Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  The red dot of her pointer circled the second building. “Over here is where our current mining operations are being done.”

  “Mining operations?” Bannon asked.

  “Allow me to go through this, Commander. Then I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have when I’m done.”

  “Of course.” Bannon sat back and sipped his wine.

  She returned her laser pointer to the screen and ran circles around the main dome.

  “This is and will be the heartbeat of Tiamat Bluff, its city center. Recreation, city government, retail, and commercial space. Here we have hotel accommodations, restaurants, several shopping promenades, and entertainment venues; movies, playhouses, concert halls. We even have,” she aimed the pointer at the glowing top of the dome, “an ‘outdoor’ park.” She laughed. “Not really outdoors, of course. But in my opinion, even better. Kanaloa Park lies under a large transparent dome. It has three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of Georges Bank’s magnificent vista, marine and plant life, and everything a modern city park has. A lake, a community pool with water slides, walking and bike paths, abundant green space, a gazebo, and even a bandshell with,” she made air quotes, ‘outdoor’ seating.”

  Her pointer touched on the spurs Bannon had noticed earlier. “These will eventually become transportation tubes with monorail transport trains and moving pedestrian walkways that will radiate outward from the city center to our residential subdivisions. Our suburbs. All part of our future expansions, of course.”

  “How many residents do you expect to have?” Grayson asked, “Ultimately.”

  “I’m glad you asked.” With a click of her remote, an overlay appeared on screen. A gossamer bluish hue that showed dozens of transportation tubes—spokes—radiating out from the Bluff’s city center in a spectacular starburst pattern, leading to dozens of smaller domes. And not only from the city center, but then thinner tubes radiated out from the smaller domes to even more domes, interconnecting, reaching further and further away from the hub. It reminded Bannon of the molecular structure models he remembered from high school science class.

  “Tiamat Bluff is in its preliminary stages. The main facility’s current capacity is one thousand people. But that will grow as we complete lower levels and convert what are now various work modules into actual living spaces like the aforementioned hotels and residential apartment housing plans. The ten-year goal is for the city center to be home to five thousand people. Once schools, medical centers, emergency responders’ services are organized and staffed, the next phase—our suburb development—will bring ten thousand more residents down to call Tiamat Bluff home.”

  “And right now?” Bannon asked.

  “Actual homeowners? None yet. Tiamat is still classified as experimental, there are many, many hurdles; regulatory issues, safety inspections, impact statements to get through. A lot of red tape to untangle before that can be realized. But,” she quickly added, “as it stands now, we have a varying population of between five hundred and one thousand personnel currently living and working in the main facility and the ancillary buildings,” Larson said. “They’re mostly construction workers, design engineers, miners, military personnel, researchers, and inspection workers.”

  “Which brings us back to my question about miners?” Bannon said.

  “Of course.” Larson smiled. Her enthusiasm for the project couldn’t be ignored. She aimed the red dot along the conduits between the city center and the two lower buildings. “This facility is currently being used for private and public-funded scientific research, primarily the development of workable means to harvest the abundant natural resources from the ocean floor and beneath it. And to answer Commander Bannon’s question directly. A significant function of Tiamat Bluff currently and in the future—and where a good percentage of our funding has come from—is from the private industry mining operations we support. As I said at the top of the presentation, the natural resources under the ocean available to us are …abundant.”

  “Underwater drilling?” Tolliver frowned.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But in a new and unique way, with state-of-the-art technology and cutting-edge methods. Our top concern is to ensure we have minimal impact on the delicate ecological balance in which we are operating in.” She took note of Tolliver’s concerned expression. “Our methods and operations have been studied and examined by every environmental impact group we could find. Our impact statements have been reviewed by numerous government and private agencies, watchdog groups, and none, not one, has found fault in our methods. In fact, the opposite is true. We’ve been praised for our methods and concern for the environment. No one is more dedicated to keeping the ocean’s ecological system in balance than we are.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Tolliver said.

