To Hunt a Sub Read online

  TO HUNT A SUB

  A Novel

  By J. Murray

  Other books by Jacqui Murray

  Fiction

  Twenty-four Days

  Book 1 in the Rowe-Delamagente series

  Non-fiction

  Building a Midshipman: How to Crack the USNA Application

  Over 100 books, ebooks, and other non-fiction resources on integrating tech into education available from her publisher, Structured Learning LLC

  Praise for the Rowe-Delamagente series:

  A blistering pace is set from the beginning: dates open each new chapter/section, generating a countdown that intensifies the title’s time limit. Murray skillfully bounces from scene to scene, handling numerous characters, from hijackers to MI6 special agent Haster. ... A steady tempo and indelible menace form a stirring nautical tale. – Kirkus Reviews

  ***

  … a satisfying read from a fresh voice in the genre, and well worth the wait. The time devoted to research paid off, providing a much appreciated authenticity to the sciency aspects of the plot. The author also departs from the formulaic pacing and heroics of contemporary commercialized thrillers. Instead, the moderately paced narrative is a seduction, rather than a sledgehammer. The author takes time rendering relatable characters with imaginatively cool names like Zeke Rowe, and Kalian Delamagente. The scenes are vividly depicted, and the plot not only contains exquisitely treacherous twists and turns, but incorporates the fascinating study of early hominids, and one ancestral female in particular who becomes an essential character. – Goodreads reader

  ***

  A fusion of technology, academics, and archaeology make “To Hunt a Sub” a thrilling ride. The stakes are high as a PhD student and an ex-Seal risk all to stop terrorists from stealing American submarines carrying nuclear weapons. The writing is clipped and crisp, fitting well with the genre—there’s little fluff. The author’s expertise in technology shines through. A quick read I finished in just a few days. Solid debut novel. – Amazon reader

  ***

  So last night I couldn't sleep and finally got up about 3 o'clock in the morning and thought I would just read for a while and maybe I would get to sleep unfortunately, I read your book. Needless to say I was only halfway done when I started at 3 a.m. and by 6 a.m. I had finished the book! too good to go to sleep. Excellent book. Can't wait for the next one. WOW – Amazon reader

  ***

  This is a complex layered story that successfully blends well researched archaeology and cutting edge technology, with a high stakes terrorist plot to steal nuclear submarines. It’s got characters to root for, and villains to loathe. –Amazon reader

  ***

  I loved the way the author combined vulnerability and strength in her main characters. I loved where the macho character ‘Rowe’ takes Kali’s hand even though she pulls away. And there is this beautiful raw, insight into what it can cost you to be a mother. Otto is very cool too. – Amazon reader

  ©2016 Structured Learning LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Structured Learning LLC ([email protected]).

  Published by Structured Learning LLC

  Laguna Hills, Ca 92653

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Design and layout for cover: Paper and Sage Inc.

  Printer: Quality Instant Press

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-942101-15-4

  My sincere thanks to the following people for their support and knowledge. CDR Matthew Carr for his passionate discussions about submarines, my brother CDR John MacCrossen who shared what he could from his days hunting submarines, Dr. Philip Ender of the University of California Los Angeles for savvy insights into computers and an alternative approach to thinking, Mike Merrifield for inspiration, Roxane Teboul for her tips about being a Columbia grad student, my husband for his constant belief in my ability to tell this story, John Rowe for allowing me to use his son’s name, my daughter’s cerebral friends for their humorous approach to all things complicated, my anonymous friend for his anecdotal insights into radical Islam—providing a personal face to the terrorists’ goals, Donald Johansen and the Leakey’s for nurturing my abiding love and respect for our ancestors, and the talented members of my writing group and blogging community—thank you for unselfish hours of editing.

  Please know that, while these individuals assisted in this book’s development, all mistakes are my own. In some cases—particularly with Columbia University and parts of New York—I adjusted reality to reflect the needs of the script. In other cases—such as submarine protocols and other government-based details—I purposely strayed from reality to insure my story never got close to resembling national secrets.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Two weeks before present

  Every day, desperate people pushed through the wide glass doors of 111 North Hill Street, hoping the justice delivered within these hallowed walls would solve their problems. No matter his mood, Alfred Zematis offered a warm smile, sometimes listening to their sad tales, other times simply nodding encouragement. He took pride in the sparkling tile floors, the immaculate sinks in the bathrooms and the trash bins he never allowed to overflow. This grand old courthouse had been his home for thirty years.

  Musai Alland changed that.

