Silent Thunder

by Iris Johansen

  "Donna is five now. Why are you suddenly so worried about him wearing that sweater?"

  "Because I saw him throw it in his duffel before he left. I thought he'd gotten rid of it. He never wears it around me."

  "Because you intimidate him?"

  "Be for real. He likes to make a show of being henpecked by a bossy wife, but Conner's not lacking in self-confidence. He just doesn't want to make me a laughingstock among our friends. I don't like to do anything badly, and everyone knows it. But I don't want any of those museum people thinking he's less than he is."

  "I assure you, we're not hobnobbing with many museum personnel."

  "No one is going to laugh at my Conner. If you care for me, get rid of it, Hannah."

  She was serious, and Hannah did care for her. Cathy was one of her favorite people. "I'll see what I can do."

  "Thanks." Cathy paused. "And maybe I do have more than a slight interest in your well-being."

  "I know you do. Otherwise, you wouldn't try to boss me around."

  "It's second nature. You should have seen me wheeling and dealing in Washington during my heyday. I was awesome."

  "You're still awesome."

  "Yeah, I know. I just have to hide my light under a bushel these days, so I don't embarrass the kids." She paused. "I hear you've got a thing going for some dead Russian."

  "No, I have not." She gave Conner a dagger glance. "I'm just interested in the man. Conner can't tell the difference."

  "It didn't sound like you. But Conner can be pretty sensitive at times. He thinks you've got a father hangup about him."

  "Nonsense."

  "I agree. You're not looking for a father; you're looking for a man as strong as you are. That's why your marriage with Ken failed."

  "You and Conner seem to have all kinds of opinions about my divorce."

  "Of course we do. You're family. Conner described this Vladzar, and he sounds a little like Sean Connery in Hunt for Red October."

  "Oh, for God's sake."

  "He doesn't remind you of him?"

  "Just because he was the captain of a Russian sub? No, he does not. This isn't a Clancy novel, and I'm not the kind of person who idolizes movie stars."

  "I know. But it was one theory to explore." Her tone became brusque as she changed the subject. "Get back to the inn for dinner at least every other evening. That's a compromise. Okay?"

  "As long as it doesn't interfere with getting this job done in time for us to get to Ronnie's next ball game."

  "You obviously have a fine sense for priorities. I'll give in on that point as long as you get rid of the sweater."

  "I said, I'll do what I can. Do you want to talk to Conner?"

  "No, he'll call me tonight. He'll want to talk to the kids too. Have a good dinner." She paused. "And give me a call when the fishes are wearing Conner's gray sweater." She hung up.

  "Your Cathy is nothing if not determined." She was smiling as she returned the phone to Conner.

  He sighed. "The sweater. Right?"

  "She wants you to give it to the fishes."

  He shook his head. "No way."

  "Why not?"

  "She knitted it. I remember her sitting there frowning and muttering curses beneath her breath. But she finished it and gave it to me. It brings back a lot of memories." A smile lit his face. He added simply, "And it warms my heart."

  She shook her head as she saw the tenderness in his expression. How could she do anything that would take that expression away?

  Cathy, my dear, you may have lost this one.

  FOUR

  "Can you come over here for a minute, Hannah?" Conner crawled out from behind a displaced control panel. "I've found something… weird."

  "In a minute." She focused her camera and took another shot of the cavity behind the navigation console before she turned and walked toward him. "What is it?"

  "There's another metal plate bolted to this surface metal."

  "What's it for? Is it on the schematic that the Navy furnished?"

  "Hell, no." He frowned. "And I have no idea what it's for. I'm trying to find out. I thought you might know. I've taken out the first three screws. Two more to go." He went back to work. "I'll get this one. You unscrew the other one."

  "It could be nothing." She knelt beside him and started to unscrew the bolt. "You know that all Class Oscar IIs aren't absolutely identical."

  "But the Russians usually have a logical reason for everything. An extra plate here doesn't make sense."

  "You mean three extra plates."

