Below

By Stuart Lee

Drawing inspiration from a chilling, real-life enigma of an airline crash in the Gulf of Mexico, this thriller plunges deep into the heart of the southern U.S.

What dark secrets did the passenger on the ill-fated flight harbor, and what unspeakable terror was he transporting?

Dive into a tale where every twist beckons a haunting question, pulling you deeper into the mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889109204

Book preview

About the Author

To my Godson, Sebastian Duque.

Copyright Information ©

Stuart Lee 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Lee, Stuart

Below

ISBN 9798889109174 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889109181 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798889109204 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9798889109198 (Audiobook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023917659

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Amazon River Headwaters

Northeastern Peru

November 1959

His desperate screams could be heard through the trees before he came into view. Two men, each grasping an arm, dragged the teenager. He was clad in the loincloth customary to his tribe from deep in the Peruvian jungle, his body already showing results of multiple beatings.

They held onto him as they pulled him forward, each captor looking straight ahead, oblivious to his screaming, pleading, begging for forgiveness, and waiting for further instructions. He had engaged in forbidden relations with a girl from another tribe. He had been caught. He had to pay the price.

They were bringing him up to Herr Doktor. That’s what they called him; that’s what he demanded to be called. Herr Doktor was always receptive to specimens needing punishment; the healthier looking, the better. The surrounding tribes knew transgressors would have their crimes capably punished. And they knew Herr Doktor would always nicely compensate them.

The young man knew something terrible awaited him; he didn’t know what, and that made his pleading more urgent. He sobbed and pleaded for forgiveness through his tears—for his family, for the young girl, if not for him. They held on.

Herr Doktor had set up his quarters deep in the Peruvian rainforest a long time ago. The assistants tending to tasks—such as this—were the sons of the original workers. They had accepted him. He was convenient.

He emerged from his residence, as always, in his white lab coat, spotless, gleaming white. He demanded from his house workers that his daily lab coat always be impeccably white. Never mind that he was sweltering underneath from the jungle heat and humidity.

He glanced down the hill at the pleading prisoner. He smiled. He walked down to the river at the back of the house. He was pleased to see it running slow.

Bring me the salt, please.

A worker rushed back with a sack of salt. The Doktor leaned down and poured a large quantity into the water. He stood and turned toward the screams coming from the other side of the house.

Bring the subject here.

He went back into his house and returned, carrying two pails. He set them down beside him at the riverbank. The pleading got louder as they dragged the young man nearer to the river. He knew his fate would be inexorably tied to the river. His throat and mouth ran dry.

His eyes, Herr Doktor?

No. No, he should see.

He was still securely held as the first pail was poured into the water. Herr Doktor nodded to the two captors. As one held onto the young man, the other bound his hands behind his back. They dragged him to the river and heaved him into the water.

They watched. The Doktor picked up the second pail and poured its yellowish liquid in. They waited. The water around the young man started churning. The prisoner tried to move away from the moving water but was unable; the activity followed him.

They heard him shriek with an unearthly sound. He tried to swim away. He tried climbing out onto the bank. His captors stomped on his still-bound hands clawing the shore. They kicked him back in. The pleading turned to praying. Still silence from the onlookers.

He submerged. A red stain floated to the surface The Doktor smiled and walked away, brushing off his lab coat as he returned to his house. He’d seen all he needed to see. An assistant met him at the door.

We are ready. Now we will fly.

Research Vessel, R/V TDI-Brooks

McCall Gulf of Mexico

New Year’s Day

9:20 am

The crew was cranky, mired in a mood as gray as the Gulf, buried under a melancholy cloud, having to be stuck out in the middle of the Gulf, following those blasted sea currents for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Bad enough everybody was away for an extended time from their families (and girlfriends), but—for heaven’s sake—it was New Year’s!

With a little preparation, all on board, from the master down to the oiler and cook, and the one woman—Nancy Greener, one of the two lab technicians—were able to enjoy each other’s camaraderie—and a beer or two—and have a special little party out there at the turn in the year in the middle of the Gulf.

Proud of her status as ‘the woman’ on board, Nancy decided she’d be the ‘mother’ to her crew. She eyed the depleted coffee pot and put another on. Nobody wanted to eat. Just coffee. Lots of it. On everybody’s second mug, the phone rang—followed in quick succession by a text alert and an email.

One of the crew yelled, Damned satellite! Couldn’t they leave us alone for one special day?

Nancy got to the phone first, but Johnny Alvarez Jr. the chief mate, grabbed it with his thick, oil-stained hands.

It’s from Freeport, Nancy announced to the people milling around the deck.

