Submerged

by Alton Gansky

  “Dad always hedged his bets,” Perry said. “He never settled on one solution to a problem. He would concoct as many as he could in case his first choice failed.”

  “I have to meet this man,” Carl said.

  Perry touched the chiseled initials again and prayed that Carl would have his wish. “Let’s go.” As Perry started down the ramping corridor, the dim, sometimes flickering light moved before him. How the light worked, he didn’t know, and he would have loved the opportunity to figure it out, but he had more urgent matters before him.

  Chapter20

  1974

  He fainted,” Cynthia said.

  “Guys like McDermott don’t faint,” Nash shot back.

  “I’m no doctor,” Zeisler said, “but he was standing a moment ago, and now he’s out cold on the floor. It looks like he fainted to me.”

  Henry was kneeling by McDermott’s side. He pressed two fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. It was strong and regular. Next he touched McDermott’s forehead but felt no fever. “His pulse and respirations are normal.”

  “See, he fainted,” Zeisler said again.

  “I have been with this man in Nam and seen him do things and endure situations that would give you nightmares for the rest of your life. I’m telling you, the man just doesn’t frighten.”

  McDermott moaned. Henry patted him on the cheek. “Hey, McDermott, you in there?”

  The man rolled his head from side to side, and then his eyes snapped open. He looked up at Henry. He blinked, then his eyes widened. “What the—” He sat up, shook his head, then rose to his feet. “What—what happened?”

  “You fainted,” Zeisler said. Henry saw Nash shoot a searing glance at the electrical engineer.

  “We don’t know,” Henry said. “One minute you were your usual quiet, intimidating self; the next you were flat on your back.”

  “That . . . thing . . .” McDermott shivered. “Where is it?”

  “It scooted outside, then burrowed into the sand,” Nash said.

  “It didn’t burrow,” Zeisler said. “It dissolved.”

  “Let me see the back of your head.” Henry took McDermott’s arm and turned him. McDermott slapped Henry’s hand away. Hard. Pain ran up Henry’s arm.

  “I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

  “Ease up, pal,” Henry snapped. “I was just going to check for a goose egg.”

  McDermott’s eyes moved around the room, as if he were uncertain where he was. “Where’s my . . . ?” He looked down at the floor. Bending quickly, he snapped his M16 up, then straightened. A second later, he raised his free hand to his head. He grimaced.

  “Headache?” Henry asked.

  “Yeah, big-time.” McDermott blinked a few more times, then turned to Nash. “I’m okay, sir. I’m fit for duty.”

  Henry watched Nash study his subordinate and ad-mired him for it. Military men like McDermott often down-played their injuries. The man could be half blind with pain, and he would say he was ready to go. Henry had met many men like him.

  “Is that the straight truth?” Nash asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened?” Nash pressed.

  “I don’t know, sir. That thing came from nowhere. I admit, it startled me good. I raised my weapon, and then my head began to pound. It felt like all the blood left my head. Next thing I know, I’m looking up at you.”

  “Anyone else have headaches?” Sanders asked. He was taking charge again. No one said they did. “As you can tell, we’re not in a normal situation here. We’re dealing with things no one has ever seen, so this is not the time to play hero. If anyone feels amiss, I want to know it.” He glared at Henry. “And for now, Mr. Sachs, let’s just leave the sand outside.”

  Grant spoke up. “I don’t know what that stuff is, but I’m real sure it ain’t sand.”

  “Do you have a better name for it?” Sanders asked.

  Grant shook his head. “Then we call it sand for now. Dr. Wagner, you’re the best one here to talk about biology. What do you make of that . . . thing?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the one you should be asking,” Cynthia replied. Her voice was soft but steady. “There’s more mechanics than biology. I mean, one moment it looks like a pile of sand, then the next moment it’s scampering across the floor.”

  “But there’s precedent in the animal kingdom, isn’t there?” Nash asked.