  Bannon was relieved to hear it as well.

  “Something else you gentlemen might be interested in. We’ve hosted a large number of underwater military training operations. Primarily with the SEALs, but also a number of Coast Guard training operations as well.”

  “Another question,” Bannon said.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “At what depths are we talking here?”

  “I’m glad you asked. The Bluff is located sixty-two miles almost directly due east of Boston.” She indicated the smartboard. The image switched to a map of the Gulf of Maine. She pointed to a lighter blue section of water beyond Cape Cod. “This elevated area here is the summit of Georges Bank. It reaches upward to around eight hundred feet below sea level. Its northern slope drops gradually to a depth here—Georges Basin—of twelve hundred feet.” With a click of her remote, a side elevation view of Tiamat Bluff appeared. The domes now looked like half-buried golf balls in a gently rising slope. “The city center and recreational area have been constructed at one thousand feet below sea level. Our future expansion plans…” The starburst overlay reappeared on screen. She pointed her red dot at the smaller domes. “Here, these are slightly above the one-thousand-foot mark. And these, of course, will be below. The power plant and mining operation are at the lowest point of the ocean floor in this area, at generally twelve thousand feet.”

  The screen went blank. Larson snapped off her pointer. And the lights came on. “Any more questions? I’ll be happy to answer them here or once we’ve arrived at Tiamat Bluff. I look forward to having you all experience the many spectacular features the world’s only city under the sea has to offer.”

  At the hatch stood two seamen. During the presentation, they’d silently wheeled in two linen-covered catering trolleys.

  Larson smiled. “And it appears I finished up in the nick of time. Unless I’m mistaken, lunch is served.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A black, torpedo-shaped shadow loomed over the seafloor north of Georges Bank. It moved slowly out of the shadowy darkness, angling southwest as it approached the sloping seaward side of the mountain range. Traveling from New Brunswick, the vessel hugged the craggy slope of purple-blue rock, making its way predator-like toward Tiamat Bluff.

  Sixty-five feet in length with a seven-foot beam, the mini-sub was powered by next-generation lithium-ion batteries. Silent and nearly undetectable by conventional radar and sonar, it cruised at a steady five knots. The engines emitted little more than a hum and a slight vibration. Inside a pilot, co-pilot, and thirty-six men (and a few women) wearing black wetsuits and scuba gear sat in the dark, flooded compartment. A single pale red dot of light the only illumination inside the chamber.

  A mile north of Tiamat Bluff the sub slowed to a stop. The divers inside tensed.

  Though they were enclosed in a dark, windowless chamber, they knew they’d reached their target. The so-called city under the sea. A message appeared in the glass of their facemasks. The letters glowed in blood-red:

  Prepare to disembark.

  A soft hiss of air could be heard. The single red light overhead turned green.

  The overhead hatches on either side of the crew compartment slid
open. Opened by the co-pilot remotely. Because the chamber was already water-filled, the only change felt by the divers was a sudden drop in water temperature, for which they were prepared. Their wetsuits were 6/5mm thick neoprene and rated for temperatures of forty-two degrees and below. They wore full facemasks, hoods, gloves, and boots, all taped and sealed.

  The scuba divers disconnected from the mini-sub’s air supply. They connected their hoses to the air tanks strapped to their backs, and swarm from the vessel, emerging like bees leaving the hive.

  Closed-circuit rebreathers reduced the amount of escaping air bubbles the divers produced, making their approach quieter than standard regulators, reducing the chance of detection by the skeleton crew left to oversee the Bluff’s essential operations during the President’s scheduled visit.

  The sub hovered for several minutes before executing a slow turn to port before reversing course and departing the area.

  The divers swam in formation until they reached a lockout hatch near the northwest section of the domed building. The divers hung around it as if waiting for a magic genie to say open-sesame.

  The lead diver checked his diver watch. His expression one of annoyance.

