Leviathan: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Colonel?” Mendenhall said, standing at the elevator as Jack went inside.

  “Go to the clean level and get Captain Everett. Then you and he meet me on level seventy-three, vault 298907.”

  Mendenhall was left standing there as the doors slid closed.

  Jack could smell the burned plastic and carpeting before the elevator even came to a stop. The doors opened and he stepped out into the long, curving hallway. Europa had restored all of the electrical systems, and Collins could see fifty men combing through the wreckage of the vaults.

  He shook his head and started forward, passing one of his security men who was armed with an M-16. He stepped through the now-dead security portal and into the vault area.

  Professor Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III, head of the cryptozoology department, had volunteered for cleanup on the level, and so he had been placed in charge of documenting, cleaning, and restoring the artifacts that had been damaged. Collins saw the professor was still very upset at the wanton destruction of the vaults. Jack watched the professor run a hand through his wild white hair.

  “Colonel Collins, it is so very good to see you. I and my crypto department were very pleased to hear—”

  “Thanks, Professor,” Jack said, knowing he couldn’t take one more pleasurable greeting at how happy they were he had returned from beyond the river Styx. “Vault 298907?”

  “Oh, uh … there’s not much left, I’m afraid. It’s right here.” He gestured to the large vault three enclosures down from where they stood. “It seems that vault and the two nearest it received the brunt of the damage, possibly because of its size, and its fragile and dangerous content.”

  “Dangerous?”

  Ellenshaw looked at his clipboard. “Oh yes, it seems there were five hundred batteries inside the artifact—old, but with enough dried acid to have reacted with the fire, causing a considerable explosion.”

  “Thanks, Professor,” Jack said, patting him on the shoulder and making his way to the large vault with the scorched steel door standing ajar. “And Charlie, it’s good to see you, too.”

  Ellenshaw smiled, nodded, and then went back to work, with a last look back at Collins.

  Jack had to use the strength of both arms to push the door open. The vault was filled with temporary lighting that cast shadows on the burned and broken remains of the submarine recovered in 1967. Jack remembered it had been one of the first artifacts shown him upon being assigned to the Event Group. It was also one of the more intriguing items he had ever seen during his time here.

  Jack opened the file, standing next to one of the temporary light stands, and read the vault synopsis. Carbon-14 dating had placed the submarine’s age at 150 years, plus or minus ten years. He lowered the file and looked at what remained of the skeletal shape of her hull. The iron had melted away during the intense heat of the fire, and her battery system, one that had even shocked the few engineers brought in from General Dynamics’ Electric Boat Division, was a melted lump at the bottom of the artifact. At one time, you could clearly see that this was once a miracle of technology.

  Jack had been told that it had possibly been the model for Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. At the time it was wholly believable, because you could still make out the spiked conning tower and rounded bow. At more than three hundred feet in length and displacing twenty thousand tons, she was almost the exact model of today’s advanced attack navy boats.

  “She’s a mess.”

  Jack turned and saw Everett and Mendenhall standing just inside the vault.

  “That she is. Tell me, Carl, you’re a navy man. If this sub was built before or just after the start of the Civil War, how far do you think the technology would have advanced by the present time?”

  Everett entered and tried not to splash sooty water on his jumpsuit. He dodged a hanging piece of electrical line and placed a hand on what was once the curvature of the spherical bow.

  “I couldn’t begin to estimate the advances this science would have made if it wasn’t checked. You think we’re dealing with the same people who built this?”

  “Why not? It makes sense. The fact that they destroyed a link to their past is convincing enough, but seeing this—”

  “From looking at the outside in, Colonel, the notes on this investigation really had nothing to say. At least nothing stands out that would make them want this artifact destroyed.”

  Everett and Jack turned and looked at Mendenhall. They never remembered the new lieutenant using such a long sentence before.

  “What?” Will asked, wondering what it was he had said wrong.

  “You’re right, Lieutenant, that’s all,” Collins answered. “What were they afraid of us uncovering from this boat?”

  Everett and Mendenhall were as perplexed as Jack.

  “Whatever it is, it’s in this file, and in this wreck. Either something found during the original forensics on the artifact in nineteen sixty-seven, or something we may find now. So, we need someone combing through the file, and we need another workup on the remains.”

  “And hope it all wasn’t burned to hell.”

  Jack slapped the file into Mendenhall’s chest. “Right, Lieutenant. You have your job. Grab anyone you need, form any team, and get me an answer.”

  Will took the file and almost dropped it in the dirty water; his expression said that the order would be hard to complete.

  “Yes, sir…. Can I have any doc or professor I want?”

  “Yes, just grab them and go. We need answers, Lieutenant, so get it done.”

  LEVIATHAN, THREE HUNDRED

  MILES OFF THE NORTHERN COAST

  OF VENEZUELA

  The first officer climbed the spiral staircase slowly, making his way into the observation lounge on the lowest deck of the conning tower. He knocked, opened the hatch to the captain’s private suite, and saw her sitting in the large, high-backed chair, staring silently out of the thirty-five-by-twenty-foot port window at the passing sea outside of the pressure hull.

