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
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.” Sinclair 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.
How could the others not feel the terror of this place? Locked in the ice like something out of distant myth, it had waited patiently for them, but Erich realized he was the only one who truly comprehended its unspoken message of doom.
He knew he would never return to this place. But more importantly… he would never leave it.
Chapter Fifty-Three
After Dr. Schaller respectfully declined to be part of the assault mission, volunteering instead to be part of the “second wave” that could go in and neutralize the nuclear device with a higher degree of safety, the parameters of the mission changed yet again.
And that’s how he’d ended up on the Dragonfish.
While Drabek’s team worked out the logistics of the entry under Greenland Shelf, and had locked in the coordinates where Tommy and old Bruckner would be waiting for them, Dex had finally won over Parker Whitehurst.
It was just going to be a taxi run — like a hack picking up a fare.
As Dex settled into the sleek submersible, he could see how much things had changed in just the few years since he’d retired. The Dragonfish was like something from a science fiction film, only it was real. The technology was such that it would keep getting better and keep getting obsolesced faster than it took to build the newest toys, that’s what Kevin Cheever had always told him. But Dex had never really believed him until he’d taken a jumpseat in the latest Deep Sea Assault and Rescue vessel.
Kevin Cheever.
Having recalled his friend and dive mate, Dex finally let a breaker of pain and culpability curl over him. In the weird, twisted logic of true guilt, Dex knew there would always be a part of him believing he’d been the sole reason Kevin and the rest of the Deep Six (that dumb name they’d all insisted on) had been killed.
Sure, it was a stretch, and it wasn’t much different from the professional responsibility he’d accepted for all the Navy boys he’d failed to rescue or had sent into a harm’s way that had turned out to be fatal. It wasn’t any kind of crushing weight that would prevent him from surviving or functioning in the future, but it was like a chronic ache that would never go away.
And honestly, Dex was okay with that. He’d feel worse about himself if he’d ever been able to seal it off like Fortunato in the wine cellar and never think of it again. No, it was better to think about it. Live with it like all the other things that create a life.
“Approaching the access point,” said the Dragonfish pilot, a kid who looked too young to be in the Navy. Dex had noticed the name Voelker on his nameplate.
“We copy.” That was the Cape Cod. “Maintain heading and confirm sonar contact.”
“ETA ten minutes,” said Voelker. “Sonar is a negative.”
“You have a window for contact. Advise when confirmed.”
Supposedly, the bad guys had placed a warning buoy at the end of the underwater tunnel into Station One Eleven. A marker signaling the entrance to what Bruckner had described as a vast cavern and lake. Dex knew the buoy was more than a beacon. It was symbol of the honor of the deal. And as far as Dex understood it, if Tommy and Bruckner were picked up safely, the bad guys got their Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card from the top of the deck.