Dex
As Jason maneuvered along the not-crowded streets of downtown Lancaster, Dex listened to Erich Bruckner, who had proved himself a decent narrator.
“Opa, you never told me any of that before,” said Jason.
“I hedged my bets, as they say.” Bruckner looked out the window wistfully. “I was hoping I would never need to.”
“It must have been hard to keep all that in, all this time,” said Augie, who’d been listening with rapt attention.
“For a long time, I had Manny who shared our secret—who believed in staying silent as much as me. Of course, often, that can be a problem.” Bruckner turned to look at Dex, smiled. “Ben Franklin said something about such a situation, Mr. McCauley. Did you ever hear it?”
Dex smiled. He knew the quote well. “Two men can easily keep a secret…as long as one of them is dead.”
Bruckner nodded. “And that has been the case for seven years now.”
“But what about before then?” said Jason. “How did you keep it so quiet?”
Erich regarded his grandson, pausing to find the right words. Then he said, “Manny and I were…what is the word…haunted by the ruins we’d found. And the suggestion that something had been awakened in the base after the explosion. We agreed the place was best left alone. Forgotten. Like a tomb with a curse. And the curse turned out to be the Project Norway bomb.”
“Yeah, I can understand that,” said Jason.
“Besides,” said Erich. “The odds of anyone ever finding a passage under the Greenland Shelf seemed almost impossible.”
“Yeah, but what about the science stuff? That beacon thing?” Jason spoke softly, with a very respectful tone. “I mean, whoever built that, they sounded so much more advanced than us. Maybe we should try to—”
“No,” said Erich, holding up a hand. “Better left alone. Maybe we should not know what became of them.”
“Hmm, yeah,” said Tommy. “I never thought of it like that, but you’re right, you know.”
Bruckner continued: “I had one other overriding concern. Remember, I had left my logbook in my quarters on the U-5001. For many years, I worried about that. I wondered if anyone might ever find the remains of our boat. If they did, I wondered if they would be able to discover facts regarding our true mission.”
“But the years went by, and Manny and I carried on our lives. We married American girls, saved our money. We opened our first bar near the Cross Street Market in Baltimore. We did well. When we discovered the old world ways and the German influences up here in Pennsylvania, we decided to sell the bar and move our families, and open a new place. It was a fine idea.”
“Yeah, Opa, you did great, you really did.”
Bruckner smiled as he patted his grandson’s shoulder. Then he turned to Dex: “All that time going by, and no word on our U-boat. Manny was convinced it was gone forever, but my instincts told me to never be certain of anything—that’s why, after Manny died, I told Jason his ‘uncle’ had been in the German submarine service, that his boat was called the U-5001, and I stressed to him if he ever saw any mention of the boat—any at all—I would be interested in knowing about it.”
“Okay,” said the grandson. “It’s all making sense now.”
“All that time,” said Dex. “And then along comes me and my divers.”
“Yes,” said Bruckner. “In all these years I have learned many things—one is to not be surprised by the workings of fate.”
While the old man had been talking, Dex had been partitioning his thoughts, wondering how much he should tell Captain Bruckner about the people who were after them. He was an officer, and deserved to know, but it would probably be best to wait until the Admiral’s people reached them.
As much as Dex hated to even think about it, not only Bruckner might be in danger, but the rest of his family as well.
So what did he say? And when and to whom?
He remained silent as Jason pulled onto the Bruckner’s street. As the SUV drifted into a lazy turn into the driveway, Dex tapped Jason on the shoulder.
“Can you stop here for a sec? I need to get something from my truck.”
Tommy looked at him initially with surprise, then understanding. He didn’t want to alarm the others, but he didn’t want to go walking into a trap.
Reaching his hand into the pocket of his windbreaker, Tommy nodded. “You go on,” he said. “I’ll go in with Captain Bruckner and see if he needs any help.”
“I’m right behind you.” Dex turned and walked out to his F-150 on the sidewalk. Just as he reached it, he heard the first whump-whump sounds of a helicopter somewhere above them. Why hadn’t Whitehurst called back to confirm it?
Jason and his grandfather had reached the front door, followed by Augie and Tommy. Dex couldn’t move, seized by indecision. He had the Mossberg in the truck, but that was a desperation weapon. Useless in a crowd when not everybody in the crowd was a bad guy. Quickly opening the passenger door, he grabbed his backpack from the rear cab and rummaged an extra magazine for the Sig. With his hand in his jacket, he clicked off the handgun’s safety, and headed for the Bruckner house, where the group had entered and closed the door behind them.
