Chapter 57 - Julian’s Gambit
Von Stauffen froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. Behind him, the four mercenaries raised their rifles, leveling them directly at Julian’s chest.
"A bluff," von Stauffen sneered, though the corner of his left eye twitched. "Your son is an architectural surveyor, Eleanor. He calculates stress loads on concrete. He doesn't know naval ballistics."
"I calculate load-bearing capacities," Julian replied, his thumb hovering over the red toggle switch of the remote. "And I know that beneath the outer shoals of this harbor, there are sixteen hydraulic floodgates holding back two million tons of Atlantic current. Do you know what happens when you drop the seabed beneath a submarine that requires forty feet of draft to prevent reactor cavitation?"
A sudden, sharp shudder vibrated through the timbers of Pier 49.
Out in the bay, a terrifying metallic groan echoed from the ocean floor. Great geysers of pressurized water and mud erupted in a neat, symmetrical line across the channel mouth. The massive hydraulic caissons, dormant since the height of the Cold War in 1961, began to rise from the harbor bed, grinding upward like the teeth of an ancient sea monster.
From the black submarine’s conning tower, a siren began to scream—a frantic, high-pitched mechanical howl that drifted across the water.
Von Stauffen’s composure cracked. He whipped a tactical radio from his coat pocket. *"Captain! Report! What is that vibration?"*
The radio responded with frantic shouting in German, drowned out by the shriek of tearing metal: *"Herr von Stauffen! The seabed is rising! We are losing bottom clearance! Water depth is dropping by two meters every thirty seconds! The cooling intakes are choking on silt! Reactor scram in two minutes if we cannot reverse!"*
"Reverse screws!" von Stauffen shouted into the radio. "Full astern into international waters!"
*"We cannot!"* the captain’s voice screamed over the static. *"The harbor locks have engaged behind us! We are penned inside the shoal!"*
Julian stepped forward, shielding me with his body as he looked von Stauffen dead in the eye. "My grandfather didn't design these locks to protect Boston from storms, von Stauffen. He designed them as an offshore kill-box for Harold’s little navy."
Von Stauffen’s face flushed purple with rage. "Kill them!" he screamed to his mercenaries. "Kill them both!"
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Before the first rifleman could shoulder his weapon, the darkness behind the Mercedes van exploded into blinding light.
***
