Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  The usual round of cheering filled the bridge, and Dex knew what would be next. Time was running out for him, especially since Whitehurst had taken no notice of him whatsoever.

  The loudspeaker interrupted his thoughts. “Seal Unit ready for launch in five.”

  Whitehurst smiled as he heard the update, then spoke into his mic. “Get in there and get them, gentlemen.”

  That was his last chance, thought Dex. Now or not at all.

  Moving away from the bulkhead, advancing to the group of men by the array of command consoles, Dex moved to face Admiral Parker Whitehurst.

  “Sir.” Dex tried to look resolute and somehow nonchalant. “I need a favor.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Bruckner

  Station One Eleven

  He had no idea how long he stood, watching the soldier and the scientist. The two men had been down on all fours, kneeling, half-sinking into the muck, peeling away layers of grit and glacial mud like mini geologic strata.

  The silence held them like a vacuum chamber, pierced only by an occasional whisper of caution or instruction. Erich slipped into a brief flash of memory when Manny and Kress had originally placed this demon device on this spot. How quickly and with such cavalier confidence they had worked. Of course, back then, none of them could have ever imagined the power of such utter destruction which slept beneath their fingers.

  Sinclair touched Erich’s elbow, and he ignored it.

  He almost felt giddy, as if he might start laughing—at something not at all funny, which increased his feeling of inappropriate levity.

  He was actually standing here one more time. In a place he’d vowed he’d never see again. In a place he had found so…so disturbing, and believed it best to destroy it. And not surprisingly, he still felt exactly the same way.

  The oppressive weight of the giant cavern, its ruins, and the air itself began to press down on him. He blinked his eyes, and there he stood. Right behind Hawthorne as he unearthed the final strands of wire and the remains of Kress’s impromptu detonator-timer—which had sat there in total refusal to do its job for seventy years.

  “There it is,” said the nuclear tech. “That little bastard.”

  Hawthorne swallowed hard, wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, then produced a railroad kerchief which he used to clean the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses.

  Sinclair exhaled very slowly, softly. In a low voice, he continued. “Okay, we got the last piece. How’s it work?”

  The apparatus was standard equipment in all U-boats to ensure an event catastrophic enough to send a submarine to the bottom. Admiral Doenitz had proclaimed it far better to destroy an entire submarine then allow the Allies a chance to get their hands on the Enigma Device—the heartspring of the German code.

  Other than the sandy grit, everything looked unscathed by time, as free of corrosion as the day it had been placed in position. Slowly, Erich pointed out each component, explaining all to the best of his memory. When he finished, he exhaled slowly.

  “Is that timer mechanical,” said Hawthorne. “Spring-driven?”

  “Yes, I think so,” said Erich. “I would say yes.”

  Entwhistle leaned close. “Still looks pretty good, like it could still work.”

  “Stainless steel,” said Erich. “Nothing was spared on something so important. Only the best materials.”

  Hawthorne leaned closer, squinted. “So we’d better be thinking it’s still able to function.”

  “Yes,” said Erich. “But, remember—it did not work as my engineer had planned it.”

  Hawthorne nodded. “Well, I’d sure like to know why…before I started messing with it, don’t you think?”

  Nobody answered him for a moment, then Entwhistle cleared his throat before speaking. “Does that mean you think this piece of flapdoodle could pop off?”

  “Original configuration looks intact. If the timer had worked, it would definitely have ignited the dynamite.”

  “Is that enough?” said Sinclair. “For the actual detonation of the nuke?”

  Hawthorne shook his head slowly, licked his lips. “It looks elegantly simple and direct. The concussion and heat from the explosive round…well, that fires the plate-piercing shell into the nose of bomb, which compresses the fissionable material. The result is an atomic reaction.”

  “Sounds like a lot of things have to go right,” said Sinclair “Are you sure about that?”

