Killer Thrillers Box Set: 3 Techno-Thriller, Action/Adventure Science Fiction Thrillers (76 page)

Mark nodded.
 

“Then they’re waiting for him. You know they wouldn’t just let him vanish.”
 

Jen frowned. “Waiting? How? In another sub?”
 

“At
least
another sub, right?” Nelson said. “You heard Austin. They brought him down here, watched the sub dock, then stood by as the president came aboard, the docking station exploded, and the research station collapsed.”
 

Mark stood quickly, crouching and bending his neck to prevent his head from colliding with the ceiling. “No.” He said. “When the president docked, Austin killed the rest of his Secret Service and military team, remember? After that, wouldn’t he also have made sure their submarine was destroyed?”
 

“Maybe,” Saunders said. “If Austin’s plan was for everyone, including the president, to die, then yes. But if he needed a leader in this ‘new world’ idea of his, it wouldn’t have been smart to get rid of that guy’s only ride home.”
 

They all considered the options, and realized they only had one.
 

“We have to wait it out either way,” Nelson said. “If the sub’s out there—or
anyone’s
out there, they might see our light once the debris clears and the currents settle again. That machine underneath us may have been stopped by the water pressure just in time, but the vibrations probably caused more than a few radio operators up there to pee their pants.”
 

“If we can wait it out, the light will be plenty bright enough to alert them,” Saunders said, excited. She had regained her usual confidence and was now standing as well.
 

Just then, Jen felt a slight rumble. “Was that the machine?” Panic set in as she realized the power plant may have in fact finished the final rotation, and the two trench walls around them were finally breached.
 

“I don’t think so,” Saunders said. “It’s regular, more like an engine.”
 

They were all standing now, with the exception of the president who remained hunched in his chair.
 

“They’re coming! That
has
to be it!”
 

Minutes passed, and Jen waited for another sound. Nothing.
 

The ocean around seemed to grow quieter every second, until finally the loudest thing she’d ever heard resonated from directly behind her head.
 

Whump.

The noise was dull but powerful; immediately close and yet unrecognizable.
 

Whump.
 

Another sound, this time from the opposite side of the sub.
 

“They’re pulling us off the concrete block!”

CHAPTER 58

IT HAD TAKEN OVER FOUR hours to spot the tiny submarine, but one of the radio crew finally found it. Someone on board had decided to turn on the exterior lights, shining a green-cast light outward and letting the advanced sighting technology on board the ship do its job.

Immediately, a submarine crew was in the water. They were lifted off the deck of the ship, a borrowed research vessel christened
The Emory Strait.
A number of Royal Marines and US Navy seamen guided the submersible, fitted with extended arms and a pulley-crane operation, over the edge and watched it sink into the water.
 

The two-man sub quickly descended, finally having a charted course directly below the ship. Sonar and communications systems, as well as the advanced targeting sights and construction arms of the sub, were quickly tested. Everything in working order, the sub continued its descent until it was lying just above the older, larger submarine mounted on the floor of the Atlantic.
 

The arms reached out and placed both of its telescoping drill heads near the two large bolts holding the submarine to the concrete base. It began to drill from both sides at once, taking advantage of the massive pressure of the deep ocean. The bolt left the base of the concrete with a soft
pop
, its head sheared from its shaft, and the small research sub moved around to the other side of its target.
 

It repeated the process two more times, shearing off three of the four bolts from the concrete. On the fourth bolt it stopped, placing one of its movable arms on top of the sub. It applied pressure, trying to prevent the almost-free sub from rising too quickly once the final bolt was severed.
 

The second arm drilled again, this time moving more slowly on its own. The final bolt broke free and shot away from the two submarines, and the now-free vessel began to push upwards. The two-man sub guided the other with the two arms, both allowing it to rise through the deep water but using its own ballast systems—both the main and redundant system now working in tandem at twice the power—to keep the submarines from shooting upwards like a cork.
 

The ascension process took all of two and –a half hours, each man in the sub taking careful note of the surrounding pressure, the status of the onboard systems, and the placement of the two arms on the neighboring sub’s back. They checked in regularly via radio, giving the surface team an accurate prediction of the surfacing time.

When the two submarines popped out of the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, deck crews cheered and began hoisting the ship’s crane and pulley to the starboard side of the ship, where a diving crew had already swam up next to the old submarine. They hitched the crane’s lift supports and struts to the underside of the sub and signaled for the operator to begin moving the vessel from the ocean to the deck of the research ship. Within another half hour, the submarine was ready to be opened.
 

Detective Craig Larson stood by, watching the entire process. He smiled with the cheering crewmen and women, and approached the submarine when it was finally on deck. A soldier nearby nodded, and he stepped forward. Two young Navy men, Rogers and Cabrera, he believed, began working on opening the top hatch of the sub. They succeeded, and Larson walked up the platform surrounding the small vessel.

CHAPTER 59

THEY ROSE THROUGH THE WATER for another few hours. Mark lost track of how long it had been, but he knew most of the group had long since fallen asleep. He stayed awake, watching Jen and Reese at the side of the sub.
 

He couldn’t tell if they were rising, falling, or staying in place, but the sensation of movement was there. It was an odd feeling, moving around as a completely weightless object without a sense of actual direction. After another fifteen minutes passed, Mark felt another sensation:
were they stopping?

Saunders opened her eyes, followed soon after by Nelson.
 

“We home yet?” he asked.
 

Mark shrugged, but a popping sound resonated through the sub as the wheel at the top of the hatch began to open. In a moment Nelson was at the hatch, looking upward. He shielded his eyes as a blinding light pierced the dark interior.
 

Sunlight.

