The Atlantis Trilogy Box Set- The Complete Series

by A. G. Riddle

  Those attacks included three separate blasts in residential neighborhoods, a violent firefight in the market district, and a deadly series of explosions in the wharf that claimed the lives of 50 employees of Immari Jakarta. Adam Lynch, a spokesperson for Immari Jakarta, issued this statement: “We mourn yesterday’s loss of life, and today we’re simply searching for answers. The Indonesian police have confirmed our suspicions that the attack was carried out by David Vale, a former CIA operative who had previous contact with Immari Security—another division of Immari International. We believe these attacks are part of a personal vendetta and that Mr. Vale will continue to attack Immari employees and interests. He’s a very dangerous man. He could be suffering from PTSD or another psychological condition. It’s a very sad situation for everyone involved. We’ve offered our help, including assistance from Immari Security, to the Indonesian authorities and neighboring governments. We want to conclude this nightmare. We want to tell our people they’re safe as soon as we possibly can.”

  44

  Somewhere off the Java Sea

  When Kate woke up the second time, she felt much, much better. Her head hurt less, her body barely ached, and—she could think.

  She looked around the room. It was almost dark. How long had she slept? Through the windows, the sun was setting over the sea. It was beautiful, and the view held her attention for a brief moment. The breeze was warm and smelled of saltwater. On the porch a ratty rope hammock swayed in the wind, its rusty chains creaking with each gust. The place looked and felt so deserted.

  She got up and walked out of the bedroom into a large living room, which opened to the kitchen and a door to the porch. Was she alone? No, there was a man, but—

  “Sleeping beauty rises.” The man seemed to appear out of nowhere. What was his name? David.

  Kate hesitated for a moment, not sure what to say. “You drugged me.”

  “Yes, but in my defense, I didn’t do it to ply you with questions and do terrible things to your kids.”

  In a flood, it all came back to her. Martin, the drugs, the interrogation. But what had happened after? How did she get here? It didn’t matter. “We have to find those children.”

  “We don’t have to do anything. You have to rest, and I have to work.”

  “Look—”

  “And before that, you need to eat.” He held up something that looked like a prepackaged weight-loss meal, but it was more hardy—like a soldier’s ration pack.

  Kate leaned closer. Vegetable beef stew with crackers. Or something approximating vegetable beef stew. Kate wanted to turn away, but the sight and smell of the hot food made her stomach rumble—she was starving. She hadn’t eaten all day yesterday. She took the meal, sat down, and pulled the plastic off the flimsy carton. A plume of steam rose from it. She took a bite of the beef and almost spit it out. “God, it’s terrible.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that; it’s a little past its expiration, and it wasn’t that great to begin with. And no, I don’t have anything else. Sorry.”

  Kate took another bite, chewing only briefly before swallowing it down. “Where are we?”

  David sat down at the table opposite her. “An abandoned development off the coast of Jakarta. I bought a place here after the developers went bust, figured it would be a good off-the-books safe house in case I ever had to leave Jakarta in a hurry.”

  “I don’t remember much of that.” Kate tried the vegetables. The urge to hurl was abating—either it tasted better than the beef or she was getting used to the meal’s general repulsiveness. “We have to go to the authorities.”

  “I wish we could.” He slid a printout over to her, an article from Al Jazeera describing a manhunt for them.

  Kate choked down some vegetables and half-shouted, “This is absurd. This is—”

  He took back the page. “It won’t matter soon. Whatever they’re planning, it’s happening now. They’re looking for us, and they have government connections. Our options are pretty limited here. I have a lead, and I need to check it out. You’ll be safe here. I need you to tell me—”

  “No way I’m staying here.” Kate shook her head. “No way.”

  “I know you don’t remember it, but it wasn’t that easy extracting you from Immari custody. These are some very bad people. This is not like the movies where the hero and girl go off on a grand adventure for the sake of plot convenience. This is what we’re going to do: you’re going to tell me everything you know, you have my word that I will do everything I can to save those two children. You will stay here and monitor a website for new messages.”

  “No deal.”

  “Look, I’m not offering you a deal, I’m telling you—”

  “I’m not doing it. You need me. And I’m not staying here.” She finished the last bite of the meal and tossed the plastic spork into the empty carton. “And besides, I think the safest place to be is with you.”

  “Nice. That’s a nice touch, appealing to my ego like that, but unfortunately, I’m just barely, barely smart enough not to fall for it.”

  “You’re leaving me here because you think I’ll be in your way.”

  “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “That’s not my biggest concern.”

  The man opened his mouth to respond, then stopped, jerking his head sharply to the side.

  “What—”

  His hand shot up. “Quiet.”

  Kate shifted in her seat. Then she saw it—a spotlight, sweeping the beach. The faintest sound of a helicopter. How had he heard that?

  He sprang up, grabbed Kate by the arm and half-dragged her to the coat closet near the entrance to the home. He pushed hard on the back wall and it swung inward, revealing a concrete stairway.

  Kate looked back at him. “What is this—”

  “Get down there. I’m right behind you.”

