by David DeLee
He cursed. Hard to avoid what you can’t see.
He passed a set of interior doors and paused. From beyond the door, he heard a dull clunk. A sound so muted he almost missed it. The door was unmarked. Painted turquoise like the surrounding walls. Bannon planted the butt of his stolen weapon against his hip and reached for the doorknob. It turned in his hand. Unlocked.
He pulled it open and stood back. Inside was a small room. The interior dark. The blue light from the corridor cast a ghostly hue into what turned out to be a broom closet. Bannon stepped inside. Shelves lined either side. Cleaning supplies and cardboard boxes filled them. A swap bucket and mop in the corner.
Without snapping on a light, he could see a slop sink to one side in the back and an array of brooms, buckets, and long-handled dustpans propped up in the corner. The room had a musty damp smell to it. One broom lay on the floor. As if it recently fell.
The noise he’d heard, perhaps.
Bannon moved deeper into the closet. His shadow in the pale light elongated across the floor then rose up on the far wall. He detected a sharp intake of breath and spun to the right just as a figure abandoned their hiding spot and lunged at him. An arm raised overhead.
Bannon brought his machine pistol up but stopped short of squeezing the trigger, recognizing a wide-eyed Doctor Larson as she charged, her arms over her head.
“Doc!” he shouted. “Robin. It’s me. Bannon.”
He lowered the weapon and caught her raised wrist, stopping her from caving his skull in with a big, nasty-looking metal wrench. She gasped and blinked.
Their faces close, she said, “Oh, Commander. It’s you.”
“Yeah.”
He lowered her arm and gently pulled the wrench from her clenched fist. In trying to secure a hiding place in the cramped closet, in the dark, she’d knocked the broom over.
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out again. “I, I almost brained you.”
He smiled. “Not even close. Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.” She shrugged then shook her head, unsure.
He patted her arm. “I feel the same way.”
The last he’d seen her was as they charged through the park door, barely escaping the crushing tsunami chasing them. “When did you sneak away?”
“Once I sealed the park door, I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do. I ran. I just ran.”
“You’re okay. That’s what counts.”
“I’m a chicken. I left you all behind. I shouldn’t have run away like that I—”
He shushed her. “I’m glad you did. Back there, you’re no good to anyone. This way, I can use your help.”
“With what? I’m no soldier.”
“I don’t need you to be. You know this place. You built it. If anyone knows its ins and outs, it’s you.”
She shrugged. “What good is that. What can the two of us do?”
“A lot. You’ll see.”
He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Originally, his concern was to get a call to the Putnam and warn them about the drone mines. That was less of a priority now. With what had happened, they now knew.
“We need to get the President and Grayson to safety,” he said.
“How do you propose to do that?”
“Escape vessels. Surely the facility’s equipped with them?”
“Of course,” she said, sounding defensive. “We’ve got six rescue minisubs. Each crews with a pilot and co-pilot, and can accommodate up to twenty-four passengers.”
“I only need one for now,” Bannon said.
“You’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
The mines. They’ll keep us in as effectively as they keep everyone else out. Unless you’re an expert pilot, with the skillset of—”
“I am. But it won’t be me piloting the sub out of here,” Bannon said, thinking on the fly. “Your submersible pilot, Garcia, will be doing that. But the mines will be out of commission long before Garcia launches.”
“Oh, and who’s going to do that?”
“You and I.” Bannon went to the closet door and peered out, rifle in hand. “Once we’ve got POTUS and Grayson safely on a rescue sub, they can hover close to Tiamat Bluff until we disable the minefield.”
“That means getting to Ops,” she said. “There’ll be dozens of armed men there, waiting for just such a move. What makes you think you can—”
He cut her off. “Because the alternative is unacceptable.” He glanced out into the corridor again. The coast appeared clear. He took her by the hand. “Come on.”
He grabbed her by the hand. “We need to find where they’re keeping Garcia and where they’d take POTUS and the others now that the park is gone.”
“I’m sure I don’t have a clue.”
“Think,” he said, leading her down the corridor. “A large space, securable. Would take only a few people to guard?”
“Access to food, water, facilities,” she said, brainstorming.
“Yeah. Sure. Close to Ops, I would guess. Keeping your people accessible.”
“Neptune’s Glen,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Neptune’s Glen. It’s a large restaurant one level below and with direct access to Ops via a spiral staircase. It’s the only restaurant to remain operational for the President’s visit. The others were shut down for the duration. Only two ways in and out with a full kitchen…”
“I doubt they’ll be serving seven-course meals,” Bannon said.
“No, but there are dry foodstuffs, rations. Water. And restrooms.”
“Close to the viper’s den,” Bannon said, not liking it, but not surprised either.
Larson fast-walked to keep up with his long purposeful strides. “But if you want access to whatever program they’re using to control the drone mines, you can bet it’s there, too.”
“Two birds. One stone.”
“Sure,” she agreed. “If we can get in, rescue the prisoners, and take over Ops without getting ourselves killed.”
“Let me worry about that,” Bannon said, his expression hardening into a mask of determination.
“Getting you to Ops is exactly where I’ll be taking you.”
