The Falkenberg Run

By Carlos Wiggen

Another colossal wave made the section heel over nearly forty-five degrees. As the bottom part moved accordingly, the pull led the limp torpedo with it and, it crashed against the metal. That made it come to life. It sped up, made a full turn and rammed the flotsam, demolishing its deepest point. The hut came loose and fell straight into the water then continued--and hit a steel beam in the subs' harness, cutting it and making the Ayr slip downward, nose first. That spelled the end for the rest of the construction, and the sub, free, began an uncontrolled dive toward the massive, barren plain of the seamount.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665593854

Carlos Wiggen

Carlos Wiggen also wrote: “Kant and the Barbarians” “Philosophy at Gunpoint” “The Nazil Grail” “The Spine of Western Culture”

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© 2021 Carlos Wiggen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/06/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9386-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9385-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     From The Direction Of Home

Chapter 2     Begone, Ye Somber Shadows!

Chapter 3     Gun-Ho Disco

Chapter 4     Asian Holocaust

Chapter 5     Woo

Chapter 6     Adam And Eve Redux

Chapter 7     Between A Rock And A Hunter-Killer

Chapter 8     Tally Ho?

Chapter 9     Camp Deep Ice

Chapter 10   Cape Farewell

Chapter 11   Many Waters

Chapter 12   Phone Home

Chapter 13   Where’re You From?

Chapter 14   The Chinese Are Coming!

Chapter 15   That Old Loophole

Chapter 16   Unforeseen Consequences

Chapter 17   Port Mindelo

Chapter 18   Great Meteor Seamount

CHAPTER 1

FROM THE DIRECTION OF HOME

A few hours into the transatlantic flight from Paris to Washington, DC, Greg felt drowsy, on the verge of dropping off to sleep, although they had taken off at 1100 hours local time. He felt Elissa put an oxygen mask over his face and began slowly coming to. She also fastened his seat belt, then disappeared down the aisle. Looking around the half-filled first-class section of the huge Air France A380, he realized all the others were fast asleep.

Muffled cries sounded from the cockpit area. The plane heeled over and went into an uncontrolled dive. Greg released the seat belt and fought to get out into the aisle, clutching the seats in front of him. Baggage trunks opened, spilling the contents all over the cabin. The plane vibrated but seemed to level off into horizontal, although it was still in a dive. Working his way toward the cockpit, he noticed the engines throttling back. The dive decreased, the aircraft having regained an overall horizontal, stable position. He reached a door leading to the cockpit and tried it, and to his surprise, it opened effortlessly. Elissa was inside, bending over one of the pilots, who seemed groggy but able to follow the instructions she calmly whispered into his ear. The other pilot was on the floor, in a pool of blood. The two flight engineers were slumped in their seats, still unconscious. Seeing Greg, who tore off his oxygen mask, Elissa pointed toward a panel.

Press the middle button.

As he did, the autopilot kicked in. The plane adjusted course a few degrees and began a gentle ascent. Greg looked around, mystified.

What happened, Elissa?

The man on the floor was on a suicide mission.

How did you know?

I sensed the composition of oxygen and nitrogen changing in the cabin. Here, take this.

She handed him something that looked like a deep-sea creature, about an inch and a half long.

Please go to the first bathroom, drop it in the toilet, and flush it down.

Without asking any more questions, Greg did as requested, although he was aching to know how she had remained unaffected by the air change, made it to the cockpit, somehow unlocked doors that were all security doors, neutralized the maniac, and got the aircraft under control again. The last he heard was her making sure that the pilot she had been talking to was capable of taking control.

The other passengers were coming to, some moaning because falling luggage had hit them, others totally confused. Elissa’s voice sounded over the intercom.

Please remain seated. We have experienced a sudden drop in outside pressure that destabilized the aircraft for a little while. Everything is under control again. The cabin crew will assist with your carry-on luggage in a moment.

Her voice had a strangely soothing effect. After a minute, she reappeared and sat down beside Greg as if nothing much had happened. He gave her a questioning glance. She indicated they would talk later.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, and the Airbus landed at JFK on time. None of the passengers saw the mess in the cockpit as the smiling cabin crew routinely showed them out.

There was a bit of commotion in the hall; passengers whipped out their smartphones in the terminal and mentioned the air pocket—or rather, no-air pocket. The word plasma started spreading. A television showed breaking news in white letters on a red message alert.

In the taxi, separated from the driver by a bulletproof and soundproof glass panel, Elissa started explaining, now speaking with a solidly vernacular American West Coast accent.

We go with the no-air pocket story. The little gadget you dropped in the lavatory got ejected with the other stuff, compressed to an ice block, out into the Atlantic. The block has melted now, and the thing is sending out the signature of a Russian submarine. This will be picked up and connected with the fall, and the media will start speculating about a Russian plasma weapon tested on the Airbus. The story of the pilot is that he died from a heart attack, probably connected to the infernal experiment. Second story layer.

