Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Dex looked at him, wondering what the hell he was talking about and hoping he wasn’t going to say something really stupid.

  “Really?” said Eleanor Winthrop. “Why ever not?”

  “Well, it’s hard to explain, but us guys in the Fire Department…well, we’ve kinda got this rivalry thing goin’ with the Police guys, you know?” Tommy paused, grinned his little boy grin that he probably used on younger women to great effect.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Eleanor smiled. Apparently Tommy’s charm knew no age barriers.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And I gotta tell ya—if word gets back to the Baltimore City precincts we were dumb enough to sink our own boat, we’d never live it down.”

  Not bad, thought Dex. He joined Tommy in a chuckle of agreement.

  “Oh my,” said Eleanor. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  She grinned like a schoolgirl flirting. Either she really liked Tommy and his line of bull, or she was as sly and suspicious as they come. Dex had no idea, but he figured it was time to find out.

  “Actually, if we could get a ride back to Annapolis, that would be great. We lost our wallets and all our gear out in the Bay.” He paused to see her reaction, but she remained silent and unexpressive. “You think maybe your husband could give us a ride?”

  She stood there looking at them between the black iron bars of the gate, holding her gardening gloves up near her chin as if in offering. Then she tilted her head, smiled wistfully. “No, that won’t be possible. My husband passed away right around Christmas last year.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Dex felt stymied, even more exposed.

  “But that wouldn’t preclude me driving you up to town,” she said.

  “Really? That would be great.”

  Reaching into her pocket, she produced a cell phone. “Of course, I’d at least like to be sure you’re who you say you are.”

  “Oh sure, of course,” said Tommy, with a wink.

  Dex had been thinking ahead. There was a decent chance anyone looking for them didn’t know about Tommy yet. He hadn’t been with the dive group all that long, and Dex couldn’t remember if he’d ever even written down his name anywhere at the shop. Tommy had paid cash for his gear, telling Dex he hated credit cards because they always got him in trouble, so that was a good thing too. Hardly anything connecting him to Dex and Don Jordan or the Sea Dog. Of course, there would be cell phone records, but they might require some time or bureaucracy to access, and even then, there would be lots of names to sift through.

  “Is there anyone I could call?” said Eleanor.

  “Engine House No. 5,” said Tommy. “Ask for Tommy Chipiarelli.”

  The lady squinted at him through her glasses. “And how do I know that’s really your name?”

  Tommy smiled, walked closer to the gate, and held up his left wrist where his silver ID bracelet dangled.

  “Here we go,” he said, disengaging the catch, and handing it to her.

  After scanning it carefully, she gave it back to him, and googled the fire house location, then called the listed number.

  Dex and Tommy waited for her to finish her brief conversation with whomever had answered.

  “They said it was your day off, and I could reach you tomorrow during the day shift.” She closed the lid on her little phone, tilted her head in that coquettish way she had.

  Tommy smiled. “They don’t need to remind me. I’ll be there.”

  Eleanor put away her phone, reached into her garden apron and produced a remote control, which she depressed. Instantly, electric motors buzzed and hummed and the big iron gate began to slide off to the right. “Why don’t you two follow me up to the house, and we can get ready.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Dex. “We really appreciate it.”

  Things got even better. While they were waiting on the spacious deck that wrapped around half the house, Eleanor came out with a large cardboard carton—filled with men’s clothing. She dropped it between their chairs with a detached expression.

  “Some of my husband’s. I’ve been meaning to give them away, but…I guess I could never get myself to do it.”

  “Mrs. Winthrop,” said Dex. “You don’t have to—”

  “No, no. You boys should get out of those silly suits. You look like a couple of lollipops.”

  An hour later, dressed in casual golf attire that was little tight on Dex and a little baggy on Tommy, they rode along Ritchie Highway in Eleanor’s Lexus hybrid SUV. She had become quite comfortable with them and clearly enjoyed being able to simply talk to people. Dex could easily imagine how isolated she must feel in her day-to-day existence. A CD of string quartets played softly below their conversation, which she kept igniting with questions designed to uncover some adventurous tales of Tommy’s firefighting and a sprinkling of details from Dex’s Navy days.

  He preferred to let Tommy do the talking while he tried to figure out how they were going to get through this mess. He wanted to have a plan or at least a series of alternatives. But he didn’t know enough about their adversaries, or how much they knew about him. It was going to be tough to take a step without worrying if it would be the wrong one.

  Dex hated this kind of situation. After a career of having to make critical, often impossible decisions, he’d retired in the errant belief there’d be very few left in his life.

  Wrong.

  Or…not. There might be only one more bad choice, and then it would be lights out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sinclair

  Chesapeake Bay

  “Target approaching,” said Sypniewski, who sat hunched over a screen which switched among a choice of displays with a touch of his index finger. “Depth 69.7 feet. ETA five minutes.”

