Order of the black sun b.., p.23
Order of the Black Sun Box Set 1, page 23
part #1 of Order of the Black Sun Series
"Admiral Whitsun!" The voice of the navigation officer crackled over the radio. "Incoming! The submarine is approaching from the southeast, sir! It looks like it's on a collision course, aiming straight—"
The young man's voice cut off as the U-boat crashed headlong into the fuel tanks.
"He's hit the fuel tanks!" Purdue laughed and punched the air. "Well done, Ziv! That will sort them out!"
Sam and the others watched in horrified amazement as the ship's fuel tanks exploded. Dirty orange flames licked up the side of the destroyer and twisted the metal hull into filigree. Tiny figures besmirched with streaks of fire leaped from the decks into the deadly water below, early casualties who could not wait for the lifeboats. The white sky darkened as the columns of thick smoke dissipated and spread out.
Eventually, after what felt like an age, they saw the lifeboats being lowered and men from the destroyer piling in. Their own little raft bobbed and rocked as the destroyer fell to pieces, sending aftershocks surging across the distance between them. In the constant, diffused daylight of the Antarctic, it was impossible to tell how long they sat silently watching the demise of the ship.
"Listen," Alexandr whispered. His head was cocked as he tried to pick out a new sound, something that was not the scream of a dying ship. Suddenly he pointed upward.
"A helicopter!" Professor Matlock cried. "At last!" He stretched his arms as far as they would go and began to wave them frantically. It only took a split second for the others to join in, yelling and signaling until they nearly overturned the raft.
It did no good, though. The helicopter flew on, disappearing into the dark billows of smoke. Just as the expedition party was about to lapse into dejection, Fatima spotted another vessel on the horizon.
"Do we hail it?" she asked. "Or is this one coming to finish us off?"
"No" Purdue sat up and smiled. "We hail this one. That's my boat!"
Nina had never been so grateful to feel a blanket around her shoulders or a mug of hot tea in her hands. The solid deck beneath her feet, sitting in a comparatively spacious crew room—it all felt luxurious after the events of the past few days. Best of all, the crew was incredibly lax about anti-smoking rules and generous with cigarettes. As she sucked the smoke down into her lungs, she felt it warm her, comfort her, calm her down, and console her when she put her hand in her pocket and realized that the letters and diaries she had taken from the skeleton were now just mush. The waves that soaked her as she stood waving the white flag had ruined the artifacts. She took another puff and tried to put it from her mind. Much to her surprise, Sam was sitting beside her with a cigarette in his hand, not smoking it. She checked that it was lit. It was.
"Sam? Are you ok?"
Sam did not reply. He just sat staring at the floor, not moving. The blanket hung loosely from his shoulders. Now that she thought about it, Sam had not said a word since the U-boat had hit the destroyer. She wondered whether to push him further, but had never seen him looking so far gone into his own private world. Best leave him alone, she decided.
Purdue was busy haranguing the captain of the charter boat, demanding to know why they had not responded to any of his transmissions. The captain, an American by the name of Lassiter, insisted they had received two signals from Purdue and responded to both before losing his position. Unable to locate the group by GPS, they had waited at Deception Island until the destroyer broadcast a Mayday call asking any vessels in the area to respond. The charter boat, being close by, had set out on a rescue mission—and found the expedition party by accident, mistaking them for survivors of the destroyer wreck.
"Well, be that as it may," Purdue waved a dismissive hand at Captain Lassiter, "the important thing is that you're here now, and we are more than ready to return to Ushuaia. Let's get on our way, shall we?"
"Um, Mr. Purdue?" Captain Lassiter looked uneasy. "We'd better go pick up the remaining survivors first."
The look Purdue gave him could have shattered glass. "I did not charter this boat as a rescue vessel, Captain Lassiter. Set a course for Ushuaia, if you would be so good."
"Maybe I should get our doctor to come and look you all over, Mr. Purdue," Captain Lassiter suggested. "You're obviously under a whole lot of strain right now, and I completely understand that, but—"
"Captain Lassiter," Purdue hissed, two pink spots appearing in his pale cheeks, "I am ordering you to ignore the destroyer. Leave it to its fate. Take us to Ushuaia. Now."