  “The only reason it didn’t happen is the timer—it never worked.” Hawthorne looked pensive, tilted his head a bit as he shrugged. “The problem is that timer. Everything else had a built-in inevitability to it. Once the chain of events kicks in, there’s no stopping it. In fact, it’s essentially instantaneous.”

  “So what went wrong with the timer?” said Sinclair.

  “Good question,” said the scientist. “It could be as simple as a piece of dirt or other foreign material stuck in the spring’s trigger. If that’s the case, even the slightest movement could fire it.”

  One of the crewman shook his head. “If it was that delicate, the ballgame would be over by now. We already moved it some—just by digging it out.”

  “Was there any gross movement when the dinghy sank into the sand?” Sinclair looked at the technician.

  “Not necessarily,” he said. “I think this change in state was very, very gradual. The rot and the water and the shifting sand. All so slow as to be imperceptible.”

  “So where do we bloody stand?” said Entwhistle.

  Hawthorne paused to consider this question. The moment of silence was ominous, overwhelming. As they all huddled around the device, enclosed by the immense underground cavern, Erich could feel a heavy pallor descending over them.

  “The basic problem,” said the technician, “is actually twofold—we don’t know why the timer didn’t activate the detonator, and we don’t know if any of the components have degraded enough to be non-volatile.”

  “What happens if we just extract or cut the wires to detonator cap?” said Sinclair.

  Hawthorne looked at Erich. “What about that, Captain?”

  “The timer-cap assembly had a dead-man circuit,” he said quietly.

  Entwhistle cursed.

  “Is that as bad as I think it is?” said Sinclair.

  Hawthorne hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know much about demolition.”

  “We covered the basics in DSR,” said Sinclair. “If it’s like the classic rig, once everything is connected you can’t disconnect it. Cutting a wire or breaking the circuit by pulling it free—that’d be the same as pushing the red button. Right, Captain?”

  Erich nodded. “That is correct. If by chance, the enemy could get aboard a U-boat before the charges went off, they still could not stop the scuttle operation.”

  “We can’t risk this,” said Hawthorne. “We need something more sophisticated than what we have with us. Liquid nitrogen would do the trick—super-freeze everything. It would be neutralized.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and Erich suppressed a smile. They were in quite a fix and they knew it.

  “So what in faggoty hell does this mean?” said Entwhistle. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling altogether cheery about this.”

  “Maybe we should take a vote,” said Tommy.

  Erich looked at him and grinned. Up until now, he’d been keeping silent and watchful, as if waiting for a chance to make a move.

  “A vote.” Sinclair looked amused.

  Tommy continued. “Because if I get one—I’m for stoppin’ right now, and gettin’ out of Dodge.”

  “You don’t get a vote. So I’d advise you to—” Sinclair paused. He touched his headset, seating it more firmly in his ear as he received a sudden transmission.

  Watching him closely, Erich strained to catch the message, but could not.
However, Sinclair could not mask his reaction to what he was hearing. Whatever it was, it was not good.

  “Stand by,” said Sinclair into the mic. Then to Entwhistle: “That was Tanner. He’s lost contact with the Isabel Marie.”

  Entwhistle looked abruptly concerned. “He give you a reason?”

  “He thinks they took a missile.”

  Entwhistle grinned beneath his red mustache. “Your old Navy chaps showing some stones, are they?”

  “So it seems.” Sinclair’s expression a mixture of anger and uncertainty.

  Tommy chuckled softly. “Looks like it’s a new ballgame, dude.”

  Entwhistle wheeled around, bringing up his right hand in a blur, to impact with Tommy’s jaw. Erich was stunned by the savage suddenness of the attack. That Tommy had kept his feet, much less his consciousness, was a testament to the kid’s toughness.

  “I hate that word—‘dude’,” said Entwhistle. Then he turned back to Sinclair. “Now, back to business. Our next move?”