  "What do you mean?"

  She aimed her flashlight lower. Below the plate were two others, all bolted to the reverse side of the bulkhead in the same fashion. Each plate was a dull brass color and measured approximately two feet by three feet. She grinned at him. "Now let's take these off and see if they're plugging holes to keep this tub afloat."

  "Very funny." He carefully removed the top plate. "I'd appreciate a little sober consideration. This is the first thing we've found in the past three days of taking this sub apart that wasn't cut-and-dried and by the book. Isn't that what the museum wanted us to look for?"

  "Yep. Sorry, I couldn't resist teasing you. You looked like you'd discovered a hydrogen bomb that Cox's Captain Samuel had left behind." She shined her beam on the detached metal plate. "And I don't think the Russians are as infallible as you might-" She gave a low whistle. "What the hell?"

  The reverse side of the plate appeared as if it had been once part of a large industrial food container, now cut and flattened to fit flush against the bulkhead. Conner turned the plate back around. Faint marks were visible on its dull surface. "It looks like hen scratching. Somebody's idea of a joke?"

  "It's not hen scratching." She took the tin plate out and laid it on the floor. "And I don't think it was a joke."

  In the illumination of the work lights, Hannah could see that the plate was covered with an intricate pattern of symbols and geometric shapes.

  "Triangles, circles, and squares, oh my," Conner murmured.

  "And I thought we were going to get through this job without a Wizard of Oz reference from you," Hannah said. Her hand traced the markings. Triangles seemed to be the dominant figure, joined by thin straight lines to the other shapes. There were eight vertical columns of figures, each ending with a single-digit numeral.

  "Conner…"

  As was often the case on their jobs together, it was as if he had read her mind. He had already begun to unfasten the other two plates. "You've seen this kind of stuff before? What is it?"

  "I saw something like it in one of the captain's books. I'm not sure if it's the same thing."

  "So what do we do with it? Turn it over to the museum?"

  She nodded. "It's almost midnight, or I'd call them now. I'll contact them tomorrow morning and ask them if they want it sent to the lab or if they'd rather we just replace it where we found it. Until they decide, we document the discovery, photograph it, and add it to the schematic."

  "Got you." He finished detaching the other two plates and placed them on the floor next to the first one. They featured the same distinctive arrangement of numbers and symbols.

  Hannah pointed to the second two plates. "Look, the handwriting gets more and more erratic. By the time we get to the bottom of the third plate, the symbols are very difficult to read."

  "In this light, most of these hen scratchings are impossible to read. The markings are too shallow." He grabbed his camera and took a few shots before shaking his head. "No, I'll need stronger lights. Maybe if I brush some phosphorous powder over the surface and photograph it under an ultraviolet light…"

  "Then do it." Hannah went to the table where she'd set her laptop. "I'll do the initial journal entry. You can do the entire expanded report later."

  "I knew I wasn't going to get off with taking a few photos." Conner sighed. "I think you should have to do the paperwork since I made this historic discovery."

  "You called it hen scratchings. Now it's hi
storic?"

  "Historic hen scratchings," he said firmly. "And you should do all the paperwork."

  "We'll talk about it after I notify the museum." Her gaze returned to the computer screen. "And after you get us some decent photos to accompany the report."

  "I'm on it." He propped one of the panels against the chair and studied it in the viewfinder. "Not clear enough. I'll have to go back to the van and get the lights."

  "I'll do it." She pressed SAVE and stood up. "I need to call Bradworth and tell him about the find anyway. I can't get good reception on my cell in here."

  "Yeah, I know. I always have to go out on the pier to talk to Cathy. Why don't you wait until tomorrow and call Bradworth at the same time you call the museum?"

  "He said he was at our disposal day or night, and we might as well take him at his word. Your hen scratchings could be important, if not historic, and I'm shifting the responsibility onto his shoulders."

  "Good idea." He took another picture and then changed the position of the plate and backed away from it. "Bring my other camera too."

