the Silent Sea (2010) tof-7 Read online

  Linda looked at herself in the antique mirror in her cabin and decided she would make the perfect wife for the Michelin Man. She knew there was a hundred-and-sixteen-pound woman under all the layers of arctic clothing, but the mirror sure wasn't showing it. And she still had one more overcoat to go once she got down to the boat garage.

  She glanced at her desktop computer, which was linked to the ship's sensor system. The outside air temperature was minus thirty-seven, with a windchill that would make it feel twenty degrees colder. The ocean was a tick above freezing. Atmospheric pressure was holding steady, but she knew that could change without a moment's notice.

  It was everything she had left northern Minnesota for.

  Linda had grown up in a military family, and it was never in doubt that she would also serve. She did Navy ROTC at Auburn and spent five years in the service. She had loved her job, especially sea duty, but she knew her career would have limitations. The Navy rewarded merit better than any other branch of the military; however, she knew that with her elfin looks and almost helium-high voice she would never be tapped for command. And a ship of her own is what she wanted most of all.

  Following an eighteen-month stretch working for the Joint Chiefs, she'd been offered a promotion and another staff job. What strings she was able to pull would get her nowhere near a ship, let alone a command. Linda saw the writing on the wall and packed it in. Within a month, she was first officer on an oil-service boat in the Gulf of Mexico, with the understanding that it would be hers within a year.

  But then her life took one of those quirky changes that set a person on a course they never anticipated. An Admiral she had never met before called her and told her about a job opening with a real hush-hush outfit. Asked why her, the Admiral had replied that the Navy had made a mistake not giving her what she deserved and this might be a way of making things right.

  What Linda would never know was that Langston Overholt at the CIA had put out feelers among the top brass in all branches of the service for people they felt would serve the Corporation well. It was how Cabrillo had recruited most of his crew.

  She clicked off her computer, the thought of such cold filling her with apprehension, and stepped out from the cabin. Her insulated boots made her walk like Frankenstein's monster.

  The boat garage was located amidships on the starboard side. Linda took her time. One of the first rules of arctic survival was: Never perspire. Even with everything unzipped, she could feel her body temperature rising. A few of the crew she passed made comments on her size in the bulbous white clothing, but it was in good humor.

  The door outside the garage was insulated, but when she pressed her fingers to it to push it open she recoiled at the numbing cold that soaked through. She zipped up her many layers before turning the handle.

  The Teflon-coated launch ramp was down and the outer door open, so she was hit with the full force of the Antarctic climate. It made her gasp aloud and brought tears to her eyes. Outside the ship, the water was black and roiled by the wind. Small bergs, called growlers, drifted past. The rest of her three-person team was already waiting. Franklin Lincoln, easily the largest member of the crew, looked positively enormous. All she could see of him was his black face smiling from a mound of white fabric. Mark Murphy looked lost in his gear, like a little boy trying on his dad's suit for some family pageant.

  A crewman handed her an outer overcoat and a full-face mask with integrated communications. He checked her over for any loose seams, using white duct tape to strap down her mittens, and then helped her on with her rucksack and handed her a weapon. They would carry L85A2s, the Heckler and Koch rework of the British bullpup assault rifle. These had been further modified by the ship's armorer. With the magazine behind the trigger, it was easy to remove the trigger guards to allow them to be fired without the shooter removing their mittens. Powerful halogen lights had been fitted under the stubby barrels.

  I am your father, Leia, Linc said in a perfect imitation of James Earl Jones's Darth Vader. With his mask on, he looked a lot like the archvillain.

  I'd just as soon kiss a Wookiee, she said, throwing a line from Star Wars back at him. Comm check. You with us, Mark?

  Um, yeah, but what's a Wookiee and who's Leia?

  Nice try, nerd boy, Linc replied. I wouldn't be surprised if you changed your middle name to Skywalker.

  Please, if anything it would be Solo.

  Eric, Linda called out. Are you on the net?

