Submerged Page 7

“I love you, son.” She pulled away, ostensibly to put the card in her purse. Yet Perry knew she was hiding her tears, not for her sake but for his.

  The dull thud of Perry’s heels echoed off the walls of the hospital corridor. Walking from his father’s MICU room had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done. As he rode the elevator down to the first floor, he forced the image of his dying father from his mind. Before him was a mission that might save his father’s life. Perry had no idea how it could, no evidence to build a case for such a belief, but he felt it nonetheless.

  One corridor turned into another, and Perry tried to focus on what lay ahead, not on the one he’d left behind. The task was impossible. No matter where he was in the world, he’d be taking his father with him. The wide hall emptied into an expansive lobby. Two men waited for him. They turned as he approached.

  Jack started to say something but stopped before the first syllable tumbled from his lips. Gleason wore the expression of a broken man. Friends, Perry had learned, could not remove a man from the sea of fear and pain, but they could join him in it. Jack and Gleason had, by choice, plunged into the dark waters without a second thought. It was then Perry realized he was the richest man on earth.

  His friends asked questions without words.

  “No change,” Perry replied. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Jack and Gleason said in stereo.

  Three men marched from the hospital into the Seattle night.

  Voices. Distant. Familiar.

  Henry Sachs was lost. He had traveled the world and been in some of the most inhospitable terrains imaginable, but he had never been lost. Now he was. He stood—or was he lying down?—in a milky darkness. He could hear a beeping. Every once in a while a voice meandered through the fog to reach his ears, but the words were jumbled, muddled, discontinuous. He struggled to make out the sentences. Perry? Anna?

  They were out there, wherever out there was. And he was—where? He didn’t know. He didn’t know where he was, what year it was, or how long he had been there. Had he died? Was this death? If so, it wasn’t like anything he had imagined.

  Henry tried to move his arm but failed. Or at least he assumed he failed. He couldn’t feel his arms or his legs. He couldn’t feel anything.

  Breathing was hard. The white fog, the mist, was intent on choking him . . . on filling his lungs until no more air could be taken in. Drowning. He was drowning in something he couldn’t identify.

  Faces appeared to him out of the haze, faces familiar

  but out of time, faces he had known long ago, in a distant place, in another era. Monte Grant . . . Cynthia Wagner . . . Victor Zeisler . . .

  Chapter8

  1974

  Henry Sachs stepped from the car, a brand-new 1974 white Chevy Suburban, and stretched his back. He had flown in from Seattle on a chartered 1971 Cessna 414 commuter that landed at a private airfield outside the desert town of Tonopah. Despite the nagging pain in his lower back, Henry had asked the pilot to take a couple “laps” around the town so he could see it from the air. Henry was a few years over the thirty mark, much too young to be having a pain in the back. The seats were a well-padded leather, but he had been sitting too long. Henry didn’t like sitting around.

  As the twin-engine plane circled the small town of Tonopah, Henry could see decaying wood structures from abandoned silver mines, trailer homes, and various buildings along the town’s main street. He had done a little research in the short time he had been allowed. He knew the city had less than two thousand people, and the entire county could only boast of nine thousand residents. Desert living wasn’t for everyone.

  The ground was a reddish brown with just creosote bushes, brittlebush, desert holly, and yucca to break up the monotony. Miners had pulled silver from the land, and now most of the silver was gone. Those miners who remained were the diehards and those who had come to call this part of the desert “home.” Henry preferred the cool, often damp streets of Seattle.

  The pilot landed, said his good-byes, and refueled. There to meet Henry was a man in beige trousers and a golf shirt. He didn’t look like a golfer to Henry. The man’s dusty brown hair was short, and his expression looked as if it originated from shoes two sizes too small. Henry also wore slacks and a button-down short-sleeve shirt.

  There was very little luggage. He had been told that everything would be provided for him, so he toted only a small duffel bag filled with underwear, work clothes, and toiletries. The man who picked him up did not identify himself. He just opened the back door to the Suburban and closed it once Henry had taken his seat.

