Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “But then, I think when they got us here, or somewhere after the helicopter, I remember being in a chair—like at the dentist, you know?”

  There was something familiar at the mention of the chair. Leaning back. A bright light. Erich listened, getting frustrated at the inability to clear his head. “They probably interrogated you. Me as well. But I am having trouble remembering.”

  “Man, I wonder what we told them?” said Tommy, who stood again, began pacing from the bed to the porthole and back. He appeared tense, agitated, and ready for trouble. Erich recalled his own youth, and how easy it had been to slip free of society’s conventions, to express anger and outrage.

  “The effectiveness of drugs like…” Erich struggled to recall the words, “.…sodium pentothal or scopolamine are overrated.”

  “Really?”

  “From what I have read, there is nothing in the drugs that can force you to be truthful. You will be relaxed and open to suggestion, but you can still withhold information if you truly want to.”

  “Hmmm, I wonder if I did.”

  Interesting that he was concentrating on that fact. Had he told them everything he knew? Or only everything they wanted to know? It all depended on asking the right questions. He was beginning to recall the faces gathered around him, enquiring, but not their exact words—and certainly not his.

  That could be a significant difference. Erich considered this. “That fact that we are still alive tells me that we did not yet tell them what they wanted to know, or that we remain of some use to them.”

  Tommy grinned without humor. “Yeah, I gotta feelin’ you’re on the money with that one.”

  Erich nodded. “I think so. Even though our captors did not have the look of totally ruthless men, I fear they nevertheless possessed that trait.”

  “So what do we do when they come for us? Do we see what they want? Or should I try somethin’?”

  Again, he was reminded of his early days with Manny. It was almost unthinkable to accept, but they were so young for what had been heaped on them. Men in their twenties with no understanding of how fragile life could be. He remembered acting so often on impulse, rather than reason or information. “We need to know more of our situation before we can act with any chance of success. Or we jump from the pot to the fire, yes?”

  Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Besides…I am a very old man.”

  Tommy looked at him and smiled. “You might be as old as you say you are, but I gotta tell you—you look way younger. Maybe sixty, but that’s it.”

  “I have been told that ever since the end of the war—that I never looked my age. And I think I know why…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The metal bar—the intermatter—the scientist told me about radiation they were working with. Tau-rays, he called it. I have often wondered if keeping that object in my bedstand all those years, if the radiation did something to me.”

  Tommy chuckled softly. “Yeah, you mean like keeping you from aging, huh?”

  “Something like that, yes. When I think about my age, I can hardly believe I am still alive. But I can tell you truly, Mr. Chipiarelli, I will do whatever I can to defeat these people.”

  Tommy grinned. “Hey, c’mon, Captain. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

  Erich grinned, said nothing. He could hear a low-frequency vibration, a rhythmic beating in the air that grew ever stronger, louder. Tommy moved to the porthole, gestured for Erich to join him.

  “I hear a helicopter,” he said. “You think it’s for us?”

  Erich took a breath slowly and exhaled with equal measure. He remained on the edge of the bed because, at the moment, the idea of walking across the room seemed a little adventurous. Ever since awakening, he’d been feeling a hint of arrhythmia, which—radiation or not—his doctor had told him could be the harbinger of something worse. While he fully understood the tension and anticipation in Chipiarelli, he knew he was not physically able to keep up.

  The sound of the approaching aircraft grew louder and more insistent. The air above the boat vibrated and shook, telling Erich that something large and powerful lumbered above them. “Do you see it?”

  Tommy kept his attention on the sky. “Yeah, it’s one of those big ones. Like a flyin’ crane. Big. Propellers on both ends. It’s carryin’ some kind of little boat, looks like a sub or somethin’.”

  Erich nodded. That made sense. Things were flowing into place, and he felt himself warming to the confluence of events. He felt flashes of memory from his days on the command deck, and he relished the chance to be in that position one final time.

  After twenty years of dealing with choices no more important than Cheerios or a poached egg, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to make a decision that actually mattered.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Sinclair

  At Sea

  Logistics had never been his strong suit. The strings he’d been pulling for the last eight hours—just to get things into motion—had pushed him to the edge. Much of it involved justifying his needs to superiors he either didn’t know or didn’t like. Sometimes, he wondered if his involvement with the amorphous Guild was worth it. It made him feel as if his entire life had been a waste of time.

  Right now, he stood on the bridge of the Isabel Marie, a merchant freighter sailing under the flag of Panama, even though it belonged to an entity ultimately controlled by Guild chieftains. Such an arrangement was called a “flag of convenience” because the cost of personnel and supplies was economically favorable in countries like Panama, Liberia, Bahamas, and Madagascar.

  However, you get what you pay for, the ship’s First Mate had warned him, and the lowlife crew on the Isabel Marie had questionable skills and absolutely no loyalty. The boat’s availability and proximity to the Northeast coast of North America made it the only viable choice, but nothing could disguise it as anything but a worn-out, rusted wreck hardly fit to transport its own bilge much less anything of value. But also because of this, it provided a perfect cover for the operation.