Of all the blasted bases on the Texas Gulf Coast, from Galveston to Corpus Christi, Freeport was the cruddiest. But that’s where TDI-Brooks’ marine operations base was located. That’s where the bosses were. While everyone’s curiosity was stoked, the chief mate was going to announce what this communique was about. Other than the master, this was his ship and his responsibility to hear and dispense orders.

Yes, sir, wilco. We’re on our way, Junior replied, and happy new year to you, too.

They all stood close by, waiting.

Ike Ford, the shipmaster, had arrived up on deck. "So, what’s up? What do they want now?"

Ike, like his ship, was weathered. Many years of fighting the Gulf weather had taken a toll. His face had a reddish-brown, leathery look. Tough. His gray hair was well earned. His voice was deep. He took pride in his command. The Brooks was his ship, and he was there to make certain nobody messed with her or with his crew.

NOAA called Freeport. Seems there’s reports of some considerable oil slick and debris coming up from De Soto Canyon.

Nancy had a feeling her ‘surprise’ birthday party for her fiancé, Laird, back in New Orleans, wasn’t going to happen. So, what does that have to do with us?

Nancy and Laird had been going together—if that’s what it was called—for more than six years. Nancy had met Laird Boudreaux while she was finishing her masters in meteorology with a specialty in oceanography. He was an up-and-coming professor at Tulane’s prestigious School of Public Health and Tropical Medicine. Their relationship blossomed like the Louisiana magnolias. He did the courteous thing and proposed marriage to her. She accepted.

Then came his promotion and her degree. Then quickly came an offer for her of employment with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration at their Gulf States Regional Office over in Jackson, Mississippi—not far from Laird and Tulane. Working for NOAA with their oceanic division was the stuff of her dreams.

And when the offer arrived to go out on a boat into the middle of the Gulf of Mexico (with an assistant, no less!) to plot oil spillage currents and tides, there was no way she could turn it down. This was what she had worked so hard for. The wedding would wait. Their commitment would do for now.

Nancy got used to the unrelenting odor of machine oil mixed with salty Gulf air; she even began to like the fragrance, if that’s what it was, and she was proud to like it. But when she looked into the oily mirror in the Brooks’ bathroom—the small one set aside for her—she saw her thirties were fast fading.

She already needed to use a cheap pair of readers purchased from a dingy drugstore back in Freeport. Her dark-brown hair was a mess, and even without the glasses, she could spot more than one gray hair. That’s where baseball caps came in. Laird, while a few years older, still had a physique—and his hair. In fact, Nancy decided he was still hot.

So, Nancy, of course, knew. The Brooks McCall had been dragging around the Gulf for several months, on and off, chartered by NOAA, and the EPA, involved in that Deepwater Horizon oil spill catastrophe—monitoring oil spillage, currents, and with the submersible on board, the enormous oil slick way below the surface of the Gulf. She knew her current assignment was probably still involving that damned Deepwater Horizon.

Well, folks, we’ll be taking a little cruise, over to De Soto. We’ll be there tomorrow if the weather holds.

Nancy knew the De Soto Canyon was one of the deepest known trenches in the Gulf of Mexico—a little away from where the main Deepwater oil slick pattern was—but what with the currents and the winds, and the massive size of that spill, it was totally possible, after this considerable period of time, there would still be a greasy mess over there to deal with.

Ike Ford shouted, All hands, prepare the ship, and let me know when we can get underway.

Gulf of Mexico

Two Miles above De Soto Canyon

January 2nd

A winter gale smacked the ship. The cruise to the location had been rough going. All aboard, including Nancy, had experienced these Gulf storms before, and all were prepared. Everything that could be tied down was. The submersible robot was secure below decks, which were constantly awash with the salty waves. Given the conditions, the Brooks couldn’t run at the desired speed. Even so, they arrived in good time—right above the very deep trench.

By midday, the weather, winds, and waves started to clear. The sun started to peek out between the towering cumulus clouds always covering the Gulf with weather like this.

Mike White, the cook, had prepared lunch. Even more than cooking, watching his flock eating was his favorite thing. He placed himself between the galley and the ‘eatin’ saloon. Proud of his talent, he considered it his calling.

Junior (as the chief mate was known) and Ike Ford were up on top, peering out into the Gulf. Ike took out his binoculars and focused on some floating shape about half a mile away. From where they’d stopped, it looked oily black, and with the binoculars, both men could make out a field of flotsam. Possibly garbage, possibly wreckage.

Junior knew what to do without being asked; he fired up the engines and cautiously made for that spot. Everyone on board had come up on deck to see why the engines had started and to find out where they were going.

Looks like more oil slick to me, Nancy announced.