  Eric Stone was at his customary seat at the navigator's station in the op center. He'd been on duty during the roughest passages of their journey down here for the simple reason that he was the best ship handler they had when the Chairman wasn't aboard. I read you, Linda.

  Okay, as soon as we're away I want you to pull back until you're over the horizon. If we need fast evac, Gomez can come get us in the chopper. But until I know what we're dealing with I don't want the Oregon exposed to anyone onshore.

  A private smile passed Linda's lips. Oh yeah, this was her command.

  Roger that, Eric said. We'll be just another chunk of ice floating out to sea.

  Okay, guys, let's saddle up. Linda vaulted into the Corporation's spare RHIB.

  A hydraulic ram could launch the boat out of the Oregon like a dragster if necessary, but they opted for a smooth descent into the frigid water. Linda fired the big outboards as soon as they were submerged. They had already been brought up to temperature in the garage, so she eased the throttles, and the RHIB's bow began to lift. They were five miles from shore, but in the bay where the Wilson/George Station was located was a sea of drifting bergs. She had to cut right and left to find a path through the ice. Most of them were not much larger than the RHIB, but several were mountain-sized behemoths that towered into the darkling sky.

  Linda was dutifully impressed by the stark beauty of the earth's most isolated continent.

  Off to the side of the boat, a disturbance in the water revealed itself to be the canine snout of a seal. It eyed them for a moment, then disappeared under the waves.

  It took them twenty minutes to reach the coast. Rather than run up onto the beach, Linda steered them to a low cliff overhanging the water. It would hide the RHIB from casual observation and made it so they didn't have to wade ashore. Linc was the first one up. He tied off the boat's line around a stone outcrop and used his immense strength to hoist the other two out of the boat.

  The beach was as forlorn as any Linda had ever seen. It was covered with a light snow, a remnant of the storm. A sudden gust knocked her into the immovable form of Franklin Lincoln.

  We need to put some meat on those bones, girl.

  Or keep me out of Antarctica, Linda rejoined. The station is about a mile inland.

  They had discussed the possibilities ad nauseam and would make their approach assuming the base had been taken by hostile forces. It took an hour to make their cautious approach. They found a low ridge overlooking the station and studied it through binoculars.

  The futuristic structure with its domes and interconnecting tubes looked abandoned. The sound of a generator should have carried to them, but all they heard was the whistle of wind and the occasional slap of a door moving on its hinges. It was the personnel entrance to the adjacent garage building that flapped in the breeze. The station's windows were all dark.

  A chill ran down Linda's back that had nothing to do with the weather. Through the green optics of her night vision binoculars, Wilson/George Station had an eerie feel unlike anything she had ever seen. Blowing wisps of snow took on the shapes of earthbound spirits doomed to haunt this desolate place.

  What do you think? Linda asked to break herself out of the dark visions.

  Mark turned to her. A couple of days ago, I thought I was on the set of Apocalypse Now. Now I feel like I'm staring at the base from The Thing.

  Interesting observation, but not what I'm talking about.

  I'd say no one's home, Linc said.

  Looks like it to me. Linda stuffed her b
inoculars back in her bag. Let's go, and stay low.

  Her arctic clothing was doing its job of keeping out the cold, but there was nothing she could do about the knot tightening in her stomach. The sense of foreboding built with each slow pace toward the station. Something bad had happened here, she felt, something very bad.

  There were no tracks around the base, meaning nothing had moved here since the storm, though it was possible someone had come right before or during it. Linc climbed the stairs at the entrance, his assault rifle at the ready. Mark moved into position next to him, and Linda carefully reached for the handle. It pulled outward, revealing a dim vestibule beyond. The main entry door into the facility was ajar, meaning whatever latent heat that might have been trapped by the station's thick coating of insulation had long since dissipated. There was no hope of any of the scientists surviving such prolonged exposure.

  Linda indicated that Linc take point. The former SEAL nodded and peered through the station's door. He recoiled slightly, then turned.

