Submerging, Kurt turned until 025 was directly in front of him, then began the long swim, activating the power-assisted modules early in the journey.
The boost was sudden and unexpected, like stepping onto a moving walkway that was traveling faster than one realized. This sensation also took some getting used to. The wetsuit squeezed and released his legs rhythmically and, before too long, it felt natural, even soothing.
“This is like a compression massage,” Kurt said. “I cannot believe someone didn’t think of this before.”
“Not everyone has the mind of a genius,” Joe replied. “Keep an eye on your battery level. The power pack will give you an hour of full assist, with a reserve of ten minutes at half strength.”
Kurt glanced at the arm-mounted display and saw that his power level was ninety-seven percent. The rest of the journey was conducted in silence until the helmet-mounted GPS told them they were nearing the freighter’s location.
“Setting the sonar to maximum range,” Kurt said. The change brought the hull of a midsized freighter into view. “Let’s go under the ship and come up on the far side. Keep toward the bow in case they start those props.”
“Sounds like a reasonable plan,” Joe said.
They kicked deeper, diving beneath the barnacle-covered hull and turning toward the bow. Nearing it, they discovered that the ship was tied off to a marine buoy and anchored.
As Kurt swam past the anchor line at a depth of thirty feet, a thunderous crash sounded from directly above him.
He looked up to see a huge cylindrical object emerging from a wall of bubbles and foam and plummeting toward him. He kicked hard to get out of the way, but the object never reached his depth. It slowed its descent and rose back up, bobbing to the surface, where it floated half submerged like a log in the river.
As the foam and turbulence from the impact dispersed, Kurt spotted eight tires in pairs at the back end of the cylinder. Large valves, heavy coupling points and a stand on the other end of the cylinder from the tires told him what he was looking at.
“Tanker truck,” Kurt said.
Joe swam up beside him. “Only you could have a truck fall on your head in the middle of the ocean.”
“Notice anything strange?”
“Stranger than a truck in the ocean?” Joe said. “Not really.”
“That’s an eight-ton hunk of metal,” Kurt said. “And it’s floating.”
“It’s empty.”
Kurt nodded.
As they watched, additional splashes appeared in the water on the far side. These were smaller and more at home in the water.
“Divers,” Joe said. “Our little corner of the Atlantic is getting crowded.”
The warm glow of lights added some color to the scene that hadn’t been there before as the divers clustered around the floating truck.
“I’m not interested in getting spotted down here,” Kurt said. “Let’s swim over to the buoy. We can hide behind it and enjoy a front-row seat to the goings-on.”
34
SS MORGANA, THREE MILES OFF THE NORTH SHORE OF BERMUDA
VOLKE STOOD at the rail of the SS Morgana, shouting instructions to the men in the water. “Are you trying to get yourselves killed? Get back, you fools! Don’t get between the truck and the hull.”
It was no use. With the noise of the crane dipping down toward the tanker truck, the sound of the water slapping against the freighter’s hull and the general pandemonium, no one heard him.
Volke turned to the crane operator. “I told you to lower the tanker, not drop it.”
“Not my fault,” the man said. “The cable snapped.”
“Replace it,” Volke said. “You have less than one hour.”
Volke left the frustrated crane operator behind and went below, finding an open cargo door on the lower deck, closer to where the tanker floated.
“We need to get something between the ship and the truck,” Volke shouted. He commandeered several crewmen and had them toss out anything that could be used as a bumper—life preservers, a raft and one of the ship’s own bumpers.
While Volke worked, Pascal Millard arrived, clutching a folder and staring in disbelief at the chaos down on the water. “This is what I mean when I say we’re running toward disaster.”
“This,” Volke said, “is a setback. Disaster is far too strong a term.”
Volke expected Millard to back down, he was a quiet man in general, but the scolding brought a bold response.
“This,” Millard replied, mirroring Volke’s speech pattern, “is a sign of systemic problems. Too much, too fast, with too little thought as to what might happen if something goes wrong. Each little setback is going to compound the next and a disaster will ensue. Mark my words.”
Volke laughed. Millard was probably right, but he wasn’t about to let the little scientist know that. He grabbed Millard by the shirt, swung him toward the open hatch and pushed him toward the edge until only Millard’s heels and the strength of Volke’s arms were keeping him from falling. “Just do your job and keep your mouth shut or you might face a disaster of your own.”
Grabbing for the edge of the door, Millard dropped the folder and his papers fluttered into the water. If he fell now, he would be another bumper, caught between the floating truck and the ship. “I’m just trying to help.”
Volke held Millard hostage a moment longer, then pulled him back inside. Down below, an area of the seawater was brightening.
“The Wasp is here,” he told Millard. “You’re going down below to begin the transfer process. And don’t plan on any delays, because I’m coming with you.”
* * *
• • •
FROM BEHIND THE BUOY, Joe watched the action with a mixed sense of curiosity and wonder. When the damaged cable was cut from the crane and tossed into the water, it became clear that the splashdown was unintended.
