Chapter 12 - Echoes in the Deep
The USS Leviathan cut through the crushing black depths of the Atlantic Ocean like a silent, lethal ghost. I stood in the dimly lit command center of the nuclear submarine, staring at the sonar screens glowing with a faint, rhythmic green pulse. Nathan stood beside me, fully geared up in black tactical combat armor, checking the seal on his deep-water rebreather mask. We had been submerged for six hours, diving deeper than any official naval vessel was classified to go. “Depth is currently four thousand feet, Admiral,” the submarine’s captain reported, his voice hushed in the quiet room. “We are approaching the GPS coordinates from the black-slate message.” “Sonar is picking up a massive structural anomaly resting on the ocean floor.” I leaned over the sonar operator’s shoulder, watching the jagged topography of the ocean ridge scroll across the monitor. “Is it a sunken vessel?” I asked, keeping my voice perfectly level despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. “Negative, Admiral,” the operator replied, his hands trembling slightly over the keyboard. “It’s not a shipwreck.” “It’s a fully operational underwater facility.” A cold chill radiated down my spine as the implications set in. A rogue, off-the-books deep-sea base sitting right on top of a major tectonic fault line. “They are drilling,” Nathan realized, his eyes widening as he looked at the seismic readings spiking on the secondary monitor. “They are using the stolen propulsion technology to power a deep-core seismic destabilizer.” It all made horrifying sense now. Thomas Vance hadn't been trying to recover lost treasure or forgotten weapons from the deep. He had been helping a shadow syndicate build a machine capable of triggering a catastrophic, artificial earthquake right off the coast of the United States. “Admiral,” the communications officer called out suddenly, pressing his headset tightly against his ear. “We are being hailed.” “On a highly encrypted frequency, audio only.” “Put it on the overhead speakers,” I commanded. A burst of static filled the command center, followed by a smooth, chillingly familiar voice that made my blood run instantly cold. “I must say, Evelyn, you made excellent time,” the voice echoed through the metal room. I gripped the edge of the console, my knuckles turning stark white. I knew that voice. I had watched the man it belonged to die in a fiery helicopter crash during a black-ops mission in the Mediterranean five years ago. “Captain Elias Thorne,” I whispered, the name tasting like ash in my mouth. “I see you received my invitation, little bird,” Thorne chuckled, the sound devoid of any human warmth. “Welcome to the bottom of the world.”