Junior agreed, That Deepwater spill must have been carried out here by the currents and the weather.

Get us a little closer over to there, Ike ordered.

The engines engaged again, and the Brooks crept right next to—but not over—the black film. Close enough but not actually on the oily slick. This way, they could observe at a close proximity without disturbing the slick pattern.

Nancy looked at Trent, her partner lab technician. What do you think that stuff is? Looks to me like flotsam from a ship.

Or parts of a sunken oil rig, he suggested.

While the seas were still rough, the oil slick calmed the water around the flotsam field area, and most of whatever it was remained together. Nancy seemed to see more detritus bobbing to the surface.

Hey, Junior, whaddya make of that stuff?

While Ike was the master, Junior ran the Brooks. Nancy and he had developed a special relationship—even though she needed time to deal with properly addressing him. She could never quite understand why Johnny Alvarez Jr. was called Junior. He certainly didn’t seem ‘Junior’; next to Ike Ford, he was the oldest crewmember aboard the Brooks. She decided it was some nautical, seafarin’ thing from around these parts of the Gulf. When things weren’t going right for her, there was always Junior.

The Brooks slid closer to the flotsam. From the deck, nobody could figure out what all that stuff bobbing right out of reach could be. One of the deck crew found a long-armed pole with a grappling hook and leaned over the rail to scoop up a sample.

He had to reach way out and down in order to gather something that might offer them a clue; he almost would have fallen into the slick had not a nearby crewmember grabbed his waist. Nancy and her fellow ‘labbie’ were closest to the oily mess. Seawater and oil drained onto the deck.

Looks like fabric and upholstery foam, she remarked.

Whatever it was, it looked like it had been down there a long time. There were metal fragments—small bars and pieces, and what looked like a rusty, mangled frame from a chair. The group, standing around the oily mess, were at a loss to explain it.

Junior spoke first, This couldn’t be from the Deepwater Horizon rig, could it? That was a way from over here—but what with the winds and the currents…

Was there another rig out over here affected? Nancy asked to no one in particular.

Was there some ship—or a chopper—that got into trouble back during the Deepwater mess? The query came from the cook, chomping on a Danish.

I don’t remember much about all the other problems. Remember, we were busy monitoring currents and oil slick spread, said Ike Ford. Before we call Freeport, let’s get some more of a sample so we might know what we’re dealing with. Junior, lower the launch and get a few guys over there to scoop up some more.

The Brooks’ launch was lowered into the Gulf. Junior and two of the Brooks’ deck crew made their way to the debris. With some pails and a grappling hook on a long pole, more of it was scooped up. The three men on the launch still couldn’t identify the source. Junior was still considering the probability of some leftover material from Deepwater being carried over here by the oily slick right below their launch.

Back on board the Brooks, the pails’ contents were dumped down on the rear deck. Flotsam—or Gulf junk—would have to do, as nobody on board could identify any source.

Junior spoke to Ike Ford. "You know, just in case, we’d better call into Freeport and NOAA, and let ’em know about this field."

Nancy announced her agreement. Whatever this was, she made up her mind she’d be a necessary part of it.

This is an unexpected occurrence and NOAA—and probably Freeport base—need to know.

It was up to the ship’s master to make the call. All aboard knew their days of languidness would shortly be ending. Ike went into the bridge to make the two calls. He knew NOAA would be the more important of the two, but rules dictated Freeport needed to be contacted first—even though they’d probably advise him to next call into their contact at NOAA.

The rest of the boat crew stood around, staring down at the slimy mess on the deck. Two of the deck crew figured they ought to do something and decided to attempt to remove the oily tar from the hull of the launch and went below to secure cans of turpentine and wipes.

Ike came down from the bridge.

"Base also said we should contact NOAA, which I did. Then, as you’d expect, they contacted the EPA. Now the damned EPA wants us to scoop as much of whatever is below and take it back to Freeport. Even BP is onto this now."

He looked out into the curious faces.

Don’t you all stare at me funny. The damned rig was theirs.

Junior threw up his hands. Are they f—ing serious? We’re over the De Soto Canyon. This trench below us is over two miles deep!

Nancy looked at her oceanographic chart showing the mapped quadrants of the Gulf. "Not in all places; maybe not in the block where we are now. In fact, where we exactly are is right on the tip of the continental shelf as it plummets down into the canyon. Hopefully, it’s not excessively deep right here where the stuff is coming up from—if we’re lucky." She looked over at the master of the Brooks. And we do have a working submersible that can help us locate much of whatever it is that’s down there.