  “Captain, I am sorry to disturb you, but I thought you would want to know that you were right in what the presidents of the United States and Venezuela would try to do. We have confirmed the sailing orders of four crude oil tankers from Portsmouth this morning. They have Royal Navy escort, with at least one Trafalgar class submarine shadowing them.”

  “Venezuela?”

  “Two tankers with Chinese and Venezuelan escort vessels,” Samuels answered, looking away from the captain as he did. When he looked back up, he could tell the captain was thinking with eyes closed, as was the custom for the master of Leviathan.

  “Will we allow them passage, as you wished to do this morning?”

  As he watched she opened her eyes, and the first officer saw that at the moment she wasn’t medicated. Her eyes were clear and full of fire—hate-filled and angry.

  The captain stood in the green-tinted sea reflection mixed with the darkness, and then stepped from the raised platform. She stepped slowly to the large rounded window and held a gloved hand to the thick glass, then leaned against it with a sigh.

  “Captain, are you all right? Would you like the doctor to—?”

  “The planned attack is ready?”

  “Yes, Captain, but your orders were to avoid any further bloodshed.”

  “I have a change of orders for you. You will target the warships only. Leave the tankers, they are to go on their way unmolested. I suspect a small deceit, at least on the British and American side of the board. I also do not want one Chinese or British warship, or the Americans if they join them, to ever see port again. Loss of life be damned.” The captain slapped at the glass and then took a step back. “They are testing the wrong person, James; explain to them in no uncertain terms how Leviathan can be in two places at one time.”

  “Perhaps we can meet with our guests first…. I mean, Captain, we have the time; these vessels will take a week or more to reach their destinations. We could avoid the loss of life while we explain
why we have taken actions in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Mr. Samuels, we need fortitude in doing what needs to be done. We are not fighting for ourselves. There has been too much loss of sea life in the Med to lose what we have in the gulf. Now, please, do as I command.”

  The first officer bowed his head. “Yes, Captain.”

  “James, you have never hesitated in following my orders before now. Perhaps you had better explain your hesitancy in this instance.”

  The first officer paused at the large hatchway, then slowly turned.

  “I will never question your orders, Captain. However, you’re countermanding everything you laid out before we sailed. I am wondering if maybe you’re not telling me something—your health, the sessions with the doctor? And why is Sergeant Tyler present at most of these appointments?”

  The face never turned from the window, but he could see that the captain’s eyes were closed and she was biting her lower lip. For the life of him, he could swear she was in conflict deep within herself.

  “I … I don’t recall meeting with the …”

  The words stopped as she turned and made her way back to the large chair, signaling an end to his questioning.

  “I will report on the attack as soon as we have long-range damage assessment, Captain.”

  He waited for a response, but when none came he slowly left the private control room.

  As the captain sat with eyes closed, she tried to remember the last medical session with the ship’s surgeon, but she couldn’t recall anything through the pain of her current headache. She remembered the early morning visits to the sickbay to check on Colonel Collins—those moments were clear, as she remembered forming her plans. If these other sessions had happened, why was Sergeant Tyler present? If he was, she must get an explanation as to why.

  Niles heard the knock on the door just as Henri Farbeaux stepped from the bathroom, looked at him, and saw he made no move to answer it. He tossed the towel he was drying his hands on over his shoulder and opened the door.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Our captain has asked that you join the first officer in the command center,” a young-faced officer said, stepping aside and allowing the senator, Alice, and Virginia to step by him. “The others are ready to go, as you can see.”

  Niles, resplendent in his issued red jumpsuit, walked past Farbeaux and out into the companionway.

  “Colonel?”

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  The officer kept his politeness. “The captain has informed us since you are an uninvited guest onboard, you are highly expendable, so please, Colonel, come with us.”

  Henri smiled, pulled his jumper top up, and bowed. “Your power of persuasion has moved me. I must thank your captain in person.”

  “You’ll have that chance very soon, sir.” The officer closed the door, the polite smile gone when he knew they could not see.

  As they were shown to a rail overlooking the control center—the very brain of Leviathan—they were stunned. With the dimensions of a basketball court, it coursed with a pulse that was electric. At least sixty technicians operated stations that were unrecognizable to anyone but a science-fiction aficionado. There were large-screen monitors and 3-D displays of their surroundings. The tech stations were bathed in dim lighting of greens, blues, and reds. Sonar stations, weapons, environmental control—but that was as far as Niles and his knowledge went. The other stations were as much a mystery to him as the origins of this vessel. There were holograms showing the status of missilelike weapons and torpedoes. An even larger hologram, which showed the distinctive shape of Leviathan as she sliced through the sea underneath the surface, took up what they thought was the navigation platform. The navigation console was like a cartoon, animated and accurate in every detail.

  “Officer of the deck, we are at station precisely three hundred miles offshore of Venezuela. We have multiple surface contacts. Air search is negative at this time,” a female operator called out.

  As they watched, they saw the first officer for the first time. The man was of normal height, maybe six feet, one inch. His hair was blond and he was clean-shaven. His uniform was impeccably starched, and it wasn’t a jumpsuit. His attire was tan, almost as if he were serving in the U.S. Navy. He didn’t sit in the large command chair that sat upon a raised platform, but stood at its side with his arm resting on the pedestal above as he studied the hologram of Leviathan and its surrounding waters in a five-hundred-mile circle.

