by Bob Mayer
“My source in Chicago tells me that D’Angelo has disappeared, so that’s one loose end tied up. Although we didn’t plan it, Master took himself out of it last night. We still have the problem of Getty, who thinks you two are dead and would not be happy to see you surface. So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to whisper in somebody’s ear and see what happens.”
“Whose ear?” Giannini asked.
Pike turned, placing his back to the window. “There’s one other loose end—the two million that Philip Cobb stole. No one seems to know where that is, and as far as I can find out, the location died with Philip Cobb. However, we can use that information to our advantage. How do you think the Torrentinos would react if they found out that Getty double-crossed them for the two million and that Getty had Master kill Jill Fastone?”
Riley smiled for the first time in a while. “I think the Torrentinos wouldn’t like that very much at all.”
“I believe,” Pike continued, “that we should let the Torrentinos clean up the last loose ends.”
“What about us?” Giannini asked.
“Once this is closed out,” Pike said, “you both can go back to your old lives.”
“I left two bodies lying in an alley in Chicago,” Giannini noted. “I don’t think my former employer is going to be too thrilled about that.”
“They’re not thrilled,” Pike said, “but they are pragmatic. I talked to someone in the Chicago PD I trust—and who owes me a big favor—and laid out the situation. He said my information solves two homicides for them, which they always appreciate, and that no one is going to miss those two scumbags you killed anyway.”
“If I go along with that, it doesn’t make me much different from Master,” Giannini said.
“You didn’t kill those two men for money,” Riley said. “You did it to save your life, and you were involved in the whole thing in the first place because you were trying to help someone.”
“Correct,” Pike said. “And Dave, you’re on extended temporary duty until it’s safe for you to go back to Bragg. In the meantime, why don’t you two enjoy a little vacation here? I’ve got business to attend to.” Pike left the room.
Riley turned to Giannini and held out his hand. Giannini took it and joined him on the couch. He lay back, holding her in his arms.
“What do you think the people in D.C.—” she began.
“Hush,” Riley said, gently placing a finger over her lips. “It’s out of our hands now. The colonel has always given me very good advice and this time I’m going to follow it. So no more talk about what happened or what’s going to happen. I thought I lost you back in Chicago and it made me do some thinking. Now you’re here and that’s all I care about. Here and now.” He leaned forward, his lips meeting hers.
Epilogue
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
21 NOVEMBER, 5:30 a.m.
The man waited in the crawl space of the house with his eyes closed, his head leaned back against his small bag of tools. He had unscrewed the drainpipe two hours ago and made all the necessary connections. He cocked his head as he heard the dull echo of footsteps above. He checked the time on the slight fluorescent glow of his watch—just about right.
He heard the sound of the toilet flushing and then the rush of water to his immediate left through the PVC piping. With a slight screech, the shower was turned on, and water immediately began pouring out the open end of the pipe to his right, flowing onto the concrete. He moved quickly, taking a metal plumber’s snake and slipping the free end into the flow of water. He slid the snake up into the pipe, his fingers feeling the metal as it went. He’d left a piece of tape at the desired length; when he felt the tape, he stopped. The end of the snake was just below the metal drain cover of the tub above.
He grabbed a heavy rubber-coated wire that he had prepared earlier and connected the metal alligator teeth at the end onto the snake. Taking care to move away from both the water and the snake, he then picked up a small metal box that he had wired into the house circuit. He flipped a switch on the side of the box and began whistling.
Four feet over his head, Jamieson was frozen in the river of electricity that coursed through her body from the water below up to the showerhead. Her body shook in a spastic dance as synapses fired uncontrollably, her body’s normal neural functioning overwhelmed by the voltage.
The man had started counting slowly when he’d thrown the switch; when he reached thirty, he turned it off. He heard a deep thud as Jamieson’s body fell to the bottom of the porcelain tub. He withdrew the snake and coiled it; quickly reconnected the drainpipe; and disconnected his box from the house current, restoring the circuit breakers.
He exited from the crawl space into the backyard and picked the lock on the back door. Once inside, he made his way directly to the bathroom. He checked Jamieson to make sure she was dead, then took her hair dryer in gloved fingers and plugged it into the socket next to the sink. He turned it on and, holding it by the cord, dipped it into the toilet. A hiss told him that the water had completed the circuit and the plastic was melting. He kept the dryer there for five seconds, until the circuit breaker kicked in. He removed the dryer and placed the device into the tub with Jamieson. It looked like a stupid accident, but people died of stupidity every day. His job done, he left the way he had come in, making sure the door was secure behind him. He checked his watch as he strolled down the street.
6:15 a.m.
The heated water slid smoothly over Getty’s skin as he dove gracefully into the pool. The sky outside was still dark and the lights around the wall of the pool reflected off the surface. Getty swam one lap, flipped expertly, and turned and was heading back, his body slowly warming to the exercise. His wife was still asleep and would be for another two hours. This was his time to work out and relax before driving to work.
On his eighth lap he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow as he made the turn. Slowing, Getty raised his head out of the water and pulled up his swimming goggles. A man dressed in dark slacks and a sweater was standing at the near edge, whistling a tune Getty found vaguely familiar.