Uh-huh, Greg said, nodding. And what about you coming out of nowhere like a guardian angel, unlocking security doors?

Air marshal, she said with a smile, producing a plastic card. No comment.

Hope I’m not sounding too personal, Elissa, but all the scans and stuff we’ve been sluiced through, and you with your somewhat special inner composition—

The agencies know we are coming.

I expected to be picked up in a sinister black van with impenetrable windows, and here we are riding in a perfectly normal taxi.

This is not a perfectly normal taxi.

Oh, I see. Well, that suicide mission pilot was—I mean, getting through all that security—

That is the third layer of the story. He was let through, though he didn’t know that, of course. All comprehensive stories have three layers. The last one leads to deep politics.

So, it is all make-believe today, isn’t it?

It always was.

You are a cynical woman, Elissa.

I am just programmed to tell you the truth.

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The NSA presented itself in the shape of Albert Al Glockschmidt, a middle-aged, friendly faced, casually clad gentleman sporting a full beard, looking more like a psychologist than an intelligence agent. That had to do with the fact that he was a psychologist—psychoanalyst to be exact, British, normally teaching and living in Lausanne, Switzerland, but at the time staying in Washington, DC, supporting his African American wife, Democrat and rumored future presidential candidate Annabel Annie Breukelen, in the enemy camp known as the Brooklyn Britch, the r alluding to her British husband. Al shook Greg’s hand with genuine friendliness.

Percy briefed me on your background. What a story.

Oh, you know Percy? Greg said, pleasantly surprised. Al showed him and Elissa through the reception area and into a labyrinth of elevators, smoked glass walls, and black floors next to invisible windowpanes, all with minimal decoration broken by the odd ficus tree or bonsai.

Me and the OOC go a long way back. Arthur Amersford and I have been close friends since we met at the Wiesenthal Documentation Center and traded information on Nazi criminals in the seventies.

Greg took an immediate liking to the man and presented Elissa. Al gave her an admiring look.

So, this is your first-generation metatron.

You probably know why we’ve come here, Doctor Glockschmidt?

Yes, Greg, and it is so good to level at last. It was getting awkward with you people feeling you shouldn’t divulge those experiments and us not being able to tell you that we already knew.

Politically, it is a hot potato, I guess, Greg said as they sat down on a comfortable leather sofa in Al’s office. Al nodded, apparently amused.

In surface politics, yes, there are myriads of people out there who keep forgetting to take their medication, and they are all voters.

Some are lobbyists, I hear, Greg said, chuckling.

And some are suicide bombers, Al said with a sigh. Elissa opened a folder and spread out several documents on a glass table.

These are our thoughts and suggestions regarding an association between the OOC and your agencies, Doctor Glockschmidt.

Thank you, Al said, giving her another admiring glance. You know, I can hardly take my eyes off you. You are such a—in the old days, they said, ‘What a work of art is man.’ We have to find a new twist, like ‘What a man-made work of art is the metatron.’

I still haven’t found out where that name comes from, Greg said. I’ve heard of megatron, but meta—?

It is a Hebrew demon, Al said, but a demon in the good sense of the word, like protector and servant. Good choice of name Art made there, bless his soul.

They spent about an hour going through the paperwork. To Al, the basic idea seemed sound, and he said he would take it to the command echelon. As they rose, he glanced at his wristwatch.

How is the jet lag treating you, Greg? Your bio clock should be close to midnight, but here it is six o’clock. Feel like tucking it in?

I could take a few hours more, Greg said with a smile.

Actually, that would fit in well with my schedule, because right now I have time and opportunity to show you something special—also for you, Elissa, so that you can record it accurately.

It began with what looked like a visit to the White House, but the vehicle—one of the sinister black ones—curved down into a subterranean garage that led to a massive steel and reinforced concrete gate, which opened for them. A tunnel, large enough to allow two-way traffic with army trucks and tank transports, stretched out ahead straight as an arrow, with no end in sight. They transferred into an air-cushioned shuttle the size of a limousine, the upper half a Plexiglas canopy, seating eight people. Al sat down at the controls, punched a route on a monitor, and set the thing in motion, then leaned back and began explaining.

You remember President Reagan’s Star Wars project in the seventies? Part of that was a system of roads like this, with the big XM missiles driven around from one launching silo to another, with one-third more silos than missiles. The idea was that the enemy should never know exactly where the missiles would be, and they would not have enough ICBMs to hit all the silos. That sounded cool but kind of impractical, and it was disinformation. This road labyrinth was indeed built—but in order to connect subterranean towns and villages. We are now driving inside a system the size of Texas.

