Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  “Yes,” Tasha said with her hand wrapped tightly around the valve lever.

  “OK, do it now,” I said pulling back hard on the yoke. I heard the high-pressure air rushing into the forward ballast tanks. The submarine felt sluggish. With the weight of several hundred gallons of water already in the nose, the controls fought my efforts to level her out. Slowly, I felt the bow begin to claw its way upwards until she was sitting level. All the water that had been forward now sloshed backward and we found ourselves with our feet in six inches of water. A few seconds later, the submarine slowly settled into the sandy bottom of the bay as its forward momentum slowly ground to a halt.

  “Back in a minute,” I said as I went back to the stern. The good news was that we had bottomed at probably seventy or eighty feet. The bad news was at that depth the water pressure was accelerating the rate of water flowing into the submarine and there was nothing we could do to stop it. I took a last look in the engine compartment. Might be fifteen minutes before the water reached the main battery bank and shorted out the propulsion system. I closed the hatch and dogged it down. At least we could keep the forward compartment from flooding for now. The only bright spot was that the batteries were split into two banks-the propulsion bank was in the aft compartment, but the house bank was located forward and would give us power for the lights and instruments for at least a couple of days.

  CHAPTER 31

  Miller looked up from the monitor and rubbed his eyes. The day started too damn early with his five o’clock arrival at the Honduran office. He wanted to be online when the satellite made its first pass over the area where they had last seen Dolce Vita enter the bay the day before. The satellite, thanks to the Search Aperture Radar could see through clouds, in complete darkness and even had the ability to pierce the heavy jungle canopy.

  The search was made easier, largely because the area was almost completely devoid of civilization with only the occasional fishing boat breaking the solitude as it chugged up and down the river. Miller quickly found the location where Dolce Vita was anchored on the previous night-no sign on the infrared of any people on board and no heat signature from the engine told him that she had been sitting there all night. He then zoomed out for a broader view and started a search up and down both banks of the river at a resolution that would pick up any vessel over fifteen feet.

  After a fruitless hour of aerial searching, he welcomed the interruption as Davis and Ramirez wandered into the office to keep him company.

  “Any luck yet?” Rivera asked.

  “Nothing yet. I think I’ll make another sweep of the river upstream and see if I missed anything.” Miller placed his cursor on the bay and zoomed back in to survey the area again.

  “What’s this?” he asked looking at the image of a small coastal freighter sitting at the mouth of the bay. “These guys weren’t here an hour ago. It also looks like another fishing boat is coming out of the river into the bay. And here…” he said as he zoomed in on a darker spot creating a faint wake as it moved through the water, “ we have our missing submarine.”

  Rivera and Davis crowded in to take a better look. Rivera pointed at a deck crew working on the foredeck of the coastal freighter. “What are these guys up to? Looks like they’re pulling a container to the rear with a cable.”

  Their purpose was soon revealed as a naval gun on the foredeck was revealed. “What do you think it is?” asked Davis.

  “Hard to tell,” replied Miller squinting at the coarse detail revealed on the monitor. “Fair sized deck gun-three or four incher. Similar to what the Coast Guard cutters carried thirty years ago. An antique, but still lethal as hell if the gunners are any good. What are these guys up to?”

  That question was quickly answered as they saw a flash bloom at the muzzle of the gun followed a second later by an enormous splash a few yards away from the submarine. “I think we can assume that’s where Kyle is. That guy seems to have an uncanny knack for pissing people off.” He fell silent as they watched the submarine desperately try to evade the incoming fire.

  “He’s diving the boat. Another few seconds and they’ll be out of range,” said Miller. Just as the stern was slipping beneath the waves, the next round arrived on target and detonated in the water next to the submarine. They watched intently as the shadowy form of the submarine began to slowly fade from sight while continuing to descend to the bottom of the bay.

  “Switching from visual to SAR,” said Miller as he toggled the view from the satellite. The Synthetic Aperture Radar punched through the eighty feet of water and revealed the shape of the submarine lying motionless on the bottom of the bay. “Looks like the hull is intact. My best guess it that they’re about a mile from where they submerged and were damaged by that last round. Hopefully, that will be enough to keep them hidden.”