  Sinclair nodded, said nothing. He sat in the command chair peering out through the bubble head of the Dragonfish even though the green-brown suspension of the Chesapeake Bay ratcheted visibility down to murky at best. The DSAR’s instrumentation provided vision and a clear view better than any pair of human eyes ever could. The central LCD outlined the old U-boat as it lay on the sandy bottom, its humpbacked shape distinctive and memorable. He had seen classified blueprints from the old OSS files back when he’d been USN. The fate of the U-5001 had been one of those almost mythic mysteries in the Pentagon for a long, long time. To finally be a part of the unraveling was very satisfying to him—especially since he was no longer part of the system.

  Of course, the Guild had a larger agenda than merely uncovering the fate of a World War II relic. Since the end of the war, its scientists and military people had known about the order from Doenitz to visit Station One Eleven. The Guild also had fragmentary data suggesting the Arctic station was the repository of innumerable technological wonders. But they—like everyone else—had never been able to discover its location. Finding the U-5001 might provide a key to the proper coordinates. And of course, there was one other pesky problem with this mission—a 70-kiloton weapon that may or may not be operational.

  “That’s a damned big boat,” said Sypniewski. His simple observation yanked Sinclair from his thoughts.

  “By the folks who brought you the Bismarck,” said Taggard, adjusting his speed and descent angle.

  “Dive team—stand by,” said Sinclair. He watched his screens intently as the 5001 materialized right in front of the DSAR. Taggard reversed the engines, then dropped to a full stop. “Okay, gentlemen—get in the water.”

  Sinclair watched their progress via remote-cam, but the visibility was terrible. He relied more on the running narrative of the team leader, a very capable diver named Lansdale, as they entered the submarine through the open hatch on the conning tower. The other two comprised a Tactical Officer named Barrett and Waldrop, the Weapons Tech. Once they gained the boat’s interior, their remote cam’s images became remarkably clear. Sincla
ir saw no evidence of damage anywhere, which gave credence to the theory that boat had been scuttled all those years ago.

  But why? Part of a larger story, no doubt.

  Tense minutes passed as the three divers worked their way through compartments of the boat. Sinclair watched his screens with intimate interest, as if he were right along with them. The team leader assessed their progress so far: “Looks like we were late for this party, sir. The captain’s quarters has been picked. If there ever was anything here, it’s gone now. Nothing anywhere else either. You copy that?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Sinclair. His orders had been laid out in very simple terms: find anything that might lead to the location of Station One Eleven. He had no idea why his superiors needed that information, but he would work under the assumption it was vitally important. If he needed to know more, they would tell him. It was a comfortable paradigm and to tell the truth, he didn’t really care what the Guild wanted or why. Sometimes the hours were long, but they paid him well and his life was generally good.

  “Proceed to next phase?” said Lansdale.

  “Affirmative.” Sinclair exhaled slowly, clearing his mind as best he could. No sense worrying about what was coming next. It had to be done.

  “Entering the hangar deck,” said Lansdale.

  Sinclair watched the screens as they revealed the dive team’s progress. The sight of the seaplane bomber proved galvanic, even to a jaded veteran like him. To think it had come close to being a part of history was chilling. When he noticed the bomb bay doors open, he wondered why?

  He watched the number 2 camera’s display, Waldrop’s, as it revealed the underbelly of the German plane. “We have a problem,” said Waldrop, who had once been in charge of the nukes on one of the supercarriers.

  As the diver moved directly under the plane, looked up so that Sinclair shared his view of the interior, he said: “No bomb.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dex

  Annapolis

  “Wow,” said Tommy. “What a nice old gal, huh?”

  “She was great, and I felt bad about blowing off her offer for lunch, but we just don’t have the time.” Dex checked his watch out of habit, and scanned the neighborhood where he’d asked the woman to drop them off on Charing Cross Drive. The area was a pleasant, innocuous-looking collection of townhomes, and the traffic along the main connecting artery was sporadic. As they walked along a shady sidewalk, Dex was forced to admit absolutely nobody paid them a lick of attention.

  “How far to your house?” said Tommy.

  “About five blocks—long blocks.” Dex reached the intersection at Reidel, and took a left heading northeast toward his townhouse. “We need to be careful, or it’s ballgame.”

  His plan was simple—check to see if anyone had found out where he lived. It would happen eventually, but they still had a chance to be ahead of that particular curve. With Tommy following along, they walked slowly, as if they were in no hurry—just in case someone was watching. When they reached the street one block down from Dex’s, Tommy waved casually as he parted company and headed down the tree-lined lane. Dex continued on, past his street, to the row of trees that bordered all the back yards on his block and defined by a service road for sanitation and utility vehicles. Dex cut in behind the row of trees and walked down the road to the gate which opened into his backyard. He didn’t open the gate, but leaned against the latch and waited for Tommy.

  The plan was so basic, it would probably work. Tommy walked around to the next block, turning up Dex’s street. Whether or not he noticed any unusual activity or vehicles, he was to continue walking until he joined up with Dex waiting by the gate.

  Five minutes. Then he saw Tommy turn the corner and approach leisurely, smiling. That made Dex feel better already. “Well?”

  “Man, this neighborhood is beat… There is like nobody around except some kids in the sprinkler.”

  “No cars?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Damned few. Coupla little ones.”