Greg looked around, impressed. So what is the name of this parallel world? Sub-America?

It is known as Yellowstone.

I thought that was a national park sitting on top of a sizeable volcano.

It is kind of a misnomer, but it refers to a political Yellowstone, or eruption, where the union is in danger of falling or blowing apart. There was always the prospect of a new civil war on this continent. Texas is a case in point, so the original idea was to have Special Forces and supplies underground, ready to surface anywhere in the US of A at short notice, in order to make a political Yellowstone blowout not happen.

Sounds like one of Richard Nixon’s nightmares, Greg said.

"The concept evolved over the years. There was always the nuclear Armageddon, but now we are looking at all kinds of meltdowns on a global level. Science fiction and Hollywood have been there for decades already, from Atlas Shrugged to Eureka. Mankind, or what will be left of it, is preparing for a mole existence throughout this century and probably into the next. The life on Mars mode starts here in the near future."

Is the NSA behind all this?

The popular idea of NSA is that of an all-engulfing monster for a variety of reasons, most of them misunderstandings. It is all integrated now, including military services, beyond the National Guard. The name we prefer is The Discrete Agencies, TDA.

Texas Department of Agriculture, Elissa said, unexpectedly displaying a flair for deadpan humor. Al laughed.

Fitting, isn’t it? A concept like Yellowstone needs TDA behind it. Nothing less will do.

You wouldn’t happen to know about a nice little submarine under construction as part of such a concept? Greg asked.

Al gave him a broad smile. Why do you think you’re here, Greg?

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Twenty-four hours later, Greg and Elissa found themselves facing the bow of SSA Falkenberg, popularly called Ayr’s sub or simply the Ayr. Douglas Ayr and his first officer Van Straten were still hard at work in Spain, preparing for the last phase of fitting out, mainly installing the twin Mitsubishi reactors and synchronizing all the power systems. The hull, or rather hulls—there was an outer and an inner—had been completed, and the 984-foot-long sub was ready to exit the world’s largest floating dry dock in Portland, Oregon.

Actually, Greg and Elissa were not on the dock, as the hull was twenty-four feet longer than the dock itself and had the nose job as well as the tail job done from attached barges. The two of them stood on a seventy-foot scaffolding that slowly was coming away from the nose, where four horizontal missile tubes were open, as were the tops of two front loading hatches. At normal buoyancy, the tubes would be right below the surface and the hatches about ten feet above, but now the hull would be riding nearly eighteen feet higher, because of the largely empty interior. A makeshift galley and bunks for half a dozen submariners; a provisional, lightweight diesel-electro propulsion unit; one ton of diesel oil; basic components of the central computer system—that was about it. Once afloat, the first run would be four cable lengths, with tugs standing by, to a low concrete pier about half the length of the boat, for the next fitting-out phase. It would take about a month, provided everything went as it should—a miracle that hardly ever occurred.

Having Elissa on board would help a lot. She would log directly into the central computer system and effectively run it from her internal computer, around the clock. No one was supposed to know about that though; her parahuman constitution was still a secret. She would mostly be alone on the plus-one deck. The boat (a submarine is always referred to as a boat, regardless of size) had eleven decks total, with ground zero, the zero deck, one level lower that the waterline. Above, in the sail, there were three plus decks to the open bridge on top, and below, seven minus decks counted from the zero deck and down, to the keelson with the trim tanks and the power cells, minus seven. The plus-one deck where Elissa was sitting was at the foot of the sail, continuing as the top deck fore to aft—the spine of the sub.

Greg finally felt real again, after months of a fish-out-of-water existence with weirdoes, geniuses, and maniacs fore and aft. He blessed his brother Igor, who had understood this right from the start and deftly moved him around until he now, literally, was facing the largest submarine of the high seas, the titan brother of the Typhoons he had served on for decades, such a long time ago. Funny, he thought, it is a world in pain and dissolution, cruel and unforgiving, that produces a marvel like this. What a totally absurd work of art is man.

The barge, still backing, was free of the sub now. Greg could discern that the nose was a few inches lower already.

Okay, 580 something inches left to go! No, less than that, she’s going to ride high. Going to take eight hours and a bit—nine tops.

He threw a glance at Brian, the docking master, up on the port side of the dock. The man had insisted on running the operation from that extreme point, using a battered, portable instrument panel. By the look of the thing, it had been his father’s and grandfather’s panel. The company CEO had told Greg that Brian, stocky, of Irish descent, had a sixth sense for Murphs, Murphy’s law making itself felt, so if he felt he should be there and nowhere else during this dramatic event, he got his way. Now, the man was visibly sweating, staring doggedly at a manometer in front of him, knuckles white around the controls, gritting his teeth; apparently, the thing was going down way too fast for his liking. He grabbed a VHF and barked an order. A crane started up, and two deckhands hurried to the front hatches, slid down inside, and shut the torpedo tubes.

