The Neptune Project

By Tom Gensler

A criminal organization hacked one of America’s primary defense contractors and stole plans for an experimental Atmospheric Dive Suit that allows users to work untethered at incredible depths for extended periods of time without fear of decompression sickness. They plan to attach explosives on selected offshore oil platforms that will threaten to pollute American beaches with catastrophic devastation. Their goal--blackmail the U.S. Government.

Ultimately, the job of foiling the threat falls on the shoulders of a retired fifty-nine-year-old, decorated ex-navy diver, Augustus Lindeman, but first, Gus must convince Naval Command and Homeland Security that he’s not a traitor since the plotters have already sought Gus’ advice for improvements to the stolen design.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Gensler
• Release date: Jul 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463161203

Tom Gensler

I’ve been given the opportunity to pursue a love of writing without the need to supplement my income. Mine is a passion to develop stories that motivate me and entertain the reader. Any profits generated from this endeavor will be shared with my favorite charities. That’s a promise.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Before thanking all those who have been instrumental in my writing growth, I must devote some space to all who came before. The most obvious of these is my mother who put up with a lot in order to keep some semblance of normality during my youth as well as that of my sisters. I was only two years old when my father died. Another year later, my grandfather followed.

Even after mom remarried, she remained my role model as my stepfather embraced alcohol more passionately than inherited snotty-nosed kids. He was a good provider when not on a binge and never physically abused any of us but psychologically he was destructive. Most notably, there was a Christmas Eve when he didn’t come home and we found ourselves searching flop houses on Christmas Day. I almost wished we hadn’t found him for mom’s sake. In some respects, his example was my North Star. To be what he wasn’t.

Fast forward. I’m proud to say I was the first in my family to graduate from college with a marketing degree from University of Texas in Austin. I briefly represented a major real estate resort development outside of Marble before deciding to pursue a hotel career with the Sheraton Hotel Corporation. Promotion after promotion landed me as Regional Sales Manager before leaving to join a company that managed various Hilton properties.

Starting a family became a priority and when offered a marketing position back in Texas, my wife and I relocated to Ft. Worth. Not long thereafter our daughter, Kendall, joined us and sixteen months later, brother, Eric arrived. I eventually moved into operations and took over as General Manager of the Ft. Worth Hilton.

I loved the hotel business. Still do, but realized financially I’d never have the millions necessary to own even a small boutique hotel but that didn’t lesson the desire to branch out on my own. As fate would have it, my opportunity door opened when a company I dealt with at the Hilton ran ad in the Dallas paper offering distributorships in the DFW area.

Armstrong McCall, one of the largest wholesale beauty supply companies, walked into my life. For twenty three years, the world of cosmetology became my home and let me tell you there’s no better community. Hairstylists, nail technicians and all others associated with keeping America beautiful work long hours, listen to our gripes and family gossip, and try to make us feel good about ourselves. They earn every cent and I, in particular, owe them more.

They were my clientele. My supporters. My friends. I miss every last one of them. If I mentioned one, I’d feel compelled to shout out all.

Only my former employees carry a similar esteem. They’re family. Always will be. Hard not to recognize at least a few of the earliest associates who took the journey with me. Bob, Lisa, and Jennifer put up with me the longest and I’m in their debt.

When I finally stepped away and sold the business, I was in the enviable position of early retirement without financial crunch.

CHAPTER ONE

In his life, Augustus Lindeman had spent more time underwater than Jules Verne’s Capt. Nemo. By count, twenty-six years, eight months and four days as a Senior Chief Navy Diver followed by another decade plus at depth beneath deep-water drilling platforms. Being compressed and decompressed were as normal as coffee in the morning but at some point the lure of surface life tangled with Gus’ love of the sea. How he ended up owning Achilles Greek Bar and Grill in the turning basin area of the Houston ship channel had not been part of plan A.

Turned out, investors wanted more than a skillset, no matter the master craftsman, when he pitched the idea of a startup offshore service company. Something about business experience when venture capitalists let go of seed money especially when the price tag carried seven zeroes behind the numeral.

