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
“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.”