“Who the hell are you?” Getty growled, treading water.
The man lifted his right hand. Getty started, then relaxed, seeing that the man held only a small plastic spray bottle.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Getty demanded, slowly backing away.
With three smooth pulls on the plastic trigger, the man released a fine mist that drifted in the air over the pool. He turned and was gone out the back door, quietly closing and locking it behind him. Getty started to swim across the pool, going for the phone near the house door to call the police, when he felt a tingling sensation in his right arm. As he grabbed the edge of the pool, his left arm was affected and he lost his grip, splashing awkwardly back into the water. In ten seconds he could no longer kick and keep his head above water.
By the time his wife found the body two hours later and the police arrived, the muscle inhibitor had dissipated. Cause of death was listed officially as accidental drowning.
ANNANDALE, VIRGINIA
21 NOVEMBER, 6:45 a.m.
The traffic along Route 650, known locally as Gallows Road, was light this time of morning, and Tucker enjoyed gunning the engine on his Jaguar and weaving in and out of traffic, playing beat the light and beat your neighbors. He pressed down on the gas, gave the steering wheel a slight tug to the left, and ignored the bleat from a blue BMW as he cut in front and roared toward the next traffic light.
The light turned yellow, which he took as an indication to speed up. Too late, he saw the tow truck coming from the left, its driver not slowing one bit for the upcoming intersection. Tucker slammed on the brakes and threw the wheel to the right. The laws of physics overruled the quick prayer Tucker screamed out. The high steel bumper on the tow truck smashed into the left side of his car at twenty miles an hour.
Tucker ducked. That move saved his life as the left roof post was sheared off and glass exploded inward. He felt a searing pain as th
e left front wheel was punched back through the wheel well, compressing the entire control console against his legs, breaking both of them and pinning him in the seat. The steering wheel had also been knocked back and pressed against his chest, causing his breath to come in slow, labored gasps.
In the sudden silence after both vehicles came to rest, Tucker heard a door slam. A face peered around the edge of the bumper into the wreckage of his car. Tucker twisted his head, trying to ascertain how badly he was hurt.
“I can’t get out,” he gasped. “Help me.”
The tow truck driver leaned forward, having difficulty reaching through the torn metal. He awkwardly got one hand on Tucker’s neck.
At first Tucker thought the man was checking his pulse, but the fingers curled around and gripped his jaw.
“What are you—” Tucker started to say when the man jerked his arm back, pulling Tucker’s head around with it and snapping his neck.
“I need some help here!” the tow truck driver yelled, stepping back from the two cars into the gathering crowd. “Somebody call an ambulance!” As he moved away, he began to whistle, his hands laced behind his back. He waited until the crowd had grown large enough, then he slipped away from the stolen truck and the scene of the fatal accident.
THE END
Next in the Series is Eternity Base
PURCHASE
Bob Mayer has always had a fascination for mythology and history. In his Atlantis Series, he mixes them both to create a thrilling ride into a lost world.
FLIGHT 19 AD 1945
FORT LAUDERDALE AIR STATION
“Sir, I request stand-down from this afternoon's training flight.”
Captain Henderson looked up from the papers on his desk. The young man standing in front of him wore starched khakis, the insignia of a corporal in the Marine Corps sewn onto the short sleeves. On his chest were campaign ribbons dating back to Guadalcanal.
“You have a reason, Corporal Foreman?” Henderson asked. He didn't add that Lieutenant Presson, the leader of Training Flight 19 had just been in his office making the same request. Henderson had denied the officer's immediately, but Foreman was a different matter.
“Sir, I've got enough service points to be mustered out in the next week or so.” Foreman was a large man, broad shouldered. His dark hair was swept back in thick waves, flirting with regulations, but with the war just a few months over, some rules had waned in the euphoria of victory.
“What does that have to do with the flight?” Henderson asked.
Foreman paused and his stance broke slightly from the parade rest he had assumed after saluting. “Sir, I--”
“Yes?”
“Sir, I just don't feel good. I think I might be sick.”
Henderson frowned. Foreman didn't look sick. In fact his tan skin radiated health. Henderson had heard this sort of thing before, but only before combat missions, not a training flight. He looked at the ribbons on Foreman's chest, noted the Navy Cross and bit back the hasty reply that had formed on his lips.
“I need more than that,” Henderson said, softening his tone.
“Sir, I have a bad feeling about this flight.”
“A bad feeling?”
“Yes, sir.”
Henderson let the silence stretch out.
Foreman finally went on. “I had a feeling like this before. In combat.” He stopped, as if no further words were required.
Henderson leaned back in his seat, his fingers rolling his pencil end over end.
“What happened then, corporal?”
“I was on the Enterprise, sir. Back in February. We were scheduled to do an attack run off the coast of Japan. Destroy everything that was floating. I went on that mission.”
“And?”
“My entire squadron was lost.”
“Lost?”
“Yes, sir. They all disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No survivors?”
“Just my plane's crew, sir.”
“How did you get back?”