  Sinclair tried to affect a bored expression. “Without the support vessel, we’re on our own. The Navy probably has a hunter/killer on the way. And you can bet we’ll have some SEALS in here a lot sooner than that.”

  “You have any ideas?” Entwhistle said.

  Hawthorne had turned, looked up with great dread in his eyes. “Are we in trouble?” he said lamely.

  Ignoring them, Sinclair touched his headset mic, activated it. “Tanner, send a signal to that Navy boat. Tell them we know their intentions. Tell them to back off…or we detonate.”

  Bruckner saw everyone’s eyes widen ever so slightly. All these kill-hardened men. All of them thinking the unthinkable. None of them particularly ready to die.

  “What?” said Hawthorne. Sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes. He yanked off his glasses, tried to clear them. “I…didn’t sign on for this! I…I can’t even be sure it would work. It…it won’t work!”

  Sinclair removed his sidearm, raised it slowly to the technician’s head. “You didn’t ‘sign on’ for this either.”

  The man whimpered, closed his eyes.

  “Do what you’re told, or it’s over for you.” Sinclair lowered the weapon, but did not holster it. “No matter what.”

  “All right. All right. I will. Please. I will.” Hawthorne spoke softly as if reciting a prayer. He made an effort to control his trembling, replaced his horn-rimmed glasses and got to his feet slowly. Then he stood in silence, like a soldier awaiting his next orders.

  “What’s the play?” said Entwhistle.

  Sinclair continued his effort to look bored. “If they respond at all, that means they’re willing to talk about it. We should know their minds pretty soon now.”

  No one spoke as they all waited for a reply that might never come.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Dex

  USS Cape Cod

  Whitehurst was looking at him like he was sixteen and had just asked for the keys to family sedan. The Admiral walked him off to the glass, where both stared straight ahead at the angry ocean. Dex listened as his old C.O. stood straight and unmoving, assuming a commanding posture. “Chief, what you’re asking me is way out of bounds, you know that.”

  Dex spoke softly. “Isn’t this whole operation ‘out of bounds’?”

  The Admiral ran a hand through his short, graying hair, exhaled slowly. “I could lose my rank for something like that. They’re called civilians for a reason.”

  Dex cast about for the right response when the bridge communications officer interjected. “Excuse me, sir, I’ve got a message from the enemy.”

  “They have this channel?” said Danvers with obvious surprise.

  “They’re not amateurs,” said Harry Olmstead. “Trust me on that one.”

  “Patch them in,” said Whitehurst.

  As intrigued as Dex might be regarding the latest wrinkle, he wasn’t happy to have his argument stalled. But he listened with everyone else on the command deck as the bad guys made their ultimate threat, realized that everything had changed.

  Whitehurst let the message settle in, then he looked at Olmstead. “You think that device is still hot?”

  The CTG Director didn’t hesitate. “Not having seen it, I have no idea. But you remember what Dr. Schaller said—given the German reputation for making things right, it’s a good bet it’s live.”

  Whitehurst nodded. “The real question is whether they’re serious or not.”

  “It also answers a big concern,” said Dex. He didn’t want to infuse himself into the discussion, but he couldn’t help himself. Before anyone could stop him, he pushed on. “They wouldn’t even make that threat if they knew they had back-up on the way.”

  “He’s right,” said Olmstead. “We can pretty much rule out any enemy subs coming to the rescue.”

  “It also makes sense strategically in terms of the base,” said Whitehurst. “If the bad guys can’t control it, then nobody will.”

  Olmstead was nonplussed. “This is a no-brainer. We tell them we’re backing off, and we go in anyway. We have the SEALS. They don’t.”

  “Okay,” said Whitehurst. “What happens if they follow up—as soon as they see us coming?”

  Harry Olmstead shrugged. “We gambled and lost. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Dex faced the Admiral. “But you’ve got civilians involved. Weren’t we just talking about that subject?”

