Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  Danvers cleared his throat, then reprised the situation.

  “Stand by, Captain. I’ll be right there.”

  Several long, silent minutes later, Whitehurst and Harry Olmstead stood with Danvers staring at a screen which held a hi-res sat-image of the rogue freighter. Dex had tried to fade into the bulkhead. He kept having this feeling he’d be asked to leave the party if someone took much notice of him.

  “Olmstead and I expected this,” the Admiral was saying. “Drabek says we can still get a unit in there and effect rescue.”

  “It would help if we had recon,” said Danvers. “We don’t even know who these guys are.”

  Harry Olmstead held up his index finger. “Actually, some of us have a pretty good idea, but—”

  “But it’s classified.” Danvers looked disgusted, and Dex understood how he felt. He couldn’t count how many times he’d been kept out of the loop because of that catch-all bullshit.

  Olmstead nodded. “Actually, yes.”

  “Advise the rogue vessel we need proof of ID and proof of life on the hostages before we make a decision,” said Whitehurst. “And we’ll need it quickly, or any decisions we make will be made based on the delay.”

  Danvers nodded to the communications officer, who relayed the Admiral’s command. Then: “Standing by, sir.”

  “Will they comply?” said the Captain.

  The communications officer tilted his head slightly. “Not certain, sir. They didn’t say no…they advised us to stand by.”

  Dex leaned against the bulkhead. Now, at least, he would know if they were still alive. If for any reason Whitehurst didn’t get the proof he needed, then Dex could be pretty damn well sure his friends were dead.

  And that made him think about Bruckner again. Even though he’d just met the old man, Dex felt like he really knew him, and did consider him a friend. Weird how time and culture didn’t mean a whole lot in situations like this.

  And the more he thought about it, the more he realized how the old man might be the key to the whole thing.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sinclair

  Station One Eleven

  “This is Relay,” said the voice in Sinclair’s headset. “What is the nature of your problem?”

  “You have video?” Sinclair said.

  “Affirmative. But not sure what we are looking at. Detail it.”

  Standing motionless, Sinclair looked at the scene in front of him, trying to decide how to begin.

  “Relay, we found the egg, but they’d left it in a wooden dinghy.”

  “Which is…where?”

  “What you see there is all that’s left. After all this time, the slats and ribs have mostly rotted away. Everything—the bomb and detonation device have been slowly sinking—right into the muddy shoreline.”

  “Affirmative. Continue.”

  “There’s been a lot of thawing and freezing and shifting in that mess. No way to tell the complete effect of this. Not just by looking at it. Not more than thirty percent of the device is still visible. The rest has been absorbed into the sand and mud. We’re going to need to get our hands dirty.”

  There was a pause as personnel at the Relay point considered this information. Then: “You have opinion from Hawthorne?”

  “He’s wired. Ask him.” Sinclair looked at Hawthorne, whose expression reflected a standard portrait of single-minded fear. If ever a guy looked like shit, Hawthorne might be that guy. His lower lip trembled as he tried to speak into his headset mic.

  “Ah…Relay?”

  “We copy. Your assessment?”

  “Uh…your video should show the amount of natural debris. That’s probably the dorsal surface and fin of the bomb casing. From what I can see, it looks something like Little Boy—if you’ve seen the pictures. Part of the original crate that held the firing mechanism is visible. But it’s rotted out pretty bad. We’re going to need to do a little digging and clearing. To get inside. To check the mechanism itself. See if it’s still in place.”

  “How soon will you have an answer?”

  “Depends on how difficult it will be to clear the mud and sand. This looks like a job for a paleontologist.”

  “Get started. Time is crucial.”

  “We copy, Relay. Video feed will keep you in the loop.” Sinclair looked at Hawthorne. “You’re in charge. Do what you need to do, and do it fast.”

  The nuclear technician swallowed with effort. “Right…”

  Turning to the three armed crewman, Sinclair gestured toward Hawthorne. “Do whatever the doc needs done. Entwhistle and I will take care of our friends.”

