Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Chapter 2
Riddles Beyond the Blackness

BILLY SHANK’S EYES opened upon a surrealistic scene of destruction. The glow of the emergency light reddened the misty shroud of steam and smoke that wafted through the air and distorted his perceptions of familiar images. He recognized Del, stretched out facedown on the floor, somehow still having managed to hook his arm around the support of the captain’s chair. Billy watched mesmerized as a dark liquid flowed out from under Del and made its way toward the wall.

“Listing?” he heard himself whisper, and then he looked again at the liquid and wondered if its blackish hue was another trick of the light.

Perhaps it was red-red like blood.

The realization that Del was dying before his eyes shook the grogginess from Billy, but when he tried to sit up, he found that a support pole had been folded right over him, pinning his shoulders. He struggled with all his strength but had no leverage to push the pole away. “Damn!” he screamed, raising his eyes to an unmerciful God. “You would make me watch him die?” Ignoring the protests of his flesh as the metal cut a deep line across his upper back, he twisted and jerked wildly.

Then a sickly sweet odor filled his nostrils, demanding his attention. He twisted again, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a charred body lying on top of a shorted-out electrical panel.

McKinney.

“Jonson!” Billy called frantically.

No answer. Billy scanned the room, searching for some hint of the remaining crewmen, squinting to penetrate the steam and smoke and the tears that welled in his dark eyes. He saw something, perhaps it was a foot, sticking out from under a toppled computer bay. Yes, it was a foot. A moan escaped Billy’s lips as he imagined Jonson’s body squashed under the heavy case.

“And so it ends,” he said softly, and giving in to the pain and weariness that hammered dully at his senses, put his head down and closed his eyes.

And wondered what death would be like.

In his dazed state Billy could not track the minutes as they passed. Delirium swept over him and he could not react when the door crashed open and four wraithlike forms drifted in. Couriers to escort him to the land of the dead?

Never had he imagined that the sound of Mitchell’s shouting could bring him comfort.

“What the hell happened?!” the captain screamed. He stormed across the slanted room to the intercom, apparently taking no notice of his injured crewmen.

Doc Brady didn’t hesitate when he saw Del’s lifeblood streaming out. He tore a makeshift bandage from his shirt and dove down to stem the flow.

“This one’s gone,” Reinheiser declared as he peered under the cabinet at Jonson’s crushed body. “And I don’t think there’s much hope for that one,” he added callously, pointing to McKinney’s smoldering corpse.

“Nasty cut,” Brady chided with a wink and a calming smile. He pressed the shirt hard against Del’s neck and helped the injured man to sit up. “Might need a tourniquet.”

But Del hardly heard the doc; his eyes focused on Billy.

Ray Corbin answered the concerned look evenly. “He’ll be fine,” he assured Del, turning the bent support aside. Billy moved to rise, but Corbin held him down. “Just you relax. Doc’ll be with you in a minute.”

Mitchell stared blankly at the dead indicator panel, at the blank screens, not even a cursor flicking on them. “Something very big hit us,” he growled. “And we didn’t react. We just took it!” He kicked at a nearby piece of wreckage. “Someone up here, in command of the bridge, did nothing!” he fumed. “Not even a goddamn warning!” Of course, Mitchell, like all the others, had to realize that what happened had been unpreventable, and with such quick and complete devastation that no one could have changed the course.

But Del, who knew Mitchell so well, realized that he needed a release, a scapegoat, someone to blame so he could rid his personal feelings of vulnerability. If this was no one’s fault, then it could just as easily have happened to Mitchell, but if Del had somehow failed…

Mitchell whirled about and charged at Del. But Corbin and Brady, like Del, saw it coming well in advance and easily intercepted him.

“You did nothing!” Mitchell screamed from behind the wall of the two men. “Not a goddamned thing!”

“There was nothing to do,” Del snapped back, but he had to repeat himself several times as a litany against the guilt Mitchell had just laid upon his shoulders.

“Stop it! Listen!” Reinheiser shouted, and the others quieted, surprised by the physicist’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Listen,” he said.

A few seconds passed, the only sound an occasional creak of settling metal.

“I don’t hear anything,” Doc Brady said.

“Not a thing. Nothing at all,” Reinheiser emphasized. “Not even the hydraulic system.” In the span of a couple of seconds, Reinheiser’s words sinking in, terror seized all of the men with the expectation that they would be instantly crushed, as if they believed that death, in a final stroke of cruelty, had waited patiently for them fully to realize their doom.

Reinheiser was the one to break the silence.

“Why aren’t we dead?” he asked, echoing the thought that reverberated in all their minds.

They remained silent, trying to sort out a rational answer to the question. And if they weren’t perplexed enough, the main lights suddenly brightened, indicator needles jumped to life, a couple of computers beeped and began their reboot, and, most amazing of all, the familiar hum of the Unicorn’s mighty turbines returned. The men jumped in unison when a shaky voice crackled over the intercom.

