Marcus “Fish” Jones couldn’t get the sound out of his head.
BANG… BANG…
It all started the day before while he doing some personal research on the Khlebnikov, a Russian sub trapped in the ice about a kilometer off base. A storm had been brewing and he should have left much sooner, but Fish’s curiosity got the better of him and he continued to explore. Despite his age, Fish felt like a kid on a jungle gym, and he climbed all over the sub. He was inspecting the periscope when he heard it.
BANG… BANG…
Two loud noises, then nothing. The thing that sent shivers down his old spine was that it sounded deliberate. Measured. As if there was something in the Khlebnikov…
He broke from his reminiscing and got up from his bed, his bones aching. He turned to his small worn pill bottle and opened the cracked top. The bottom of the bottle was still legible and read ENOL. This was his emergency stash of painkillers, horse tranquilizers to be exact. He was desperately waiting for a new supply of morphine to help him overcome the lingering effects of a devastating motorcycle crash decades earlier. He had survived, but chronic pain became his constant companion.
The tranqs worked immediately and Fish pulled himself from his bed where he had spent a sleepless night the night before. He needed to get back to that submarine. He needed to listen, to prove to himself that he hadn’t actually heard anything. He needed to nip this one in the bud.
Marcus got his gear together and pulled on his multiple layers, skin pulling tight over old scar tissue. He signed out one of the two arctic ATVs in the garage and sped out, wheels kicking up a spray of fine grained snow.
The day was crisp and clear. In the distance he saw the sub’s radio antenna emerge over the horizon, then the conning tower, smooth and black against the white of the endless snow. The storm had kicked up some loosely packed snow and blown it around, leaving more of the hull visible than he’d ever seen. He fought the creeping dread of hearing the sound as he got closer.
Fish parked the ATV next to the Khlebnikov and began walking around. He was looking for a way to get up on top of the sub when he noticed a piece of dark blue fabric sticking out of the snow in the shadow of the hull. The storm must have blown the snow drifts around revealing this new artifact.
Fish got close enough to determine that he was looking at the sleeve of a navy uniform, but recoiled in horror when he saw that the sleeve ended with a dead, white hand encircled with what looked like a medical bracelet.
Trembling, he got closer, close enough to read the name on the bracelet: Uri Popov. His breath caught in his throat when he read the date on the bracelet. It was dated one month ago.
BANG… BANG…
As quickly as his old bones allowed, Marcus Jones turned and ran. He hopped on his ATV and fumbled with the ignition until he peeled out from the shadow of the Khlebnikov. He needed to tell someone, anyone. But first, he would need to finish off his bottle of horse tranquilizers.
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