Spurned, yet determined to give dirt dwelling a fair shake, he had invested most of his savings in the forty-year-old food and beverage institution where he had spent many a paycheck. Thankfully, the staff averaged eight years in seniority and the manager agreed to stay on and oversee operations. Glad-handing and sharing diving adventures became his primary responsibility. It had been over two years since last being submerged and the clock was ticking on his grand experiment.

Since the restaurant only served dinner, he never arrived before two in the afternoon. Accustomed to waking at dawn, boredom filled his mornings. Bicycling to stay in shape with his Golden Retriever in tow occupied part of his time, as did his ritualistic weightlifting routine, but invariably he wound up reclined in his massage chair reading the latest dive magazines or surfing the web for new articles on anything subsea related. In short, he missed the dark danger of the deep abyss.

The summer of 2019 threatened to set heat records. While he sat at the end of the bar nibbling on marinated octopus washed down with a tequila shooter and a beer back, he worried about the impending August electric bill. The lights were dimmed while the servers dressed in their white long-sleeve shirts and black floor-length aprons performed their side work. The hint of stale cigarette smoke from years of accumulation lingered even though a non-smoking ordinance had been in effect for years. Competing oregano, thyme, and sage scents drifted from the kitchen.

Though still two hours away from the opening bell, he crossed his fingers for a decent Friday night crowd. He could use the dough, big time. When the front door flew open, the burst of sunlight drew his attention. The man that stepped inside paused to let his eyes adjust and then strolled over. The posture and haircut screamed military even though the guy wore shorts, a V-neck tee shirt, and sandals.

We’re not open yet, not hiring and not buying, Gus said.

Don’t need a job, not eating, and not selling. Looking for a legend. Know where I might find Augustus Lindeman?

This’ll be a short conversation if you don’t call me Gus. As far as the legend thing goes, I doubt either of my exes would agree. You smell like brine…must be Navy and the swagger suggests officer material. Pardon me if I don’t spring to attention and salute.

Ike Winston grinned. The service records and interviews with those that knew Lindeman had prepped the Lieutenant Commander on what to expect. The gruff greeting included.

He pointed to the tattoos on Gus’ forearms. I share respect for that ink, sir, and for the naval ADS records you set. It’s an honor to meet you, Senior Chief.

Drop the, sir, shit. I’m Gus. He rubbed the outline of the Enlisted Rating insignia on his right forearm; a hard-hat dive helmet faded with age, but ignored the half-missing Navy Experimental Diving Unit tattoo on his left forearm. These and my pension are the only things the Navy couldn’t take away from me.

He swung his stool around to face Ike and in slow motion crossed his arms. Last I heard those records you referred to were highly classified. Produce some credentials or this conversation’s over.

He looked over the I.D. and certification materials Ike produced. While Gus read, his eyes occasionally looked up trying to match the achievement with the man. NEC 5341, master diver, 114x-URL qualified as a Special Operations Officer, assigned to the Commander of NAVSEA. Seems you’re top dog in the Neptune ADS diving research and development program…whatever that is. So what brings royalty to see an old JIM, JAM, and SAM man?

Ike laughed at the reference to the acronym for the earliest model atmospheric dive suits. You. The oracle. No one can duplicate your experience.

Afraid it’s a little outdated. The weathered crow feet radiating out of the corners of Gus’ eyes narrowed. You can stop greasing my ego and get to the point.

Ike grinned. Though the hairline might be a little north from the service record photos, the old salt looked the same, only more ripened. How up-to-speed are you on the prehensor ADS exosuit?

If you’re referring to the Navy STTR FY 2013A-Topic N13A-T010 contract, I’m familiar. Develop a manipulator for an exosuit or ROV with multiple fingers and an opposable/indexable thumb that mimics the dexterity of the human hand. How’s that? Info courtesy of the web if you know where to look.

Right on the money. Code named the Neptune Project. I need your help.

Gus ran his fingers through his wavy, salt and pepper hair. Can’t see how the Navy has any favors coming from me. Since you have access to my service records, I assume you know the reason.

Can’t say I blame you. Roll the dice for all those years dodging Davy’s Locker and then get blasted by a shotgun at a convenience store holdup while off duty. It sucks but you saved that girl’s life.