  Fifteen minutes later, he exited in front of the Mizpah Hotel, a turn-of-the-century stone construction. He was ushered through the front doors into the lobby that bore the faint traces of desert dust on the furniture. The furniture looked like it had come from the early sixties.

  “You’re expected in room two-one-two in ten minutes,” his chauffeur announced. “You may use that time to change or use the head.”

  Head? Someone has some navy in them. “Thanks. I’ll just check in—”

  “We’ve taken the liberty of doing that for you.” The chauffeur reached into his pocket and removed a brass key. “Room 200.”

  “Are the others here?”

  “You’re the last to arrive.” The chauffeur started for the stairs. “Mr. Sanders likes to start on time.”

  Henry smiled. Things were shaping up like a movie. “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll show you to your room.”

  “No need. I’m a big boy and can find it by myself.” Henry jogged up the steps, leaving the driver behind. The jog felt good after the first few painful treads. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his back was beginning to loosen up.

  The room was small and warm. He was glad that it was October and not July. After dropping his duffel on the queen-size mattress that appeared to have more lumps than poorly prepared mashed potatoes, he opened the double-hung window to allow stale air out and fresh air in. He consulted his Timex. He had eight minutes before the meeting started. That might be enough time.

  Henry Sachs began searching. There were a few likely places, and he started with them. He wasn’t disappointed. First he checked under the bed and found nothing, then he searched around the entrance and closet doors. Again, nothing. A small oak desk sat in one corner. He knelt and peered under the knee space at the bottom of a drawer. There it was. It was about the size of a quarter. A pair of wires ran from it to a tiny black box. The battery, he assumed. If these electronic guys keep making these things smaller, we’ll be able to carry phones around in our pockets.

  He got up and stretched his back. He would wait a few more minutes. When those had passed, Henry reached under the drawer, seized the small device, and pulled it free. The meeting was due to start in sixty seconds. That was plenty of time. He left the room and started down the hall. Doors with metal numbers nailed to their surfaces lined the corridor: even numbers on his left, odd numbers on the right. Room 212 was at the end of the hall. Nine minutes and fifty seconds after he had been told of the meeting, Henry pushed through the door.

  All eyes turned on him. The room was larger than his. Perhaps this passed for a suite in the desert. Someone had removed the furniture. All that remained were folding metal chairs and a folding card table. There were five others in the room, including the driver who had picked Henry up at the private airfield.

  “We were beginning to wonder, Mr. Sachs,” a narrow-faced man with a hawkish nose said. “I believe professionals can be judged by their attention to promptness.” The man wore a sport coat over a white dress shirt, dark pants, and dress shoes. It was clear he wasn’t a local. He sat behind the card table.

  Henry smiled. “Check your watch. I have ten seconds to spare.”

  The man looked at his watch. “That you do, Mr. Sachs. Please have a seat.”

  “Not yet.” Henry stepped to the table and set the electronic device down. “I found this in my room. It’s a b
ug, an electronic listening device. I don’t like people spying on me. Before we talk about whatever it is you have on your mind, we had better get a few things straight. I will not work under the direction of those who do not trust me. If you can’t live with that, then let me know. I’ll hire the next plane out.”

  “Hey, is there one of those in my room, too?”

  Perry turned to see a distinguished-looking man in blue jeans with a bell flare just over his sneakers. He wore a polo shirt.

  The hawkish man behind the table picked up the device and studied it. “I can’t decide if you are extremely clever or if we’re extremely sloppy.”

  “That’s your choice to make,” Henry said.

  “The need for caution is great. Once you understand what we are about to do, you will realize why we must be careful. Now, Mr. Sachs, please sit down.”

  “No more spying on me?”

  “No more spying on you or anyone else on the team. You’ve all cleared our background checks. You, Mr. Sachs, have some pretty impressive contacts in the political and military complexes.”

