Leviathan: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  As the president entered the Oval Office, the national security advisor followed him quickly inside.

  “If you’re here this soon, this can’t be good news,” the president said, sitting heavily into his chair.

  “I wish it were. Both the British and Venezuelan convoys were attacked almost simultaneously.”

  “Christ,” the president mumbled.

  “Admiral Fuqua and General Caulfield are on their way over to brief you fully. However, we do have some details. The Royal Navy was bloodied, Mr. President. Two frigates and two destroyers were lost, with only five survivors. The submarine HMS Trafalgar was also sunk with all hands. The tankers were also struck and sunk. It’s like they knew they were a red herring.”

  The president rubbed his forehead and then slammed his hand on the desktop. The plan to ambush the entity trying to kill their sea commerce included the bait of the four tankers. However, the president and British prime minister had made the decision that the danger of a massive oil spill in the oceans would have been far too costly a gamble, so the tankers had been filled with seawater.

  “Is there anything these murderous bastards don’t know?” he said as he tried to calm himself.

  “No, sir. It seems they also knew the Venezuelan tankers were full of crude. While weapons of unknown design took all four warships apart, the two tankers were struck in the rudder and engine compartments by very low-yield torpedoes. They are presently being towed back into port as we speak. They accomplished their goal without causing any environmental impact. The weapons used were waiting for them; they must have been placed in the water hours ahead of time.”

  “Advise Admiral Fuqua that I want the Nimitz battle group turned back for home. We can’t lose anything else to these madmen until we get a handle on who in the hell they are. They wanted to show that we are combat-ineffective against their technology.”

  9

  EVENT GROUP COMPLEX,

  NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

  Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III sat on an overturned file cabinet with his bone white, bare feet in the sooty water of the burned-out vault. Members of his crypto team were silent after they had removed most of what was left of the old submarine, placing the parts on long tables for examination. Ellenshaw took a deep breath as he turned the last page of the original file—metallurgy results conducted back in 1967 on the sub’s internal bulkheads.

  “Nothing extraordinary, just iron, strong iron to be sure, but just iron,” he mumbled to himself.

  Nancy Birdsong, an Native American student from the University of North Dakota sitting next to her professor, gently removed the file from his hands and closed it.

  “Professor, we’re cryptozoologists. Did you ever think we’re a little out of our league here? I mean, the research aspect, yes, we can do that, but analyzing metal shards and the remains of prototype batteries from history, when most of us can’t even understand how a battery works today?”

  Ellenshaw smiled and looked at the girl over his glasses.

  “We know you want to do your part to find the director and the others in the worst way. We know how you feel about him, but maybe we can help in some other area. Get more engineers in here, not just crazy Charlie and his creepo team.”

  “Why doesn’t the ribbing and teasing from the science departments bother you as much as many others?”

  Nancy stood and smiled. “Don’t you know? We feel about you the way you feel about Director Compton.” She took the file and moved away.

  Ellenshaw knew her to be right. They needed to get out of the way down here and let the engineers have a go at the forensics end. He looked at his watch. Maybe by now the engineers were freed up from their safety inspection of the complex’s rock strata.

  As he looked around at his hardworking department, he stood, his long lab coat slipping into the foot-deep water. As he took a step forward to announce to his team the suspension of the search, his foot came into contact with something that moved on the vault floor. He rolled up his already wet sleeve, reached into the water, and pulled the object free. As he lifted it, he could see it was hardened rubber. He turned it over in his hand until he recognized it for what it was—part of the outer casing for one of the batteries once encased in the bottom of the hull. He looked at the tables in front of him and saw what was left of the three hundred batteries. For the most part, they had been reduced to blackened and hardened lumps by fire and explosion.

  “A shame, for someone to have invented batteries like these years before the advent of electrical power. Well—just a shame,” he mumbled as he placed the melted, smelly piece upon the table.

  “Not only that, rubber was hard to come by at the time. It had to come from Southeast Asia, from a plantation in Dutch Indochina, er … uh, Vietnam,” the young technician said as she placed the Leviathan file next to the rubber.

  Ellenshaw stood stock-still as her words soaked in. Plantations? He walked over and picked up the file, splashing dirty water on the young woman as he did.

  “These batteries would have had to be designed long before the boat was built, wouldn’t you think?” he asked as he hurriedly paged through the open file, his white hair moving as he read snippets of the report.

  “I guess so—what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that a mass quantity of rubber would have to have been ordered for experimentation and research—not counting the amount it would take to actually construct them,” he said, lowering the file. “It’s not here,” he said, looking at the far wall lost in thought.

  “What’s not there?” she asked, stepping up to stand next to him.

  “The analysis on the battery casings.”

  “You mean the rubber?”

  “Yes,” Ellenshaw said as his gaze wandered the interior of the vault, not settling on any one spot.

  The cryptozoologist walked over to the lump of burned rubber and ran his slim fingers over its rough surface.

