EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (18 page)

4

Monday, 18 May (8:25 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

They’d followed the trench all the way to the coast. At that point it became a tunnel, and the ceiling turned from ice to rock. They followed it a kilometer inland, and then backtracked and communicated their findings. McHenry awaited instructions.

He could hardly contain his concern that another sub would get in there before he did. He alleviated his anxiety by meeting with a supply ship and restocking. After a few more nervous hours at communication depth, Naval Command gave him the order to explore the cavern.

“There’s our dead U-boat,” Finley said and pointed to its image on the screen.

McHenry hoped the
North Dakota
wouldn’t suffer a similar fate.

“Take it slowly,” McHenry said. “When we start going inland, map everything – floor to ceiling. We’ll want to make it back out.”

“I’ll do my best,” Finley replied in a voice that didn’t conceal his tension.

Thirty minutes later they’d penetrated as far inland as they had the first time, about a kilometer. At this point, the trench was about 100 meters deep, and just as wide. Since the
North Dakota
was over 100 meters long, this was unidirectional territory – they’d have to go backwards to reverse course.

Three more kilometers and the trench deepened to a 150 meters. In all his time as a submariner, this was the first time McHenry had ever felt claustrophobic. He left Finley to his mapping, and went to the conn.

The control room was quieter than normal even though the usual contingent was present. The sailors concentrated intently on their jobs. Displayed on banks of wall-mounted video monitors were live feeds from various onboard sonar and imaging systems. McHenry was most interested in the images from the forward sonar sphere, which was functioning in active mode and providing the details required for tight navigation.

“How are the currents?” he asked, not directed toward anyone specific.

A young officer replied, “We’re bucking a weak flow, sir. Nothing complicated.”

“Keep it less three knots relative to the floor,” McHenry ordered. “Have you tried for a visual?”

“Yes, sir. Clear as a bell out there,” the officer responded. “Wanna look?”

McHenry nodded, and a second later another screen lit up with an aerial view of the floor. It was as clear as he’d ever seen. So clear, in fact, that it seemed as if they were flying.

“One more thing,” the officer continued. “Our detectors indicate we’re in low-salinity water.”

That was an interesting detail, McHenry thought. With the current pressing against them, it seemed that the trench funneled low-salinity water out to sea. There must be a freshwater source somewhere.

His attention turned back to the visual of the floor. The white light illuminated large, jagged terraces covered with brown sand.

“Have you looked at the walls and ceiling?” McHenry asked.

“Not yet,” the man replied. “Having a look now.”

Two monitors switched to live images of the portside wall and the ceiling of the cavern, both of which looked as if they had been chiseled out of solid rock. Just as he took a step to get a closer look at one of the monitors, a voice rang out from the navigation station.

“Sir, there’s something ahead,” a man said, his voice either panicked or excited.

“What do you see, ensign?” McHenry asked.

“Look at display number four,” he replied

He found number four, took a close look, and shook his head. This was something he feared: it was a fork in the tunnel.

“All stop,” McHenry ordered. “Hold position.”

There was no obvious choice – both openings seemed to be about the same size.

He spoke loudly so that everyone could hear his instructions, “Study our options. We’ll have to make a decision –”

“Something else you should see, sir,” a voice broke in from behind him.

He turned around. It was Finley, away from his station.

“Have a look at monitor seven,” Finley said.

McHenry walked closer. He saw it, but didn’t believe what his brain was telling him. There it was, in the left fork: another dead sub. It had settled on its side, revealing its mortal wound – a gaping hole. The identification numbers on its conning tower were faded, but clear enough to read:
193
. It was an American, Sargo-class submarine – World War II-era.

McHenry stared at the screen, his mind reeling.
What did this mean?
It meant that the cave they were exploring with such urgency had been discovered long ago, and by the United States. Someone, somewhere, had more information about this place.

“Hold position,” McHenry ordered. “I’ll be back shortly.”

McHenry went back to his quarters. He had to think it over.

He sat down on his bunk and put his hands over his face. He hadn’t been given all of the information. He’d detected no deception during his conversations with the commander of the carrier group or with Naval Command. So it was likely that they, too, had no idea what was going on. But, long ago, someone had.

5

Monday, 18 May (7:31 p.m. CST – Chicago)

Daniel filled in Jonathan and Denise on what he knew about Red Wraith
.
“But one thing I never understood: what was the
purpose
of the program.”

“What?” McDougal scoffed. “You mean you don’t believe it was designed to improve our penal system?”

“That façade emerged only recently,” Sylvia said, “when the facilities went active and they needed an official cover.”

Jonathan pulled out a pipe and filled it with tobacco. “Mind if I puff a bit?” he asked.

Nobody objected, and Jonathan lit the pipe with a silver lighter. Soon a rich scent filled the air, like cherry incense.

“We might be able to help you,” Jonathan said between puffs. “What do you have in exchange?”

Daniel had been prepared for the question, but didn’t quite know how to play it out. “What would be useful to you?” Daniel asked.

Jonathan squinted his eyes and puffed slowly, either trying to read Daniel’s angle, or thinking about the question. Daniel assumed he was doing both.

“What do you have?” Jonathan finally asked.

Daniel laughed, and then tried to squelch it. “Please, Mr. McDougal, be specific. We have access to many things that may be of use to you.”

“Can you get us the identities of former Red Wraith victims?” Denise asked. “And their locations?”

Daniel sat back and rubbed his chin. He played it as cool as he could, but he knew it wouldn’t be a problem. “Possibly,” he said. “I’ll have to run it by my boss. For what will we be trading?”

Jonathan leaned forward. “We still have copies of the most important documents that we sent to the FBI. You’ll find the answer to your question in them.”