“Hello… anybody,” it pleaded, balancing precariously on the edge of hysteria. “This is Thompson. Can anybody hear? Oh, God, please don’t make me be alone!”

Mitchell ran to the com. “What’s going on back there?”

“Captain?” Thompson cried.

“Where are you?”

“Auxiliary power with Sinclair,” came the reply. “He’s pretty bad off. I don’t think he’s going to…” Again the voice trailed away.

“On my way,” Doc Brady called, and he headed for the door.

“No!” came the shrieking reply from Thompson. “You can’t!” Doc turned back to his companions, all of them frozen by the sheer desperation of the wail.

The prospect of one of his men, reputably the finest crew ever assembled, losing control, enraged Mitchell. “You had better explain yourself!” he barked into the microphone.

“Flood, sir,” Thompson answered evenly. “Everything between the gym and auxiliary power is underwater. You crack the hatch to forward barracks and you’ll flood the front of the ship, too.”

“The crew!” Mitchell cried. “What about my crew?”

Thompson’s inevitable response stuck like a dagger in Mitchell’s heart. “Dead, sir. Everyone’s dead-they’ve got to be-except for me and Sinclair and you guys in front.”

Once again the survivors were reminded of the hopelessness of their situation. Eight men, six on the bridge up front, two in back, with fifty feet of flooded rooms between them.

“Seems we’re in trouble,” Corbin said offhandedly.

But Mitchell couldn’t view things that way. He put this situation into the perspective of one more challenge, probably the greatest he would ever face. His entire life, from city streets to the merchant marine to his naval commission, had been one continuous fight. He had done more than survive, he had become a leader. “Stow it, Corbin!” he growled. “We’ve got a job to do.” He motioned at Billy and Del. “I want those two ready to work tomorrow.”

“That’s impos-” Doc Brady began.

“Tomorrow!” Mitchell bellowed. “Set up the conference room as an infirmary.” He turned to Reinheiser. “See what you can do about cleaning up this air.” He looked at Corbin. “You and I will get this room back in order. I want those forward viewing screens working as soon as possible.”

Mitchell didn’t slow the pace of his growing momentum. “Thompson,” he called, “what’s your situation?”

“I’m a little banged up, sir. I sprained my wrist pretty bad, but I can work.” He sounded a bit steadier.

“Then get the damn engine room back in shape and give me as much power as you can!” Mitchell ordered, using just the right timbre of anger in his voice to convey two messages: that he had faith in Thompson’s ability and that he held Thompson solely responsible for getting the job done.

“Aye aye, sir!” came Thompson’s enthusiastic reply.

Del stared incredulously at the captain. He hated the man, but he couldn’t deny Mitchell’s effectiveness as a leader. Under Mitchell’s command, nobody dared surrender. They all had jobs to do, and under the captain’s demands they had no time to worry about the implications of their situation.

A few hours later, Del was tossing uneasily on a makeshift cot, his dreams a lament for the security he had left behind. In that distant world, Debby celebrated her seventieth birthday huddled with her grandchildren in a placebo called a bomb shelter.

“Doc says I can go back to work,” Billy announced to Del the next day. “I’m on my way to the bridge now. How about you?”

“R and R for at least another day,” Del replied with a sly smile, clasping his hands behind his head.

“I’ll come back and see you later,” Billy said, and despite his feigned contentment, Del envied him. Sitting around idly allowed too much time to worry.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Corbin said with a shrug of surrender, for in truth, he had no answer to Mitchell’s obvious doubts. “It seems to be operational.”

“How can we be in a hundred feet of water?” Mitchell snapped, despite his grumbling, a twinge of hope found its way into his tone.

“That gauge operates by measuring the pressure on an inch-long wand protruding off the side of the hull,” Martin Reinheiser mechanically explained, as if reading out of a book. “It’s a new design, untested, really. Perhaps the wand was snapped off and the equipment has been fooled, taking the total pressure on the remaining piece and calculating it over the whole expected length.

“Or perhaps we are in a place sheltered from the pressure of the ocean depths,” he added, his analytical mind searching out every possibility.

“Not possible,” Corbin replied.

“How deep could we be without the hydraulic system?” Mitchell asked, ignoring his first officer.

“About seven thousand feet,” Billy answered from the door. The men turned to him. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

“Where’s DelGiudice?” Mitchell demanded, a sour look on his face, as if merely speaking Del’s name left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Doc wants him to rest another day,” Billy explained.

“I’ll deal with that jerk later,” Mitchell whispered under his breath. “Get going on that viewing screen, Shank.”

Billy moved to the intercom, knowing he would need some help from the engine room to test the power levels to his panels. “Thompson,” he called.

