve ballistic missiles being simultaneously fired…”
Mathers reached up again to wipe it away just as a woman’s voice giggled from behind him. He was immediately distracted and his tongue dropped slightly out of his mouth once more.
“The efforts of Detective Craig Larson and his late partner Ken Dawson have led to the arrest of eighteen individuals believed to be involved in the Nouvelle Terre organization. Detective Dawson sadly perished in a house fire outside Washington…”
The giggling continued, and he shifted his eyes to the left as the woman entered his field of vision.
“Mr. Pres—Mr. Mathers,” she said, correcting herself, “how silly of you!” She reached to his lip and wiped away the growing blob of saliva with her sleeve. “You must be hungry. Come here, let’s get you to the cafeteria.”