  The trio lay down their weapons and joined Hawthorne as he dropped to his knees to begin carefully clearing out the soft earth and sand in small handfuls. His analogy had been close to dead on, thought Sinclair. The four men looked liked they were freeing a dinosaur fossil from its ancient prison.

  As Entwhistle stood closely behind their hostages, Sinclair focused on the task before them. For the first time, the notion he could die at any moment surged through him. But more oddly, that truth had no effect on him. He seemed balanced between humor and nihilism.

  He had hoped his place in the Guild would return a sense of meaning to his life, but so far, it still eluded him. He knew in one sense, his utter detachment had been an asset, but that was always subject to change, wasn’t it?

  “Sinclair.”

  The voice of the Relay Communications HQ shattered his philosophical musings.

  “I copy.” As he spoke into his mic, Entwhistle and his charges listened in.

  “USN encroachment within the hour. We have them stalled because of the hostages. But they require proof of life and ID.”

  Sinclair had been expecting this complication. Indeed, even with hostages, there was no guarantee they would not insert a SEAL team into the arena. The Navy was playing with the same deck. They knew what kind of technology might be at stake. Besides, when did the lives of a couple of civilians ever stop any military from doing whatever it wanted?

  “How do you want me to proceed?” Sinclair glanced back at Chipiarelli and Bruckner. The former appeared jittery and ready for a fight if he could get one, the latter stooped and utterly fatigued and done with living. In his experience, Sinclair knew which of them was the most truly dangerous.

  “Give them a headset. We’ll patch them through.”

  He repeated the instructions to Entwhistle who removed his communications gear, then fitted it to Chipiarelli’s head.

  “Your mates from the U. S. Navy,” said Entwhistle. “Wanting to make certain the both of you’re still among the living. Go on now, chappie—make ’em feel at ease.”

  Chipiarelli appeared skeptical, but that didn’t deter him enough to be uncooperative. “Hello? This is Thomas Chipiarelli.”

  “This is Captain Danvers, U.S.S. Cape Cod. Do you copy?”

  “I hear you, Captain. What do you need me to do?”

  “Tell me where you are and if you’re safe.”

  “They took us under the ice—we’re at the old German base. We’re okay…so far.”

  “How’s Bruckner?”

  “He’s okay. He’s a tough guy.”

  “Good to hear it. Listen, Chipiarelli, we need to verify you are who you say you are and not some digital construct, okay?”

  “Really? They can fake people now?”

  “They try.”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Dexter McCauley says you know the nick-name he calls his ex-wife.”

  Chipiarelli grinned. “That’s easy. He calls her ‘Queen Bitch-Tifa’.”

  Danvers suppressed a chuckle. “Ah…let me verify that.”

  “Sure…”

  After a brief pause: “That’s confirmed. Stay well, Chipiarelli. We’re going to get you out of this
.”

  “Yessir, I know you will.”

  After Chipiarelli returned the headset to Entwhistle, he and Sinclair received an update. “We have no back-up on this operation,” said Relay. “Given the lethal nature of the situation, it is quite possible the Americans will not intervene. But time remains critical.”

  “Acknowledged. You will stay in the video loop.” Sinclair touched the mic, silencing it, then looked at the old man. “Captain Bruckner, soon we’re going to need your help.”

  The submariner looked at him with almost total disinterest as if he were staring at something far more distant and more meaningful. After a pause he spoke softly in German, “Was immer Sie wünschen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Whatever you wish,” said Bruckner. “I am weary of this.”

  Scoop by scoop, Sinclair watched as the men unearthed the device, which now protruded from the mud and sand like a piece of ugly, post-modern sculpture. All the while, he wondered if the Americans would be good to their word.

  Down on his mud-caked knees, Hawthorne cleared a final handful from the edge of a rotten slat. They cleared enough debris to reveal the warhead and casing of a very menacing looking piece of ordnance—a 105 mm shell—which remained aligned with the bomb laying in a makeshift cradle. Attached to the flat end of the shell was a rectangular object.

