by David Wood
“Yo Maddock, what’re you doing with our oh-two?”
“If we flood our cabin with oxygen…”
“This thing’ll be a bomb waiting for a spark!”
“Yeah. Such as from a bullet. But I don’t think I need to remind you that’s last resort only kind of stuff. This thing is our ride home. If it gets destroyed, we’re totally dependent on the Russians to get back to our boat.”
“I’m with you,” Bones said, now waving at the stone-faced Soviets waiting around the moon pool.
“You don’t happen to have your trusty butane lighter on you, do you?”
Bones shook his head. Normally he did carry one, but any kind of ignition source was strictly prohibited around submersibles due to the close proximity to pressurized pure oxygen.
“Okay, just put your hands up,” Dane said, his fingertips touching the top of their cabin dome. Bones frowned but followed suit. “Always knew I’d go places with you, man.”
Deep Black vibrated while a crane hook was latched on to their superstructure and the submersible holding them dropped away. Then they were lifted from the water through the moon pool, water sheeting off their dome, the view outside like that of looking out of a car while inside an automated carwash. Even with the distorted view, there was no mistaking the large hammer and sickle painted on the wall of the moon pool area.
“You know the Russian national anthem?” Bones asked.
Before Dane could answer, they heard the snapping of the dome hatch being undone from outside. Looking out at their new surroundings, Dane counted no less than six individuals wearing sailors’ jumpsuits pointing a firearm at their submersible. Dane figured he had time for one last sentence to Bones without being overheard.
“Whatever you do, don’t do anything to make them shoot us while we’re near the sub remember?”
“Understood,” Bones said as the dome hatch was raised and tilted back.
A squat, bald man built like a bullet took a step toward the sub, clearly regarding Dane and Bones with contempt. He asked them a terse question in Russian. When all he received in return were blank stares, he turned and nodded to one of his associates, grimaced, and switched to English.
“Identify yourselves.”
Dane knew the fishermen cover wouldn’t hold water. Fishermen didn’t use submersibles. He had to think fast, and worrying about what Bones might be about to say wasn’t helping his concentration. Nor was the assemblage of firepower aimed in his direction.
“We’re part of a television network expedition to raise the American space capsule,” Dane said, emphasizing the word American ever so slightly.
Bullet Man gave a sour grimace. “We have observed you via sonar returning in your submersible to the ‘fishing trawler’,” he countered, adding emphasis of his own. The television ship is the Ocean Explorer. You lie.”
“No,” Dane said calmly. “We are part of the program, but it is also true that we are operating from the trawler. It’s a two-ship operation.”
One of the other Russians walked over to Bullet Man and spoke to him softly. Dane wasn’t sure why he was worried about volume, since he and Bones couldn’t understand their language, but perhaps he was concerned about one of their own hearing? Whatever the case, Bullet’s next words gave him pause.
“It is our belief that you are operating on behalf of your government, the United States government, in order to keep the capsule’s nuclear bomb from becoming a historical embarrassment should its existence become public knowledge.”
Dane took a fraction of a second too long to reply.
“Bring them down,” Bullet said, nodding to a submariner manning a crane and winch. The sub with Dane and Bones in it was swung away from the watery opening in the submarine’s hull and deposited on the floor of what Dane could now see was actually a large airlock. “First you.” He swing his AK-47 at Bones. “Out. Slow.”
Bones was somehow able to will his sizable form to stand and step out of the sub without lowering his hands. Then the AK’s muzzle pivoted to Dane, who did the same. The air here reminded Dane of a Florida swamp in summertime. A rivulet of sweat sluiced down his face as he thought about his Beretta still in his pants, and the ultra-flammable gas now leaking from the submersible’s pure oxygen system.
“Remove your knives,” Bullet said. Both Dane and Bones removed their dive knives from the sheaths strapped to their calves and slid them across the deck.