  “Where are you going?” Kate asked, but he was gone.

  Kate ran back into the home. David was gathering up their things: the meal and his jacket. Kate ran into the bedroom and smoothed the covers, then quickly wiped down the bathroom. The helicopter noise was still in the distance, but it was getting closer. It was dark now, and she could see very little. The faint light barely illuminated the beach.

  David popped into the room and looked at Kate. “Good job, now come on.”

  They raced back to the coat closet, through the passage, and down into a small room that looked like a bomb shelter. There was a desk with a computer, a single light hanging from the ceiling, and a small bed—definitely designed for one.

  The soldier forced Kate onto the single bed and held his index finger at his lips. Then he pulled the cord on the bulb, plunging them into total darkness.

  Sometime later, Kate heard footsteps on the floor above.

  45

  Immari Research Base Snow Island

  96 Miles off the Coast of Antarctica

  Martin Grey watched as the robots twisted the wheel of the submarine’s hatch. He could barely move in the suit—an actual astronaut’s suit they had purchased hastily from the Chinese Space Agency a week ago. It was the only thing that could withstand the temperature in Antarctica, shield them from the possible radiation, and provide enough oxygen in case their cord got disconnected. Despite the suit’s protection, going into the Nazi sub still scared him to death. And the man in the suit beside him—Dorian Sloane—only added to Martin’s worries. Sloane had a short fuse, and what they were about to find could definitely set him off. In a sub, even the smallest explosions were fatal.

  The hatch groaned loudly, the wail of metal on metal. But it still didn’t budge. The robotic arm detached, slid, re-attached, turned again and then—BOOM—the hatch blew straight back like the door on a jack-in-the-box. The robot was instantly crushed against the sub, sending metal and plastic shards scattering across the snow as air hissed out.

  Over the radio in his suit, Martin heard Dorian Sloane’s disembodied voice. The hollow, mechanical effect of the radio made him sound
even more menacing than usual. “After you, Martin.”

  Martin looked over at the man’s cold eyes, then swung back toward the hatch. “Ops, do you have video?”

  “Copy, Dr. Grey, we have video for both suits.”

  “Okay. We’re entering now.”

  Martin lumbered toward the three-foot round entrance at the top of the small ice hill. When he reached the hatch, he turned around, squatted down, and placed a foot on the first step. He took an LED light stick from his side and dropped it into the shaft. It fell about fifteen or twenty feet. A ping of hard plastic on metal echoed through the icy tomb, and light spread out below him, revealing a corridor to the right.

  Martin took another step. The metal rungs were coated with ice. Another step and he was holding the ladder with both hands, but he could feel one of his feet slipping. He tried to tighten his grip, but before he could, his feet flew off the ladder. He slammed into the back of the hatch and he was falling—the light engulfed him, then it was dark—and he landed with a puff. The insulation had saved him. But… if the suit had torn, the cold would flood in and freeze him to death in seconds. Martin put his hands on his helmet, feeling around feverishly. Then a light, falling leisurely down the shaft. The glowing lamp landed on Martin’s stomach, casting light all around him. He looked at the suit. It looked okay.

  Above him, Sloane came into view, blotting out the sunlight. “Looks like you’ve been riding a desk too long, old man.”

  “I told you I shouldn’t be down here.”

  “Just move out of the way.”

  Martin rolled over and crawled out of the opening just as Sloane slid down the ladder, his hands and feet holding it at both sides without ever touching the rungs.

  “I’ve studied the schematic, Martin. The bridge is straight ahead.”

  They clicked the lights on their helmets on and trudged down the corridor.

  The sub, or technically U-boat, was in pristine condition—it had been sealed and frozen. It looked just as it might have eighty years ago when it left port in northern Germany. It could have been a museum piece.

  The corridor was tight, especially with the bulk of the suits, and both men had to tug at their air supply cords periodically as they waded deeper into the relic. The corridor opened onto a larger area. Sloane and Martin stopped and rotated their headlamps left and right, revealing the room in flashes, like a lighthouse carving beams of light into the night. The room was clearly the bridge or some sort of command center. Every few seconds, Martin caught a glimpse of horror: a mangled man, lying prostrate over a chair, skin melted from his face; another slumped against the bulkhead, bloodstains all over his clothes; and a group of men, lying face down in a frozen block of blood. These men looked as if they had been put into a giant microwave, then flash-frozen.

  Martin heard his radio click on. “This look like Bell radiation?”

  “Hard to say, but yes, pretty close,” Martin replied.

  The two men worked in silence for a few minutes, sweeping the bridge, examining each man.

  “We should split up,” Martin said.

  “I know where his compartment is,” Sloane said as he turned and stalked down the rear corridor leading away from the bridge.

  Martin trudged after him. He had hoped to distract him, to reach the crew quarters before Sloane.

  It was now nearly impossible to move in the suit, and Sloane seemed to manage much better than Martin.

  Finally the older man caught up with Sloane as he twisted open the hatch to the room. Sloane tossed a few lamps in, bathing the room in light.

  Martin held his breath as he scanned the room. Empty. He exhaled. Would he have been happier to see a body? Maybe.