  “Several tons of raw rubber would have been used in the research and construction of the many, many batteries enclosed in the vessel. I’m sure of it, it’s so obvious,” he said as he finally looked down at his assistant. “Traceable rubber.” He smiled for the first time.

  “I don’t think you can trace rubber, Professor,” she said.

  “Not the rubber, Miss Birdsong—the research and development, and the plantations that produced it.”

  “You think you can trace the research and plantations back that far?”

  “One thing you can always count on is the fact that companies and universities the world over require data—progress reports for the expenditure of funds—and those reports have to be filed.”

  “But it’s been so long—”

  Ellenshaw didn’t hear her words as he shot out of the vault and disappeared.

  The meeting inside the main conference room on level seven began on time.

  “Before we get started, I just overheard several conversations about the kidnapping of our personnel. This has to stop. It may sound cold to many of you, but that train of thinking will just get in our way. It will make you try too hard, press, and believe me, you’ll screw up. Now, let’s get started.”

  Pete nodded toward Will Mendenhall, who turned and opened the door for three women to enter the conference room. They were carrying two large plastic containers. They placed these on the conference table.

  “This is Professor Angela Vargas, of the physics and nuclear sciences department. She’s heading things up in Virginia’s absence,” Pete explained.

  As the young physicist pulled material from the first box, Jack noticed for the first time that Charles Hindershot Ellenshaw III was not present; he never made it back from the burned-out vault area. In addition, Dr. Gene Robbins was missing from the meeting. Collins hoped both men were getting somewhere with their individual assignments.

  “This is one of the protective jumpsuits the attackers were wearing, recovered from one of the bodies—the one killed by Lieutenant M
cIntire,” Vargas said as she looked at her notes.

  Everett chanced a look over at Jack, but he sat stoically and did not react at all to Sarah’s name or her killing of one of the assailants.

  “At first glance, we thought it was a standard special forces-issued garment, until we placed it under the electron microscope per Dr. Golding’s orders to leave no stone unturned. Well, he was right.” She handed the black jumpsuit to Jack. He didn’t react to the dried blood. “Colonel, feel the material. What would your opinion be?”

  “It feels like standard issue, maybe with some Kevlar weaved in, what we would call Nomex IIIA.”

  “Very good, Colonel, however you are wrong. Not Nomex, not polyester, not a Kevlar weave.” She looked around the room for dramatic effect. “It’s seaweed.”

  The department heads mumbled as they looked at the material.

  “That’s right, Callophycus serratus, very rare, very expensive. This seaweed has also been known to kill cancer cells. Therefore, if someone has such an abundance of this seaweed to make clothing, they must have a rich farm of unknown size in the ocean depths.”

  “Where is this seaweed found, Professor?” Jack asked as he and many others were busy scribbling on the pads.

  “Two of the only known sites in the world are located just off of Fiji, and the largest is off Papua, New Guinea. The rest of the seaweed beds in the world wouldn’t be enough to make a string bikini, much less outfit a bunch of pirates.”

  “Very good, nice start, Professor. What else have you got?” Pete asked.

  “This.” She brought out one of the strange-looking weapons. It was short, powerful looking, and jet-black.

  Carl Everett sat up and looked at the weapon Professor Vargas was holding so cavalierly. When she suddenly tossed the weapon at him, he caught it with both hands. Then his eyebrows rose and he stood away from the table. The entire weapon, with ammunition magazine, could not have weighed more than three pounds.

  “It’s light, too light to be real,” Carl said as he handed the weapon to Jack.

  “There’s a reason for that, Captain. It’s not made of steel. Believe me when I say no gunsmith in the world has ever seen anything like that weapon. I fired it myself at the shooting range. It’s compact and extremely accurate.”

  “Okay, you’ve amazed us, Professor. What’s it made of?”

  “All we know is that it is some kind of polymer. Plastic, but unlike any plastic we have ever seen before. It will take months to break the matrix down so we can analyze it. However, a new plastic is not what’s so amazing about this weapon—it’s the characteristics of the material. For the first time in history, someone has invented a biodegradable plastic that will disintegrate, with only natural forces working against it, in fifteen to twenty years of being buried in soil.”

  “Impossible,” several men and women said at the same time.

  “Our environmental chamber experiments are documented and are available, and confirmed through Europa. It’s there, read the report. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here, but whoever they are, they’re far more than a century ahead of us in technology.”

  The room grew quiet as everyone absorbed what the professor had said. Their hopes of finding and stopping this group were growing fainter.

  Carl looked over at Jack and stood.

  “I’m getting back to work. Dr. Robbins needs supervision.”

  Collins nodded as Everett left the conference room.

  “Thank you, Professor. Please inform me when you have conducted tests on all material recovered from our intruders.” Pete rubbed his forehead and tried to think, but he was just too tired. He removed his thick glasses and looked at all the department heads.