  The freighter was headed northeast toward the coordinates found in Bruckner’s papers, but would not reach them for several days. By that time, Sinclair planned to have the initial phase of the operation well over. He watched with apprehension as the slipshod crew secured the Dragonfish to the foredeck with enough tie-downs to make the submersible look like a bug in a spider’s lair. The Erickson Aircrane which had transported the small submarine had already lifted off to rendezvous for an in-flight refueling.

  Now, Sinclair awaited a second, smaller Bell Long Ranger which had plucked a nuclear technician named Hawthorne from his retirement cabin on Presque Isle Lake. The man had not been happy to be interrupted from the rest of his life, but he had no choice. When you sell yourself to the Guild, it’s a non-refundable transaction, there’s no such thing as a gold watch or a retirement dinner.

  Sinclair hadn’t liked the idea of trusting the outcome of the mission to such an older, out-of-the-loop character, not even an expert in fissionable materials and weapons. Hawthorne had been in charge of arming nuclear warheads on cruise missiles launched from Ticonderoga-class ships. The man was probably competent, but if time were not of the essence, Sinclair would have held out for a scientist with credentials worthy of the Oak Ridge National Lab.

  As he watched the lackadaisical crew finish securing the submersible, he checked his watch. Hawthorne was due any minute now.

  Time. Was it working for or against him? He needed satellite surveillance reports on the progress of any forces marshalling against them, but they were very hard to hack from the NAVSAT scramblers. Most assuredly, McCauley had used his connections in the Navy to get them interested. And there was no readily reliable data on locations of Virginia-class attack subs—unquestionably the most deadly, unstoppable weapon he could encounter. Going
balls-out against the superior forces of the USN was a great risk, he knew, but the David-and-Goliath scenario was a classic for a reason.

  The Guild had survived a long time working under that model.

  A larger lumbering adversary often moved slowly, and when you add in a layer of bureaucracy, mortared with incredulity, the advantage could easily belong to the smaller, less encumbered party. If he could move with speed and confidence.

  Sinclair had no choice. He would arrive at Station One Eleven as quickly as possible. If the United States Navy was waiting for him, he would have to take his final card and hope it was not the joker.

  The sound of an approaching aircraft coincided with a coded transmission to the radioman, and both events effectively yanked him from his thoughts. He watched the small, agile chopper drop down to the pitching deck where one of the large, flat hold-covers served well as a landing pad.

  Sinclair exited the bridge. It was time to get Hawthorne up to speed.

  “I’m going to edit through the interrogation video, and hit the important stuff,” he said. “See if you can tell me what to expect—from what the old man told us, that is.”

  Hawthorne nodded as he sat in front of the small monitor. He was an almost bald, gray man who looked every bit of his sixty-three years. Too many sandwiches and six-packs had given him a generous belly, overflowing his belt and baggy jeans cinched way too low. Wearing a flannel shirt and an angler’s vest, he looked worn out and totally disinterested.

  Sinclair hit the play button and the screen jittered into motion:

  The scene was from the Isabel Marie’s infirmary/barber shop quarters—tight quarters with a single bed on a swivel base that could be converted, with the throw of a few levers, into a kind of chair as well. Drab yellowing walls that had once been white, plus dented cabinets and scarred counters completed the locale.

  Reclining at a forty-five degree angle was Erich Bruckner, eyes closed, flesh tight against the planes of his facial bones, and looking younger than Hawthorne. Sinclair and Entwhistle flanked him and a third man, the ship’s medic, stood off in the background, ready if needed.

  Sinclair spoke: “We’ve read your KTB, Captain. And we need to ask you a few questions. Will that be acceptable?”

  Bruckner spoke but his eyes remained closed: “Yes.”

  Sinclair: “You retrieved a scientific sample from the Station. What happened to it?”

  A pause, then: “Lost. McCauley retrieved it from the sub. But then lost it.”

  Sinclair: “How did he lose it?”

  Bruckner: “When his dive boat sank.”

  Entwhistle nodded, spoke softly: “What about the, ah…the bomb? Can you tell us about it?”

  Bruckner: “What do you wish to know?”

  Sinclair: “Why did you leave it at One Eleven?”

  Another pause: “Because I felt uncomfortable transporting it. I did not want it on my boat.”

  Entwhistle: “Yet you did not just remove it from your boat—you armed it. You tried to set it off?”

  Bruckner: “Yes.”

  Entwhistle: “And why would you want to do such a thing, Captain?”

  Another pause. Then: “Because it was an…evil place.”

  Sinclair: “Why do you say that?”

  Bruckner: “Old. Very old. Not us. We were…intruders there.”

  Sinclair: “Were you threatened?”

  Bruckner: “Not sure.”

  Entwhistle: “Look here, Captain, do you have any idea what the kiloton rating of your device might have been?”

  Bruckner: “I…cannot recall.”

  Sinclair: “What about its size. Can you give us the dimensions?”

  Bruckner: “Perhaps six or so feet in length, and a diameter of two and a half feet.”

  Entwhistle: “How did you arm it?”

  Bruckner: “I…I am having trouble remembering the exact procedure. My engineer, Herr Kress, had been in charge of sealed instructions. He was the one who actually armed the device.”