  “There are animals that work together to achieve a goal,” Cynthia said. “There’s a species of South American ant that links bodies together to form a chain bridge over which others of their colony can cross. Hiving insects like bees work cooperatively toward a goal. Coral reefs are the results of tiny animals bonding together. But I can guarantee that there is nothing in nature like what we just saw.”

  “It looked like a bug,” Grant said.

  “True,” Cynthia replied, “but that may be a function of, well function. It wanted out of the house, so it formed itself into something that could do that.”

  Zeisler shook his head. “Walking is a complex activity. That thing had six legs. Moving six legs the right distance, in the proper order, and in the right direction is difficult to design. That’s one reason cars have wheels and drivers. It has taken nature billions of years to evolve creatures that can move, respond to stimuli, and determine a desired action.”

  “Not evolution,” Henry said. “Design.”

  “What?” Zeisler asked.

  “Design,” Henry repeated. “Take your car example. It takes an intelligent, purposeful designer to conceive of, plan, and make a car. Then it takes an intelligence to guide it down the road. That creature wasn’t the end of some chain of coincidence; it was the product of a creative mind, the same mind that built this house, this environment—this place.”

  “What kind of creative mind?” Grant asked.

  “That is the million-dollar question,” Henry said, “and probably the reason we are here.”

  “How do we know we didn’t imagine it all,” Zeisler said. “According to Sanders, this place keeps changing. Maybe it’s all a hallucination. Maybe there’s something in the air that is making us see things.”

  “That would prove the point,” Henry replied. “If we were all seeing different things, then I might buy your hallucination theory. But we’re all seeing the same thing.”

  “Sanders and Nash saw different terrain,” Grant offered.

  “Not at the same time. Sanders saw green hills that reminded him of Tennessee in Spring. Nash saw a snowy landscape like . . .”

  “Montana,” Nash said.

  “Montana. Now we are all seeing desert, the Mojave Dessert.” Henry fell silent, then asked Sanders, “Have you ever been to Tennessee?”

  “Sure. My grandparents lived there. They boarded horses. I used to spend my spring break there.”

  “What about you, Nash? Have you ever been to Montana?”

  “I was born there. We moved to the East Coast when I was thirteen.”

  “I see where you’re going, Mr. Sachs,” Sanders said. “The next logical question is, Who has been to the Mojave? How about a show of hands.”

  Henry raised his hand. He was the only one.

  “Well, isn’t that interesting?” Zeisler said. “If I catch your drift, Sachs, you’re suggesting that Sanders saw Tennessee because he holds memories of it; the same for Nash and Montana. Why do we get Mojave if you’re the only one who’s ever been there?”

  “I wish I knew.” Henry grew even more thoughtful. “I was the first one in from the corridor.”

  “No you weren’t. Sanders was,” Zeisler said.

  “Let me rephrase: I was the first new person to step through the wall.” Henry looked to Sanders for confirmation.

  “I know what you’re going to ask. I saw the desert when I preceded you.”

  “So much for that theory,” Grant said.

  “Not really,” Cynthia said. “Who’s to say that the scene wasn’t plucked from Henry’s mind while we
were in the corridor?”

  Zeisler shook his head. “Even if that’s the case, we’re still left with the ‘Why Henry?’ question.”

  “Stop.” It was McDermott. He had shouldered his weapon and was rubbing his forehead. “It won’t stop.”

  “What won’t stop?” Nash asked.

  McDermott didn’t answer. He just rubbed his head, pushing his fingers deeper and deeper into the skin until Henry was certain the man would peel his face from his own skull.

  Nash changed his tone. “Report, soldier.”

  “The pain. The voices. They won’t stop talking. I can’t make them shut up.”

  “Take it easy.” Henry approached. “Maybe you should lie down and rest. You bounced your head pretty hard.” Henry slipped his hand between the M16 strap and McDermott’s shoulder.

  McDermott slapped the hand away and grabbed his weapon. Moving faster than Henry thought possible, he swung the automatic rifle around and smashed the butt of it into Henry’s belly, forcing the air from his lungs. Henry dropped to his knees. He glanced up in time to see McDermott raising the weapon again, this time aiming for Henry’s head. Henry tried to move, but the shocking blow had left him stunned, unable to breathe.

