Submerged (9 page)

“I know, Mom.” Perry watched his father’s
slow breathing. “Do you remember anything from that time, anything
that might help us?”

“No. You were just a boy. You know how secret
some of the projects you work on are; it was the same back then. He
never talked about such things. Never. That used to frustrate me,
but he once told me it wasn’t a matter of him trusting me, but of
his clients trusting him. If he promised secrecy, he gave
secrecy.”

“He drummed that in my head enough times.”
Perry chuckled. On several occasions, he had tried to pump his
father for information on secret projects he had worked on in the
past, but the man never budged. He did, however, give Perry the
same lecture about trustworthiness and honor. At times Perry found
it tiresome, but as he grew older it became the model for his life.
It was one of the great things his father had given him—that and
faith.

“You go on now, Perry. Do what your father
wants you to do. Nora will be here soon, and I’ll be fine.”

Perry pulled a card from his pocket. “Here
are my numbers. You already know my cell number, but the other
number is different. It’s for a satellite phone, in case we end up
somewhere without cell phone coverage.”

Anna took it and studied it. “I’ll let you
know if anything changes.” Tears were rising in her eyes.

The sight of them broke Perry like a twig. “I
love you, Mom.”

“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 bug,
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.”