A soft ping emanated from the pilot’s console. Once. Then a series of repeats. A pattern.
“Contact,” said Voelker.
“Steady as she goes.”
Then just as suddenly as they’d begun, the signals from the marker buoy stopped.
“Hey,” said Voelker. “What the—?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
He would never leave it.
In that instant of realization, Erich felt a release, a benediction of such cleansing strength, he felt invulnerable.
As he stood next to Hawthorne, he turned and spoke vaguely in Sinclair’s direction. “I… I feel… funny,” he said. “Something is—”
“What’s the matter?” said the technician, who reached out to steady Erich. It was a helpful, human gesture, and Erich felt a brief pang of guilt for the deception.
Pretending to lean into Hawthorne for support, Erich used him as a base, a pillar, and finally, a launching point. With all the power and feeble energy he could summon, he pushed off propelling himself forward.
Forward, at the Rube Goldbergian structure of the Project Norway device and the detonation mechanisms of Herr Kress.
Everyone moved.
Lunging for him. Hands reached out from both sides — Hawthorne and one of the crew — and even though their talon-like fingers caught the hood and shoulder of his parka, he twisted and stretched as he fell.
“Get him!” yelled Sinclair.
Erich felt his body stretching, laid out almost horizontally, as if he were trying to fly toward the bomb. And it was in that instant that he realized how old he actually was. Despite his mind being sharp and clear and as agile as it had been so many years ago, and despite the curious refusal of his body to age at a normal rate, he had still become weaker than he wanted to admit.
And therefore, what he intended and imagined as a forceful, lunging attack was nothing more than an attempt at a rapid movement in mocking painful slow-motion.
But in spite of this, he had instilled a great instantaneous panic in all of them around him, and they didn’t dismiss his age or his lack of mass or power. They converged on him and physically detained him, freezing his progress and yanking him backward from the device.
He had failed.
And everyone seemed to expel their pent-up, fear-choked breaths at once.
All but one.
In that brief interlude of collective relief as the men relaxed, knowing they had stopped him, and were transporting him back and away from his target, Erich saw rapid movement at the periphery of his vision.
So quick. Almost a blur. Like a torpedo at launch, the shape burst past him and the bodies who held him.
Tommy.
And in that instant of belated realization, he was beyond them, flying through the air like a linebacker making a tackle. One of the crewman rose up to meet him, to collide, to stop him.
And he did, but not before Tommy reached out with a final surge of power and will, his thick, gnarled fingers barely touching the wires.
The wires that connected the frozen timer with the detonator cap embedded in the waterproof pack of explosives.
The wires running through the dead man’s switch.
Turning, Erich saw the red wire slip free, and—
— flash
— white
— nothingness
Epilogue
Three months later, and he still thought about that moment on a daily basis.
The interval between the Dragonfish pilot saying he’d lost the buoy’s signal and the shattering fury of the explosion had been less than an eyeblink. The shockwave of heat and energy had forced the inland sea downward, vortexing the massive plug of water through the subterranean passage where the DSAR vessel had just entered.
Like a bullet rifling through a barrel, the submersible had been propelled out into the sea. The G-forces bordered on lethal and Dex had blacked out, remembering nothing until they revived him in the Cape Cod’s sick bay.
Measured against contemporary yields, the German device had not been large, but it had been more than up to the task of obliterating the secret Nazi base. And of course everyone present. Dex had no idea what had gone wrong and his only consolation was that his friends had never felt a thing.
The loss so stunned Admiral Whitehurst, he’d wanted to retire, but even the Pentagon found no one to blame this time. Either the top brass knew more than they were saying, or they were feeling particularly benevolent that day.
Yeah, right. Dex knew there were details of the incident that would never reach the public eye.
Which brought him to his own situation.
Having been a part of the entire classified operation, Dex represented a bit of a problem to everyone. To let him wander off the dock at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and stand behind the counter of Barnacle Bill’s Dive Shop in Annapolis, Maryland was probably not the best idea. Especially considering the extremely trenchant fact the Guild knew where he lived, knew his computer and voicemail passwords, and anything else of value or importance to them. There was no way to know if, or when, they might decide to “reconnect” in his life.
Thankfully, there was an alternative arrangement and a very palatable one.
Despite his honorable discharge from the Navy, Dex found himself re-upped with a bump to the rank of Commander as a CTG liaison under Admiral Whitehurst. His security clearances had been almost easy because of his DSRO service which had involved the most classified submarines in the world.
Easy was one of those relative words, however — especially in the twenty-first century.
The “arrangement” Whitehurst had given him wasn’t so bad, really. He’d taken a loyalty oath to remain silent on all aspects of the Greenland Shelf and U-5001 incidents, and that had been a blessing. The less he spoke of the entire chapter in his life, the better off he would be. But that wouldn’t happen until every conceivable agency had wrung every possible fact from the entire operation. The amount of time spent debriefing everyone involved in the events required months and a full-time staff. During that span, Dex had not received any permanent orders or station, but he knew that would change one of these days.
And he was thinking that today might be the day.
Parker Whitehurst was waiting for him in one of the countless E-Ring briefing rooms.
“Commander McCauley. Right on time. Good to see you.” It was a running joke. They saw each other almost constantly, but Dex always smiled anyway.
Whitehurst smiled back, indicated he take a seat. “Relax. This won’t take long.”
“Okay.” Dex tried to be comfortable in the soft swivel chair, but his anxiety wouldn’t let him. Something was in the fire and he was going to be invited to the cook-out. That could be very good news. Or not.
“The science-guys and the brass don’t have enough answers,” said Whitehurst. “All the information we’ve pulled together hasn’t satisfied anybody. Made it worst, actually. All it’s done is spin the theoretical guys off into deep space. They want more. We all want more.”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
Whitehurst paused, as he didn’t know what face to project, a grin or perhaps something more serious. He settled for a more neutral expression which suited his thin lips and ruddy complexion well enough. “We’re putting together a mission. To go back to the Shelf.”