  Dex exhaled, drew in another breath. “You take a look at my place?”

  “Yeah, everything looked normal, I swear.”

  Dex considered this for a moment. It looked almost too easy, plus he felt outrageously exposed in the bright sunlight. But there was little choice. This would be his only, best chance to get into his house and get a few of the things he would need. Sooner or later, there would be people crawling all over his stuff, and odds were they were already on the way.

  “Okay,” Dex said. “Here’s what it comes down to. If they’re in there waiting for us, it’s just a matter of time before they close the net. If they’re here, we’ve probably already been seen, marked, and catalogued.”

  Tommy looked at him with an expression that suggested his version of deep thought. “Looks to me like we’ve already made our decision. What’re we waiting for?”

  “That’s what I figure. Let’s go.” Unlatching the back gate, Dex entered his backyard—a swath of grass he cut only under duress. He hated lawns and all the stuff you needed to maintain them. The yard was enclosed in an eight-foot fence of pressure-treated planking he never bothered to stain. The area contained not one piece of decoration, enhancement, or furniture.

  “Fancy.” Tommy whistled. “You get a landscape designer to do this?”

  “Wasted space,” said Dex, moving quickly to a collection of rusting paint cans under the small wooden deck that ran off the back of the townhouse. The lid on the Behr ceiling white was warped from a screw driver and lifted easily as Dex reached in to retrieve a Ziploc bag holding a key.

  “Nice security system too,” said Tommy.

  “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

  Dex climbed the steps to the deck, keyed the back door’s deadbolt and regular lock. Tommy followed him as he stepped into the kitchen where everything looked exactly as he’d left it this morning. As agreed, Tommy took the stairs down to the basement rooms and the garage. Dex glided quickly through the first floor, and finding it empty, carefully ascended the carpeted steps to the top floor.

  With each step he felt more confident they were alone. His survival instincts, which had served him so well in all those Navy years, had kicked in—especially what he called his “proximity sense.” It had functioned as a kind of personal, mental radar that almost unfailingly warned him when something…troublesome…might be approaching or at least nearby. Dex trusted it and right now it was telling him nobody was waiting for him in any of the upstairs rooms.

  But he still moved quickly in and out of all of them, checking in closets and under beds even though he started to feel silly. Reaching into the nightstand drawer by his bed, he smiled as he peered down at the number one item he’d come home for—his SIG-Sauer P-226, modified to accept a double-column magazine holding 15 rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammunition. Reaching down, he picked it up, marveling as always at its light weight. Racking the magazine, he felt immediately better knowing it was ready to rock. At the back of the drawer was a box of extra ammo, which he grabbed as well. From the hook on his closet door, he grabbed his conceal carry underarm holster.

  Time to check on Tommy.

  As he descended to the middle floor, he heard the footsteps in the kitchen. Slow. Deliberate.

  As Dex reached the bottom step, he wheeled around the corner with the 226 leading the way.

  “Whoa!” said Tommy, hands up and out in front. “Whaddya doin’?”

  “You were supposed to be whistling if everything was okay—what happened?”

  “Shit, I forgot. Sorry.”

  “You could’ve been a lot sorrier.” Dex lowered the gun, took off his shirt and shrugged into the holster. “I assume everything was normal down there?”

  “Yeah, I mean you’re not the neatest guy in the world, but it doesn’t look like anybody’s been here yet.” Tommy opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of
Guinness. “You mind?”

  “Drink up. We can’t take it with us. And we’re leaving soon.” Dex finished adjusting the holster and slipped the gun into it. “Keep a watch on the front street while I get some stuff together.”

  Tommy nodded, moved to the bay window by the front door, took a pull off the bottle of stout.

  As he did this, Dex moved quickly through the house, gathering up things he would need, starting with a Mountainsmith Travel Trunk Duffel. It was light, superstrong, and its 33 inches was exactly the right length to hold his Mossberg 500 Persuader—the absolutely best six-load shotgun in the world. When you were talking close-range anti-personnel, the weapon had no equal. Dex had bought it for home security because he didn’t want to have to worry about something as pesky as aiming at a target that would be coming at him in a darkened room or hallway. And like the ads said, a mean guard dog needed to be walked, groomed, and fed. All the Persuader needed was a little oil.

  He also gathered up all the cash he kept in the house—which was considerable because he never really trusted banks after all the recent insanity in the world of money. His wallet with his credit cards was in his F-150 parked at the 2nd Street Wharf, and he had no way of telling whether or not they’d be accessible…but he planned to check it out.

  He changed into his most durable, comfortable shoes—a pair of Timberland Trailscapes—then a baggy shirt to conceal his holstered sidearm, and denim cargo pants with plenty of pockets, and an Orioles cap. He also grabbed a windbreaker, his Spyderco Endura knife, and the extra set of keys to the F-150. Traveling light, but protected, he would buy anything else he needed as he needed it.

  When he regained the second level, Tommy was still keeping his watch, alternating between the front and back yards. “Nothin’ shakin’,” he said.

  “Okay, we’re pushing our luck. Let’s get out of here. The back door.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Tommy eyed the sleek, black duffel.