“That free fall was a mistake,” Joe said, “but they were still lowering the tanker when it fell.”
“Why here?” Kurt said, still communicating over the helmet-mounted radios. “Bermuda has no oil.”
“Getting rid of the evidence?” Joe suggested.
“Better off dumping it in the middle of the ocean,” Kurt said. “The depth here can’t be more than two hundred feet. I’d say they’ve chosen this spot for a reason.”
“We can have Priya check to see if there’s anything unusual around here,” Joe said. “The comm system has a high-frequency link for use on the surface.”
“Do the honors,” Kurt said.
Joe pulled himself higher on the buoy and brought his arm out of the water. Tapping the control panel on his forearm, he switched his radio to the HF band. “Priya, this is Joe. Do you read?”
The reply came within seconds. “Loud and clear. Are you on your way back?”
“Not yet,” Joe said. “We’re watching the men on the freighter unload some very odd equipment. We’re wondering why they chose this spot. Use the location info from the transponders in our helmets.”
“I have you,” Priya told them. “Three miles west-northwest of Ferry Point.”
“Sounds right,” Joe said. “Anything unusual about the area? Sinkhole or drop-off or anything like that?”
“Not that I can see. You’re near the reef. Depth averaging one hundred and forty feet. You have to go out another mile before it truly falls off.”
Joe looked back at the freighter and noticed a circle of light widening around the floating truck. Sliding back into the water, he stared through the gloom. The beams of a several spotlights were visible as a submersible ascended directly beneath the tanker.
Switching to the sonar system, Joe saw more detail. The submersible had a pinched waist and large claws that extended upward. As the claws wrapped around the body of the tanker, the divers swam about, checking the fit and inserti
ng locking pins.
With the tanker locked in place, the submersible rose up a few feet, took on a couple of passengers and then vented a large volume of air, beginning a slow descent and dragging the tanker down with it.
“Volke and Millard just boarded that sub,” Kurt said. “Tell Priya we’re going to follow them down.”
Joe relayed the information to Priya and then he and Kurt pushed off the buoy and slipped beneath the surface.
35
SITTING ON the Lucid Dream, Priya listened to Joe’s call and was excited to be a member of the field team, yet slightly jealous that Kurt and Joe were having all the fun.
Diving had been a fascination of hers for years. The excitement to do more of that had been a big draw in joining NUMA, but the accident had taken most of that away.
She still dived on occasion, but it was only for leisure now and it was a complicated effort to set up those opportunities.
“See what else you can find out about the Monarch,” Joe had suggested.
“Will do,” she’d said dutifully. “Be careful down there.”
“You, too.”
That was the last communication.
You, too? Priya thought. What am I supposed to be careful about, not getting carpal tunnel syndrome from all this computer work?
Self-pity was a trait she despised. She shrugged off the disappointment, got back to work and spent the next ten minutes searching fruitlessly for information on the Monarch.
She’d searched public sources, media references and even ran a query for sightings of the plane on Facebook and Twitter. She’d tapped into FAA and international air traffic control databases. Aside from a few air shows, boat shows and other carefully staged PR events, news of the Monarch appeared only on the rarest of occasions.
All of which suggested the plane rarely flew, but information she’d downloaded about its engine overhaul schedule told her the plane had logged nearly four thousand hours of flight time in the last two years. Enough to cover a million miles.
“You don’t rack up all those frequent-flier miles going from Bermuda to Miami for boat shows,” she said.
She looked across the water. Tessa’s compound remained dimly lit, but a few security lights silhouetted the Monarch. It sat like a shadowy ghost. A ghost that went anywhere it wanted without the world knowing.
Frustrated by her inability to find anything of value and bored with sitting and watching, an idea occurred to her. It was an idea she should have pushed aside as soon as it came to mind, but instead she romanced the thought for a moment, considering the possibilities and potential drawbacks.
The more she thought about it, the stronger its pull became.
Staring across the water at the silent plane, she spoke as if addressing it personally. “If you won’t be good enough to tell us where you’ve been, then perhaps we should stop asking and start tracking you.”
The trip to Bermuda had been planned rapidly. Not wanting to get caught short, Kurt had ordered them to bring anything that might be helpful. In addition to Joe’s powered diving gear, the high-tech cameras, listening devices and drones, they’d brought with them beacons the team called geotrackers.
With an incredible adhesive that bonded to everything it touched, the geotrackers could be attached to moving boats, floating garbage, even sharks, whales and other living things.
“Why not,” she told herself. “If Kurt can swim across the bay for a date, why can’t I do the same to advance our mission?”
She could accomplish the task using just her arms. But thanks to Joe, she didn’t have to do it on her own.
She set the camera on record, wrote an entry into her computer log and wheeled herself toward the yacht’s small elevator. A moment later, she was on the lower deck, retrieving one of the powered dive suits from the locker.
She disrobed and pulled the suit on, adjusting the fit until it was snug. That done, she pulled the top up over her shoulders, slid her arms in and zipped it up.