The voice came from around the bend ahead of them.
Bannon stopped short and shoved Larson behind him even as he raised the machine pistol, but he was too slow.
Special Agent Kate Holloway had the drop on them. Close to the interior wall of the corridor, she held a Sig Sauer P229 pointed at Bannon’s forehead. “Lang wants a word with you.”
“You’re working for him.”
Bannon lowered his weapon. Angry with himself. This was a development he hadn’t anticipated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The wrecked SWCS vessel continued its downward plunge toward the ocean floor. Air bubbles cascaded upward. The purple turquoise water around it grew darker by the second. McMurphy clung to the roll bar over the pilot’s seat. He slapped away Jones’ panicked hands trying to unhook the man’s five-point canvas harness, ignoring the bloom of blood-tainted water from the SEAL’s gashing stomach wound. He transferred Jones’ air hose from the doomed vessel’s air supply and hooked it to the man’s tank strapped to his back.
“Up and at ‘em, Jonesy.”
McMurphy wrapped his arms around Jones in a tight bearhug and tugged him from his seat. His legs got tangled under the dashboard. His fins didn’t make the job of disengaging the man any easier. Also wearing fins, McMurphy pressed his feet against the nose of the vessel.
“This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me.”
He yanked one more time.
Jones howled but was pulled through the hole blasted into the vessel’s cockpit. McMurphy held the man under one arm, carrying him like a sack of potatoes. “Sorry ’bout that, Junior.”
Jones’ voice spoke over McMurphy’s earpiece. “Where are you…what are you doing?”
Good questions, McMurphy mused.
&n
bsp; The two men hung in the cold darkness, hovering as if suspended in space as they watched the minisub slip away below them. The sloping grade of Georges Bank was only twenty feet away. But whether the vessel would land and settle, or tumble down the embankment to the gorge below remained to be seen.
McMurphy felt a disturbance in the water before he heard the low, muted thud of more explosions. He twisted around and glanced at Tiamat Bluff fifty feet up the embankment from where their sub touched down in a cloud of blueish silt.
He watched in horror as the other submersible smashing into the Bluff’s dome and exploded. Victim of yet another drone mine. The dome shattered. A billowing cloud of water blew out then rushed in. The ocean’s water pressure imploded the space, caving in the grid and transparent panels, crushing the park completely.
Jesus.
“What’s the range on these headsets?” McMurphy asked.
“Fifty feet or so. It’s a closed frequency. Can’t call the Putnam for help. But Tiamat Bluff can’t hear us either.” Jones clutched his gut which was still leaking blood and coughed. “Any bright ideas?”
“You’re just full of good questions.”
“A couple of good answers would sure make my day.”
He was alert, had clear thoughts. That was good.
What now? Both delivery vessels were toast. As near as McMurphy could tell, he and Jones were the only survivors. That left them with three choices. Remain where they were and hope a rescue effort was mounted and arrived before their air ran out or Jones bled out. Two, make their way to Tiamat Bluff and attempt to get inside, taking their chances they wouldn’t be killed swimming through the moon pool before their air ran out or Jones bled to death. Or, three, retreat.
Head to the surface one thousand feet above them. A twelve to fourteen-hour endeavor if they were to avoid the life-threatening condition known as the bends on a couple of two-hour bottles. Which meant their air would run out before they made it and Jones would probably bleed out by then, too.
“Tell me you’ve got a plan, boss?” Jones said.
“Three actually.”
“If they’re what I think they are, none of ’em are viable,” Jones said.
“Where’s that uncommon desire to succeed?” McMurphy asked, cherry-picking a line from the Navy Seal creed, looking hard at the man through his facemask.
“It leaked out of the hole in my gut,” Jones said with a cough and a groan.
“Jokes. That’s good. Well, buck up, Junior. I think I’ve got something that just might work.”
He pressed the valves in their BCUs, releasing air and dropping them deeper in the water.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” Jones said and pointed. “Up is that-a-way.”
“Sometimes you’ve got to go down before you can go up,” McMurphy said.
“How much diving have you done in your life, McMurphy?”
“Probably a wee bit more that you, son. And being that we’re in this life and death situation together, you should call me Skyjack.”
“That’s your name?”
“A nickname.”
“Bet there’s a story behind it.”
“There is.”
“Love to hear it sometime.”
“Over a beer, after we’re out of this mess.”
“Better tell me now. Later’s gonna be too late.”
“Nope,” McMurphy said. “Give you something to live for.”
They continued their descent. Dropping, a column of cascading bubbles going up. The water around them got darker and colder, but McMurphy put that out of his mind. The neoprene suits would keep them alive, if not necessarily comfortable. At least long enough to do what he planned.
“Want to clue me in on whatever scheme you’re hatching?”
Below them, the minisub came into view. Thanks to the glow sticks McMurphy had activated that hung from their BCUs and a few passing deep-sea anglerfish whose antenna-like esca extended from its head and glowed bright blue, a means by which to attract prey. Ugly fish. McMurphy did his best to ignore their open monstrous mouths full of irregular sharp teeth.
“Waiting at the SWCS is pointless. No one’s coming for us, certainly not in time.”