  “You have your assignments in front of you. Some departments will be coordinating with others that seemingly have no business being put together. We are shorthanded and have been for the past six weeks. The next few days won’t be any different. We’re calling in former members to assist in filling vacancies, but that will take a while. Thank you, we’ll meet again when we—”

  At that moment, the doors opened and in came Ellenshaw. He held up a sheath of papers and several computer discs. He nodded at Pete, indicating he had news.

  Pete nodded to Ellenshaw, who in turn gave several discs to the audiovisual technician who dimmed the lights and turned on the main holographic machine. The hologram projector used a micromisting system in the ceiling to create the 3-D effect without the need for a screen, and the four projectors hit the water mist from four sides, producing the hologram effect.

  “Okay, what we have here is a visual of vault 298907, placed inactive for further investigation on nine October nineteen eighty-three. This is file footage of the vault before the fire. We do have detailed pictures and listings of everything documented on that submarine. Dr. Golding assigned me the task of digging through the mess inside the vault, while the engineers were busy shoring up the affected levels. I have a rather bizarre and fantastic theory I would like to advance, which I am accustomed to doing, about the submarine and its origins.”

  The man with wild white hair looked around the table. His lab coat was dirty and water-stained from the flooded vault, and one of his pant legs was still rolled up past his right ankle. He smiled and raised his half-moon glasses into his crazily swirling hair.

  “As you may know, we have had many discussions in the past about this strange vessel and its origins. Being as old as it is, let us say it’s made for some very far-out speculation in crypto, I’ll tell you. Number one among most theories, and it’s common knowledge I support said theory, is that Jules Verne may have received inspiration for his novel, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, from this very artifact. The chances are just too farfetched not to connect the dots here. However, that is not of importance at this time. What is of paramount importance is why this modern-day crackpot wants to destroy something that is at least a hundred and fifty years of age and seemingly could cause them no harm at all?”

  Ellenshaw nodded toward the navy signalman, who changed the view on the hologram.

  “Thank you, Smitty. As you see, this is the vault as it is now, burned out and most items unrecognizable.” The professor lifted his notebook, walked into the micromist, and pointed to items lying on the floor. “The batteries, burned and almost unrecognizable, reduced to large lumps of rubberized crud due to the heat produced internally by the dried acid within. Correct?” He looked around the conference room but saw no one as the mist was hiding them.

  “Professor Ellenshaw, could you speed it up?” Pete asked, a bit impatient.

  “Right, well, we combed through the debris and for nine hours we went through the files with a microscope.” He hunched his shoulders and threw up his arms in exasperation. “Nothing; not a damn thing. We didn’t know why destroying this thing was so important. We were at a dead end.”

  Pete was eyeing him, the same impatient look on his face.

  “But we weren’t.” He pointed once more to the batteries. “That is what’s known as a composite material, basically a rubber and graphite mix. During the time we believe the submarine was built, natural rubber was in common use; however, graphite was not. It’s a simple carbon-based material we once used in pencils and is a base used in batteries today. We know there was more than a ton of this composite material used in the construction of the battery system utilized on Leviathan.” He smiled. “With the assistance of Europa, I was able to trace a large sale of graphite and an even larger sale of rubber from a Malay plantation in eighteen thirty-seven, purchased through the engineering department at the University of Oslo. It took several hours, but Europa finally uncovered the name of the professor involved—Francis N. Heirthall.”

  “Okay, where does that lead us?” Pete asked.

  “Our good professor was not your normal engineer; he was wealthy beyond measure and only utilized the university’s laboratories for security reasons. His real engineering skills were that of a marine engineer, and he h
eld advanced degrees in biology.”

  Pete was silent as the information was absorbed. He pursed his lips and examined the hologram, confused on one point—why would anyone destroy the vault to protect a hundred-and-fifty-year-old professor?

  “Has this been verified by Europa?” Liz Patrick of the engineering department asked.

  “Absolutely. I have already turned the results of my inquiry over to Dr. Robbins for further investigation.”

  “Anything else, Charlie?”

  “One other thing. We did come across something in the files that became of interest only after we discovered the destination of these large orders. The barnacles recovered from the submarine’s hull back in nineteen sixty-seven were a mixed breed of organisms. However, the bulk of these originated near the southern Mariana chain of islands, Guam in particular. Cirripedia acrothoracica, a new species of barnacle discovered only recently and indigenous to that area and those islands.”

  The audiovisual tech switched pictures after a nod from Ellenshaw. On the hologram, a map of the South Pacific appeared. Ellenshaw once more stepped up into the mist cloud. He pulled a laser marker from his coat pocket and placed it on Papua, New Guinea. “Now, I was given a report on the seaweed earlier, and if I was informed correctly, this seaweed used in the manufacture of our bad guys’ clothing came from here, correct?”

  Jack was looking at the map intently, knowing what Ellenshaw was trying to do. Pete Golding nodded his head at Charlie’s question.

  Ellenshaw then drew a laser line from New Guinea north toward Guam, then abruptly south to the southern chain of the same islands. The figure formed an elongated triangle. “I daresay it’s a long shot, but that’s what the crypto team is good at: placing silly bets on lost causes.”