  “I know how to network.” Henry took the remaining seat.

  “That may be an understatement. First the introductions. My name is Ed Sanders. On paper, I’m with the Department of the Interior. Off paper, I’m with . . . another organization in the government. You have all met Mr. Bill Nash. He’s with navy intelligence. He’s on loan to me. I’ll let you introduce yourselves and your specialties. Let’s start with you, Mr. Sachs.”

  Henry studied the slick man for a moment, then said, “Henry Sachs, Seattle, structural engineer. I consult with various government agencies on building technology.”

  The lone woman in the group spoke next. “I’m Cynthia Wagner, bioengineering, professor at UC San Diego.” She appeared a few years older than Henry. Her blond hair hung in a straight, flat cascade several inches below her slender shoulders. Her face was pure and cherubic. But her blue eyes darted from person to person, and she held her thin hands in her lap. Henry picked up on the body language: Cynthia was scared.

  “I guess I’ll go next,” a man with Elvis-like sideburns offered. “I’m Monte Grant, civil engineering. I specialize in concrete structures—”

  “Victor Zeisler,” the last man said before Grant could finish his sentence. A thick, reddish brown beard clung to his face like moss to a rock. His eyes were dark and revealed a keen intelligence. After Henry’s confrontation with Sanders, only Zeisler was smiling. That meant the man was a kindred spirit or just liked confrontation. The former might be good; the latter could be trouble. “I’m the resident electrical engineering genius and all-round rapscallion.” He winked at Cynthia. She turned away. Henry wondered when he had last heard the word rapscallion.

  “Now that we’ve all met, I think it’s time we got down to business,” Sanders said.

  “And what is that business?” Henry asked.

  “You all are contractors to the government and have been given a high security clearance. That security clearance has now been moved to above top secret. In a few minutes, we will cross the street for some dinner. We will all return to this hotel. I suggest you all make an early night of it. We leave at dawn.”

  “Leave for where?” Henry pressed.

  “You’ll see.” Sanders smiled. “You will see, and you will never forget.”

  “That’s quite a promise,” Grant said.

  “You won’t be disappointed. Well, you won’t be disappointed in what you see. Of course, you’ll never be able to talk about it—ever.” On the card table was a manila folder. Sanders opened it and removed four pieces of paper. “These are agreements of secrecy. They are binding for the rest of your lives. Make no mistake about this, people. Your government takes national security very seriously. Please read these, then sign if you agree to the terms.”

  “And if we don’t?” Zeisler asked.

  “Then you go home.” Sanders studied Zeisler. “You come highly recommended, Dr. Zeisler, but I’ll confess to having some concerns about your loyalty.”

  “To you or to the country?”

  “The country.”

  Zeisler shook his head. “I’ve disagreed with many things this country has done, Vietnam being one of them, but my patriotism is as rock solid as yours, Sanders. I may express it differently, but it is there.” Zeisler was the first to sign.

  The meeting broke up, and Sanders offered steak dinners to everyone. They met in the lobby thirty minutes later. Henry was the last to arrive again.

  “You do like to make an entrance,” Zeisler quipped.

  “I didn’t get enough love as a child.” Henry stopped at the front desk. A twenty-something woman with sad eyes and a bored expression listened while Henry whispered. She nodded and rounded the desk and joined the group.

  “I didn’t know we could bring dates,” Zeisler said. “I guess it’s you and me, Cynthia.”

  “Charming as you are, I’m engaged.”

  “Ah, boyfriend back home, eh?”

  Henry stepped between the two. “I thought a group picture would be nice. This is Judy, and she agreed to take a photo. He held up a Minolta 35 mm camera.

  Sanders frowned. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “That’s why I thought of it.” Henry moved toward the door with Judy in tow. Outside he said, “Line up, everyone, and put on your best I-Love-Nevada smiles.” He handed the camera to Judy. “Do you know how to use a camera like this?” When she shook her head, he gave her a thirty-second lesson.