  Sloane moved to the desk and rifled through papers, opening a few spring-loaded drawers. The lights from his suit lit up a black and white photo of a man in a German military uniform. Not a Nazi uniform, something earlier, even before World War I. The man held a woman, his wife, to his right, and two sons to his left. They resembled him strongly. Sloane stared at the photo for a long moment, then slipped it into a pocket on his suit.

  At that moment, Martin almost felt sorry for the man. “Dorian, he couldn’t have survived—”

  “What did you expect to find, Martin?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I asked you first.” Sloane continued searching the desk.

  “Maps. And if we we’re lucky, a tapestry.”

  “A tapestry?” Sloane twisted the head of his bulky suit around, blinding Martin with his headlamp.

  Martin threw a hand up to block the light. “Yes, a large rug with a story—”

  “I know what a tapestry is Martin.” He returned his attention to the desk, rummaging through more books. “You know, I may have been wrong about you. You’re no threat, you’ve simply lost it. You’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid too long. Look at what happened to him—chasing tapestries and superstitious legends.” Sloane tossed a bundle of papers and books back onto the frozen desk. “There’s nothing here, just some journals.”

  Journals! It could be the journal. Martin fought to act casual. “I can take those. There may be something we could use.”

  Sloane straightened, made eye contact with Martin, then glanced back at the stack of skinny books. “No, I think I’ll take a look first. I’ll pass anything… scientific along.”

  Dorian was sick of the suit. He had been in it for six hours: three hours in the sub and three hours in decontamination. Martin and his research eggheads were thorough. Cautious. Fans of overkill. Time wasters.

  Now he sat across from Martin in the cleanroom, waiting for the results of the blood test—for the “all clear.” What was taking so long?

  Every now and then, Martin would glance at the journals. There was obviously something in them, something he wanted to see. Something he didn’t want Dorian to see. He pulled the stack of books closer to him.

  The sub had been the biggest disappointment of Sloane’s life. He was forty-two years old, and since the age of seven, not a day had gone by when he didn’t dream of finding that sub. But now that day had come—and he had found nothing. Or almost nothing: six fried bodies and a mint-condition U-boat.

  “What now, Martin?” Dorian asked.

  “Same thing we always do. We keep digging.”

  “I want specifics. I know you’re excavating under the sub, next to the structure.”

  “What we think is the other vessel,” Martin added quickly.

  “Agree to disagree. What have you found?”

  “Bones.”

  “How many?” Dorian leaned back against the wall. A pit developed in his stomach, like the anticipation you get before you go over the drop-off in a roller coaster. He dreaded the answer.

  “Enough for about a dozen men so far. But we think there are more,” Martin said wearily. The time in the suit had really taken it out of him.

  “There’s a Bell down there, isn’t there?”

  “That would be my guess. The area around the sub collapsed when two researchers approached it. One man was incinerated—similar to what we saw on the sub. The other was killed when the ice collapsed. I expect to find the rest of the crew down there.”

  Dorian was too tired to argue, but the idea scared him to death. The finality of it. “What do you know about the structure?”

  “Not much at this point. It’s old. At least as old as the ruins in Gibraltar. One hundred thousand years, maybe older.”

  One thing had bothered Dorian since they had arrived: the lack of progress on the excavation. Even though Martin’s people had only found the site twelve days ago, with their resources they should have already had the iceberg carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The staff here was almost minimal, like the real action was elsewhere.

  “This isn’t the main site, is it?”

  “We have resources… assigned elsewhere…”

  Assigned elsewhere. Dorian turned the idea over in his head. What could be bigger than t
his? The structure they had spent thousands of years searching for. All the sacrifices. What could be bigger?

  Bigger. A larger structure. Or… the main structure.

  Dorian leaned forward. “This is just a piece, isn’t it? You’re looking for a larger structure. This part simply broke off from some primary structure.” Dorian still wasn’t sure it was true, but if it was…

  Martin nodded, slowly, without making eye contact with Dorian.

  “My God, Martin.” Dorian stood and paced the room. “It could happen at any minute. They could be upon us in days, or even hours. You’ve put us all at risk. And—you’ve known about this for twelve days now! Have you lost your mind?”

  “We thought it was the primary—”

  “Thought, wished, hoped—forget it. Now we have to act. The moment they let me out of this plastic cage, I’m going back to shut down the China operation and start Toba Protocol—don’t bother protesting, you know the time has come. I want you to contact me when you find the larger structure. And Martin, I have several detachments of agents on their way here. They’ll help you if you have trouble operating your sat phone.”

  Martin put his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor.

  The door to the holding room slid open with a hiss as fresh air rushed in ahead of a twenty-something woman carrying a clipboard. She wore an almost skin-tight outfit—she must have selected a suit three sizes too small.

  “Gentlemen, you’re both cleared for duty.” The woman turned to Dorian. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?” She dropped the clipboard to her side, then clasped her hands behind her, arching her back a little.

  “What’s your name?” Dorian said.

  “Naomi. But you can call me anything you like.”