The young captain looked Purdue up and down, and Nina could see his jaw tense. "Mr. Purdue," he said calmly and carefully, "I am going to turn this boat around and pick up any survivors I can find. We will then take them to Deception Island. Then, and only then, will we proceed to Ushuaia. I can see that you have been under a lot of pressure and are not thinking straight. I suggest that you go to your quarters and recover. If you refuse, I will have you escorted from the deck and placed in quarantine for your own safety for the rest of the journey. Is that clear?"
Purdue stared furiously at the captain. He looked like he was about to speak, but then thought better of it. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed off in the direction of the cabins, without saying a word more to Captain Lassiter.
"For what it's worth," Nina said, "you did the right thing. If you'd agreed with him, I'd have decked the pair of you. Is there anything I can do to help with—"
She cut off abruptly as Sam slumped forward in the seat beside her and passed out into unconsciousness.
36
"SO, WAIT, YOU got a snog off of Nina? Lucky bastard."
Sam scowled at Patrick Smith. "Everything I've just told you and that's what you choose to remember? Not the private army or the deadly virus or the bit where I found out that it was actually Admiral Whitsun and not his son who was running the arms ring? None of that?"
Patrick pretended to give it some thought for a moment. "Nah. Another pint?"
Sam handed over his empty glass, then sat back and stretched out his legs. It felt very strange to be back in Dagda after the Antarctic. On the one hand, he felt as if the whole thing had never happened, as if it was just some mad dream. On the other hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that it had been more intense than life in Edinburgh ever was, and perhaps it was all the more real for that.
Still, there was comfort in the familiarity of the pub. Nothing had changed there. It was still full of academics trying to avoid their undergrads, and postgrads trying to cozy up to the academics. There still weren't enough seats. Sam caught a dirty look from a group of vertical drinkers and gave them a cheery smile in return. Outside, the Meadows was lined with spring flowers and populated by twenty-somethings practicing tightrope walking or strumming ukuleles. They all seemed utterly incompatible with a world where men could buy and sell deadly viruses or use submarines to blow up destroyers.
Across the floor from Sam, a lone drinker was reading a newspaper. The political scandal surrounding Admiral Whitsun had broken while Sam was still in quarantine in Ushuaia, and Sam had earned a near-permanent place in the heart of his editor, Mitchell, for handing him the story. Now, a few months later, the tabloids were still speculating as to the Admiral's whereabouts. The headline the man was reading was hopeful:
Whitsun Spotted In Chile: Police Closing In
This was in stark contrast to the previous day's front page of the Times, which had declared:
Whitsun: The Body is found!
Sam had been asked again and again whether he thought Admiral Whitsun had survived the wreck of the destroyer. He had no idea. It had been a shock to realize the old man had not killed himself, let alone finding out that he had been playing them all along and that he had, in fact, been the brains behind the arms ring that killed Patricia. If he is dead, perhaps that's some kind of justice for her, Sam thought. Not to mention for all those PMCs, and for the men on the destroyer. Then again, Trish always hated people thinking that way. He realized that it had been a few days since he had heard Trish's voice in his head. Her presence in his mind was not constant the way it had been.
"So," Patrick said, returning with their drinks, "you were going to tell me about you and Nina..."
"Paddy, leave it," Sam groaned. "Honestly. Nina's great, but it's too soon. I already feel guilty enough. But you know what? I'm working on it.” Sam paused for dramatic effect, “With my therapist."
Patrick's eyebrows shot up. "You've got a therapist? How did that happen?"
"They made us all talk to one while we were in quarantine. Then when I got back, I had to go for a follow-up at the doctor, and he said I could talk to someone about bereavement, so ... it's free, and I thought I might as well." He picked up his pint and took a deep swig. "But you know what? I got off lightly. You know Jefferson Daniels, the explorer? He's so stressed out by the whole thing that he's refusing to do any more polar exploring. He's gone to Arizona to do a vision quest."
"Christ."
"I know. I'm not even sure what a vision quest is. If it's something that calms you down, Nina could probably do with it."