McMurphy nodded in silent agreement.
Jones paused, needing to catch his breath. McMurphy worried about the rate in which he sucked in the oxygen and air mix but was encouraged the man had the physical strength, and the strength of will to keep talking, to keep fighting.
“The Bluff will be more fortified than ever, making any entry attempt damn near impossible.”
“Sure,” McMurphy said.
“That leaves us with making our way back topside.” A cough, then, “We head straight up the decompression sickness will kill us. If we incorporate safety stops along the way, we won’t get the bends, but we’ll run out of air.” Jones paused to do the math in his head. “Fourteen hours. Our air supply is about two hours at best. We’ve got a better chance of storming the Bluff.”
“No. We don’t. Besides, we’ll make it in twelve.” McMurphy settled him on the ground near the nose of the wrecked sub which had been stopped from tumbling further down the embankment by a boulder-sized outcropping. He set Jones buoyancy compensator and let him sit with his back against the dark hull, on the gently sloping leeward side of Georges Banks.
“Twelve what?”
“Hours,” McMurphy said. “To reach the surface. Where’s the tool kit?”
“You missed the part about us only having two hours of air?”
“Nope. Tool kit. This poor excuse for a submarine’s got to have a tool kit on board, doesn’t it?”
“Crew compartment. Overhead bin near the back. Why?”
“You’ll see.” He patted the man’s shoulder. “Stay put.”
“Where the hell would I go?”
Still joking. Good, McMurphy thought with a wry smile. Then he frowned at the grim task ahead. He swam around to where the mine had exploded midship, ripping a hole into the crew cabin.
The edges of the metal were ragged and sharp. Kowalski’s headless corpse was gone. It had floated away when McMurphy pushed his way out of the doomed submersible. But, back inside the vessel once more, McMurphy couldn’t avoid the remaining dead bodies still strapped in their seats. The young man who’d sat across from McMurphy, his body had taken the brunt of the explosion and had saved McMurphy’s life. It was now barely recognizable as human.
He pushed his way toward the back, the young man’s dead eyes seemed to follow him.
A school of small fish darted around the dead man’s face mask, already curious. Like the blowflies that accumulate around the dead on the surface.
McMurphy found the bin Jones had mentioned. The tool kit inside had everything he needed. Along with it, McMurphy found a Desco US Navy dive knife and sheath. He strapped it to his calf and then went to work.
Twenty minutes later, he swam back to Jones. His work completed. With him, he lugged his salvaged booty from the minisub. Upon his return, he found Jones motionless and immediate thought the worse. He shook the kid’s shoulder. “Junior. Jones!”
The young lieutenant’s eyes popped open. Only asleep.
“Don’t do that, man,” McMurphy said. “You scared me.”
Jones blinked. “What’s all that?”
McMurphy ignored the question. “I need you to sit forward.”
Jones did so, with a wince. McMurphy had a long strip of black neoprene. It was the leg of a wetsuit he’d cut off one of the corpses inside the submersible. A gruesome task. He wrapped it around Jones’ waist, pulling the elastic material tight around his wound before tying it off in a knot. Not exactly a compression bandage but the elasticity of the material would tighten. McMurphy hoped enough to stop the bleeding.
Jones winced several times during the process but never complained.
When McMurphy was done, he leaned back against the hull. His face was a sheen of sweat under his facemask. He ached to wipe it away but couldn’t.
“Now, what’s all that junk you’re hauling around,” Jones asked, eyeing the large dark tanks McMurphy had returned with.
McMurphy glanced down. “You were right. We didn’t have enough air to reach the surface and do proper decompression stops. Now we do.”
“The submersible’s air tanks.”
“Two of ’em anyway. Enough air to supply eight divers for twelve hours. We’re only two.”
“We’ve used up a lot getting here,” Jones countered.
“Still more than enough for our needs.”
He’d also cut loose one of the subs five-point canvas straps. With it, he jury-rigged a harness so he could belt the two large air tanks to his back. They could operate off their individual tanks until they ran out of air, jettison them, then switch over to the large tanks that would take them to the surface.
He checked his dive watch. “Twelve hours from now it’ll be nothing but sunshine and clear, fresh air for us.”
“It’ll be the middle of the night by the time we surface.”
McMurphy grinned. “Have it your way. Clear fresh air and moonlight.”
“As long as there’s drinks.”
“Name your poison.” With the makeshift harness on, McMurphy pulled Jones into an embrace, slowly began to inflate their BCDs, and together they kicked, beginning the first leg of their tedious crawl toward the surface one thousand feet away, ten feet at a time.
“You know, McMurphy,” Jones said. “For a puddle pirate, you’re not half bad.”
“Right back at ya, swabbie.” A moment of silence fell between the two men. Better to conserve their air. McMurphy continued to carefully fill their buoyancy compensator vests and held an arm tightly around Jones’ chest.
“We’re going to make it, Junior,” McMurphy ensured him. “Or we’re going to die trying.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Bannon stared at the wrong end of the Sig Sauer P229 pointed at his face. He flicked his attention from the wide 9mm barrel opening to the woman behind the unwavering gun: Special Agent Kate Holloway.