“My plane had engine trouble. The pilot and I had to bail out early. We were picked up by a destroyer. The rest of the squadron never came back. Not a plane. Not a man.”
Henderson felt a chill tickle the bare skin below his own regulation haircut. Foreman’s flat voice, and the lack of detail, bothered the captain.
“My brother was in my squadron,” Foreman continued. “He never came back. I felt bad before that flight, Captain. As bad as I feel right now.”
Henderson looked at the pencil in his hand. First, Lieutenant Presson with his feelings of unease and now this. Henderson's instinct was to give Foreman the same order he'd given the young aviator. But he looked at the ribbons one more time. Foreman had done his duty many times. Presson had never been under fire. Foreman was a gunner, so his presence would make no difference one way or the other. “All right, corporal, you can sit the flight out. But I want you to be in the tower and work the monitoring shift. Are you healthy enough to do that?”
Foreman snapped to attention. There was no look of relief on his face, just the same stoic Marine Corps stare. “Yes, sir.”
“You're dismissed.”
Atlantis by Bob Mayer on Amazon
The Shadow Warriors
Omega Missile
Prelude: JANUARY-JUNE 1998
THERE WASN'T A cloud in the sky and the air temperature in the eastern end of the Mediterranean was eighty degrees. The temperature of the water was a comfortable seventy-two. The surface of the sea was so smooth and flat that any disturbance of the water could be spotted easily. The moon was almost full and it reflected off the mirror surface, giving sixty-five percent illumination, aiding any prying eyes.
The American submarine lay eight kilometers off shore, due west of southern Lebanon. It was dead in the water a hundred feet down. On the back deck, just behind the conning tower, a hatch opened in the hull, leading to a pressurized compartment, the dry deck shelter—DDS—which was bolted onto the deck.
The two men climbing through the hatch into the DDS wore wet suits and carried their gear in waterproof rucksacks. As soon as they were inside, the hatch was closed behind them and sealed.
The two men ran through the pre-operations checks on the vehicle tied down inside the DDS: the Mark IX SDV (Swimmer Delivery Vehicle). The Mark IX was a long, flattened rectangle with propellers and dive fins at the rear and a Plexiglas bubble at the front for the crew to see through. A little over nineteen feet long, it was only slightly more than six feet wide and drew less than three feet from top to bottom.
After five minutes both men were satisfied with the craft. The batteries were at full charge and all equipment was functioning properly.
The divers slid inside the SDV, closing the hatches behind them. They hooked the hose from their mouthpieces directly to the interior air valves to breathe from the vehicle's tanks.
The man on the right spoke into the radiophone which was connected by umbilical to the sub. "Amber, this is Topaz. We are ready to proceed. Over."
"Roger, Topaz. We read all green here. Over."
"Request flood and release. Over."
"Flood and release will be initiated in twenty seconds. We'll leave the porch light on. Umbilicals cut in five. Good luck. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."
The radiophone went dead. With a heavy gurgle, water began pouring into the dry dock shelter. The pilot worked at keeping the SDV at neutral buoyancy as the chamber filled. Water also flooded into the crew chamber inside the SDV where the two divers lay on their stomachs peering out the front canopy. The Mark IX was a "wet" submersible meaning that the only waterproofed sections were the engine, battery, and navigational computer compartments. The two crewmen could feel the warm water seep into their wet suits and they forced out small pockets of air, trying to get as comfortable as possible in their confined space.
Once the chamber was full, the large hatch on the end of the DDS slowly swung open. The pilot ac
tivated the twin, three-bladed propellers and the SDV cleared the DDS. The long length of the submarine lay beneath them for another two hundred feet. Once in open ocean, the pilot directed the Mark IX up and down and from side to side using stabilizers, both horizontal and vertical, that were aligned to the rear of the propellers. A throttle controlled the speed of the blades, and thus the speed of the sub.
The second diver was the navigator and he was currently punching in numbers on the waterproofed panel in front of him.
"Fixing Doppler," he announced over the internal communication link between him and his partner. The computerized Doppler radar navigation system was now updated with their current location, received from the submarine prior to departure, and would guide them on their underwater journey, greatly simplifying a task that previously was a nightmare in pitch-black seas. The SDV also boasted an obstacle-avoidance sonar subsystem, which provided automatic warning to the pilot of any obstacles in the sub's path—an essential given that at their current depth they could see little more than a foot in front of them and would be "flying" blind, trusting the Doppler and their charts for navigation. The SDV had a pair of high-power halogen lights facing forward, but they were not an option on this mission.
"Course set. All clear," the navigator announced.
The pilot increased power to the propellers and they moved away from the sub, heading due east.
"What do you think, Chief?" the pilot finally asked, now that they were alone and out of the presence of higher-ranking officers. They both wore dive masks and mouthpieces, with transmitters wrapped around their necks. When they spoke, their voices sounded strangely garbled because the mouthpiece was held with the teeth while the speaker articulated with his throat.
The navigator, satisfied that everything was running smoothly, finally looked up from his panel at his cohort. "The politicians and bureaucrats ought to get their heads out of their asses and go public with this crap. That's what I think, Captain," Chief Petty Officer McKenzie replied.