  A minute stretched into two. Then three.

  Finally, there was a heavy thud and the hatch dialed open, like the aperture of a camera.

  The divers swam two at a time through the opening into the flooded lockout trunk below. A large room that accommodated as many as forty personnel. They crowded in, adjusting their buoyancy until their finned feet touched the diamond-plated floor. Steel handrails were bolted to the walls. They clutched them as the light over the hatch turned from green to red. Overhead, the hatch dialed close. The dull, underwater sound of hydraulic pumps could be heard as the water around them bubbled and began to drain, being pumped back out into the ocean. When the water had receded to chest level the group began to take off their regulators, facemasks, and hoods. They were a mix of ethnicities; black, white, Hispanic, Asians, and a few women; Caucasian and of color.

  The last to discard his hood, mask, and regulator was a man who most recently went by the name of Chase Lang. Over the years, he’d been known by so many names and assumed aliases, his real one was all but forgotten to him.

  A commanding figure, his most prominent feature was his arctic-cold blue eyes. He ran his hand through his military-cropped steel gray hair and wiped water from his craggy, suntanned face. At first appearance people assume he’d spent a lifetime on the water, his skin permanently tanned to a leathery brown. They were wrong. He’d spent a lifetime not on the water but on sand. In the desert. His superior fitness made pinning down his actual age difficult, over fifty for sure, but not yet sixty. Maybe or maybe not.

  Like the others, while the water continued to recede, he stripped to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs. Each diver opened the waterproof black bags they carried. Once the water was down to ankle depth the warning light over the interior hatch—opposite the one they’d swam through—switched from red to green with an audible buzz that grated on Lang’s nerves.

  From the other side of the hatch came a metallic banging sound.

  The center locking wheel spun. With a rubberized sucking sound, the seal was broken and the door opened. Water dripped from the ceiling into the two inches of water yet to drain away.

  “Let’s go,” Lang ordered, the first to step out of the dry lock.

  In the outer chamber, a nervous-looking man with red hair stood beside the open hatch. He wore a midnight blue jumpsuit, standard dress for the facility’s maintenance staff. The Tiamat Bluff logo over the left breast pocket stitched in white. A side view of the sloping bank with a dome. The name Tiamat arched over it. Bluff arching under it.

  “Mr. Lang?” he said almost wringing his hands.

  “You Kilpatrick?” the man with the icy-blue eyes asked.

  “Yes.”

  Lang glanced at the nervous little man with open distaste. “You got everything we discussed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  To his team, Lang said, “Get geared up.”

  On a nearby table were thirty-six neatly folded stacks of uniforms. Most were the same midnight blue maintenance ones like Kilpatrick wore, but there were also white jumpsuits worn by the kitchen and other service staffers, and some light blue Polo shirts with shoulder patches and dark blue slacks: security uniforms.

  The strike team dressed, each knowing which uniform to wear. Each knowing what their assignments were. Handpicked by Lang, they had trained for this mission relentlessly for weeks.

  All nonessential personnel had been evacuated from Tiamat Bluff, so ordered by the Secret Service, in anticipation of President Kingsley’s visit. That left a skeleton crew to manage the facility; including a handful of Ops & Control center personnel, a few facility management people, some security staff, and two Secret Service agents.

  Lang silently thanked the Secret Service for their assistance. It made taking over the place that much easier. And with the element of surprise on their side, he figured it’d be a piece of cake.

  Lang put on a security uniform. As he dressed, he asked Kilpatrick, “No problems?”

  “No, sir. But I do have a question.” He steeled himself as Lang stuffed a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson police pistol, mounted with laser pointer sights, in his gun belt holster. “I haven’t received my payment yet. It should’ve been deposited into my account by now.”

  Lang stared at him. His pale blue eyes like ice. “Are you accusing me of not honoring our deal?” He added, “Tyler.”