“What kinds of documents are we talking about here?” Sylvia asked. “Recent or old?”

“Both,” Jonathan answered. “Some as recent as last year, some from before World War II.”

Perhaps it was because of McDougal’s accomplishments, or that he was almost a public figure, but Daniel trusted him. “Let me make some calls and see if we can make an exchange,” he said. “We’d like to get back home tomorrow – we’re under some time pressure.”

“Really?” Jonathan said, surprised.

It was a mistake, Daniel thought. Again, it was apparent that his field agent skills were rusty. But time was crucial, and giving up some information seemed inconsequential. He’d already made a huge leap that compromised his identity.

Jonathan pressed on. “Are you saying Red Wraith is still active?”

“No,” Daniel replied. “But it might be connected to something else that’s currently happing. I can’t disclose anything more.”

Jonathan stared at him for a few seconds and then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You get us the contact information of Red Wraith victims, and we’ll give you what we have.

“How much are we talking?” Sylvia asked.

“More than a thousand pages,” Jonathan answered. “It will take you a while.”

Indeed
, Daniel thought. It was time to get back to the hotel, call Thackett, and set up the deal.

6

Tuesday, 19 May (6:33 a.m. EST – Columbus, Ohio)

Lenny yawned and then glanced back and forth between his watch and his boarding pass. He hated being awakened at three in the morning, but a call of that sort usually meant a new job. The problem was that the new job preempted the one that was in progress. But it was okay – he’d gotten half of the payment for the lost assignment up front, and it was nonrefundable.

The new job was going to be
heavy
– on risk, and reward. There would be multiple hits and at least one of the targets was former military.

He sipped hot coffee through a plastic lid while he waited to board. They had him on a 7:30 a.m. flight from Columbus, Ohio, to New Orleans. From there he’d rent a car, drive to Baton Rouge, check into a fleabag hotel, and await instructions.

There was something about the conversation he’d had with his handler that made his stomach tighten. It was clear that this new job was a reaction, rather than a well-planned operation. This was also evident in the cancellation and reassignment.

He sensed of a change in leadership, and it just didn’t sit well. Of course his former boss, Heinrich Bergman, had been killed six months earlier, and someone had to replace him. But that wasn’t it. There seemed to be a change in
global
leadership. Things were starting to operate as they had when he’d worked for Russian intelligence, the origin of his professional life. The methods in which orders were given, mission tactics, and operational details such as weapon pickup locations and communication procedures were reminiscent of Cold War KGB protocols.

A woman’s voice crackled over a low-quality intercom, and people started to board the plane. When his group number was called, he stood, dumped his cup into a trashcan, and walked to the gate with his carry-on suitcase. Even though there was an element of trepidation in every mission, he felt some excitement. Either he’d have a huge payday, or he’d end up dead.

7

Tuesday, 19 May (6:35 a.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Agent Jennings was dead.

Natalie Tate had called Will around 3 a.m. to deliver the news. Jennings’ body was found in a small bayou on the outskirts of the city. All of his teeth had been drilled out – to the roots. Someone was sending a message.

The morning traffic was light as Will drove down Perkins Road. He felt safer in his car, and the driving eased his mind. He turned left onto Bluebonnet Boulevard and into a large commercial area that included numerous restaurants and stores.

He was confident that his identity hadn’t been compromised since he’d arrived in Baton Rouge. He never used his real name for anything, and even electronic communications had been conducted through an alias account. But Jennings might have given away everything he knew, about Will and otherwise, as they tortured him.

Regarding the hit on Jennings, he figured there were three possibilities. The least likely scenario was that the CP inmates got wind of the investigation and caught Jennings following them.

Next, Syncorp may have identified Jennings during the visit to the facility, which made him wonder about the whereabouts of their inside guy, Jake Adler. The problem was that, if Syncorp was able to identify Jennings, then why not Natalie Tate and himself? It was more likely, however, that Syncorp had gotten to Adler, and he’d double-crossed Jennings.

The third possibility was the most disconcerting; someone in the FBI had betrayed Jennings. In that case, it was uncertain who was responsible for carrying out the actual deed of terminating the man. Was it Syncorp, or did some government thug make the hit? Either way, he or Natalie could be the next targets – the FBI knew them both and how to find them.

As he rolled to a stop at a traffic light, his phone beeped with the message
523.
He turned right into a crowded parking lot in front of a large bookstore. Natalie Tate called thirty seconds later.

“Adler’s still alive,” she said.

“Is Syncorp after him?” Will asked.

“Doesn’t seem so,” she replied. “He claims he knew nothing about the hit on Jennings, and there’s nothing that points to Syncorp having anything to do with it. Besides, Adler went into work yesterday.”

“Could it have been the CP inmates?”

“If so, we’re going to come down on them hard,” she said. “But before we get to them, we’re going to get more out of Adler. He’s still our ticket into Syncorp, and I think we should make a move.”

Will’s heart raced. “When?”

After an awkward silence, she replied, “When I get back from Chicago. I have to brief my superiors on what happened to Jennings.”

“You’re wasting time,” Will said, not hiding his displeasure.

“My flight leaves in an hour,” she said. “You’ll be on your own for a while.”

The phone went dead.

If the CP men had killed Jennings, then Will figured he wasn’t in danger. But it also meant they might be ready to move on Syncorp. If they did, they’d jeopardize the investigation. If Syncorp murdered Jennings, then his identity might be compromised. But it didn’t matter. Anyone coming to him with bad intentions would be making a grave error.

With the FBI wasting time, he’d have to take things into his own hands. He’d start with the former inmates.