  Miller grabbed the phone on the desk. “Chief, I need the big RIB that you guys have at the dock and three of your best men armed and waiting. And I need it now,” he said hanging up without even waiting for an acknowledgment. “Gentlemen, time for us to go. We’re about fifteen miles from where the submarine went down.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Escabado handed Popov a cigar. “It seems you were correct my friend. I actually thought they would surrender after we fired the first shot at them.”

  Popov bit off the end as he lit the cigar and puffed until the cabin filled with fragrant smoke. “Not this one-I know him too well. He would try to escape even if it cost him his life. Too bad, I would like to have killed the girl slowly and made him watch. Now I have lost both that pleasure and my two million dollar submarine. It seems it’s time for me to return to Miami,” he said as Pedroza appeared in the cabin.

  “Jefe,” Pedroza said to Escabado. “We have the Bandito standing by for you to go to the lobster boat to search for the submarine. I will wait here for you in the Lucia Marie until the search has been completed.”

  “General Popov, I will have one of my best men take you in a small fishing boat to an airfield twenty miles south of here. Better to go disguised as a fisherman and not attract the attention of the Nicaraguan Coast Guard ”

  “Excellent,” boomed Popov as Escabado strode from the bridge. “I need to be back on my yacht off Miami within the day. It will be good to be as far away as possible from here. Too many questions, I choose not to answer.”

  “General, I will locate what remains of the submarine and destroy all traces of their existence,” said Escabado as he clambered down the ladder to the waiting Bandito.

  Escabado started the big twins and let them warm up a minute while crewmen released the lines. He swung the bow away from the Lucia Marie and punched the throttles forward. The Bandito jumped on a plane and screamed across the shallow bar towards the Liwa Mairin All too soon, he had to slow as he reached the side of the lobster boat. The crew was waiting as he shut down the engines and raised the cockpit hatch to clamber up the boarding ladder attached to the hull. As Escabado stepped onto the bridge, he saw Reginaldo manning the helm. The bridge was crowded with the survivors from the jungle camp who were armed to the teeth and seemed disappointed that their quarry might have already died and escaped their vengeance.

  “Reginaldo, I want you to locate the sunken submarine. Pronto”

  “Si, Jefe,” he said with a look of puzzlement. “But I thought they were sunk by the big guns.”

  “I think so, but I personally want to drag their bodies out of the sea, cut them up and feed them to the sharks,” said Escabado with a smile that did nothing to reassure Reginaldo.

  Reginaldo started a sweep pattern with his depthfinder looking for any object that stood out on the smooth sandy bottom below. He knew this bay as well as his backyard and there were no irregular features in the center of the bay except for the rusting hulk of a fishing boat that had sunk many years before. He had also been fortunate because when the submarine had been fired on, it had been lined up with a hill on the other side of the bay, so he at least had a reference point to begin the sea
rch.

  He motored slowly staring intently at the depth finder screen slowly scrolling in front of him. After a couple of fruitless passes, he adjusted his course slightly to the side and motored over the bay again. Almost at the end of the track, there was a hump on the seabed that looked like a long ridge stretching for a hundred feet or so. It shouldn’t have been there.

  “Son of a bitch,” swore Escabado. Reginaldo flinched like he had been struck, sure that the invective had been directed at him. As he looked up from his screen, he saw the object of Escabado’s wrath as a thirty foot Rigid Inflatable Boat roared over the bay directly towards them.

  Miller grimly hung on to the grab rail as the RIB crashed over the waves. The boat was similar to many of the boats used by the Coast Guard for patrol work. It was an efficient workhorse with dual three hundred horse Mercury outboards hung on the stern that could propel them at almost sixty miles an hour. It was a sight that struck fear into the hearts of drug smugglers everywhere.