  “That ordnance looks good,” said Hawthorne pointing to a cradle, which held a very lethal looking artillery round.

  Erich remembered Kress at his machine bench in the engine room, sleeves rolled, black grease tattooing his thick forearms. Relying on his uncanny knack for anything mechanical, Herr Kress had bolted together a gun detonator for the atomic device. Crude, but efficient.

  Erich nodded. He was impressed with how clean and unsullied by time and elements the casing and ammo appeared. “We should assume we have a live round,” he said.

  “You think so?” said Hawthorne.

  “I leave it up to you. But I am very familiar with the reliability of Krupp’s arms factories.”

  Hawthorne wiped his sweaty hands on his shirt. He looked up at Sinclair with an unreadable expression. “We need to take a break. Then I think I might be ready…”

  The last thing he wanted right now was to suggest any move that would prove a fatal mistake. Sinclair nodded, and the four men moved away from the excavation, stretched their legs, arched their backs, and tried to forget they were playing in the sand with a fissionable device.

  Turning again to the old Nazi, he waited until the man looked up, engaging his gaze.

  “Captain Bruckner, I know we’ve been over this, but one more time, please?”

  “All right.”

  “We can see the 105 shell and the demolition pack. Does it look…as you left it?”

  Bruckner moved closer, but made no effort to touch anything. As he inched forward, lowering himself for a better view, Sinclair kneeled with him to give him support. They regarded a frame of steel bands, bolted together to hold a cube, twelve inches on a side, wrapped tightly in what looked liked canvas impregnated with a waxy substance.

  “That is what we called a Kohlenkübelbeutel—a scuttle pack,” he said. “The dynamite was waterproofed, of course.”

  Sinclair studied the pack without touching it. “Looks tight. I think we have to assume that charge is dry and live.”

  “Oh yes,” said Hawthorne from several steps behind them. “Dynamite is very stable. And this is probably a high grade—if it was intended to blow off a hatch or a hole in the hull.”

  Sinclair looked at Bruckner, as if awaiting his confirmation. The old man looked wobbly, even on his knees, despite the soft sand that held him, and he forced himself to speak. “You are correct. I have seen it in action.”

  “Anything else?” said Sinclair.

  Bruckner paused as if considering a random thought. He stood, looked at Sinclair with a calm, seemingly disinterested expression. “There is something missing.”

  “What?” said Hawthorne, wheeling quickly. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses over his wide eyes.

  Bruckner gestured toward the collection of objects which looked both silly and terrifying. “See those wires? They were connected to the timer for the scuttle charges. But I don’t see it. The timer.”

  “Jesus Christ…” said Hawthorne. “Is it still in that fucking mud?”

  “I would think so. Yes.”

  Sinclair gestured Hawthorne closer. “Dig it out. Now.”

  Hawthorne nodded almost imperceptably and moved with a total absence of enthusiasm.

  Glancing at Bruckner, who remained standing, his arms hung straight down from his shoulders like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Sinclair had an odd sensation pass through him like a burst of cold air. The old man did not move, nor did his gaze waver from the bomb.

  “Captain Bruckner, you okay?”

  He looked at Sinclair as if he were transparent. “Okay? Yes. I suppose I am.”

  But there was something bothersome about the way Bruckner had spoken. Either he was getting terribly fatigued, or he was surrendering to the fearful grip of this place.

  Several minutes passed as Hawthorne began to use his fingertips to follow the thin wires into the mud and sand. The man moved with a painful slowness, making it obvious he didn’t want to touch the wires or disturb them in any way as he cleared the debris away almost grain by grain.

  Too slow, thought Sinclair. This is much too slow.

  At one point, Hawthorne looked up at him, removed his glasses to wipe them on sleeve of his flannel shirt, then spoke. “If anything looks critical, if anything doesn’t feel right, we get out of here, right?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” said Sinclair, who managed a smile that felt embarrassingly phony from the inside-out.