  Today Alfred swi
shed his broom back and forth in practiced steady sweeps, knowing this would be his last time. He mopped his brow with a faded kerchief. The air conditioner was broken—again. By the time it was hot enough his bosses asked him to bring up the big box fans stored in the basement, he would be under arrest. He winced. Every breath hurt his chest. It could be the illness. Or nerves. Probably nerves, but it made no difference anymore.

  He checked his battered Timex. One fifty. Time crawled when a man outlived his children. God never intended that.

  He peered into Room 22. The man who wasn’t Gegham Keregosian stood in the back, head down, lips moving. His cocoa-colored skin, as smooth and unlined as a teenager, was dry in spite of the ninety-degree building. The low rumble of voices and the crinkle of food wrappers muffled his words, but he must have felt Alfred’s presence. He stared at the janitor with those empty eyes before continuing his quiet prayers.

  Alfred turned away. It was not yet time.

  Alfred didn’t mean to learn Gegham Keregosian’s real name. A week ago, Alfred had been asked to remove black drag marks from the floor. He blocked the hallway with cones, excited about the prospect of working without interruptions, doing the job he was hired to do and doing it well. Around the corner, out of sight, a voice he recognized as Keregosian whispered to someone Alfred couldn’t see. The unknown man called Keregosian ‘Salah’. There was a crack followed by a hissed warning from Keregosian: ‘Do not ever use my real name’. Alfred fumbled headphones over his ears and hummed loudly to his silent music as the two men came into view. The only noise as they passed was Alfred’s wet rag and Keregosian’s hollow footsteps.

  Alfred had no idea how to end another man’s life, but a father must avenge his daughter’s death. In exchange for Alfred’s now meaningless savings, Keregosian would kill Musai Alland and allow him—Alfred—to claim responsibility. Alfred felt no regret. God understood why he must break the sacred Commandment.

  One fifty-two.

  In the reflection off the mirrored elevator doors, Alfred saw himself as the TV cameras would. A clean, pressed uniform bagged on an emaciated frame. Shoes, old and cracked, shone with polish. His sparse grey hair lay neatly against his freckled skull. A thin gold band, scarred from years of labor, shimmered on his parchment skin, the sole reminder of the stunning exotic dancer who stole his heart, leaving him with a child he named Angel who thought her daddy could do no wrong.

  He gave Angel’s cat away this morning. She had found it in the alley, left eye blind and bloody with a deep laceration from his stomach through his haunch. She nursed it back to health and loved it so completely, Alfred worried what would happen to his Angel if the animal ever disappeared.

  He should have worried about the reverse.

  One fifty-five. The jury’s decision had been expected twenty-five minutes ago. Why so late? They must see the defendant was guilty.

  Two o’clock. The courtroom phone trilled and the guard pounded the gavel.

  All rise…

  Alfred Zematis’ personnel file called him dependable, friendly, and a hard worker. He had taken only three sick days in thirty years. The first was for the birth of his daughter, Angel. Alfred had proudly shown off pictures of a pink bundle of squirming limbs and satin skin. His finger, thick as a sausage, nail grimy with embedded dirt, hovered over her cherub cheeks as he promised: No evil will touch you, whatever it costs.

  His next sick day came when a neighbor left an urgent message with Alfred’s supervisor. One-year-old Angel had been crying all morning. Alfred‘s boss drove him home where they found a farewell note from Alfred’s wife pinned to Angel’s yellow-and-white patchwork blanket. He hugged the infant, changed her diapers, and assured her nothing in God’s glorious world could hurt them. From then on, until the County’s onsite daycare center had room, he mopped floors, swapped out light bulbs, and cleaned bathrooms with Angel tied to his chest in a homemade sling, Alfred’s heart beating against hers.

  Alfred took his third and final sick day when seventeen-year-old Angel died. She had been so excited about the new job. The money meant Dosuna, her pet name for him, could stop working overtime. She gave him a web address, a password, and kissed him for the last time.

  When his shift ended, he went to the library and logged into the website his daughter had given him. It was a webcam in a well-lit room with no furniture or windows or decorations of any kind. A striking, dark-skinned male introduced himself as Musai Alland. He wore conservative pleated slacks, a dark turtleneck and a heavy gold chain around a muscular neck. When the camera panned out, Alfred could see that he stood by a rugged trestle table holding what Alland called an avatar—a caricature—of a naked girl, five wide leather straps securing her limbs, trunk, and head. Blood oozed from hundreds of cuts in her youthful skin and the grisly remains of nail beds where fingernails should have been.