  "That's right, load me up like a pack mule." She headed for the ladder. "You're just trying to punish me for making you do the report."

  He grinned at her over his shoulder. "How did you guess? Maybe you could bring the tripod, the heavy one, and the video camera, and a-"

  "No way. You want anything more than those lights and you go after them yourself," she said as she opened the hatch. "And if you manage to get the photos without those monster lights before I get back, I'll break your neck."

  "Abuse and threats. It's a wonder I put up with you."

  "Ditto."

  Her smile faded as she jumped down on the pier. The call to Bradworth might be totally unnecessary, but she was uneasy and curious. The plates had clearly been hidden, and the marks on their surface done hurriedly and by hand. Why?

  Well, it wasn't her concern. It was an interesting anomaly that she should ignore and get on with her work. After she turned the panels over to Bradworth or the museum, they could do what they wanted with them.

  She was dialing Bradworth's number as she walked down the pier. She quickly filled him in as she opened the back door of the van and started to pull the strobe light out. "That's the story. It's up to you whether you want to notify the museum tonight. I'm going back to the sub to finish taking the photos and make the report and you can let me know tomorrow what I should do with-"

  "Markings? What kind of markings?"

  "Conner calls them hen scratchings, but that's only because they're pretty crude. They could be some kind of formula or maybe navigational code. I saw something like it in one of Captain Vladzar's books."

  Silence. "You did? You're sure?"

  "I didn't say I was sure. I said it was similar. I can't be certain until I get clear photos and can compare them. And the book was in Russian, so I couldn't really make heads or tails of that either. Are you going to call the museum tonight?" Bradworth didn't answer, and she said impatiently, "Look, I have to get these lights back to the sub. Conner is waiting for them. You do what you want about-"

  "No," Bradworth said sharply. "Don't go back to the sub. Get the hell out of there."

  She stiffened. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying you should forget about the damn plates and get-Hold on, my other phone's ringing. Don't hang up. I have to take this call." She heard his muffled voice on the other line. "Yes, she's on the phone now. I'll take care of it. Screw you. I'm doing the best I can." He came back on the line. "Hannah, I'm going to call my agent stationed on the dock and get him down to the submarine on the double."

  "Why? What's happening?"

  But he was gone, and he was cursing when he came back on the line. "I can't make contact. No response." His words came fast and urgently. "Listen to me. Don't ask questions. I can't waste any more time. I have to call someone else. Get out of there. Now! "

  "The hell I won't ask questions." Her hand clenched on the phone. "Tell me why I should do what-"

  "Because if you don't, you'll be dead." He hung up.

  Dead?

  Crazy, she thought numbly. Bradworth was nuts, and so was the panic that was starting to soar within her. Yet Bradworth had frightened her because he'd been frightened. His tone had been deadly serious.

  Deadly. That word again.

  What if he wasn't crazy? What if there was a reason to-

  Don't go back to the sub.

  But Conner was still in the sub.

  Conner!

  Kirov didn't answer when Bradworth called him back. Was the bastard making his move?

  Bradworth hung up the phone and jumped to his feet.

  He had to get down there. No time. He'd have to call the rest of his team while he was on the way.

  Damn, he wished Kirov had answered.

  Hannah whirled and started to run down the dock toward the pier. Christ, her heart was beating so hard it hurt. Stupid to be so frightened. It had to be a false alarm. It made no sense. There had been no reason to-

  She reached the pier.

  The hatch of the submarine was closing.

  "No!"

  She tore down the pier. "Conner!"

  Why was she screaming? He couldn't hear her.

  Get into the sub. Call the police. Call 911. Do something that made sense.

  Her hand was shaking as she dialed 911. She made contact with the 911 operator as she reached the sub. "Something's happening. Send someone. Conner-"

  Her head exploded as pain tore through it.

  Her knees buckled as the world spun around her.

  "No…" She couldn't fall. Fight the dizziness. She had to get to Conn-

  Nothingness.