  With the addition of the three additional DEA agents from the Honduran station, they had a total onboard of six-far fewer than Miller preferred, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in firepower. In addition to the issue M16 and pistols that each man personally carried, the RIB also had a bow mounted .50 cal machinegun.

  “Everyone locked and loaded?” yelled Miller straining to be heard over the noise of the outboards and the RIB pounding through the waves.

  “Good to go!” said Davis.

  From the others, a few thumbs-ups and nods of the heads as everyone finished a last second gear check. As they closed to within a quarter mile, one of the DEA guys manned the .50 and began scanning the ship they were rapidly approaching for any signs of a hostile reaction. His concern was quickly justified as three crew members from the Liwa Mairin popped up from behind a metal bulwark and opened fire with AK47s on full auto. At the same time, they saw the go-fast boat they had seen earlier on the surveillance satellite roar away from the Liwa Mairin toward the Atlantic leaving a towering roostertail in its wake.

  The first burst killed the DEA agent on the .50 and the other agent standing beside him. The agent on the port side spun in a circle and groaned heavily as a round took him just above the hip. Rivera instinctively ducked as one round cracked by his head and then his Marine training from Desert Storm kicked in as he ran forward to man the big .50 on the bow.

  Rivera wrapped his hands around the worn grips of the machinegun and squeezed off a three second burst that deafened everyone on board. The massive recoil of the gun could be felt hammering through the structure of the boat as the rounds flew toward their target like a cloud of lethal lead bumblebees.

  Some things are a matter of luck, others good planning. Reginaldo would give credit to God that day as the heavy rounds splintered the bridge of the Liwa Mairin. The cabin exploded in a spray of broken glass and splintered wood as the men standing on the bridge were torn to shreds. Reginaldo escaped with a cut over one eye from a flying shard of glass and a splinter embedded in his thigh.

  Rivera continued to scan the length of the boat ready to fire at any remaining signs of resistance as they approached the vessel, but it looked like if there were any survivors, they had wisely decided to stay out of the fight. Davis grabbed the rail and vaulted onto the deck, closely followed by Miller while Rivera continued to keep watch with the .50. Within a minute, they reappeared with the only two survivors-the captain who had somehow survived the hail of bullets in the pilothouse and then engineer they found hiding below decks. Neither seemed to be much of a threat.

  They were startled when the captain said in a halting voice, “CIA?”

  “No. FBI,” said Miller. “Who are you?”

  “ I am Reginaldo. Good friend of U.S. God Bless America. Help you find your friends.”

  “Obvious bullshit. This guy would sell out his own mother if he thought it would help him,” said Davis.

  “You said you could help us,” Miller said as he was joined by Rivera on the bridge. “Where are they?”

  Reginaldo pointed over the side. “Down there. We right on top of them.”

  CHAPTER 33

  I was quickly running out of fresh ideas. It seemed time was at a standstill since we had been hit, but in reality it had only been a couple of hours at most. I was worried about Tasha-she seemed withdrawn, understandably overwhelmed by the events that had occurred.

  “Tasha,” I said trying to sound as upbeat as possible under the circumstances. “I’m sure we have some help on the way soon. The Dolce Vita was under satellite surveillance all the way to this bay. I’m sure that by now they’ve located us. Just a matter of waiting for them to get here.”

  “How long can we wait?” she asked. “What if they can’t locate us?”

  “We have plenty of air,” I said pointing at the racks of scuba tanks lining the wall. The problem is we have no way to vent the CO2 in the cabin. I figure two days at most before it hits a dangerous level.”

  “Those are scuba tanks-can’t we use those to get out?” Tasha asked with a spark of hope in her voice.

  “Nice idea, but won’t work. We have the tanks, but there’s not a scuba regulator to hook to the tank that we can actually breathe through. I think our best shot is to blow all the tanks and see if the buoyancy is enough to float us to the surface for a few seconds. We need to do it now, before the aft compartment is completely flooded. You ready?”

  “Sounds like our best option,” Tasha agreed. “What do you need from me?”