  Henry closed his eyes. The impact never arrived. He opened his eyes in time to see Nash struggling with McDermott. McDermott began to swear in a ceaseless stream of obscenities. Nash had both hands on the M16. So did McDermott. Neither was willing to let go. Sanders started toward the two but was too late. McDermott was larger, younger, and out of his mind. He snapped the gun left, then right, with such speed and strength that he wrenched it from Nash’s grasp. McDermott brought the stock up in a sweeping arch, catching Nash on the chin. He stumbled back. McDermott leveled the barrel at Nash’s chest.

  “Stand down, mister!” Sanders ordered. His words echoed in the curved room. “You will stand down, now.”

  McDermott lowered the barrel an inch. He looked confused, as if a far greater battle was raging in his head. “Get them out of my head.”

  “Give me the gun, son,” Sanders said softly. “Give me the weapon, and we will help you.”

  McDermott screamed. The shriek emanated from deep within, carrying fury as well as pain. He spun and aimed the M16 at Sanders.

  “Have you gone nuts, man?” Zeisler shouted.

  McDermott turned the weapon on Zeisler.

  Zeisler raised his hands. “Of course, I could be wrong.” He took two steps to the side. McDermott turned to keep the gun pointed at Zeisler.

  Air began to fill Henry’s lungs again. He took a breath, then another. Then he rose and sprinted forward. He hit McDermott a second before Nash did. Their combined weight, and the force of two men hurling their bodies at another, should have driven McDermott to the ground. But it didn’t. He stumbled forward but kept his footing. He swung an elbow that caught Nash in the nose. He hit him three times before Nash lost his grip. Free of Nash, McDermott was able to seize Henry by the hair, yanking his head back. Pain exploded through Henry’s body. Henry’s grip weakened, and McDermott pulled free.

  The butt of the weapon caught Henry again, this time on the right cheek. There was no pain, but it felt to Henry as if his brain had just splattered on the inside of his skull. Lights flashed in his eyes, and his peripheral vision darkened. Henry struggled to stay conscious. He had to stay conscious.

  He looked up and saw Sanders throw a right cross that landed on McDermott’s chin. He rocked back on his heels but again refused to go down. Sanders threw another punch, but it missed. McDermott repaid him with a barrel to the belly. Sanders dropped in a heap.

  Henry rose on unsteady feet. The others in the room had backed away from McDermott. Again the tormented man screamed. Then he ran for the door. Henry started after him, but his legs were sluggish. He stumbled forward, making two steps before McDermott opened the door and plunged through it.

  “McDermott, wait,” Henry called.

  “Wait?” Zeisler said. “Let the man go. We’re better off.”

  Henry forced one step to follow the other. Someone grabbed his right arm, then his left. Cynthia and Grant stood on either side of him.

  “Easy, Henry,” Grant said. “You’ve taken a beating.”

  Henry, bolstered by the two, pressed forward to the door and then outside.

  One foot beyond the threshold, Henry stopped.

  The desert was gone, replaced by thick green trees and vines. The desert night had been replaced by a daytime jungle. A white sun beamed down from a sky that couldn’t be there.

  “Where is McDermott?” Henry asked. He heard footfalls behind him.

  “Forget McDermott,” Grant said. “Where are we?”

  “I know,” a voice said. It was Nash. Blood ran from a deep cut in his chin. McDermott had left his mark. “I know all too well. Welcome to Vietnam.”

  To his right, in the distance, Henry heard the sound of automatic gunfire.

  Chapter21

  “How ya’ doing, sir?” Ryan Dean asked as he led the three-man parade down the stone corridor. Finn MacCumhail brought up the rear.

  “I’m fine.” Finn’s breathing was labored but not as much as a typical man his age. “I don’t know who designed these stairs, but they should be drawn and quartered.”

  “I volunteer to help,” Tuttle said.