  Alland assured the audience the pathetic creature was fictitious—her pain the result of high-tech wizardry. As he tortured the girl, he asked if viewers felt contempt for his treachery or pity for her misery.

  Alfred felt shame that mankind considered this being with her cracked voice, tangled filthy hair, and wild eyes entertainment. She squirmed and pleaded while the man named Musai Alland brushed a soothing hand over her frightened face. Alland leaned forward to inhale her fear with a narrow, aquiline nose and then watched her wretchedness with wide-set, soulless eyes. He selected a squat cylinder from a shelf under the table, like the mace canisters people carry for protection. He smiled as he showed it to the creature. She pulled back, feral eyes wide, but the heavy straps held her firmly. She begged for mercy until her sobs became hysterical hiccups, and then sprayed her mouth. She howled in pain, writhing from the chemicals. He squirted her pixie ears, button nose, terrified eyes, and vagina. Primal screams vibrated against the room’s walls, her fingers clawing at the wooden bed, leaving bloody streaks under her hands. Her neck cords bulged and her back arched. As tears sprang to Alfred’s eyes, he wondered how this horror involved his Angel.

  Until one word soaked through his senses: “Dosuna!”

  Alfred blanched. No one used that name but Angel. He called her his angel and she called him her Archangel, or ‘two A’s—Dosuna. Now he saw it, in the curve of her blood-spattered neck and the swell of her tortured cheek. The crazed eyes—that last week overflowed with the fullness of life—searching for a savior who would never arrive. Through blinding tears, he stabbed at the library’s pay phone, but got only the website’s answer machine. He dialed the police, told them between sobs what he was watching and implored them to hurry. They asked him to bring the website address in and tell his story to the on-duty detective. The operator sounded bored or tired, or both. When Alfred got back to the computer, Alland was handing Angel a jagged piece of wood. She grasped it in shaking hands and slashed her wrists over and over until they were but a gory sludge of tissue. Alfred forced his eyes to remain on his baby, hot tears rolling down his face and chest heaving in agonizing sobs. He could not let his Angel die alone.

  When the screen went dark, Alfred called the same policeman and told him Angel was dead.

  His next call was to a New York number Angel had given him, a woman with a robot she said could track anything. At least, that was her claim to Angel’s high school tech class. He told the woman about Angel and Alland and asked for help. They talked for ten more minutes, and then Alfred took a taxi to the police station.

  The next morning, an email awaited him. He called in sick, shined his dress boots, donned his church clothes, smoothed his hair, and appeared at the office of the District Attorney. The golden letters over the door said he sheltered the innocent. The janitor rocked side to side as he talked, head bowed, coarse hands clutching his work cap, trying to describe what he saw and why he knew it was murder. The Great Man splayed tapered fingers across the cluttered desktop, intelligent eyes taking in Alfred’s ragged words before responding.

  “One of our detectives visited Musai Alland early this morning. He adm
itted to making the tape, but said he used a simulacrum, not a real person. He says he desires to attract Hollywood’s attention, not the police.”

  Alfred brushed a tear from his cheek. He didn’t know what a ‘sim-yoo-lay-crum’ was. He dropped out of high school when his mother died and worked sixty hours a week to raise five siblings. He opened his mouth, but found his throat too tight to speak.

  The District Attorney softened his voice. “Torturing a simulated human is not illegal. We have no crime scene or body. Without new evidence, we have no case.” He waited, as though hoping Alfred could offer more.

  With a shaking hand, Alfred nudged the email he’d received this morning across the District Attorney’s desk. “This is from an expert at Columbia University. She says these numbers give you the address of the video. They also prove the—what did you call it? Simulation?—was my daughter. She asked to remain anonymous.”

  The man thanked him and Alfred left. The next day, Musai Alland was arrested.

  When strangers passed Salah Mahmud Al-Zahrawi, aka Gegham Keregosian, in the Courthouse, they saw an attractive well-dressed man with dark foreign looks who could be Italian or Middle Eastern, maybe Spanish. He always adopted the slightly bemused expression and humble visage of an immigrant eagerly exploring the ways of his new country. They knew nothing of his mission to avenge the deaths of all Muslims killed by the infidel in the fight for Allah.

  Today would bring him one step closer to his goal.

  As he traversed the wide Courthouse hall with its faded tile floor and barren smudged walls, he prayed:

  “I desire nothing but reform, and with none but Allah is my direction to the right and successful path. On him do I rely and to him do I turn.”