Now that was weird…
The night sky resonated with the distant beat of rotor blades—were they getting louder, closer?
Jesus, he wasn’t trained for this kind of situation, and besides that, he was feeling too old to pull it off. He knew they’d been dumb-lucky the first time they’d locked horns with the enemy, but Dex had a very bad feeling they wouldn’t let themselves be that stupid twice.
Rotor blades whumping in the darkness. Definitely drawing closer. The Lancaster airport was dead north of his position, and only by a few miles.
What now?
Pulling out his Trac Fone, he hit the re-dial. If the connection locked him into the infinite carousel of the Pentagon routing system because it was after hours, he was fucked. If it—
“Whitehurst,” said a voice.
“Admiral, it’s McCauley—what’s going on? I never heard from you and the chopper’s on its way.” His gaze moved skyward as he spoke; now the running lights of the Sea Ranger, as well as its engine, had become a faint signal of its approach.
“That’s a negative,” said Whitehurst. “That’s why I haven’t confirmed yet. Philadelphia can’t get their bird airborne. Trouble with the fuel line…”
His hand tightened on the Sig’s grip. “What’re you talking about? I got one homing in on me right now.”
There was a pause on the other end. “No good, McCauley. Get everybody outta there! That’s not us!”
A little late for that, thought Dex. His pulse jumped so quickly, he felt an instant of pain behind his ears, a blur of vision. “I’m gonna need some help here!” he said, then punched off the call, knowing he should be doing something.
He moved away from his pick-up, leapt over the hedge and ran along the left perimeter of the front lawn. Interior lights blazed from most of the windows on that side of the house, like beacons to guide him in for a closer look.
Rotors were slashing and beating the air above him. Looking up, he saw a dark fuselage silhouetted briefly against the low cloud cover then it vanished. The aircraft had cut its running lights and only the increasing baffle of it blades belied its proximity. Dex wondered if it carried heat-sig scanners which would reveal his position instantly.
Can’t worry about it now.
Moving to a window under a flower bed, he wedged himself in between two large manicured shrubs. Thin, designer blinds shuttered the light from inside, but remained slanted just enough for him to squint into the thin horizontal opening.
Just enough to see a very bad situation.
Richard and Peggy Bruckner lay on the floor, hands and ankles bound by Monadnock plastic restraints—the kind now used by most cops. Dex couldn’t hear them, but Richard was muttering something as his wife sobbed demonstrably. Jason Bruckner was on the carpet as well, but seated and leaning against the wall—he’d taken off his shirt and was trying to staunch a heavily bleeding wound in his leg. His expression a combination of shock and abject terror.
No sign of Augie, Bruckner, or Tommy.
Jesus, what the fuck now…?
As if in answer, the rotor noise above him changed pitch and the chopper’s engine surged with power and intention. Wedged in between the cover of the large bushes, Dex look up to see the black aircraft careen over him at a severe angle, skimming the nearest decorative trees in the front yard as well as the peaked roof. Then it dipped and swooped like a gigantic, predatory insect as it dropped to the wide expanse of lawn behind the Bruckner’s colonial. It was small and sleek, and he didn’t recognize the model or the manufacturer, which meant it could be some exotic foreign bird.
The ratcheting rotor noise was loud and fearsome. Porch lights of neighboring homes were switching on, doors were opening as neighbors were checking on the disturbance.
Moving along the edge of the house, Dex reached the rear left corner, using a stand of small evergreens for cover. The bay door of the chopper had slid open to accept its cargo—which had moved into view simultaneously upon touchdown.
Tommy, hands bound behind his back, being rousted along by a tall, rangy dark-skinned guy wearing all black. The man’s right hand wedged a handgun under Tommy’s chin while his other arm held him close as human shield. Right behind him, a shorter stocky red-haired man with a mustache, who was basically supporting a wrist-bound Captain Bruckner, held in the same shield maneuver.
Even though Dex had raised his Sig, he knew—no way he was getting off a shot.
Anger and frustration caused his arm to tremble and waver.
Clusterfuck. Complete and total.
The thought burned through him as the black chopper angled skyward in a savage leap, its engine screaming with power and menace. Within seconds, it had tilted and twisted westward into the night sky, the beat of its blades dopplering away into a faint mocking whisper.
It was only then, he was aware of his Trac Fone chirping at him.