An empty pause.

“Engine room, come in.”

Still silence. Mitchell grew worried and reacted with typical anger. He grabbed the com away from Billy. “Thompson!” he shouted.

“Here, sir,” came the unsteady voice, much like the tone they had first heard the day before.

“What’s the matter?” Mitchell demanded.

“Sinclair’s dead,” Thompson muttered. The men took the news stoically. Corbin rubbed his face to brush away any intruding emotions, and Billy Shank let out a resigned sigh.

Thompson’s voice came with sudden determination. “How deep are we?”

Mitchell rarely felt sorry for anybody, but he pitied the man on the other end of the intercom, trapped alone in the steamy engine room. “We’re not sure,” he replied calmly. “The gauge says a hundred feet; we think it’s broken.”

“Then mine must be broken, too,” Thompson said, again stubbornly. “I’m going out. I’ll be up front soon.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Mitchell shouted. “If that gauge isn’t right-”

“I’ll be killed,” Thompson interrupted with a resigned, almost sedated, laugh. “So what?”

Mitchell started to reply, but merely shook his head, for there seemed nothing to say, no arguments to refute the man’s choice.

“I’m alone back here with no food or water,” Thompson went on. “I’ll be dead soon anyway.” He ended any further arguments by shutting off his mike.

There wouldn’t have been any arguments forthcoming anyway. “His right to choose the way to die,” Ray Corbin remarked.

“He’ll never make it,” Reinheiser muttered.

“Unless the gauge is right,” Billy snapped, not appreciating the physicist’s too-sure pessimism in an already dismal situation.

They went back to work halfheartedly, unable to concentrate on their tasks as each of them, even Reinheiser, waited and prayed that somehow Thompson would make it through, that the gauge would indeed be right. But as minutes passed, the miracle seemed less likely, and finally Reinheiser took it upon himself to defuse the tension.

“Gentlemen,” he said with his customary formality. “Since Seaman Thompson hasn’t yet arrived, we must assume that he is dead. So let us concentrate on our assigned duties and get this ship back together.”

Corbin and Billy exchanged helpless glances. They hurt at the loss of yet another companion, but once again they had to push their emotions deep inside and refuse to acknowledge the pain.

“How’s that screen coming?” Mitchell snapped, trying to bring everyone back into the tasks at hand.

“Good, sir,” Billy replied. “I should have something for you in a few minutes.” He focused on his work and tried to forget that a friend of his had just died, taking what was possibly their last hope with him.

“We aren’t going to see much without the outer searchlights,” Reinheiser remarked. “Let us hope they’re still working.”

“Even if they are, all we’re going to see is dark water and gray stone,” Billy mumbled to himself, too low for anyone else to hear. But he, too, hoped that the equipment would work. At least then something would be fixed.

Billy restarted his computer once more, then double-clicked on the appropriate icons, and the screen crackled sharply and filled with snow. He stood up, grumbling, reached over to the back of the panel and jiggled the connector behind his personal monitor. The picture came clearly into view for just a split second, then returned to snow.

“Did you see that!” Corbin cried.

“I’m not sure what I saw,” Mitchell gasped. “Shank, get that damned picture back!”

“Trying,” Billy replied, confused as to why they were so excited. He hadn’t seen.

“The hull of an old warship,” Reinheiser said.

“But did you see its condition?” Corbin cried. “It looked like it just went down!”

The screen flickered a couple of times, the picture came clear again, and the four men gaped at the eerie sight. Settled on a rocky reef less than twenty yards ahead loomed the spectacle of an old frigate, the lettering on its side naming it as the USS Wasp.

“Explain that,” Mitchell challenged Reinheiser.

“We should get Del-I mean Mr. DelGiudice, sir,” Billy offered. “He’s always reading books about naval history.”

“Go,” Mitchell said, and Billy was off. He returned moments later with Del and Doc Brady.

“Well, mister, what do you make of it?” Mitchell asked.

It took Del a minute to find his voice. “The Wasp?” he said aloud, trying to jar his memory. “The name sounds familiar.”

“Late 1700s, by the looks of it,” Reinheiser said.

“Early 1800s, I think,” Del corrected. “I could tell you more if I could get to my quarters. I’ve got some books about old ships and-”

A bang sounded above them.

“The outer hatch,” Corbin observed. “Thompson?”

The men surrounded the ladder leading to the sub’s squat conning tower and Mitchell called over the intercom to the air lock. “Thompson, is that you?” he asked into heavy static.

The handle of the inner hatch began to turn.

“It better be Thompson,” Billy muttered grimly, casting a wary eye at the old ship and clutching a heavy wrench.

Water gushed in as the inner hatch opened and a pair of black leather boots dangled through the hole.

“I knew it!” Billy cried, and he whacked up at the legs.