We could send her down there. She can stand the pressure from a two-mile dive, stated the Brook’s oiler, but what with all the oily slick—and the probable submersed oily slick that fouled up the Deepwater cleanup—would she be able to see anything?

Junior suggested, "If we could lower the submersible below any subsurface oil layer, we could possibly see what’s down there. Maybe over here in this quadrant, it would work."

Four of the deck crew went down into the hold. The yellow submersible and its cables were brought on deck.

The submersible, nicknamed Rover for ROV, was too small for any occupant; however, it did possess several high-quality cameras, including video, and a more than sufficient battery of lights. Its electric-powered engine ran one rear propeller and produced enough horsepower to meet any scientific challenge. Data was fed up to the Brooks via cable as well as text messaging. A computer on the ship controlled its movement.

Having prepped the ROV numerous times before, everybody involved knew exactly what he or she should be doing, and it didn’t take long before Rover and its tether cables were attached to the Brooks’ winch, and it was lowered down into the Gulf.

The ROV slipped into the murky mess. Nancy and Trent, her fellow ‘labbie’, positioned at the ROV control board awaited every word on the increasing depth, which was announced in regular intervals. She realized this was better than trolling around the Gulf, playing with sea currents.

Junior announced, One thousand feet.

Nancy thought about the days of yore when the depths were calculated as leagues. She knew that Junior had in fact been around the waters of the Gulf a very long time. He’d been working for TDI on their ships almost as long as Ike Ford. He knew the Brooks backward and forward. Nancy assumed he’d eventually become master.

Two thousand feet.

Lower still. Nothing on Rover was activated yet. They wanted to bring it further down—where the source of whatever they had would be.

Two thousand, five hundred. Not one of the crew was interested in lunch.

Three thousand, five hundred feet.

The winch creaked as the tether cables unwound on it.

Almost five thousand. Junior’s head shook in amazement.

The ROV had to be lowered slowly to get it acclimated to the increasing pressure. Trent, assigned to work with her on this assignment, was now on deck at Rover’s controls. It was time. He activated the cameras.

Five thousand feet, Junior announced in an anxious tone.

The ROV struck something. Seemingly stuck. Junior pounded his fist into his thigh. Trent shifted the winch into reverse in an attempt to free it. Everyone held their breath as the cables strained. Again, he reversed the winch to try to drop the ROV—to see if it would continue downward and be free of whatever was entangling it. It worked. Sort of. The ROV continued slowly downward but with a heavy pull on the cables and a strain on the Brooks’ winch motor. The ROV was fouled in whatever was down there.

Trent and Nancy, together at the camera and video screens, could make out black shapes of two or three—maybe four?—objects entangling Rover. Nancy took it upon herself to push the light function to increase the intensity of the light, and Trent followed by turning on Rover’s motor. The ROV swung around clockwise—all the while continuing its descent.

One mile plus! Junior shouted. We sure as heck gotta be on the bottom of the canyon or right near it.

Stop it here for a bit, Nancy commanded.

Hold her where she is! Junior ordered.

Nancy activated the entire battery of lights—leaving a few off for an emergency. They could see black shapes, nothing but black shapes, which might have been metallic in nature. Trent rotated the ROV counterclockwise in an attempt to free it, but that didn’t work.

Speed up the propulsion, suggested Nancy. Maybe it might get some results.

Trent activated the propulsion prompt and fed in full power. The ROV appeared to jerk forward—still straining at the winch—but even by swinging it back and forth while it was moving forward brought no better results. It was late in the January day out in the Gulf, and the sun was seriously setting somewhere west of Mexico.

Ike Ford, who by now was annoyed at being a passive bystander, ordered, Don’t bring her back. Leave her where she lays. Time for supper. Mike, can you rustle up some grub for us?

Turn off all controls. Let her remain at depth. We’ll let her be. We’ll come back in the morning. She’ll be fine.

Nancy reluctantly agreed.

The Gulf of Mexico

De Soto Canyon

January 3rd

Perhaps because of the anticipation of something special, everybody on board the Brooks McCall sprang out of sleep and rushed to dress. In minutes, everyone was on top. Ike Ford was already there, having surveyed the winch and cables.

All seems to be in order—and as we left it, he said to the relieved assembled group.

Junior and Rudy, the weatherworn chief engineer of the Brooks, each inspected the winch and handled the tether cables to convince each other nothing unforeseen had occurred during the night.

Junior nodded his head. Good to go. I’m thinking maybe what the Rover hit yesterday was laying on the bottom.

Nancy agreed, "What Trent and I would like to do is to lower Rover more—to see if we are or are not at the bottom. And by doing that, by bringing it—hopefully—to the seabed—maybe that might dislodge whatever the heck the stuff is that’s fouling the ROV. Can we lower a little more?" She looked to Junior and Rudy—and to anybody else who would agree.