Some reward. Didn’t matter much to my superiors. The chunk of forearm I lost didn’t cripple me. They treated me like a reject and I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn into a desk jockey.

You know the regs. They’d already bent the rules to let you test dive at your age.

Fuck you. The only reason they shit on their precious regulations was because I was the best they had and they all knew it. Still am. Gus drove his fist into his palm and then took a deep breath. Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all worked up. Still a sore spot. You’re what? Thirty eight? Thirty nine?

Good guess. The latter.

I’ll spot you the twenty years. Scoot closer and put your left elbow on the bar. We’ll see how weak my arm is. See if the navy brass got it right. Unfit for duty my ass.

Arm wrestle? For what?

Pride and your chance to keep talking. I win, our chat’s over and I prove my shoulder and bicep muscles would have more than compensated for the loss of muscle mass in my forearm. You win and I’ll listen to what else you have to say. Gus shoved his dishes and drink glasses aside. C’mon, show this old man what you’ve go. Suggest you don’t tiptoe around.

Ike interlocked hands. First move’s yours.

Gus’ initial thrust moved the officer’s arm past perpendicular. The struggle to regain lost ground took Ike several seconds. Veins in his neck pulsed; his face contorted by the exertion.

You know when you’re at depth distractions can kill you, Gus said with a hint of a smile, not showing any fatigue. With his free hand, he reached to the nearby ashtray and grabbed a half-smoked stogie. After lighting it, he blew smoke rings into younger man’s face--one after the other. He noticed Ike take a breath and hold it.

Always gotta breathe, sonny. Focus.

Sweat beaded Ike’s forehead. He lowered his head and grunted in an all-out attempt to turn the tide. Ever so slowly, Gus’ arm lowered until tapped out.

"Not bad once you concentrated on your objective. Doubt I’d choose you as a dive partner but you’ve earned your five minutes.

Ike flexed his blood-engorged bicep. Shit, I hope I’m that stout at sixty.

Fifty-fucking-nine, thank you. Now what do you want to ask me?

The new autonomous dive suit--Neptune. I’d like your opinion on the problems we’re experiencing.

Well, you’re too late. Someone’s done paid for those.

CHAPTER TWO

Two armed bodyguards flanked Clancy Bishop on the walk up to the waiting Sikorsky S-92 helicopter. Born into poverty, he had been the only white boy in a black Philadelphia neighborhood. Life had always been an uphill battle. Crime became his conduit for escaping the poor house and he had earned his P.H.D.

The thugs grabbed his elbows and shoved him up the stair steps. Intercom’s on your right when you get inside, one of them said. Announce yourself.

Clancy’s finger hovered over the call button. He knew everything about Bruce Sonntag. Privileged. Princeton educated. Not satisfied with inheriting his daddy’s legitimate business. Thrill seeker and trigger happy. And the biggest gun runner in Latin America.

Mr. Sonntag, I believe we have an appointment, Clancy said.

You’re fucking late.

Your boys insisted on a strip search. Blame them.

The cabin door locks disengaged with a buzz and Clancy entered.

You’re damn lucky, Joaquin, my security director, vouched for you, Sonntag said as a greeting. Waiting until you arrived to give my pilots the flight plan makes very uncomfortable. To say nothing of the fact that I hate fucking helicopters.

Personality wise, Clancy hadn’t known what to expect. So much for sophisticated. Dealing with the scum of the earth for so long had obviously rubbed off.

His eyes roamed around the plush, customized interior. For someone who hates choppers, this is one helluva ride. Trust me, this will be worth your time...assuming you like a five-thousand per cent return on your money.

That’s the only reason we’re talking. Take a seat and keep your mouth shut while I finish something.

Clancy smiled to himself. Establish superiority. He had done the same thing on occasion without the histrionics. Miniature dust devils created by the whirling rotors swirled outside when the craft rose then angled down and sped off. He settled in and watched the New Orleans’ skyline disappear, replaced by the blue Waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Twenty minutes later, Sonntag logged off his computer. Okay. Now where are we going?

To see an open bank vault guarded by Barney Fife.