“Search them,” Bullet said to a pair of muscle-bound shipmates, one of whom approached Dane, the other Bones. The one searching Bones nodded and stepped back, having turned up nothing but a scrap of paper containing a phone number written in flowery, feminine hand.
The man frisking Dane, however, rested his hand on the small of his back; having felt something. He extracted the Beretta and quickly stepped back. Once beyond arm’s reach, he opened the clip and closed it again. Then he walked over to Bullet and pressed it into his waiting palm.
“This is necessary for a marine salvor in a deep sea submersible?” Bullet said, pointing Dane’s own gun at him.
“No,” Dane said quickly, “but I like to have it on the boat to protect from pirates. We are far out to sea in international waters, and I forgot to remove it from my pants before I boarded the sub.”
Bullet gave a nod of fake appreciation. “Always so quick with an explanation, you are. Perhaps you have engaged in this line of work before? But I tire of your stories.” He uttered a name in Russian and the submariner closest to Deep Black went over to the sub.
“Antonov will search your vessel’s external holds.”
“Your English is pretty good,” Bones said. “Where’d you learn it? Sesame Street?”
Bullet looked at him with distaste. “You may direct your questions to the captain,” he replied. “I think he will want to meet you.”
Beside him, Antonov opened the sample collection bay that had held the rocks. Frowning, the sailor reached inside and pulled out the small metal box that held the dimes. He handed it off to another sailor who in turn walked it to Bullet. He turned the box over in his hands without opening it. He looked at Dane and Bones.
“What does it contain?” He shook the box, sending up a metallic rattle.
Bones shrugged.
Dane said, “No idea. We just saw it in the capsule and decided to grab it.”
Bullet turned the box over once more in his hands. “Too light to be a bomb. I will open it.” His scowl said woe betide them if he didn’t like what he found inside.
All eyes were on him as he pried up the lid.
“Coins.” He scooped a few out and examined them. His gaze turned from interested to puzzled in a heartbeat. “Not valuable.” He inspected the dimes inside the box before dumping them out on the floor and then tracing his fingers inside, feeling for a false bottom. He froze, his eyes locked on something on the inside of the lid. He motioned to a crewmember, who stepped forward to look into the box.
“Look here. There are markings of some kind scratched into the lid.” He turned an austere gaze to Dane and Bones. “Are you aware of these markings?” Both SEALs shook their heads wordlessly.
Over at the sub, Antonov's eyes grew wide and he pointed to the hold. Two more crew members trotted over to see what he had found.
“I know for certain you have the bomb on board.” Bullet said. “And the captain will want to know all about it. Especially, who sent you to recover it?” He held a hand palm up in front of Dane, who was about to speak. “Please. Say nothing further at this time. Get some rest. We are already underway to take a shore leave. It is good to stretch one's legs on land after so much time at sea, is it not? Breathe the fresh air, clear one's thoughts. There we will discuss things like men.”
“Shore leave?” Dane asked.
But the man did not respond. The two newly-arrived crew and Antonov gingerly pulled the nuclear bomb from its hiding place. The three of them walked almost comically over to Bullet in a kind of strange, six-legged dance, their
hands forming a collective basket for the powerful device. They set it down at his feet. Bones stole a glance at Dane, who subtly shook his head. Don’t try anything now.
Bullet seemed not to notice the communication and motioned to two men to his right.
“Show them to their quarters.”
Then, to Dane and Bones as they were being led away at gunpoint, he said, “Get some rest while we are en route to our destination.”
Chapter 13
Dane and Bones looked around at the Spartan submarine quarters they’d been escorted to, a tiny room consisting entirely of cold steel. Bones sat on the lower bunk while Dane occupied a chair in front of a small shelf that served as a desk.
“Not exactly the MGM Grand, but it beats the brig, right?” Bones said.
Dane glanced at the stark metal door. “I’ll bet you this is the brig.” He got up and went to the door. Tried to turn the handle. “Locked.”