Slowly, he lowered his weapon, tucked it away just in case someone saw him and got the wrong idea. The ambient sounds of people yelling and moving about left him in an impotent haze, as he keyed on the phone.
“McCauley…” he said in a raspy voice.
“Jesus Christ, Chief! What’s going on? Why’d didn’t you pick up?”
“Situation Fubar, Admiral. Can’t talk now. I’ve got casualties…”
He punched off the call and moved quickly to the back entrance of the house where the patio sliding glass door yawned open. As he moved quickly through the kitchen he heard a woman still moaning and sobbing.
He started yelling to announce his presence. Last thing he wanted was to create more panic. “Jason! Mr. Bruckner! It’s Dex!”
The Trac Fone started chirping, but he ignored it.
Peggy Bruckner was screaming, so loudly she effectively masked whatever it was Richard Bruckner was trying to say. Turning the corner out of the kitchen, Dex entered the room he glimpsed through the slatted blinds. Augie’s still form on the carpet remained in the same position—not good. Against the far wall, Jason had slumped over, conscious but growing pale. He looked like he was bleeding out, although slower than from an arterial wound. Peggy continued to wail, lost in total hysteria.
The Trac Fone went silent.
Kneeling by Richard, Dex pulled out his Spyderco and ripped through the restraint’s tough plastic with the knife’s inner serrated edge.
“Get ’im out of here! He’s hurt bad!” yelled Richard.
“What happened here—quickly!” Dex handed him the knife to cut his wife free, turned to Jason.
“They shot him in the leg! Hit the old guy pretty hard…dead, I think. And they said there’s a bomb!”
Are you fucking kidding me?
The thought pressed down on him like an enormous slab, threatening to flatten him into total surrender. But Dex kneeled, tightened the shreds of Jason’s shirt above the wound, started to yank him to an upright position. The Trac Fone started again, but he was way too occupied to answer it.
Peggy’s screaming had settled into a heaving series of soft cries, like some kind of weird seabird, which blended into the chirping cell phone. Richard had cut her free and as she had begun crawling on all fours toward the kitchen, he joined Dex to sling Jason between them.
When they’d caught up with Peggy, Richard urged his wife to get up, to get out of the house. But she kept half-crawling, half-dragging herself across the tiled floor, still sobbing and trying to catch her breath. “Anybody call for help?” said Dex as he and Richard dragged Jason toward the back door.
“They said they’d blow us up if we tried to call,” said Richard Bruckner. He was overweight enough to be gasping for breath and enough strength to push on. Dex figured the bomb thing might have been a bluff to immobilize everyone, but he still needed to get everybody clear of the house just in case.
His Trac Fone went off again as he struggled with Richard and Jason down the wooden steps of the deck, and reached the far corner of the yard. “Stay with him,” said Dex. Angrily, he punched off the ringer, then flipped his Trac Fone to Richard. “Call 911! Now!”
Then he was running back to intercept Peggy at the back door, who was feebly trying to sit up, to get to her feet. Reaching under both arms, Dex finished the job for her, and guided her out into the yard. She moved like someone under heavy sedation and her eyes rolled around, unable to fix on anything. The whole scene was surreal, like something from a distorted molasses-like dream. With each step, her weight seemed to be doubling. Finally, he reached the far corner of the lawn.
He heard Richard Bruckner say, “They’re on the way!” Even though Dex stood right next to him, his words sounded as if they were traveling a great distance, strained and weak.
Dex was already turning back to the house. Even if a bomb had been planted, even if Augie was already dead, Dex knew he had to go in there and try to get him.
And he hated himself at that moment. Hated himself for his sense of duty. But also for not wanting any parts of this hero crap. He knew himself too well. He knew he’d retired out of the Navy because he’d grown tired of the risk, of the demand to be a hero if the job required it. The demand to always be tough, always be hard, always be ready to die.
The day he realized he was no longer ready to do it—that was the day he knew he had to change whatever was left of his life.
But here he was falling right back into it. And it felt good, felt right—like putting your hand in the baseball glove you’ve been using for fifteen years.
You’re a mess is what you are…
The thought wormed through him as he moved quickly through the kitchen to get Augie. With each step, he expected to see a flash from the explosion he’d never hear, but he kept moving anyway. As he turned into the room, he dropped down to scoop up the little old man on the carpet. Still wearing his Orioles hat, Augie felt as light and lifeless as a bag of sticks, and Dex felt a surge of sadness go through. He’d barely known this man, but he’d really liked him.
He ran from the room, and out into the night.