Who the fuck is that?

I guess you’re too young to remember the TV show. Think rent-a-cop.

Get to the damned point. My stomach’s starting to act up.

With your help, we’re about to give some people the opportunity to prevent an ecological and economic disaster on a scale the world’s never seen.

Sonntag cocked his head. Mr. Bishop, never let it be said you don’t have a flair for the dramatic, but I value my time. Cut to the chase.

We’re going to wire explosives on selected deep-water wells. In return for not creating an Exxon Valdez or B.P. disaster, we’ll be compensated to the tune of half-a-billion dollars. Half of which could be yours.

Sonntag snapped his fingers. And just like that whoever you’re planning to blackmail is going to pay us? Why are you wasting my time?

This guy didn’t graduate cum laude. Connect the dots for him. I understand your concerns. Of course, they’ll need an incentive.

Such as?

A demonstration. Small scale, but effective. From it, they can extrapolate the impact of the much larger problem they face. BP’s on the hook for twenty billion dollars or more from the Deep Water Horizon fiasco. And that doesn’t even count lost revenue from production. Paying us a fraction of that amount isn’t unimaginable once they get a taste of our destructive power.

Sonntag strolled over to the wet bar and poured a two-finger shot of scotch from a crystal decanter. Interesting idea. You’ve got balls…I’ll say that for you. You’ve bought yourself a little more time. Convince me.

First of all, I wouldn’t have approached you if I hadn’t done my homework. Something tells me you don’t have a parachute onboard with my name on it. Ever heard of Nordic Industries?

No, why should I?

They specialize in subsea technologies. Two years ago, they were awarded the government contract for a specialized ADS exosuit.

And I’m supposed to know what that is?

No, genius. No one expected you to know. Time for a primer lesson.

Sorry. It’s a deep water diving suit that maintains an internal pressure at or very near one atmosphere. Divers can work at greater depths for longer periods with no need for decompression. Previous models of both diving suits and ROV’s, remotely operated vehicles, use mechanical manipulators, like pincers, to act as hands. This latest version provides greater manual dexterity for more complex and delicate operations such as the one I propose. I’ve stolen and modified the design.

Sonntag downed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the bar’s marble top. So big fucking deal. Hurry up with the specifics or the clock’s going to strike midnight.

Tough guy, huh. Clancy squinted. He had seen plenty and every last one had underestimated him. Still, he needed this arrogant dick head.

The background information is important and you’ll listen. Why? Because without it, you can’t make an informed decision and I need a banker.

I’m supposed to back a competitor? According to Joaquin, we’re in the same business.

Then you know I don’t tread on your turf. Why? Because I have the best hacker in the world and yes, I know your customers and areas of interest so I don’t supply arms to that clientele or to the opposing side. I prefer to remain an invisible fish in a rather large pond.

Clancy expected the reaction. Sonntag sprang forward. A raging fire loomed behind the narrowed eyes.

As you can see, we’re alone. I don’t need bodyguards, Mr. Bishop. I prefer to crush cockroaches myself.

Partner has a better ring to it. Knowing what you do, how stupid would I be to approach you unless the risk/reward was worth it? You didn’t even know I existed until I made contact. I could live in the shadows and be damned comfortable or… Clancy paused and swept his arm around the palatial decor. Upgrade life styles. He peeked out the window. Ah, our Fort Knox is coming into view. Take a look.

Sonntag dressed in his custom-tailored pinstripe suit scooted over. An oil rig? You brought me out here to see this?

You need to work on your imagination. That’s Global Marine’s newest deep water platform. We’re going to target one just like that using the stolen technology. There’s a mountain of cash to be had twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

Greed is something I understand. So I ask myself, why not fund the operation yourself?

Fair question. It’s a little beyond my reach or else I would. I’ve already invested millions. Fact is, I don’t want to wait to strike until I have enough cash. Consider it your lucky day. I need more capital.

How do I know your hacker penetrated our system?

Clancy hesitated to expose the fact that his computer wizard had crumpled Sonntag’s computer firewalls like the Walls of Jericho but it was Showtime.