  Water.

  In her mouth, in her lungs.

  She couldn't breathe.

  Fight for air.

  No air.

  Only water. Choking. Smothering.

  "Stop struggling, dammit." A man's voice. A man's arm lifting her head above the surface of the water. "Let me do it."

  Do what?

  Water. Lungs filling. Drowning.

  Conner.

  "Stop fighting."

  Couldn't stop fighting. Have to get to Conner.

  "Very well, have it your way."

  Her head jerked back as his fist connected with her chin.

  Darkness again.

  Get that stretcher down from the dock, dammit. We've got a big enough mess to cover up without her dying on us."

  Bradworth's angry voice, she realized vaguely. Close. Above her. But she'd just talked to him on the phone…

  Get the hell out of there. Don't go back to the sub.

  But she'd had to go back.

  Conner was there, and she had to-

  Conner!

  Her lids flew open. "Conner." She sat upright. Dizzy. Hold on. Fight it. "Someone was… The hatch was closing."

  Bradworth's hands gripped her shoulders. "Lie back down. You've got a nasty head wound. You're soaking wet and suffering from exposure and God knows what else. We've got an ambulance coming to take you to the hospital."

  "I'm not going to any hospital. Conner…" She struggled to her knees. "I have to get to my brother."

  "No, you don't." He looked away from her. "Maybe later."

  Something was wrong. Something…

  "Go to hell." She got to her feet. Don't fall. Get to the hatch. Get to Conner.

  "Stay out of the sub." Bradworth was beside her, his hand on her arm. "You don't want to go down there."

  Panic surged through her. "Let me go."

  His hand tightened. "Do what I tell you. This isn't-"

  "Let me go." Her fist lashed out into his stomach with all her strength.

  He staggered back, his grip loosening. "Okay, go. What the hell do I care?"

  She staggered toward the sub. The hatch was open. Just make it down the ladder.

  One step.

  Another.

  "Conner?"

  A man was standing by t
he control panel with his back to her. Dark blond crew cut, a big man.

  Not Conner.

  "You shouldn't be here, ma'am," he said over his shoulder.

  "My brother…"

  "You're Ms. Bryson? I'm Agent Ted Freiland." He repeated, "You shouldn't be here. Why don't you turn around and go back to the pier?" He was turning to face her, and as he shifted she saw what he had been looking at.

  Blood. Blood everywhere.

  And still pouring in a stream from the shattered skull of the small, wiry man lying crumpled on the floor.

  No face.

  It couldn't be Conner.

  No face. His head almost blown off his shoulders.

  It couldn't be-

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Please, God…

  "Let me take you up." Freiland was walking toward her. "This is nothing you should see. Hell, it's nothing anyone should see. We'll take care of your brother."

  Not her brother. Not that mutilated horror of a-Not Conner.

  The digital camera was smashed and shattered to fragments lying by his right hand.

  I'll need stronger lights.

  His gray wool sweater Cathy had wanted destroyed was now stained with blood and bits of flesh.

  Conner…

  Sweet Jesus.

  An agonized scream tore from her throat.

  I told you that you shouldn't go down there." Bradworth met her as Agent Freiland helped her out of the hatch. "I tried to stop you."

  Not very hard, she thought numbly. "What happened to him? His head…"

  "We believe it was a high-caliber Magnum pistol. Close range."

  She shuddered. "Why?"

  "We're not sure. An investigation is under way."

  "He's dead." Her voice was shaking. "My brother's dead, and there's no reason for it. No reason at all. He was kind and generous and he…" She had to stop for a moment. "No one would want to kill Conner."

  "I'm sure you're right." Bradworth's gaze shifted to Agent Freiland. "Take her to the hospital and have her checked out. Stay with her."

  "I'm not going to the hospital."

  "You may think you're okay, but you have a head wound, possibly a concussion. You're wet, cold, and you're in shock."

  "And I have a brother I love who was murdered. I have to tell his wife that he's not coming home."