  Henry joined the group as they stood in front of the lobby doors.

  Judy checked for traffic and stepped into the middle of the street. “The car is in the way.” She pointed at the Suburban. “We should move down a little.”

  “That’s all right,” Henry said. “No one is ever going to see this anyway.”

  Judy raised the camera. “Say cheese.”

  Chapter9

  Seattle was an hour behind them before anyone spoke. Perry sat in the passenger seat of the large H1 Hummer, his thoughts still resident in a hospital he had left what seemed like a week ago. He kept his face turned to the passing scenery, little of which he saw. The droning of the 6.5 liter V8 engine was the sole music in the cab. Jack was at the wheel, pushing the big and heavily loaded vehicle just over the speed limit.

  Swollen clouds had released their burden in sheets of rain that shimmered in the Hummer’s headlights and pelted its metal skin. Some might think that the rain was a reflection of Perry’s emotion, but they would be wrong. Perry loved rain; the cascade from the sky was welcome.

  Jack broke the silence. “You didn’t abandon him, pal.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?”

  The pointed question stung. Perry turned to his friend. “I said I did.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was here. I’m asking if you really know you didn’t abandon him.”

  “Intellectually, yes. Emotionally, no. My father’s teetering on the edge of death, and I’m driving in the wrong direction.”

  “You said it yourself, Perry. Your dad spent a great deal of his limited energy to tell you those names and words. He had a purpose for doing that, and his purpose has become yours.”

  “What if he dies while I’m gone?”

  Jack started to say something, then pulled his words back.

  Perry frowned. “Don’t hold out on me now, Jack. Say it.”

  “I don’t want to be misunderstood.”

  “You? Misunderstood?” That made Perry smile. “You’re pretty easy to understand.”

  “What I mean—I don’t want my intention misunderstood.”

  “Let it fly.”

  “You asked what happens if your father dies while you’re gone. Well, I’ll tell you. He dies. He dies, and it will hurt whether you’re at his bedside or in Nevada. You will mourn, your mother will mourn, and you will feel bad for all the things you wished you had done, wished you had said, and wished you hadn’t done. Yes, your father is dy
ing, and so are you. So am I, and so is Gleason sitting in the backseat. Of course, he’s further along than we are.”

  “Hey, watch it,” Gleason said. “I have unhindered access to the back of your head.”

  “Perry,” Jack continued, “Everyone dies, and no one likes it. There’s no easy way through it. Here’s the odd thing: Guys like us have reconciled ourselves to our own death. How many times have we wrestled with the scythe-carrying old guy? Several times in the last couple of years. What we haven’t reconciled ourselves to is the fact that those we love will someday die.”

  “Are we supposed to just sit back and accept it?”

  Jack eyed Perry. “We’re in a Hummer, in a rainstorm, driving hundreds of miles overnight to do the best we can—the only thing we can—to help. No, we don’t sit back and take it, but we don’t fool ourselves into believing we’re the exception to the rule. Statisticians have proven the point; 100 percent of those born will someday die.” He paused. “You’re doing what you can, what you’re best at.”

  “Jack is right,” Gleason said. “Give yourself a break, Perry. This is not your fault, and no father has had a better son.”

  Perry knew they were right. He had been pummeling himself for not being there when his dad collapsed and now for heading hundreds of miles away.

  “Another thing, buddy,” Jack said. “This is a matter of faith. We trust God in life, so why wouldn’t we trust Him in death? Jesus put an end to spiritual death, making physical death a promotion.”

  “I guess I’m not ready to let go,” Perry said.

  “I know, pal, I know, but very few people are. That’s the price of love. If you loathed your father, this wouldn’t be so difficult. But you love him, and this is the price you pay for that love.”

  “Last year,” Jack continued, “when we were in Antarctica, your father was told you were killed in a plane crash. What did he do?”

  “He searched for proof. He pulled out the stops to prove them wrong.”