  He mouthed, This ain't good.

  Linda moved up to his side and looked for herself. The room was in shambles. Clothing was strewn across the floor. Lockers had been emptied and overturned. A bench where workers once donned their boots had been flipped onto an object that truly held her attention. It was the body of a woman, turned blue from the cold. She was wearing a hoarfrost death mask, tiny icicles that clung to her skin and made her eyes opaque. What was worse was the blood, a pool of it frozen solid on the floor under her. Her chest was covered in it, and streaks and splashes decorated the walls.

  Gunshot? Linda whispered after taking off her face shield.

  Knife, Linc grunted.

  Who?

  Dunno. He swept his weapon's light around the space, checking each square foot, before stepping into the room. Linda and Mark entered at his side.

  It took ten tension-fraught minutes to confirm that everyone at the station was dead. There were thirteen bodies in total. All of them showed similar signs of a gruesome death. Most had been stabbed and lay in hardened lakes of blood. A couple showed blunt force trauma, as if someone had taken a baseball bat to them. One of them showed defensive breaks to the arms he had clearly put up a fight. The bones were splintered. Another looked like he'd been shot with a large-bore gun, though Linda had been assured that there were no firearms at the base. In fact there were none on the entire continent.

  Someone's missing, Linda told them. Wilson/George had a winter staff of fourteen.

  It's gotta be our killer, Mark said.

  I'll go check the vehicle shed, Linc said. How many snowcats should there be?

  Two, and two snowmobiles.

  A few minutes later, Linda was searching through a desk drawer when Mark called out to her from another module. His voice made her jump. To say the research station and its grisly inhabitants gave her the creeps was putting it mildly. The hair on her arms had yet to stand down. She found him in one of the small crew's rooms, his light trained on more bloody smears on the wall. It took her a second to realize the lines weren't random. It was writing.

  What does that mean?

  Mark read it aloud, 'yMime Goering for crow Nicole.'

  Was someone saying they were killed by Hermann G+|ring?

  I don't think so, Mark said absently.

  It doesn't make any sense. No one stationed here was named Nicole. I checked their roster.

  Murph didn't reply. His lips moved silently as he read the bizarre sentence again and again.

  What are you thinking? Linda asked, as the seconds dragged out to a minute.

  Whose room was this?

  I'm not sure. They looked around and found a book with Property of Andrew Gangle written on the flyleaf.

  Who was he?

  I think a tech. A grad student, if I recall.

  He's also our killer, and confessed before he carried out the murders. He was also very sick.

  No kidding. Hello? Thirteen slashed-up bodies. He was sick, all right.

  I mean ill. He had aphasia.

  What's that?

  It's a speech disorder where the victim can't process language properly. It's usually caused by a stroke or brain injury, or it can progress as a result of a tumor, Parkinson's, or Alzheimer's.

  And you're able to figure this out how?

  There was a game I used to play with some neuroscience grad students back at MIT. We'd make up sentences as if we had aphasia and challenge the others to decipher them.

  You didn't go on many dates, did you?

  Mark ignored her jab. We usually had to give a clue, like a theme to the sentence, otherwise it would be impossible to work it out. The clue here was the killings, the murder, okay.

  Sure, but what does 'yMime Goering for crow Nicole' have to do with murder?

  What do you call a group of crows?

  I don't know, a flock?

  A murder, Mark said with a triumphant gleam. For someone who was always the smartest person in the room, he still enjoyed showing off his intellect. A group of crows is called a murder. In Gangle's brain, the two words 'ymurder' and 'ycrow' were synonymous.

  So then we're looking for some Nazi other than G+|ring?

  No. Aphasia doesn't work like that. The connections in the brain are messed up. It could be words that sound alike or words that describe objects that go together or words that reminded Gangle of something out of his past.

  Oh, so Mime Goering sort of sounds like 'yI'm going.'