  At the same moment, Bruckner moved forward with an awkward robotic effort. He was close behind the nuclear technician.

  “Captain,” said Sinclair. “Is there something wrong?”

  Bruckner turned his head slowly without moving his shoulders, like a gun turret. He said a single word: “Yes.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Dex

  USS Cape Cod

  Dex said nothing as Admiral Whitehurst considered his options with Harry Olmstead and Captain Danvers.

  “How long to get a CH-53 and Dragonfish to the target coordinates?” said Whitehurst.

  Danvers didn’t hesitate. “We’re closing the gap with every minute. Less than twenty, I’m sure.”

  Whitehurst looked at Olmstead. “What’re you thinking, Harry?”

  The Counter Terror Group Director tilted his head and grinned. “I’m thinking we’re wasting time. We take out the rogue vessel. ASAP.”

  “What about the hostages?” said Danvers.

  Olmstead waved off the question. “They’re not on board.”

  “He’s right,” said Whitehurst. “They’re already under the ice shelf. They’re using Bruckner—to disarm the device.”

  Danvers nodded. “So we neutralize the freighter, which forces the team inside the station to deal with us.”

  Whitehurst nodded. “It’s risky, but it’s all we’ve got. Time isn’t with us on this one. If the enemy has a warship or a submarine on the way, it won’t matter if we take out the freighter.”

  Olmstead crossed him arms as if suddenly chilled. “What’s the ETA on our Virginia Class?”

  Danvers shrugged. “Almost four hours. Best case.”

  “We can’t fuck around that long,” said Whitehurst. “Get Drabek up here. On the double.”

  As Dex waited for the next phase of the mission to kick in, he tried to construct a way to get himself included in the action. He knew he had to just keep his silence and wait for the right moment. His instincts for protocol and military leverage had always been pretty good
.

  When Commander Drabek arrived on the bridge, they briefed him in lightning-round mode. “Just get us there, Admiral. We’ll do the rest.”

  Whitehurst nodded. Then to Danvers: “Now about that rogue, Captain—take the bastards out.”

  Danvers looked at the Admiral with a smile he made no effort to hide. It emphasized his strong jawline and high cheekbones. He had that classic Annapolis-look that hadn’t deserted him as he slid into his forties. Dex had known plenty of officers like Danvers over the years, and in general they were a decent bunch.

  And like all officers, he’d been itching for a chance to fight a real fight ever since the day he threw his midshipmen’s hat in the air.

  Not that Dex could blame him. Whoever these guys were, they deserved to be hammered for killing everyone on the Sea Dog. All those years in the Navy had taught him there was only one way to handle the death of your brothers, and that was keep a lid on it until the distraction couldn’t make you just as dead.

  * * *

  “Forward SSM battery,” said Captain Danvers. “Confirm target coordinates lock.”

  “Target locked.”

  “You may fire, gentlemen.”

  Everyone on the bridge, including Dex, had turned to look through the glass at the forward missile battery as it rotated slowly into optimum position. There was a loud whoosh! as two SeaHawk surface-to-surface missiles leapt in tandem into the cold gray sky. For an instant, they seemed to hang as if suspended by unseen wires before the thrust of their rockets reached full throttle and they disappeared in a burst of eyeblinking speed.

  “Birds away. ETA three minutes four seconds.”

  Despite his experience with weaponry and how quickly it evolved and changed, Dex was still knocked out by the SeaHawks’ capabilities. Homing in on the target at four times the speed of sound, the two missiles would chew up the hundred-plus miles so fast, the enemy would never see it coming. And even if they did, they wouldn’t have the time or technology to do anything about it—except explode.

  Which is exactly what they did.

  “Impact,” said the ensign as Dex watched the digitized target on one of the LCDs blink red several times before vanishing from the screen. The Isabel Marie was gone.