Can’t blame the man. If he sends the sub to the bottom, blocking the entire channel, maybe never getting it to the surface again—

What do you think, Elissa?

It is well inside safety margins. May I ask you a question?

By all means.

Are you determined to stand here until it has come afloat?

It is kind of a unique moment, wouldn’t you say?

Of course, but your jet lag is a stress factor, and a few hours’ sleep would not be a bad idea.

Thanks for caring, Elissa.

I could record the entire process, and then we could go over it together in the morning.

That is a good idea. Do it.

With that, he climbed down the scaffolding, rowed over to a tender, climbed on board, found his cabin, and collapsed on a bunk bed, sleeping like a baby for the next nine hours.

When he came back up on deck, the sub was still not afloat. An engine breakdown in the pump system brought everything to a halt while a van slowly made it around the entire wharf to pick up a spare part and, just as slowly, return with a part that was not exactly the same but close enough to work with a bit of welding, which took three hours altogether. Brian, having been at the controls all night, was edgy. If Greg walked past him, slapping him on the shoulder and telling him that he was doing a good job, the man might explode. He had to get next to him though; that was the best position.

Now, the sub was deep enough in the water to visually change character from the world’s biggest sewage pipe to a sharklike menace of the Klingon Starfleet. Greg actually felt a shudder down his spine as he took it in.

Brian moved a hand-sized wheel a quarter turn. Nothing changed. Greg looked around for Elissa. She was probably in position on the plus-one deck, firing up the computer. He looked back at the waterline again. Suddenly, the bow seemed to lift a few inches and then slowly pitch, just enough to create a tiny ripple on the glassy surface.

She is free!

Greg had shouted without realizing it, and others around the dock picked it up, turning it into a collective cheer. Brian just looked down and exhaled, apparently for the first time in ten hours. Then he sat down on a stool that was right behind him and wiped the sweat off his face. The guy ropes around the hull were all going slack. Deckhands started loosening the turnbuckles. Unchained, the hull seemed to come alive, like a sea monster waking up. The movements were all minute, but after hours of rigidity, they made a dramatic difference. A tug in front began gently tightening a rope hawser that ran through the front hatches, like a ring in the nose of a bull, and slowly the boat began gliding out of the dock.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning, and the press was all over the place in cabin cruisers, sports planes, ultralights, and choppers with cameramen hanging out over the sides. One craft after another sounded the siren, turning the serene morning into a cacophonic roar. It was all enthusiasm though; people do that, hollering, using whatever means at hand, hammering the tin cup against the table—nothing to frown on.

For some reason, Greg suddenly lost his hearing, or so it seemed. He kept watching the enthusiasts, wondering what planet they were on, while strange, deep music welled up inside him. Strings. Figures that seemed to rise and spread against the blue sky. A male voice.

Have I heard this before? It sounds familiar. Cannot say. Weird. Beautiful though.

A growling sound tore him back to reality. The twin screws of the sub, partly above the surface, whipped up a carpet of foam around the majestic tailfin. The engine growl came through open, parallel engine hatches above the still-empty reactor space.

That is wrong. Those hatches should be closed on the surface; we don’t want seawater spraying the diesel-electro. She is floating high though. Don’t get hysterical. Enjoy. This moment will never be repeated; the first cable lengths—

Slowly and carefully but independent, under her own steam, Ayr’s sub made a ninety-degree turn that put her alongside the pier she would be secured to for the next four weeks. The maneuver was perfect, Elissa managing it through the central computer and sensors. Greg suddenly realized there was no one on the bridge. He should have been there, as long as the captain was on the other side of the globe. But then he would not have seen this splendor in its entirety.

Greg wondered if he had ever felt so good in his life. That boat—the idea that became reality—contained meaning, direction, purpose.

He remembered the strange music now. It was David’s favorite diving piece, the haiku of the dying Japanese emperor as he looked from his bed toward his homestead:

How sweet

Ah!

From the direction of home

The clouds are emerging.

David, his partner, his pal. The closest he had ever come to a son, now a delusional Sunken City Syndrome wreck entrenched with an extreme survival group on a mountaintop in West Texas, vowing to fight him if he tried to approach the place.

Greg felt like crying. He did shed tears. People around him took them as tears of joy and relief.

CHAPTER 2

BEGONE, YE SOMBER SHADOWS!

The commotion around the dry dock also showed and sounded in the main office of Seawolf, the secret base in Arminza, Spain. Douglas Ayr, the constructor and captain of the sub, his wife, Andrea, Mari, the efficient Basque secretary who was permanently with them now, Van Straten, Douglas’s old friend and future first officer of the Ayr, all watched the main