"I heard," said Patrick, "she got in touch to ask whether she could go after Matlock for stealing the notebooks, but she doesn't have a leg to stand on. They were just addressed to the department, not to her personally, and she's got no way of proving they were ever hers to start with. Which they weren't, really. They were yours. I take it she still doesn't know who sent them?"
Sam shrugged. "Purdue, probably. He likes doing that kind of thing, and he's the only one I know who would have the resources to track them down. I don't know how he did it. I'd ask him, if he hadn't vanished off the face of the earth when we got back. Of course, if he hadn't vanished, I could have told him where to find the letter he gave me from Karl Witzinger. I'm still kicking myself for leaving it in my room when we escaped. I could have told him to get my camera too, then we'd have the pictures of the ICBM."
"You reckon he went back to the ice station, then?"
"Maybe. Either that or he bribed whoever was sent out to destroy it."
"Destroy it?" Patrick nearly choked on his beer, sputtering foam across the table. "Wait, hang on a minute—who destroyed it? Why?"
"Because there were biological weapons, you numpty!" Sam rolled his eyes. "No idea who, though. I heard it from Fatima. She was trying to sort out permission to go back and do a proper expedition, but she was told it's gone now. Wolfenstein is no more. So, she's back at Neumayer doing things with algae. Very clever, that one. You'd like her. Doubt she'd like you, though."
"I don't know." Patrick pulled a face. "Nina likes me well enough."
"Nina's got no taste." Sam drained his pint and set the glass carefully on the beer mat. "Speaking of Nina, I have an appointment at the university. Some very important questions to be asking."
"Are you going to ask her out?"
Sam stood up and adopted an attitude of haughty disdain, looking down his nose at his friend. "You, Patrick Smith, are an old fishwife. No, I am not going to ask anyone out." He dropped back into his customary slouch and pulled on his jacket. "I wish it was anything that interesting. No, I'm off to interview Dr. Frank Matlock about his forthcoming and extremely hastily written book. Here's the title, get this—Wolfenstein: Secrets of the Lost Nazi Ice Station. He's obviously going for a very subtle, literary kind of slant."
"I'd read it," Patrick said.
"You would not. He's already talking to the BBC about turning it into a series, so you'd just watch it on TV. He's an old bastard, though, not letting Nina have any of the credit. But, it's his retirement plan, so she's down to a wee, quick mention in an early chapter. He didn't even want to credit me, but I said he wasn't getting to use my pictures if he didn't. Not that he got any of the really good ones. The only memory card that survived the journey home was the one with all the boring stuff on it. Dormitories and the like. Still..." He raised his voice just loud enough to be audible to the others in the pub. "Academics, eh? Bunch of egomaniacs, the lot of them!"
Patrick shushed Sam frantically, then finished his drink and ushered him out of the pub.
"I'll be around to collect Bruich tomorrow!" Sam called as he and Patrick went their separate ways. Patrick chuckled for a while after they parted. He was not sure if he did so in sincerity, or if he did it from the hideous secret that he harbored from Sam, the one that ate at him like only near-death trauma could. He had lied to Sam about his broken hand and head injury. A trying episode at a domestic violence scene, he had told Sam nonchalantly, and added a bit of a snicker to lighten the feel of it. After what Sam had gone through, he did not want to add more emotional imbalance on him—that his best friend was tortured for his whereabouts because someone was out to snuff him. DCI Patrick Smith opened his front door to be met by the charismatic purr of Bruich, who he dutifully fed as soon as he had locked up. Then, the stout Inspector collapsed to his knees on the kitchen floor and sobbed like a child.
You know what, Sam thought as he strolled along to the Braxfield Tower, maybe I will ask Nina out after all. Everyone seems to think there's something going on anyway, and we get on, so ... it's probably time I give it a try. He did not admit it to himself, but the thought of seeing Nina put a spring in his step.
He arrived at the Braxfield Tower and walked past the little sheltered area where he and Nina had shared their first cigarette. Cutting through the lobby, he got in the lift and emerged on the fifth floor, where Matlock now had his office. Matlock was yet to arrive, so Sam took a seat in the office and settled in to wait.
