Chapter 48
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Pacific Ocean
“Submarine rendezvous in about ninety minutes,” Restrepo’s voice came through their headsets.
The Bell broke into clear air above the cloud layer. Two hundred miles of ocean stretched below, empty except for the occasional whitecap. No ships visible on the horizon. No visible aircraft nearby in the vast Pacific sky.
“There,” Restrepo pointed ahead through the cockpit windscreen. “Right on schedule.”
A dark shape broke the surface a thousand yards away. Water cascaded in white torrents from its black hull as the USS Monterey emerged like a surfacing whale. The submarine stabilized in the gentle Pacific swells, its conning tower plainly visible.
“Beautiful sight,” Restrepo said approvingly. “Walsh runs a tight operation.”
He positioned the helicopter in a steady hover fifty feet above the submarine’s wet deck, the downdraft created circles of disturbed water around the vessel.
“Standard personnel transfer,” Restrepo said through the headset, his voice focused as he adjusted for the conditions. “Both of you can go down together, but we’ve got a front moving in faster than forecast.”
“Seems like you’ve done this before,” Drake teased as he watched the rescue basket moving into position.
“Twelve times. Piece of cake once you know the drill,” Restrepo said with a grin. “You?”
Drake nodded. “Marines.”
Restrepo replied. “Semper Fi.”
Flint said, “Anything else we need to know right now?”
“Headwinds cost us extra fuel getting here. We’ve got enough to get back, but no margin for delays. Weather’s getting worse and I don’t want to be flying this route in an hour,” Restrepo replied, turning his full attention to the task at hand.
Below them, the USS Monterey rolled in moderate swells under an overcast sky that had darkened considerably in the past hour. Light rain spattered the submarine’s deck, and the wind had picked up enough to make the hull slick but still manageable.
“How’s the shoulder?” Flint asked Drake as they watched the rescue basket sway in the freshening breeze.
“Functional,” Drake replied, eyeing the deteriorating conditions. “Let’s make this quick before the weather gets worse.”
“I’ll handle the basket,” Flint said. “You focus on not reopening that wound.”
On the submarine’s deck, four crew members in foul-weather gear hustled. They had a narrow window before the submarine would have to dive.
“Sub’s rolling about ten degrees and the wind’s gusting to twenty knots,” Restrepo reported. “Conditions are marginal but doable. Walsh wants you aboard now.”
Flint climbed into the basket first, then helped Drake settle beside him, keeping the injured shoulder protected as well as conditions allowed.
“Quick and steady,” Flint said as the basket began its descent through the gray, gusty downdraft and light rain.
The basket swayed as they dropped through the variable winds, but the crew below had good control of the guidelines. The submarine’s moderate rolling was predictable, and the deck crew timed their movements accordingly.
“Coming down on the next level roll,” the crew chief called out, his voice clear despite the wind. “Steady... steady... now!”
Salt spray stung their faces as the submarine’s crew guided them safely onto the deck within challenging conditions.
The basket touched down firmly as the submarine crested a swell. Flint absorbed the landing and quickly helped Drake out. They moved fast toward the hatch.
An urgent call from the submarine’s radio: “We need to dive now.”
Tall, lean, gray-haired with the bearing of a man who’d commanded vessels in hostile waters around the world. Career Navy officer obvious every confident movement.
“Flint,” Walsh said with a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“Been a long time since Kandahar. Welcome aboard,” Walsh said as they stepped out of the basket onto the submarine’s deck.
His voice carried over the sound of waves against the hull.
“Welcome to the most unofficial operation in Naval history. We need to move fast. Let’s get below. ”
Above them, Restrepo was already reeling in the empty basket and preparing to depart, the first half of his mission accomplished without leaving a trace of evidence.
“Anyone watching just saw a routine personnel transfer,” Walsh said as they descended into the submarine’s cramped interior through the narrow hatch.
Above them, the metal cover sealed with a resonant clang that echoed through the vessel like the closing of a vault.
“Captain,” the officer of the deck called from below. “We need to dive now.”
The submarine slipped beneath the surface with barely a ripple, leaving only disturbed water where moments before a nuclear vessel had floated under the sky. The hull creaked softly as they descended, the weight of the Pacific pressing against the steel that separated them from the crushing depths.
“Welcome aboard the Monterey,” Walsh said, leading them through corridors lined with pipes and instruments humming efficiently. “We’ve got two hours to New Geneva. Time to get you ready for the impossible.”
The submarine’s sonar painted a picture of empty ocean ahead, its electronic pulses revealing no surface contacts, no underwater threats.
The steady rhythm of the engines along with the crew’s quiet professionalism and calm competence kept submarines operational in the world’s most dangerous waters.
The submarine ran silent through Pacific depths, carrying them toward their rendezvous with Devon Cole’s kingdom.
“Next time we see daylight,” he told Drake, “this will all be over.”
“And with any luck, we’ll still be alive to see it,” Drake replied flatly.
The submarine ran silent through Pacific depths. Two hours to New Geneva. Flint had checked his gear twice and reviewed the platform schematics until he could navigate them blindfolded.
His encrypted phone showed a new message. The DNA lab.
Flint moved to a quiet corner of the submarine’s cramped communications area and opened the secure email.
“Confirmation complete. Definitive familial match to Kellerman family DNA. 99.3% confidence level. The subject shares genetic markers consistent with being a close blood relative. Brother, father, or son of Raymond Kellerman. Full genetic analysis attached. Dr. Lydia Brimley, Houston Forensics Laboratory.”
Flint stared at the screen. After all these years, they had the killer’s family name. But Raymond Kellerman was the principal who’d been pursuing his mother. The obvious suspect Milliken had already identified.
He opened his laptop and connected to the submarine’s satellite internet. Public records searches. Genealogy databases. Social Security Death Index.
Raymond Kellerman. Principal at Mount Warren Elementary for thirty years. Married to Helen Kellerman. Two children. Clean record except for a drunk driving arrest.
But there was more.
A brother. Thomas “Tommy” Kellerman. Five years younger than Raymond.
Flint pulled up more records. Tommy’s trail was messier. Multiple addresses. Spotty employment history. Arrested twice for public intoxication. No marriage license on record.
The timeline fit. Tommy would have been the right age when Marilyn Baker was murdered. The right family connection.
Flint cross-referenced the addresses. Tommy had lived in Mount Warren during the time period when the murder happened.
More searches revealed fragments of a troubled life. Emergency room visits. A brief stint in county jail for disorderly conduct. Then, about a year after Marilyn Baker’s murder, Thomas Kellerman disappeared from public records entirely.
Flint leaned back in his chair. The original investigation had focused on Father Preston and briefly considered Raymond Kellerman. But nobody had looked at the principal’s troubled younger brother. The man whose DNA was on his mother’s clothing.
Something he’d need to follow up on after he finished.
He closed the laptop. The submarine’s sonar pinged steadily in the background. New Geneva was getting closer. Cole’s fortress waited ahead in the darkness.