Bones lay back on the bunk and sighed heavily. “We failed, dude. Russians got the nuke. Got our sub. Got us…”
He wasn’t wrong, but Dane remained determined to find a way out of their predicament. “Don’t give up. Let’s think about it…”
They checked the small room for listening devices and then discussed possible strategies for escape.
“Too bad we don’t have a dress and some lipstick.” Bones rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Why’s that?”
“We could put you in drag and let you use your feminine wiles to get us out of here. Who knows how long these guys have been cooped up in this sub with nothing but other dudes to look at? You’d be the belle of the ball.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll dress you up. You’ve got the better legs. Now, let’s get back to real plans.”
They continued to run through their options and speculate about possibilities. Some of the ideas were outright laughable or hopelessly long on odds, but others had at least some merit depending on what situations arose.
They had still reached no consensus on a concrete course of action when they heard a knocking at the door followed by the clicking of a key in the latch. Then the door swung open to reveal Antonov.
“We are near our destination. Please follow me,” he said in heavily accented English.
Dane and Bones got up and exited the small space into a narrow hallway with low ceilings made even lower by assemblages of hanging pipework. Caged utility lights lit the corridor while various Cyrillic characters were stenciled on the walls, every inch of this utilitarian space a protest against the idea that humans could not function for extended periods deep beneath the sea.
They stepped through a bulkhead, or “knee-knocker” as the two SEALs knew them from their time aboard U.S. Navy vessels, and continued up a flight of metal stairs to another long hallway. They trooped on in silence, the crewman carrying an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder, walking behind them, but not apparently over-concerned that he would be attacked on the way to wherever it was they were going. At the end of this passageway an open door to the right led into a cramped room with a stair-like ladder leading up. A refreshing breeze wafted from above, and the submarine's motion had a more pronounced rocking to it now.
“This way.” Their armed escort nudged his gun barrel up the ladder. Dane and Bones silently climbed a narrow tubular chute from which they could see light spilling down from above.
“Climb up and await further instruction.” The guard's voice echoed up through the ladder tube. Dane emerged from the chute in the air, on a high deck platform overlooking the water. After hours spent in the blackness of the deep sea and then the artificially lit underwater world of the Russian submarine, the broad daylight had a blinding effect on him.
Bones cleared the ladder, one hand shielding his eyes. “Now this is a view!” He ignored the two crewmen who had been waiting for them while he took in their new surroundings.
They were docked at the deep end of a long, wooden pier, in aquamarine water clear enough to reveal a sugar-white sand bottom. Sun in the blue sky, calls of seagulls in the air. A palm-studded beach beckoned at the pier's far end.
“Down!” One of the two submariners on the deck waved an automatic weapon in the direction of a boarding ladder. First Dane and then Bones walked to it and descended to the pier.
“I don't usually wear my sweater when I go to Club Med,” Bones said, tugging at the uncomfortable garment.
“Remove it if you wish.” The nearest guard pointed his gun at Bones while he took off his sweater. Dane slipped out of the jacket he wore. They were glad to leave the heavy garments on the pier.
“What is this place?” Dane asked. All he could see of the land's interior was a patchy wall of palm trees and foliage; not the luxurious tropical growth one would find in a rain forest, but it certainly appeared undeveloped. Large birds wheeled above the thin canopy. A unique ocean scent Dane always associated with low tide tickled his nostrils. Other than the pier, he saw almost no signs of human activity. A derelict oil tanker lay rusting on its side halfway down the beach to their right, trees and vines growing out of its ruptured hull.
Dane's survey was interrupted by four crewmen descending from the sub carrying supply containers. They glared at the two Americans as they passed and proceeded to walk down the pier toward the beach.
“It is an island,” one of their two guards said. “The captain will tell you what he wants to about it. Follow those men.”
Dane and Bones did as they were told, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of creaking planks as they walked. Upon reaching the beach they stepped onto hot sand and followed the landing party to the left where the beach soon curved out of sight. Looking past the palm trees that marked the edge of the high tide mark, Dane confirmed that the foliage was not thick jungle, but thinner scrub and mangroves that would be penetrable.