“Hey!” came a startled cry from above.

Mitchell recognized the voice and grabbed Billy as the legs were pulled back up into the air lock. After some shuffling, Thompson stuck his head through the hatchway.

“Have you all gone crazy or something?” he asked of the startled faces below. Eyeing Doc Brady, he added, “Have I got something for you! You aren’t gonna believe this!” And he disappeared back through the hole.

After more shuffling, the dangling legs came through again. “Give me a hand with this guy, he’s waterlogged,” Thompson said. Stunned, Mitchell and Brady mechanically helped lower the body, that of a man in his thirties, dressed in a gray suit, complete with tails and a gold pocket watch.

“All he’s missing is the top hat and cane.” Corbin laughed, too overwhelmed by the unreality of it all, and too relieved to see Thompson to be apprehensive.

“Got that, too,” Thompson said. He slid down the ladder, a cane in one hand and a gray top hat on his head. “Well? What do you think?”

“It looks like he just died,” Corbin said.

“Very little decomposition,” Doc Brady agreed, but his attention was on Thompson and the seaman’s frenzied actions.

“Like that hull,” Reinheiser remarked.

“They’re all like that,” Thompson teased.

“What are all like that?” Mitchell demanded, having no patience for Thompson’s antics. “And what the hell took you so long?”

“All the ships outside are like that, sir,” Thompson replied. “You’ve got to understand, I had to look around.”

“Of course,” a calming Doc Brady said.

“I closed my eyes when I left the ship,” Thompson explained. “I really expected to die. But the gauges are right and the pressure wasn’t bad at all. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was an old schooner lying just off our tail. This guy was all tangled up in a rope on the capstan. I couldn’t believe it. I started swimming toward him and noticed that all around were these other ships!”

“How was the visibility?” Reinheiser interrupted.

“Not bad. A couple of hundred feet at least,” Thompson replied. “And at first I couldn’t understand that, either. By my figuring it’s nighttime up top, and even if it was bright daylight up above, how much would filter down a hundred feet? So where’s the light coming from?”

“Where indeed?” Reinheiser asked.

Thompson had the answer. “I saw these weird flashes up above us and I headed for the surface. But when I got closer I realized that there’s solid rock above us.”

“What?” Mitchell and Corbin asked together.

“Solid,” Thompson reiterated. “We’re in a giant cave. Back a couple hundred yards there’s a funnel going up into the ceiling-the light’s more intense there. I would have checked it out closer, to see if it opens up to the surface, but I couldn’t get near it; I kept getting shocks. Static, or something. I picked this guy up on the way back. I had to show you.”

“How does the Unicorn look from out there?” asked Mitchell.

“Bad,” Thompson replied. “Real bad, sir. There’s some holes midship, but that’s the least of it. She’s listing to port up here, but she’s listing to starboard in back.”

“Impossible!” Reinheiser argued.

“The middle of the ship got twisted,” Thompson continued earnestly, putting his clenched fists one on top of the other and turning them in opposite directions. “I’d figure at least a thirty-degree discrepancy between the two ends.”

“It’s a miracle we’re alive,” Reinheiser said.

Mitchell didn’t hear him. He just stared blankly ahead, dismayed by the now indisputable fact that his ship was gone beyond hope of repair.

But the brutal damage report didn’t daunt the others. Something very strange was going on and they were intrigued, especially Martin Reinheiser. At this point, at least, curiosity outweighed worry.

“I’ve got to get out there,” Reinheiser begged Mitchell, his voice almost a whine.

“I’d like to get back out, too, sir,” Thompson added. “I want a closer look at our damage.”

“And I want to get at those books in my cabin,” Del said, refusing to be left out of the excitement.

“No, you don’t,” Doc Brady cut in, still examining the corpse. “Thompson will get them for you. You’re staying here and getting healthy!” Del would have argued, but Mitchell’s outburst stopped him short.

“Do what you want!” the captain bellowed, his face contorted into an angry scowl. It was Mitchell’s turn to feel the hopelessness, to believe that nothing he did in this situation could make any difference. He knew the gloom would pass. The violence within him had been able to push all his hurts away since he was a child, but for now he just had to get away from the others. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

The others blankly watched him go, confused by the solid captain’s sudden despair.

“He’s lost his ship,” Reinheiser observed, studying the tenseness of the departing captain’s stride, logging this newest revelation of Mitchell’s disposition.

“Help me get this body to the conference room,” Brady told Del, whose face drooped in disappointment. “All right,” Brady conceded. “Maybe I’ll let you go for a dive later.”

Del smiled. “Let me tell Thompson where the books are.” He bounded across the room, mesmerized by the potential adventure that awaited him outside the Unicorn, able to forget, for just a while, the carnage around him-and the inevitability of his own impending doom.