In comparison to getting the wetsuit situated, donning the rest of the gear was easy. She tested every item, double-checked the power pack and then pulled out one of the geotrackers.
With a rebreather in place, she scooted to the edge of the transom. With only the briefest of second thoughts, she pushed herself backward and plunged into the waters of Bermuda’s Great Sound.
She swam with her arms for a minute, setting her buoyancy to a slightly negative level, while she submerged and activated the suit.
Her right leg kicked and then her left. The artificial muscle contractions happened slowly and awkwardly at first. Using the controller on her forearm, she increased the pace until it became a natural rhythm.
Over the past few years, she’d had many dreams in which she was running and climbing, but far more where she was swimming. And while she couldn’t feel the squeezing sensation that Kurt and Joe felt, because the sensation could not pass the break in her spine, she felt the movement and the power in her hips and her lower back. The sensation of speed was incredible, euphoric. For just a moment, she felt as if she was flying.
36
WHILE PRIYA was swimming across the Great Sound, Kurt and Joe were descending through the open waters of the Atlantic.
Forced to avoid the divers who remained near the freighter, they’d swung wide around the ship’s bow before descending in the direction of the tanker-laden submersible.
Kurt was a few yards ahead, kicking smoothly, allowing the power suit to do most of the work. The submarine was up ahead, running with its high beams on, but slowly getting dimmer with the growing distance.
“What’s the max range on this sonar?” Kurt asked.
“About four hundred yards,” Joe said, “depending on the water conditions.”
Four hundred yards was much farther than one could see with even the brightest of lights.
Kurt switched the sonar system back on, dialing up the maximum range. The gray field of vision and the outline of the submersible appeared. It was leveling off and gliding across the top of a reef.
“Would you look at that,” Joe said.
The sonar system gave a three-dimensional appearance to the view, and the ship on the bottom seemed to lengthen as they approached it.
The angled bow was pointed toward them. Behind it, three huge, dome-shaped structures protruded from the main deck. Each dome was actually the upper half of a spherical container, known as a Moss tank. They were designed to hold liquid natural gas under extreme pressure. The lower halves of the spheres were hidden below deck.
“That’s a liquid natural gas carrier,” Kurt said.
“Big one, too,” Joe replied. “The question is, what’s she doing down here?”
“Tessa has a foundation that sinks ships to encourage reef building,” Kurt said. “Though, I have a feeling this vessel has a more sinister purpose.”
“Mother ship,” Joe suggested. “With this tanker coming in for a fill-up.”
“Exactly,” Kurt said. “I think we’ve found the source of infection.”
They followed the submarine down, closing the gap as the ungainly vessel navigated cautiously between a field of coral and the side of the ship.
It slowed to a stop, pivoted and—after stirring up a cloud of sediment—disappeared into a gaping hole in the side of the ship’s hull.
“That’s a surprise,” Joe said. “I figured they’d lock on, fill up and head back to the surface.”
“As did I,” Kurt said.
With the submarine gone, he could see a large section of hull plating moving back into position like a garage door closing.
“Let’s get through the door before they shut us out.”
Both men dived hard, swimming toward the rapidly shrinking gap and darting through the cloud of sediment and beneath the closing door.
They wound up inside the hull of th
e monstrous ship, listening to the audible clang of the hull plates shutting behind them.
The submersible floated ahead and above them, its lights illuminating the inner sanctum of the LNG carrier.
Kurt had been inside similar ships and one look told him the guts of the vessel had been torn out. Structural supports, machinery and entire portions of the inner hull had been cut away and removed. What remained was an open space, several hundred feet in length and a hundred and forty feet wide, with the lower halves of the spherical tanks hanging in place like the undersides of three great balloons.
The submersible with the tanker truck on top was inching upward into a gap cut in the first of the three spheres.
“Now what?” Joe asked.
“What else,” Kurt replied. “We see what’s inside the sphere.”
37
VOLKE WAS at the helm of the submarine he and the crew called the Wasp. It had no official name, but it possessed a bulbous bow, pointed stern and a pinched waist like the insect.
Volke would have preferred they call it something more accurate—like the Wallowing Hippo. It was hard to maneuver, top-heavy, with the tanker mounted above it, and given to rolling badly on the surface, even in the slightest waves.
Thankfully, it was far more stable when the ballast tanks were full and it was operating beneath the water. Only, that made it slower than ever.
After they navigated into the hull, it took hours to line up with the gap in the docking sphere. When that was done, Volke grabbed the radio.
“Docking Sphere, this is Volke,” he said into a microphone. “Anyone awake up there?”
A scratchy signal carried the response. “We’re ready for you, Wasp. Cleared to surface.”
Volke eased the Wasp upward until it cleared the waterline. “Shutting down,” he called out. “Pull us to the dock.”
Inside the sphere, a group of crewmen, walking on metal grates, jumped aboard the bow, tied the line off and pulled the submersible to the dock.
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