Looking back at the sub, it seemed many of the crew were disembarking, some carrying supplies of one kind or another. Dane and Bones continued along the beach, at one point passing other crew returning to the sub, wheeling an empty hand cart.
“This way, stay on the path.” Dane's eyes followed the waving gun muzzle to a sandy trail leading through a patch of mangroves. Looking ahead, the path wound over a small rise and across a weed-strewn flatland to a lush patch of trees that partially concealed a two-story house with multiple out-buildings painted in various Caribbean pastels. Dane was mentally debating whether they should attempt a takedown of their guards—once inside the house opportunity for escape would likely be even more limited—when he saw a clump of mangrove trees move in his peripheral vision. He turned his head but saw only still clumps of vegetation.
Dane tripped over a sand-covered mangrove root that sent him sprawling to the ground. Both guards immediately fanned out on either side of the path, one aiming his weapon at Dane while the other covered Bones, who froze in place. As soon as they realized it was an accident and not some kind of escape attempt, they relaxed a little and the group fell back into formation on the trail, walking toward the house. As they neared the complex, a trio of iguanas skittered off the path into the underbrush as the party approached. All three of them were missing their tails completely, yet were still nearly three feet long.
“See you later, stumpy,” Bones called, but Dane could only wonder what fate had befallen the animals.
Soon thereafter Bones pointed to a large pile of rocks on the side of the path. “Look familiar?”
Looking at them, Dane noticed their knobby, porous appearance, and what appeared to be remnants of marine growth. “Hey, those look like…”
“Silence!” One of their guards interrupted, shooting his gun into the sand to underscore the point that there was no one to hear it out here, wherever they were.
Then they came upon a stand of Caribbean Pines that formed a loose circle around the main house—an old, two-story turquoise Victorian affair with a large porch fronting the main entrance. Dane looked but could see no power lines, and guessed that th
e buzzing he heard in the distance was from a gas-powered generator to supply the house with electricity.
“Up to the porch. Wait there.” One of the guards ran ahead to the front door while the other lingered to ensure that Dane and Bones complied. The door to the house opened and a crew member Dane recognized from the sub held the door open.
“Come in. Dinner is nearly ready.”
Dane and Bones stepped into the house's foyer, where a ceiling fan turned lazily over a hardwood floor. Their escort guard wasted no time in closing the door behind them.
“This way.” The man who had opened the door led them down a short hallway. Dane caught a brief glimpse of the kitchen, where several of the sub's galley crew were busy preparing the meal, before it broke off to the right into a large, high-ceilinged dining room.
Dane couldn't put his finger on it, but the demeanor of the men seemed somehow off to him. Being in the Navy, he knew firsthand that any kind of shore leave, even if it involved working, was a welcome respite for any sailor. These Russian submariners seemed almost downcast. There was no excited talk, no joking around, no smiles. It almost seemed as though they were happier on board the sub. The only thing Dane could attribute it to was that maybe by stopping here they were extending the duration of their overall mission, when all they wanted to do was go home.
Also odd, Dane noticed, were the bars on the windows. All of them—kitchen, dining room, foyer; even those on the second floor. He supposed it had to do with the fact that months and perhaps even years at a time passed before the captain stopped by, so he needed the security to ward off opportunistic looters.
The sight of the dining table itself pulled Dane back to the purpose of their visit. Dinner. At the center of the room was a long dining table, replete with linen tablecloth, fine china and crystal wine glasses. The captain’s chair was at the head of the table, and seated was a broad-shouldered man with steel gray hair and a lined face. His naval officers flanked him on either side. Dane guessed that this was the officer's table. Another long table was also set up in the room, this one occupied by the rank and file. Behind the captain, still armed with his AK-47, Bullet man stood guard, his flinty gaze daring either of them to try anything.