Chapter 26 - Beneath the Salt
The water inside the storm conduit was black, freezing, and thick with the stench of engine oil and decaying harbor mud.
We crawled on our hands and knees through four hundred feet of corrugated steel pipe, dragging the cutting tanks on a rubber salvage sled behind us. The ceiling of the pipe was so low my back scraped against the rusty rivets, cold water soaking through my waders until my legs were numb with frost.
Above our heads, the rhythmic, heavy thumping of the barge’s diesel engine reverberated through the steel pipe like the heartbeat of an angry machine.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
"They're seating the casing," Callahan whispered ahead of me, his flashlight beam cutting through the damp mist of the pipe. "Once they seat that six-foot ring into the harbor floor, the diamond auger goes down. We have less than an hour."
The pipe ended in a vertical drainage shaft with iron rungs set into the masonry. We climbed upward, emerging into a cavernous, dripping concrete vault that felt like the belly of a sunken battleship.
This was the lower chamber of the 1943 Municipal Pump Station. Massive cast-iron pipes, six feet in diameter, crisscrossed the darkness like the ribcage of a leviathan. In the center of the chamber stood the blast door Callahan had described: a massive circular steel hatch, eight feet across, secured by six hydraulic locking dogs and covered in a thick crust of dried marine salt.
Above the hatch, painted in faded yellow military stenciling, were the words: *U.S. NAVY SUB-SURFACE STORAGE FACILITY — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.*
I dropped the cutting gear onto the damp floor and knelt before the locking mechanism. "Where do we cut?"
Callahan pointed with his flashlight to the central hinge bracket. "Here and here. Cut the hydraulic retainers. Once the pressure drops, the counterweights will let us lever the wheel."
I struck the striker. A bright blue cone of flame erupted from the torch tip with a sharp hiss.
I pressed the flame against the forty-year-old steel.
Sparks showered into the darkness, illuminating the vaulted ceiling in brilliant, blinding flashes of white and orange. The smell of burning slag and scorched paint filled the air, thick and suffocating in the enclosed space.
My arms ached as I held the heavy brass torch steady, cutting through two inches of hardened military alloy. Every few seconds, the concrete ceiling trembled as the drilling barge above drove another piling into Parcel 4.
*Clang. Clang. Clang.*
They were getting closer.
"Ten minutes!" Callahan checked his diver's watch, his face illuminated by the dancing orange glare. "The auger is spinning, Thomas. I can hear the high-frequency grind through the concrete."
"Almost through," I grunted, sweat stinging my eyes despite the freezing dampness of the vault.
With a final pop of molten metal, the second hinge severed. I dropped the torch and grabbed a five-foot steel crowbar from the salvage sled, jamming it into the seam of the blast hatch.
Callahan threw his full weight onto the bar beside me.
The ancient iron groaned, a screech of rusted metal that echoed through the empty chambers like a dying animal. The heavy hatch shifted an inch. Two inches. Then, with a heavy, wet clunk, it swung open into the black void beyond.
A gust of air rushed out of the opening.
It didn't smell like sea water. It smelled of stagnant, subterranean dust, ozone, and a faint, sweetish chemical tang that made the back of my throat burn instantly.
Callahan pulled two military-grade respirators from his coat, handing one to me. "Put it on. Don't take it off for anything. If a canister is already weeping, one breath will sear your lung tissue."
I strapped the rubber mask over my face, the heavy dual filters clicking into place. My breathing became loud and rhythmic inside the mask.
We stepped through the hatchway into the corridor beyond.
The tunnel was narrow, constructed of reinforced interlocking concrete arches. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, forming shallow pools over a narrow gauge railway track embedded in the floor.
We walked fifty yards down the gentle slope until the tunnel opened into a large subterranean bunker.
In the center of the chamber, resting on heavy timber cradles, sat the eighteen steel transport containers described in my father's tape. Several of them had their inspection seals pried open, their wooden crates spilled across the concrete floor: bundles of water-damaged 1943 municipal bonds, their green ink faded to gray, scattered like autumn leaves.
Beside them, exactly as Callahan had warned, sat two rows of cylindrical steel canisters, each painted olive drab with a faded yellow skull and crossbones stenciled on the domed caps.
A tiny, slow drip of oily, amber liquid was pooling beneath the third canister in the front row, eating a shallow, smoking pit into the concrete floor.
"Jesus Mary," Callahan breathed through his respirator, his voice muffled by the rubber diaphragm. "It’s leaking already. The vibration from the drill barge must have cracked the solder."
Above us, the ceiling suddenly groaned.
A loud, piercing shriek of diamond teeth tearing into reinforced concrete vibrated directly through the rock overhead. Dust and small fragments of masonry cascaded down into our hair.
They were directly above us. Not thirty feet away.
Suddenly, a loud metallic click echoed from the entrance tunnel behind us.
The beam of a high-powered tactical searchlight swept across the bunker walls, catching Callahan and me directly in its blinding center.
"Step away from the containers, Mr. Sterling," a calm, feminine voice commanded through the dusty air.
May you like
I shielded my eyes against the glare.
Standing in the blast hatchway, flanked by three men in black tactical uniforms carrying submachine guns, was Diane Vance. She wore a heavy waterproof parka over her suit, her face illuminated by the searchlight, completely devoid of fear—and completely devoid of mercy.