  Lieutenant Wallace Tuttle was a stocky man with a barrel chest, thick neck, and unsettling gray blue eyes. Finn had read his “jacket”—the file of his background and military experience, as he had done for everyone in the operation. Tuttle was an Army Ranger before being invited to join the ZEDS and had seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan where he earned several citations, some for actions that would never see the light of day again. Although soft-spoken, he was a tough customer. Dean had made a wise choice bringing him along.

  “What I can’t figure out is this light that follows us,” Finn said. “You gentlemen ever see anything like it?”

  Dean shook his head. “No, sir. You’d think whoever designed it would have spent a few more pennies to make it brighter. The bulb in my refrigerator does a better job.”

  “It’s better than making this descent by flashlight,” Finn said.

  “Yes, sir,” Dean replied. “Better to light one candle and all that.”

  “I estimate we’ve walked about two miles.” Finn took the next awkward step. “What do you make it, Colonel?”

  “I concur. Maybe a little less. It’s hard to tell. Did those files say how long this passageway is—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Never mind.”

  “What?” Finn moved past Tuttle to join Dean.

  “We’ve reached a dead end,” Dean said. “It seems we’ve walked a long way for nothing, sir.”

  Finn said nothing. He was standing before a stone wall. The steps just ended, as if the builders had grown weary with the process and gone home forever. He had read about this wall, but the reading sounded more like fiction than a military report. Still, there it was, standing immovable and smooth like the surrounding walls.

  “What now, sir?”

  “Follow me,” Finn ordered.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Tuttle said. “Follow you where? Topside?”

  Finn started forward, his arm extended.

  “Sir?” Dean asked. “What are you doing?”

  The reports had better be right, Finn thought, or I’m going to look very foolish. He took three more steps and plunged into the wall. A series of obscenities followed in his wake. He smiled. Dean and Tuttle must have been stunned to the core.

  The swearing stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Finn took a couple of steps and turned. A wide-eyed Dean stepped through the wall. A second later, Tuttle followed.

  “How . . . I mean . . . ,” Tuttle stammered.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Finn admitted. “The old report said we’d encounter that, but I didn’t believe it. I do now.”

  “Where are we?” Dean’s eyes darted around.

  “A place no one has been in over th
irty years,” Finn said. “I think it’s time to bring you up to speed.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

  Perry followed the ramp down until it came to an end at a wide metal door. The door was painted a royal blue and sported two metal grates that allowed air to flow between the tunnel and whatever lay beyond.

  The light that followed them reflected off the door’s surface. This same light had followed them every foot of the journey, which Perry estimated to be three miles. They had been walking down the gentle grade for an hour and twenty minutes. Walking on the sloping surface made Perry’s legs ache.

  “There’s a combination lock on the door,” Carl said, “and the door looks like it’s made of metal. What about it, Gleason? Did you pack any tools for that?”

  “Maybe. I brought a battery-powered drill.”

  “Let’s be accurate,” Jack said. “I brought the tools. You only packed them.”

  “Semantics,” Gleason said. “Nothing but semantics.”

  “My back disagrees.”

  Perry stepped to the door. A large combination lock that reminded him of a safe was located on the left side, just above a stainless steel handle. He turned the dial, and it moved sluggishly. “I doubt anyone has touched this in three decades.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Janet said. “Considering what they would have to do to get to it.”

  Perry felt the cool, smooth surface of the door. A powder came off on his fingers, and he brushed it off on his pants. He saw something just above the lock. “More initials. Just like the ones at the mouth of the tunnel: A.S.—H/S.”

  “Say, Perry,” Jack said, “you don’t suppose—”

  “Yeah, I do suppose.” Perry started turning the dial.

  “Suppose what?” Carl asked.

  “That the combination on this lock matches one on a safe belonging to Perry’s dad,” Jack explained.

  Perry dialed: thirty-six, forty-two, thirteen. The dial action was stiff, but it turned without difficulty. Perry pushed down on the handle and felt it give. “Dad is consistent.”