  “No. Of course not. It’s just—”

  “After the facility’s secure, you’ll get your money. Not before.” He turned his back on him, dismissing the nervous little troll.

  His team, each a former member of some branch of military service from a variety of countries, had over the years found work as mercenaries far more lucrative than serving their country’s war machines. Each had worked for Chase Lang at one time or another over the years. All were loyal to two things; neither of them was Lang. They cared about money and themselves and nothing else.

  Because Lang understood that, he could work with it.

  Once the team was dressed, most with handguns concealed on their persons and the security impostors armed with Steyr TMP 9mm machine pistol, they looked expectantly at him.

  “You all know your assignments,” he said. “You’ve studied the facility’s floorplans and schematics. You’ve practiced your jobs. You know where to go. You know what to do.”

  There was a communal nod accompanied by a few grunts of acknowledgment.

  “Then get to it.” All but five of them filed out of the room.

  Those that remained were dressed in either the blue jumpsuits of the Ops & Control personnel or as security, like Lang. One of them was a stout little man with jet black hair and olive skin. He paced and looked at the floor, talking to himself, his lips silently moving. His obvious anxiety rivaled Kilpatrick with his sweaty, wringing hands.

  The one person in the group he’d never worked with before, Lang watched him with concern. “You good, Sucre?”

  The man looked up. Nodded. “Yeah, yes.” His Hispanic accent thick.

  Lang stared at him. “You need to hold it together. Can you do that?”

  “I said I’m fine.” General Sebastian Ramos Sucre straightened his spine but still appeared to be the exact opposite of fine. He looked ready to vomit.

  “Good,” Lang said, not convinced. “Let’s move out.” He grabbed Kilpatrick by the arm. “Take us to Ops.”

  Kilpatrick stumbled toward the door.

  He led the five men and a woman through a series of circular corridors then up several floors in an elevator to level two, the second-highest point of the complex. He brought them to a gray sliding panel door in a turquoise wall. Beside it was a black panel. Beyond it was the head and heart of the entire facility. Ops & Control.

  Along the way, he stammered, “I know you said I’d get the money after
.” He held a proximity card in his hand. But rather than placing it against the pad he turned and faced Lang. “But that wasn’t exactly, I mean, that wasn’t what I was promised. I’m getting paid to get you inside, get you the uniforms you asked for. I’ve done that.”

  “Are you holding me up for more money, Tyler?”

  “No, I…”

  Lang eyed the proximity card in his hand. “Refusing to get us inside Ops until I demonstrate proof of payment, give in to a demand for a bigger payday?”

  “No. Of course not. I—”

  Lang clamped a hand forcefully on the shoulder. “Good. Because that would be a big mistake on your part.” He shook the man’s shoulder. “Buck up, Tyler. You’ll get what’s coming to you. You’ve got my word on it.”

  Tyler Kilpatrick nodded, once.

  “Good,” Lang said. “My word. That should be enough, right? Between honorable men such as ourselves?”

  “Yes. I…I suppose so.”

  “Great.” Lang smiled and gave the shoulder a final squeeze. “Then open up that door and let’s get this party started.”

  Lang looked at the others. Two of his men had taken up positions on either side of the door, prepared for a military breach, handguns out and ready. “Ready?”

  They each nodded.

  Lang glanced behind him. Sucre and the other two mercenaries, one male, one female, clutched their guns in two-handed grips, held low, prepared to rush through the door once Kilpatrick used his proximity key card to activate the biometric lock then use his palm print to open the door.

  There was a soft beep. The palm reader glowed red.

  Kilpatrick placed his hand on it. A bright blue light scanned his palm then the palm reader turned green. The door buzzed and slid open.

  Inside, facing a convex, panoramic view of Georges Bank and the aquatic underwater scenery beyond the facility’s outer walls, were five rows of computerized workstations. Lights blinked and computer screens were filled with displays of charts, graphics, pulsating bars monitoring power output, life support, and who knew what else.