  Sinclair: “If it was an aerial bomb, was the detonator altitude-dependent?”

  Bruckner: “I do not know. Or if I did, I have forgotten.”

  Entwhistle: “Is that all Kress did—followed his instructions, like a bloody tinker toy?”

  Bruckner: “No, he had brought along one of the packed charges used to scuttle a boat. He used the timer. And ordnance from the 105 deck cannon.”

  Sinclair: “What kind of ordnance? You mean a round?”

  Bruckner: “Yes, a 105 millimeter shell. Kress aligned it with…I cannot remember the name…some kind of rings.”

  Entwhistle: “Do you have any idea why it failed?”

  Bruckner: “None.”

  Entwhistle: “Do you remember the location? Where you left the device?”

  Bruckner: “Possibly…”

  Entwhistle: “What about the source of the inter-matter? Do you remember its location?”

  Bruckner: “I…think so.”

  Sinclair keyed off the video, looked over at Hawthorne, who was grinning slyly as if he’d just figured out the punchline to an in-joke.

  “That old buzzard. Absolutely amazing,” said the nuclear tech.

  Sinclair didn’t share the joke. “Does his story make sense?”

  “In what way?”

  “In every fucking way! Hawthorne, don’t make yourself sound more dull than I suspect you might be…”

  “Sinclair, come on now—you yanked me out of retirement and I’m supposed to feel good about that?”

  He leaned close to the florid face of Hawthorne and whispered, “You know there’s only one way to ‘retire’ from our happy little club…and I don’t think you’re asking for that, are you?”

  “No, actually. I guess I’m not.”

  Sinclair stepped back, glared at him. “Then just answer my questions. We don’t have time to fuck around.”

  “I understand.” Hawthorne paused, suddenly attentive and obviously concerned his superior wouldn’t find his answers satisfactory.

  “Start talking.”

  “Everything he says is plausible.”

  “Okay,” said Sinclair. “Let’s start with that 105 shell. Could it still be live?”

  “Sure. They can be live for generations. And in this case, we’re not talking some third world crap. German, remember? I’d put my money on anything from the Krupp war machine.”

  Sinclair agreed. “Better to err on the side of caution, not reckless assumption.”

  Hawthorne rubbed his hands together, a nervous habit. “So let’s assume that shell is very much live.”

  “Okay, then…any idea why the timed detonation failed?”

  “Not without looking at it. Could be a loose connector. Bad battery. Anything. Gotta figure the engineer knew what he was doing if he’d been trusted to arm their first nuke.”

  “Okay, what about the nuke itself. What’s the chance it’s a dud?”

  “Again, I need to look at it. Any way we can get radiation readings ahead of time?”

  Sinclair had no idea. He’d have to check on that. “All right, what else can we expect?”

  Hawthorne rubbed his chin, a parody of deep thought. Sinclair was not happy about having to trust this guy with the fate of the operation and perhaps his life. “Based on OSS records, the basic German design was sound. The materials they said they used would produce a very stable core.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Basically, the bomb itself would remain fissionable for an indefinite amount of time. So, in that sense, yes—hot and not much chance of being a ‘dud,’ as you say.”

  Sinclair could have hoped for something less challenging. “What about the detonator? Does is sound like the engineer could have made it work?”

  Hawthorne shrugged. “Yeah, probab
ly. The old guy mentioned a ‘ring,’ right? That’s how they’d set it up back then. Simple and almost foolproof.”

  “Why?”

  “They called it the ‘gun design’ because the detonator was exactly that—firing a controlled blast. It’s crude, but it almost always guarantees adequate compression of the detonator ring to create fission.”

  Sinclair didn’t like this at all. “How dangerous? To get in there and disarm it?”

  Hawthorne chuckled. “Well, it’s not like changing the spark plug on your lawn mower, you can bet on that. Hard to say definitively without having a look. In general I’d say it depends on the status of the device to ‘fire the gun,’ so to speak…”

  “You’ll get your chance.” Sinclair spoke in a calm, deliberate tone.

  “Huh?” Hawthorne’s expression belied the question.

  “No choice. We have a small window of opportunity—if any. We need to get in, sanitize it, and get the technology out.”

  “And you want me to be the guy?”

  Sinclair looked at him with unmasked disgust. “Actually, no, I don’t…I’d rather have a real nuclear expert. But we’re looking at a closing window, and we can’t get anybody—anybody good—here in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “But I’m—”

  “Look, I’m done explaining myself to you. You’re going in. End of story.”

  Hawthorne’s expression said it all. He was angry and terrified and more importantly resigned. He would do what he was told, and he’d do it as best he could—even if that wasn’t very good.

  Sinclair checked his watch. As soon as the Erickson returned, bloated with fuel, they would be ready to depart. It was time to roust Chipiarelli and Bruckner.

  As Sinclair exited the bridge and headed for the First Mate’s cabin where Entwhistle awaited him, he thought about their situation and figured the odds might be with them. All bets covered the Navy wanting the same things we do at One Eleven, he thought. We have a little bit of a jump on them, and we have the Nazi. They don’t have jack right now.