  I pointed at the panel with the controls for the two main ballast tanks, the fore and aft trim tank, and the safety tank. “I’ll take care of the main tanks and you handle the auxiliary tanks. We’ll blow them all at once and hope for the best. If we make it to the surface, I’ll crack the hatch-we might only have five or ten seconds to get clear before the boat sinks again. You ready?”

  Tasha tightly gripped the control valves for the auxiliary tanks while I held on the valves for the main tanks. “I’m ready,” she said with only a slight edge to her voice to betray her nervousness.

  I smiled encouragingly at her. “OK vent tanks on 3..2..1…vent tanks!” I said pushing the levers forward and holding them open while Tasha did the same.

  The sound of all the high pressure tanks discharging at once was like the wailing of a thousand banshees as the air rushed in displacing the heavy seawater in the tanks. I could feel the bow of the submarine break free of the sandy bottom followed seconds later by the mid section. The deck was inclined at a sixty-degree angle as the stern continued to hold us captive on the ocean floor.

  I glanced at the gauges-the tanks were eighty percent empty and I could feel the stern starting to break loose. Suddenly, we were free! The submarine was drifting slowly upward as the remaining seawater was pumped out. …And then a horrendous cracking sound as the overstressed main ballast tank in the stern ruptured.

  “Hold on, I yelled as the rear tank flooded and the submarine tilted to an almost vertical position. Tasha, hanging by her arms from the valves, landed lightly on her feet on the bulkhead as she suddenly lost her grip. I slapped the valves forward to reflood the forward tanks.

  “Tasha, adjust your position-the bow will be coming down now,” I said as the buoyant bow filled with water once again and slowly settled to the bottom.

  “Son of a bitch!” I swore. “We almost had it.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths-so damn close-might as well have been a million miles.

  “OK, Tasha-on to the next plan. According to this, we have enough breathing air for maybe two days,” I said tapping on the gauges above the helm station. “I’m not sure can expect a rescue. We’re going to have to try something else-fairly risky, but we’re running out of options.”

  She perked up at that news. “What are you thinking? I’m not too excited about the idea of just waiting around for rescue either. I’d rather die trying than sit around doing nothing.”

  “Keep that attitude-we’ll need it
. The problem is that the rear compartment is flooded and we have no way of opening the forward hatch because the pressure from the outside ocean is pushing it closed. The only way out is to open the rear bulkhead and flood the forward compartment.”

  She looked at me aghast. “You call that an idea? Sounds like drowning sooner rather than later.”

  “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. The pressure from the water in the stern will compress the air in the bow as it floods in-we’ll still have a bubble to breathe in. As soon as the pressure equalizes, we open the rear hatch and swim out. Can’t be more than eighty feet to the surface.”

  “Did I mention I’m a terrible swimmer?”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a low-pitched thrumming noise vibrating through the hull. Tasha and I listened intently as the sound seemed to intensify and then stop suddenly.

  “That sounds like a boat overhead. I’m going to make a wild guess and assume those are the same ones who put us on the bottom a few hours ago. I think our idea of waiting for rescue just went out the window.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll to start, I think it’s time for me to take a little swim. Seems a shame not to drop in for a visit on our friends up top.”

  A moment of rummaging near the helm station produced a couple of flashlights. They looked waterproof, but I couldn’t count on that. “Tasha, you keep this one. When I flood the compartment, the forward battery bank will be the first thing submerged-probably no more than a couple of minutes before we lose the lights. It might be an hour before I’m back. Just stay as dry as you can and concentrate on keeping your breathing slow to save your oxygen.”

  A quick hug and I turned my attention to the rear bulkhead. This had to be done carefully. I knew that the aft compartment was almost completely flooded and that the door would explode inward from the pressure of the water in the compartment. There were four dogs on the hatch. I carefully opened two of them. Water began to jet from the seal to the compartment. Not enough-it would take hours to fill at this rate. I eased off the other two a turn at a time. The water became a torrent-like standing in front of several firehouses at once. I held my breath and tried to avoid the brunt of the high-pressure jet.