The Atlantis Gene (The Origin Mystery 1)

The hatch groaned loudly, the wail of metal on metal. But it still didn’t budge. The robotic arm detached, slid, re-attached, and turned again and then — BOOM — the hatch blew straight back like the door on a Jack-In-The-Box. The robot was instantly crushed against the sub. Metal and plastic pieces of it scattered across the snow as air hissed out of the sub.

Over the radio in his suit, Martin heard Dorian Sloane’s disembodied voice. The hollow, mechanical effect of the radio made him sound even more menacing. “After you, Martin.”

Martin looked over at the man’s cold eyes, then swung back toward the hatch. “Ops, do you have video?”

“Copy, Dr. Grey, we have video for both suits.”

“Ok. We’re entering now.”

Martin lumbered toward the three-foot-round entrance at the top of the small ice hill. When he reached the hatch, he turned around, squatted down, and placed a foot on the first step. He took an LED lamp stick from his side and dropped it into the shaft. It fell about 15 or 20 feet. A ping of hard plastic on metal echoed through the icy tomb, and light spread out below him, revealing a corridor to the right.

Martin took another step. The metal rungs were coated with ice. Another step and he was holding the ladder with both hands, but he could feel one of his feet slipping. He tried to tighten his grip, but before he could, his feet flew off the ladder. He slammed into the back of the hatch and he was falling, the light engulfed him, then it was dark — he landed with a puff — the insulation had saved him. But if the suit had torn, he was dead. The cold would flood in and freeze his windpipe and body in seconds. Martin put his hands on his helmet, feeling around feverishly. Then a light, falling leisurely down the shaft. The glowing lamp landed on Martin’s stomach, casting light all around him. He looked at the suit — it looked ok.

Above him, Sloane came into view, blotting out the sunlight. “Looks like you’ve been riding a desk too long, Old Man.”

“I told you I shouldn’t be down here.”

“Just move out of the way.”

Martin rolled over and crawled out of the opening just as Sloane slid down the ladder, his hands and feet holding it at both sides without ever touching the rungs.

“I’ve studied the schematic, Martin. The bridge is straight ahead.”

They clicked the lights on their helmets on and trudged down the corridor.

The sub, or technically U-Boat, was in pristine condition — it had been sealed and frozen. It looked as it might have 80 years ago when it left port in Northern Germany. It could have been a museum piece.

The corridor was tight, especially with the bulk of the suits, and both men had to tug at their air supply cords periodically as they wadded deeper into the relic. The corridor opened onto a larger area, and Sloane and Martin stopped dead, rotating their headlamps left and right, revealing the room in flashes like a lighthouse carving streams of light into the night. The room was clearly the bridge or some sort of command center. Every few seconds, Martin caught a glimpse of horror — a mangled man, lying prostrate over a chair, skin melted from his face, a man slumped against the bulkhead, blood stains all over his clothes, and a few more men, lying face down in a frozen block of blood. The six men looked as if they had been put into a giant microwave, then flash frozen.

Martin heard his radio click on. “This look like Bell radiation?”

“Hard to say, but yes, pretty close,” Martin replied.

The two men worked in silence for a few minutes, sweeping the bridge, examining each man.

“We should split up,” Martin said.

“I know where his compartment is,” Sloane said as he turned and stalked down the rear corridor leading away from the bridge.

Martin ran after him. He had hoped to distract him, to reach the crew quarters before Sloane.

It was now nearly impossible to move in the suit, and Sloane seemed to manage much better than Martin.

Finally the older man caught up with Sloane as he twisted open the hatch to the room. Sloane tossed a few lamps in, bathing the room in light.

Martin held his breath as he scanned the room. Empty. He exhaled. Would he have been happier to see a body? Maybe.

Sloane moved to the desk and rifled through papers and opened a few spring-loaded drawers. The lights from his suit lit up a black and white photo of a man in a German Military Uniform — not a Nazi uniform, something earlier, even before World War I. The man held a woman, his wife, to his right, and two sons to his left — they resembled him strongly. Sloane looked at the photo for a long moment, then slipped it into a pocket on his suit.

At that moment, Martin almost felt sorry for the man. “Dorian, he couldn’t have survived—”

“What did you expect to find, Martin?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I asked you first.” Sloane continued searching the desk.

“Maps. And if we were lucky, a tapestry.”

“A tapestry?” Sloane twisted the head of the bulky suit around, blinding Martin with the bright lights.

Martin threw a hand up to block the light. “Yes, a large rug with a story—”

“I know what a tapestry is Martin.” He returned his attention to the desk, rummaging through more books. “You know, I may have been wrong about you — you’re no threat, you’ve simply lost it. You’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid too long, Martin. Look at what happened to him — chasing tapestries and superstitious legends.” Sloane tossed a bundle of papers and books back onto the frozen desk. “There’s nothing here, just some journals.”

Journals! It could be The Journal. Martin fought to act casual. “I can take those. There may be something we could use.”

Sloane straightened, made eye contact with Martin, then glanced back at the stack of skinny books. “No, I think I’ll take a look first. I’ll pass anything… scientific along.”

Dorian was sick of the suit — he had been in it for six hours: three hours in the sub and three hours in decontamination. Martin and his research egg heads were thorough. Cautious. Fans of overkill. Time wasters.

Now he sat across from Martin in the clean room, waiting for the results of the blood test — for the “all clear”. What was taking so long?

Every now and then, Martin would glance at the journals. There was something in them, something he wanted to see. Something he didn’t want Dorian to see. He pulled the stack of books closer to him.

The sub had been the biggest disappointment of Sloane’s life. He was 42 years old and since he was 7, not a day had gone by when he didn’t dream of finding that sub. But now that day had come and he had found nothing — almost nothing: 6 fried bodies and a mint condition U-boat.