When he heard the door open and close behind him, he turned around expecting to see Matlock. Instead, it was Nina. She was back to her glossy, stylish self in a smart black trouser suit, an acid green scarf at her neck, and elegant high heels on her feet. Sam looked her over for just a moment too long. He had almost forgotten that she could look like that. She rushed toward him and gave him a hug. Sam tried very hard not to remember the last time her soft, warm body had been pressed against his.
"How did you know I started back today?" Nina asked. "Ugh, it's been strange being back—not to mention frustrating! Everyone keeps asking me about Matlock's new fucking book. Did I help him write it, or did I even go in the first place? God, it's exhausting having to keep giving out polite answers! Look, I've got a class to teach in about ten minutes, but do you want to go and get some dinner after that? "
Sam opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then opened it. Then shut it. How did she know? He wondered. That thought was swiftly joined by another. She thinks I'm here to see her. And I'm not. At least not entirely. Not even primarily. Oh, god...
"Dinner would be great!" Sam decided to concentrate on the positive stuff first. "I can hang around here until you're done with teaching. There's a really nice, wee Mexican place around on the Canongate, if our time in Argentina hasn't put you off that whole continent's food for life."
"Sounds great!" Sam could have sworn he heard Nina giggle. "I'd better go. You can wait in here if you like, but I should warn you—this is actually Matlock's office. I know the receptionist just directs people in here if they ask about German history, just so you know. In case you don't fancy rehashing old times, or having to wax lyrical about his fucking book."
In a fit of excruciating honesty, Sam thought it best just to come clean. "That's ... actually what I'm here about. Oh, don't get me wrong, I wanted to see you too! But my editor sent me here, because they want an editorial feature on his book ahead of its publication ... Nina, don't. Don't look at me like that!"
Her hands had balled into tight fists, her fingernails digging into the palms. "Like what?" she asked with acid sweetness. "Like you're a money-grubbing bastard who would sell me out for the sake of a story? Like you're a fucking traitor who would work with someone who stole all my best material, and even the idea in the first place, and would fuck me over and not care? Oh, well guess what, Sam Cleave, I'm looking at you that way because that's exactly what you are! No, don't touch me. Don't talk to me. We should have left you behind in Antarctica. I said don't talk to me!" She stormed over to the door and flung it wide, then stepped through it and fired her parting shot back over her shoulder. "And you can forget about dinner tonight—or any night!" The door slammed. She was gone.
Ah well, Sam thought with a deep sigh. That's the end of that. He sat down in the chair opposite the desk, then swiftly began to wonder where Matlock's secret stash of alcohol would be. Every academic had one, he was certain. Matlock's, it emerged, was relatively easy to find—a bottle of Highland Park in the top right drawer. Sam poured himself a tumbler of whisky. Matlock won't mind, he told himself. And if he does, well ... that's the price of publicity.
Sam settled into Professor Matlock's leather armchair, sipped the whisky and looked idly out of the window at the rugged beauty of Salisbury Crags. He raised the glass in a silent toast, as he usually did when drinking alone—but for the first time in a long time, his toast was not to Trish and the hope that he would soon be with her. It was to life, to the prospect of adventures yet to be had, and to Samuel Fergusson Cleave being very much alive.
THE END
DEEP SEA ONE
Order of the Black Sun - Book 2
Preston W. Child
Edited by Joni Wilson and Anna Drago
1
It had been years since Purdue visited the monastery. He had promised to make it there much sooner, but unforeseen adventure had ensnared him and on return home he found himself lacking a few choice things never before depleted in his home. Coming home. It was a phrase he thought he would not experience again. For a while. It had been months since the treacherous trek and near-fatal adventure he undertook with a team of unlikely colleagues to find out if the fabled Wolfenstein Ice Station actually existed. The discovery of the lost subterranean Nazi compound in Antarctica had only fueled the grandeur of his recorded profile, especially the media attention he received after journalist Sam Cleave utilized his extraordinary writing skills to publicize it—just about when Professor Frank Matlock's book on the expedition hit the shelves.