No objection. The power to the winch was turned on. Trent booted up the ROV; all was in order. The cameras activated, the lighting battery switched on. The winch squealed into action. The tether cables played out as the ROV slipped further down.

Junior monitored the descent. We were already over one mile down yesterday. It’s really gotta be near the—whoa!

The tether cables loosened and lay on the deck in a wavy loop. They had struck bottom.

Junior shouted, Stop the winch!

Ike Ford exclaimed, Imagine, canyon or no canyon, we’re at the bottom of the Gulf!

Nancy stood close beside Trent, who was monitoring the ROV’s controls. She held her breath.

Play with it again. Do what you tried to do yesterday; let’s see what’ll happen. We’re very lucky; we’re on the edge of the De Soto trench. Any further out, we’d be too deep.

Trent manipulated the joystick, twisting and turning the ROV, speeding the propulsion, trying all combinations of maneuvers to see what results they would bring. Nancy stayed glued to the camera monitors, several of the deck crew positioned right behind her.

After several attempts, whatever was fouling up Rover seemed to fall off onto the seabed—causing a cloud of silt and sea garbage to erupt all around the submersible. The lights picked up the brown cloud, and Nancy could see the swirling brown mass from her position by the camera monitors.

For what seemed like forever, the brown silt cloud dissipated, and the cameras again peered into the void. Trent activated every lamp on the ROV in an urgent attempt to see what was out there. Whatever it was, it was big.

Trent maneuvered Rover around one large pile of the detritus, and increased its height a little to allow the cameras to take it all in. Still—even with maximum light, nobody on the Brooks could make out what it all was—or where it came from.

Trent lowered the submersible, this time trying to get as close to the pile as he could. Nancy, hanging on Trent’s shoulders, eyes glued on the screen, could identify things—she was convinced she saw a pair of men’s shoes lying side by side on the seabed, their laces tied, as if they had been just worn by somebody. Still, whatever all this stuff was almost two miles down, neither she, Ike Ford, nor anyone else standing around the monitor could identify.

The master spoke, Trent, bring up Rover. We’ll attach the jaws to the winch and scoop up a big chunk of it, whatever we can get.

Junior relayed the order to Trent and Nancy, "Bring her up as quickly as you can. Rover did her best, but now NOAA and the EPA will want more."

Nancy agreed. She stepped back from the monitor while the ROV was raised from the bottom of the Gulf. Her thoughts went to her plans for Laird’s birthday. That would not happen. He’d understand. When she got back, she’d take him to dinner at Galatoire’s. The two of them; it would be so romantic.

She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. She’d need to do something about her hair. While Nancy and Laird were in constant communication via email and the Brooks’ satellite phones—as much as they could, given the job duties they each had—she here, and he back at Tulane—she hadn’t seen him in—well, too long. It was starting to bother her. Thinking about Laird’s birthday gave her some sense of security.

But here she was, on some old boat, filled with scruffy unshaven men, out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.

The crew made the jaws, the big, clamshell, toothed scoop apparatus, ready for fastening to the chains, which would be moved onto the winch once the submersible and its tethers were removed. Once the ROV was moved off the winch, the two back-to-back clamshell chains would be put on—one for the raising and lowering and the other for opening and closing the mouth—and then over the boom, ready for lowering.

The Rover broke the surface, its yellow skin smeared with the sticky slime from the oil slick the Brooks was riding on—and from the large, subsurface oil slick. The deck chief and three of his deck crew disassembled the ROV from the boom and the winch. The rest of the crew plus Rudy, the chief engineer, made the clamshell jaws scoop ready for fastening, and its plunge downward.

Rudy looked down at the cable and chain. Do you think we have enough to get to where the stuff is?

Junior was the one to answer. Well, we got the Rover down there, and as Nancy says to us, we’re on the edge of the De Soto trench—and if the stuff is down here, I’m pretty sure we got a good opportunity to get down and get it. He stood up and leaned over the rail. In any case, if the stuff’s lower, on the bottom of the trench, we have enough cable and chain onboard for the jaws to get down and easily function at five thousand feet. He scratched his chin. We’ll soon see.

The clamshell was swung out over the deck, above the water, splashing into the murky water. Not having to deal with water pressure issues, the lowering went at a faster pace. Everyone was anxious, eager to see what could be pulled from the bottom of the De Soto Canyon.

Even with the faster speed of the lowering, it took almost an hour until the clamshell stopped its descent. The two back-to-back chains hanging over the outstretched boom and on the winch played out. They were lucky; they made it