  Exactly. 'yI'm going to murder.' Gangle wrote the word 'yI'm going for murder' instead of 'yto.' I'm thinking in his brain, two is half of four. Switch numbers with prepositions and you get 'yI'm going to murder' instead of 'yI'm going for murder'.

  Okay, smart guy, what's up with Nicole?

  Mark threw her a cocky grin. That was the easiest part of all. Nicole Kidman stared in a horror movie called The Others.

  'yI'm going to kill the others,' Linda said, stringing together the complete translation. Wait, does aphasia make you go nuts?

  Not usually. I think the underlying illness that caused his aphasia also caused him to turn against his crewmates.

  Like what?

  You'd have to ask Doc Huxley. I only know about the condition because of the word game I used to play.

  There was a sudden sharp bang that made both of them jump.

  Linda, Murph, we got company, Linc's baritone echoed throughout the entire base.

  Both grabbed up their assault rifles from where they'd laid them on the bed and rushed out of Andy Gangle's disturbing bedroom. They met Linc in the rec hall.

  What did you find?

  Some weird stuff, but not now. There's a snowcat heading our way from the south. That's where the Argentines have their closest research base, right?

  Yeah, Linda replied. Maybe thirty miles down the coast.

  I saw it when I was on my way back. We've got less than a minute.

  Everyone, outside.

  No, Linda. There isn't enough cover. Concern etched Linc's face. They'd see us, no problem.

  Okay, find a place to hide, and be quiet. Let's just hope they're doing a little recce and not planning on setting up housekeeping. If you're discovered, come out with guns blazing.

  What if these are just scientists checking on the station? Mark asked. It was a reasonable question.

  Then they would have shown up here a week ago like our government had asked. Now, go!

  The trio split up. Linda returned to Andy Gangle's room. The ceiling was acoustical tile made of a cardboardlike material hanging from metal support tracks. As limber as a monkey, she hoisted herself onto a dresser and lifted one of the tiles with the barrel of her gun. There was a three-foot crawl space between the ceiling and the dome's insulated roof. She set her gun onto the ceiling and boosted herself up. Her heavy clothing made it an almost impossible job, but by twisting her hips and kicking her legs she managed to lever her upper body through the opening.

  She heard the front door crash open an
d someone calling out in Spanish. To her ears, it sounded like shouted commands rather than inquiring hails.

  She slithered her legs up into the crawl space and carefully set the thin tile back to its original position. There was an insulated Flexi-tube nearby connected to a ceiling grate that was used to feed warm air into the room. Linda pulled the silvery tube off the grate and peered downward. She had a pretty good bird's-eye view.

  The adrenaline that shot through her system when she heard Linc's shouted warning was wearing off fast, and she became aware of the cold again. She didn't have to contend with any wind, but the crawl space was the ambient thirty-plus degrees below zero. Her face was numb, and her fingertips were starting to lose sensation despite the heavy mittens. Keeping still was the worst thing possible for her body right now, but it was exactly what she had to do.

  More bursts of guttural Spanish sounded below. She closed her eyes, imagining soldiers scouting the base as she and her team had just done. What would they make of the massacre? Would they even care?

  A man wearing a white arctic uniform and carrying a large pistol suddenly entered the bedroom. He wore a mask much like the one Linda had sported, so she could not see his features. Like Mark, he stared at the bloody writing on the wall.

  It happened so fast, there was nothing Linda could do to stop it. A drop of clear fluid dripped from her nose and pattered against the man's shoulder. He brushed at it without turning his head and made to leave and continue his search.

  As soon as he stepped out of the room, Linda was in motion. Like a spider keeping to its web, she moved hand and foot along the tile ceiling's support rails. They weren't meant to take the weight of a fully grown person, and she was afraid the wires that kept them in place would snap.

  There came a sudden eruption of gunfire. The tile where she'd been a moment earlier exploded in a fine powder and fell down into the bedroom. Two more shots boomed out and two more tiles disintegrated. Seeps of weak sunlight filtered through the holes the bullets had torn through the outer roof.