  “Very well. Long-range sonar, what do we have off the Scottish coast?”

  Niles turned to a brown-suited Senator Lee, somewhat jealous that he and Alice were accorded the comfort of civilian clothes. Lee even had his customary bowtie.

  “They have a sonar suite that can operate that far?”

  “I suspect we may be in for a lot of surprises, Niles, my boy,” Lee answered.

  “We are picking up the power plant noises of the HMS Monmouth and her sister frigate Somerset; one Type 45 destroyer, HMS Daring; and one Type 42, HMS Birmingham. Two other destroyers have yet to join the convoy. We also have the prop signatures of VLCS tankers—Exxon Gale, Palace Guard, Texaco Sky, and the Shell Madrid. Propeller depth indicates fully loaded oil bunkers.”

  “Thank you. Weapons, give me a status report, please.” The first officer bowed his head and closed his eyes as he listened to the reports.

  “Torpedo tubes one through ten loaded with standard Mark eighty-nines. Standard war shot with delayed sonar activation; their computers are active in the tubes and tracking. Vertical tubes ten through fifteen are hot with type-forty Vengeance cruise missiles, and outer doors are ready at your discretion.”

  “Very well. Diving officer, make your depth three hundred; slow speed to five knots.”

  “Aye, chief of the boat, slow to five knots; make your attack depth three hundred.”

  The command was relayed to the helmsman and planesman sitting in airlinelike pilot seats. They wore strange-looking helmets that covered their entire heads as they watched their virtual-reality displays that were invisible to all others, followed their orders, and made their speed and depth adjustments. Leviathan started a climb toward the surface.

  “Goddamn it, they’re attacking two different convoys,” Niles said, stepping forward.

  Farbeaux quickly grabbed Niles by the arm and stayed him.

  “Mr. Director, if they are forced to shoot you, a stray bullet may very well strike me, and that just would not do.”

  Niles closed his eyes and nodded, getting Farbeaux’s meaning and intent. He was placing the others in jeopardy, and Henri pointed that fact out using his dry wit. Sarah nodded once in thanks, and Farbeaux looked at her intently.

  “Officer of the deck, we are at station. IP is achieved.”

  “Thank you, helm. Weapons, you are free to launch forward tubes one through ten. Give me a full spread and let me know when the weapons have achieved station keeping.”

  “Aye.” The weapons officer turned a key in his large console and then pushed the brightly illuminated buttons lining its top, one at a time, until they were all green.

  Lee, Farbeaux, Virginia, and Lee all noticed that when it came to the launching of weapons, the crew of Leviathan used the old-fashioned, hands-on way, rather than trusting the holographic imagery technology.

  “Tubes one through ten are empty, and torpedoes are free of the boat. All are traveling hot, straight, and normal.” The weapons officer watched the large hologram in front of him. The small torpedoes (at least compared to the size of Leviathan) were seen traveling away from the red depiction of the submarine. “Weapons have stopped dead in the water and have gone to passive search. We have achieved station keeping for delayed-attack profile.” The torpedoes floated in the water and were now arrayed like an open fan, just sitting there.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You have permission to fire vertical tubes. You are weapons-free.” The first officer lowered his head, brought his right hand to his chin, and waited. When the weapons of
ficer reported all tubes and weapons were launched, the first officer chanced a look into the gallery fifty feet above the control center. He looked at each accusing face in the semidarkness above him, then just as quickly looked away.

  They all watched the hologram at the center console as five missiles lifted away from her hull just forward of the conning tower. They traveled up and out of the water, which was represented by a soft green, wavy surface. Then, three hundred feet into the air, the five cruise missiles turned and headed east.

  “Mr. Hunter, you have the conn. I’ll be in my cabin.”

  “Aye, sir, I have the conn. Navigation, set your course to three-two-zero. Let’s take her to the ice.”

  Niles took a deep breath and looked at the senator.

  “Whoever they are, we just learned that they are entirely capable of doing what they threatened to do, and that means a very slow and very painful strangulation for the world.”

  The others turned and followed Niles out of the observation gallery, never knowing that eyes were on them from the deep recesses of the balcony overlooking both the gallery and the control center.

  The captain of Leviathan stood motionless in the dark and watched the members of the Event Group slowly file out. Then the large eyes closed and the head lowered, and as it did, hair the color of the darkest pit of hell fell free and covered the captain’s face and shoulders.

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The president had excused himself from lunch with his wife and a visiting women’s group from Kansas City so he could go to his office and check on the progression of the British and Venezuelan naval convoys. He had been absent from the lunch mentally, at any rate. He fielded questions from the ladies without actually hearing them, much to the dismay of the First Lady who had taken up the slack brilliantly. The news from the home front and overseas had been bleak all day. Riots in China over fuel shortages, fights breaking out at the largest fish markets in Japan over no fish, and even brawls at gas lines at home for the first time since 1978, and things were far worse than the public really knew. The United States’ strategic reserve of oil and gas was down to 25 percent.