I’ve memorized the list of armaments you shipped to Enriqué Calderón. I can recite it if you wish but it seems like such a waste of time.

Sonntag paced around the soundproof room; the whine of the twin turbo-shaft engines a whisper. The aircraft cocoon had been designed to be impervious to penetration by either listening device or stray bullet.

I want to meet this hacker.

I’ll bet you do but no dice, Clancy said. Time for a little white lie. Easy since Sonntag had far too much testosterone to even consider the possibility that the computer nerd was a girl. My guy’s not ready to change employers.

Sonntag sat down across from Clancy. I’m curious why you’re venturing outside your comfort zone? Gun running’s no walk in the park but blackmail on the scale you’re talking about is a ball-buster. You’ll have every intelligence and governmental agency in the fucking world crawling up your asshole.

C’mon. Blackmail’s no stranger to our business. It’s just the focus of this venture. My plan will work. I’m all in. It’s up to you if you want to be part of the windfall. And the beauty part? It’s not a one-time event. Lots of targets out there.

We’ll see. Don’t get technical. I want the overview. Short and sweet.

Okay. Plan succeeds. You turn twenty million into two-hundred and fifty million with the prospect for a lot more.

Don’t get cute, Mr. Bishop. You know what I meant.

This guy was too much fun to play with but time to stop tweaking his nipples. I’ve already tapped into the Nigerian Ministry of Petroleum computers. A deep water target well has been chosen off their coast. We’ll communicate our intentions without specifying location but to prove it’s our doing we’ll give a time and date. No one will give a flying flip about screwing up some African beaches but they’ll sure as hell pay attention when our next target is the good ‘ol U.S. of A.

Where?

Florida..

Isn’t there still a moratorium on offshore drilling there?

Okay, so he’s not totally clueless. True, but vulnerable all the same. Your men checked my briefcase before boarding. I need to pull out something.

Go ahead.

Clancy withdrew a map and circled an area. That’s Cuba’s north coast oil fields being developed by international consortiums. Sixty miles off the Florida coast with favorable currents. Key West and the Gold Coast dead in their sights. And the beauty part…America’s not welcome in Cuba’s exclusive economic zone. The most powerful nation on earth deaf, dumb and powerless to stop us from striking.

Sonntag leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. You’ve got my attention. Go on.

Clancy covered every detail of the operational plan by the time Sonntag’s chopper touched down at his New Orleans based headquarters. Delphin Industries, an import/export business founded by Sonntag’s father, was the perfect cover for his real moneymaker and the port officials in his hip pocket kept shipment scrutiny to a minimum.

So, what do you think? Clancy asked.

Clever, but I worry about laundering the money. I only have your word that your computer wizard can make it disappear.

Lots of banks out there in places where the U.S. isn’t loved. Easy to convert into gold, diamonds or whatever you decide. By the time we’re done even if they find a portion of our stash we’ll be billionaires.

I like your idea but why not start with Brazil, Venezuela, or Mexico for that matter? They’d be easier targets.

Same lesson I learned on the mean streets. Bring the neighborhood bully to his knees and the rest will follow. Besides, the challenge is half the fun.

Women provide my fun. This is business. I say we adjust our sights.

Clancy rose from his chair and glanced at his watch. I was hoping you’d jump onboard but I have another appointment today with another potential investor if you’re not interested.

Sonntag reached inside his jacket to his shoulder holster. Suppose you don’t make it?

I’ve got all your financial records and the lowdown on your dummy corporations. I promise you. They won’t remain a secret if I disappear. You’ve got first option.

Clancy got great pleasure watching Sonntag puff up like a cobra. No had spoken to him like that in a long time, if ever, but the gun dealer understood the language of leverage.

First round to you smart guy but I’d be real uncomfortable if I were you, Sonntag said through clenched teeth. Not sure if this is a scam. You say most of your investment is tied to this dive suit and this mysterious hacker. I want to see both before committing.

Happy to demonstrate Neptune but the wizard’s off limits. Take it or leave it.

Sonntag loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt’s top button. As you might suspect I’m usually on the other end of an ultimatum and find your threat to expose me most distasteful. Suppose I turn you over to my cartel friends who have unique ways of prying out information, Mr. Bishop.