  “I think you can pretty much write them off as bargaining chips, Mr. McCauley.” Olmstead smirked as if he found something amusingly simplistic in Dex’s question. “If the enemy is willing to blow itself up, they have no problem taking the hostages along with them.”

  Whitehurst appeared distracted with his own thoughts. He looked at Dex with growing irritation. “We’ve got some decisions to make. Get to the point, Chief.”

  Dex hesitated but just for an instant. “Given the latest twist, I’m thinking you’ve got a volunteer situation.”

  Olmstead chuckled. “Not with SEALS we don’t. This is the kind of stuff they live for.”

  “I was thinking of the MIT guy,” said Dex. “And…me. If he doesn’t want to go, I’ll take his place.”

  Olmstead was ready to speak, but Whitehurst held up his hand. “We’ll need to talk to Dr. Schaller about the latest developments. Is he already aboard the Dragonfish?”

  “Yessir,” said Danvers, who’d been listening in with professional deference. “They’re waiting for the go.”

  “Don’t let them off the pad till I talk to him,” said Whitehurst. “Patch me through.”

  Olmstead held up an index finger, touched his nose thoughtfully. “Does that mean we’re in agreement, Parker?”

  Whitehurst paused as he adjusted the headset mic to the front of his face. “You bet your ass it does.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Bruckner

  He stood alongside the nuclear technician who most likely wished he was just about anywhere else on earth. Just slightly behind him were Tommy and one of the crewman as his constant guard. The other two underlings were still on their knees in the muck surrounding both sides of the bomb and the recently-excavated timer. Hawthorne had suggested they be in position to steady it—in case some unexpected movement jostled it.

  Facing the device almost head-on stood Sinclair and the red-haired Entwhistle, who looked grimly anxious. Everyone had been silent as though attending a solemn ceremony, waiting for a response to their ultimatum.

  When it came, Sinclair could not disguise his relief.

  Everyone started moving again, in small jittery ways. Tension-reducing things like clenching and unclenching fists, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

  Everyone but Erich. He remained rigid and alert.

  “Do you believe them?” said Entwhistle.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sin
clair holstered his weapon. “We’re leaving.”

  “What?” said Hawthorne.

  “Why not? We’re at a stalemate, here. We’ll tell them we’ll exchange these two for our escape, and we run to fight another day.”

  “I think I see where you’re treading with this one,” said Entwhistle. “Let the bleedin’ Yanks deal with this mess. If they blow themselves to hell and back, it’s not our problem.”

  Sinclair nodded. “But if they don’t, we’ll just steal the technology later.”

  “After they do all the heavy lifting.” Entwhistle chuckled. “Righty-O. It’s not like we haven’t done it that way before.”

  “We were seduced by the chance to take the easy road. The Guild rarely works that way.”

  “It was worth the shot,” said one of the crewman. “Right?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “When you realize we revealed more of our profile than normal…probably not. But it’s too late to worry about it now.”

  Entwhistle smiled, straightened his mustache. “I like you’re thinking, mate.”

  Sinclair wasn’t listening. He’d activated his mic and instructed the man on the submersible to inform the Americans of the change of plans.

  As he spoke, Erich considered the situation with a cool head. For the first time in uncountable years, he found himself in what they called at the academy a “command situation”—a pivotal moment when a specific decision must be made.

  As Sinclair spoke and everyone else listened, he felt himself pulling away and out of the scene. As if he were viewing it from a distance in some global, all-encompassing fashion. He felt like an interloper, eavesdropping on his own thoughts, a dispassionate Nietzschian observer.

  And that was perhaps the strangest part of the entire metaphysical equation—Erich himself did not actually know until this same moment.

  The knowledge of what must be done.

  What he must do.

  The notion and the intent had been circling his thoughts like predatory birds, or more appropriately, like carrion eaters, waiting to feast on the remains of his torment. But up until this moment he had forced himself to look away. To pretend it wasn’t there. The solution that had been as obvious as it was solitary from the very beginning.