Mark had never felt so elated in his entire life. The light filled every space in the sub; no corner was left untouched. He felt its warmth wash over his face and arms, and he turned to look at Jen.
 

“We’re home,” she mouthed, not making a sound. He nodded.
 

A United States Navy soldier shouted down from the open hatch, and Nelson responded. He reached up to the ladder and lifted himself upward. Reese followed, Jen close behind, and Mark waited for Saunders to climb out.
 

Mark walked to the exit of the sub and looked up. A Navy officer’s face greeted him.
 

“I have something here I’ll need a hand with,” Mark said. He retreated toward the back of the sub and waited until he heard footsteps descending the ladder. The young soldier dropped to the metal floor and looked at Mark. His eyes grew wide and he instantly jumped for the ladder again.
 

“I need some help over here!” he yelled. “I’ve got the president down here, alive,” he added.
 

Within seconds, three more sailors had gathered around the hatch, and Mark moved around and began to lift the president from the chair. Before he walked toward the exit, he looked down and shook him gently, waiting for the man’s eyes to open. He had been fast asleep, still affected by the drugs.
 

The president’s eyes met Mark’s and widened. Mark smiled, reached into his pocket, and retrieved the small device he’d pocketed earlier. He pressed the small button on the side and waved it near the president’s temple.
 

“This is for my family, Mr. President.” Mark waved it again, and the president’s eyes glazed over. He felt for a pulse.
 

Good.

The first sailor had reached them and pulled the president away from Mark.
 

“Rogers! Get down here and help me out!” He threw the president’s arm over his shoulder and turned to exit. “I’ve got one more civ down here, too. Give me a hand!”
 

The man turned and nodded. Mark smiled at the young man. “He’s hurt, I think. Obviously shaken up, but I think there’s something more to it than that. He’s been acting strange since he got hit down there. Must have hit his head pretty badly.”
 

The Navy soldier thanked him and lifted the president’s arms to the waiting hands of the crewman standing around the hatch. Mark followed him out and was immediately escorted to a waiting inflatable craft moored next to their sub.
 

He was ushered next to Jen and Reese, and he sat down in the middle of the boat, facing Saunders and Nelson.
 

Mark slid his arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her close. Reese moved to sit between Mark and Jen, and rested his head on his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asked as she turned to him.

She nodded, moved her hand to his face, and kissed him.

EPILOGUE

HAROLD MATHERS SAT MOTIONLESS, WATCHING the small television mounted on the wall.
 

“Reports indicate some sort of brain damage caused by anaphylactic shock…”

The newscaster was standing in front of a green-screened image of the White House front gate, reading from a prepared statement from his Chief of Staff’s office.
 

“
…Initial estimates predict that the damage will be limited to an area no larger than five hundred square miles in the mid-Atlantic, and recovery crews from FEMA have already been dispatched…”

Mathers reached up to wipe a drop of saliva from his lip. He felt his chin. It was covered in whiskers.
 

When was the last time I shaved?

He felt the skin on his cheek flare up as his hand grazed a spot that he’d apparently nicked with his razor.
 

“President Frank McKinney, recently returned from his trip abroad, has been working with the former First Lady Mathers on a worldwide press tour to explain and apologize for the unbelievable events of the past month…”

His tongue rolled slightly out over his bottom lip. He focused his attention on pulling it back into his mouth. The drop of saliva grew, now rolling over his whiskered chin and resting on the divot on his lower lip.
 

“Starting with Canada and England, the duo visited thirty-five countries in two months and presented to audiences of almost one billion people across television and radio networks. The speech has been translated to almost twenty languages, and outlines the terrible computer malfunctions that led to twelve ballistic missiles being simultaneously fired…”

Mathers reached up again to wipe it away just as a woman’s voice giggled from behind him. He was immediately distracted and his tongue dropped slightly out of his mouth once more.
 

“The efforts of Detective Craig Larson and his late partner Ken Dawson have led to the arrest of eighteen individuals believed to be involved in the
Nouvelle Terre
organization. Detective Dawson sadly perished in a house fire outside Washington…”

The giggling continued, and he shifted his eyes to the left as the woman entered his field of vision.
 

“Mr. Pres—Mr. Mathers,” she said, correcting herself, “how silly of you!” She reached to his lip and wiped away the growing blob of saliva with her sleeve. “You must be hungry. Come here, let’s get you to the cafeteria.”
 

Mathers tried to look at her; tried to raise his voice to argue. His voice stuttered, a gravelly hollowed-out skeleton of his soothing baritone that had won him his presidency, and he gasped for air.
 

His head lolled sideways, against his own will.
Dammit. Stop and think.

He drew a few short breaths, steadying his hands. They gripped the sides of his wheelchair tightly, trying to force his body to calm down.
 

The nurse continued patronizing him, but he was no longer listening.
 

Tell her you’re okay, man
. He struggled to build the sentence in his mind, and even as he started to open his mouth to speak, he knew, like always, that it wouldn’t work.
 

“For have to— neb…
I ca—
hold un…”
What the hell was that?
He wondered as he heard the disgusting voice—his own—string together another incoherent set of syllables.
 

“Mr. Mathers, it’s okay. Let’s get you downstairs.” She reached down to his shoulder, her other hand finding the handle on the back of his wheelchair. She squeezed his shoulder to calm him and guided the wheelchair out of the white room.
 

Another drop of drool appeared at the side of his mouth.

THE

ENIGMA STRAIN

1

1704, NORTHWEST TERRITORY, CANADA

THE sound of another exploding tree caused Nikolai Alexei to jump. He could hear the men behind him snickering, but he didn’t turn to address it. It wasn’t worth his time, and it was bad leadership to acknowledge pettiness. He grumbled under his breath and marched forward through the knee-deep snow.