Clancy gulped. Your choice but even if I sang like a choir your operation is kaput. That I promise. But you know what? I think the return on your investment is just too tempting. So what will it be?

CHAPTER THREE

Ike Winston’s jaw dropped. What do you mean? You’ve been approached already?

Damn, did I stutter? Thought I was pretty clear. I’ve been paid for my opinions and signed a non-disclosure agreement, which in my world means something, Gus said.

Just because you consulted on a commercial dive suit doesn’t preclude you from working on a military project.

Nope. That’s where you’re wrong. Contract states I can’t provide assistance on any subsea technology related to diving equipment for a period of two years. They paid me good money for that stipulation and you ain’t going to like this but what I was working on is a tad bit more advanced than you think. Might even compete with that toy of yours.

Ike struggled with the limitations Commander Wagner had placed on how much information to share. Offer too little, end of conversation. Provide too much and risk being passed over on the next review.

Gus, what we’re developing isn’t going to compete against your employer’s project. The public’s never going to know it exists so will you take a look? Once I show it to you you’ll be bound by national security protocols just like when you were active duty.

God, I love cloak and dagger shit. Go ahead.

Ike lifted his shirt and unzipped the thin fanny pack strapped to his waist and pulled out a small I-pad with military grade encryption protection. Within a few minutes he turned the screen toward Gus.

Meet the new Neptune. I’ll point out some of the features.

No need. Done seen it already.

Not this ADS, Ike said with an air of confidence.

Same. Same.

Not possible.

Yea, verily. Scroll to the spec sheets and let me have a look.

Gus reviewed the next several displays and handed the tablet back. If this is top secret, then somebody’s been playing in your sand box.

Ike didn’t say a word. His blank stare prompted Gus to speak. Gather this is news to you.

You’re wrong.

Doubt it. C’mon, the design is too futuristic for it to be a coincidence.

Ike squinted. How do I know you’re not jerking my chain? Something tells me you wouldn’t have any problem having fun at my expense?

Careful. That’s just short of calling me a liar which I don’t take kindly to, buddy boy. I’ll humor you this once. Alright, how ‘bout this. The P.S.I. ratings on the PTFE seals at depths over three thousand feet. I’ve got those memorized. Had to factor them in when I made recommendations on the redesigned glove assemblies. Pull ‘em up on your screen and we’ll have a pop quiz.

At this point, Ike surrendered. Neptune had been compromised. Could you at least tell me when you were approached? It could be important.

Can’t see where that violates anything. A year ago, come October. Cash infusion came in handy at the time.

Cash?

Shit, don’t get any ideas.

I could care less whether you declared it to the I.R.S. or not. Ike leaned on the bar and massaged his forehead. The timing coincides with when we received the first prototype. This is a breach of national security. We’re going to need your cooperation.

Good, lord. It’s not like a dive suit’s an offensive weapon. Make a great t-shirt though. Fear the ADS. Sounds like a case of industrial espionage. Why spend money developing technology when you can steal it? Happens all the time. Cyber security’s a joke…probably a corporate competitor tapped into whoever won the bid on your pride and joy looking to get a leg up for commercial use.

Doesn’t matter. Your contribution could be considered treasonous.

Gus bolted out of his seat so fast the barstool toppled over. He leaned in nose-to-nose with Ike. Take it back or get that scrawny ass out of that seat.

The wait staff doing their side work all turned. They had either witnessed or heard about previous confrontations with drunken patrons. Fists had flown only once but expectations grew for another.

Ike never flinched or broke eye contact. You were duped. Can’t see where that would sit well with someone like you.

Got that fucking right, but no one calls me a traitor. Never punched someone sitting down but I might make an exception.

Goddamn it, Gus, I’m you. Cut from the same cloth. We’re on the same side. What did this client want?

Gus’ snarl turned to a closed-lip growl. He leaned back against the bar, shoulders squared. Design feedback. Enhancements. You’re asking me to go back on my word if you want to know more.

"I know integrity’s important to you but someone’s stolen military secrets. I think that trumps everything right