<![CDATA[Suit & Sand]]> (2025)

Chapter 1

1944, Somewhere in the South Pacific

“There’s no such thing as sea monsters,” Cassandra was adamant of the fact. The sight of dark water surrounding the research vessel Liberty II sent shivers through her body and goose pimples all over her skin thinking of what could possibly be beneath. Though she wouldn’t dare to admit her fear. She worried that if her parents really knew how frightened she was lately, they’d never take her with them again on one of their adventures. These shivers could just as easily have been blamed on the chilly spray of the sea air. Or that this was the coldest night since they departed Honolulu the week prior.

Rick Sullivan could see through the façade. As an old friend of her father’s, he’d seen Cassandra grow up quickly in a time of war. He could admit that for a girl of seven she was stronger in will and determination than many grown men he knew during his naval career. But she was still a girl. One who should’ve been back at home being a kid instead of in the middle of the ocean with plenty of real dangers all around.

“Spend enough time at sea and you’ll see them,” Rick said with his eyes focused on the infinite expanse of stars above.

“Really?” Cassandra inquired with a bit of gullible energy that’s inescapable for a child with a healthy imagination.

“They say even a kraken stalks these waters.”

She’d never heard of such a thing. “What’s a kraken?”

“Nothin’, what’s a kraken wit’ you,” he said in his best Groucho Marx voice.

She tried to hold back her laughter, but failed to hold back a single snort that made her smile. She loved the Marx Brothers even when she didn’t get all the jokes. There was an energy they had on screen that she now missed as it came to mind. It had been too long since she’d been to the movies.

Her mind trailed back to the sea around her. “What about mermaids?”

“I sure hope they’re real.”

Rick turned to see a figure approaching from amidship to their spot on the stern’s open deck.

“Sir,” the Watch Officer yelled as he scooped his arm in the air to get Rick’s attention.

Rick turned to Cassandra. “I hear there’s new sweets in the galley. Why don’t you run along before it gets too late?”

“Okay, but I’m not saving you any!”

He watched her dart off down the deck to make sure she didn’t trip before making his way to the wheelhouse.

The look on the Watch Officer’s face was not the chipper smile that Petty Officer Harlan usually displayed during the cruise so far. Rick stepped aside Harlan, entering to see Captain Forsythe and Sonar Technician Paige watching the stylus on the dashboard shake wildly to the echo of an unseen disturbance nearby. A loud “PING” began to shout out of a small speaker near the control panel.

The wooden-hulled ship began its life as a minesweeper at the onset of the war and was equipped with a top-of-the-line ASDIC sonar system. Only recently was she reclassified for use under special projects. It required Lt. Sullivan to pull all the strings he could pull in order to get the vessel assigned to his mission.

“A suspicious reading, sir?” Rick asked the captain.

While the ship itself and most of the crew were all active military, the goal of the operation remained to keep everything hushed to that fact. Uniforms were replaced by civilian clothes. Tonight, the chill made Rick put on his heavier jacket for the first time they’d been out. Everyone else stayed bundled up. Only the captain remained in a short sleeve white cotton button up shirt that looked as close to a military style as possible to keep some form of decorum while aboard.

“Could be,” the captain confirmed. “How far?”

“Closing in under two thousand meters,” the tech answered.

“A whale?” Rick pondered aloud.

“I don’t know,” the tech answered again. “I don’t think so. Could be an interference. Maybe a drastic change in contrasting water temperatures now that we’re so far south.”

The signal appeared to be getting stronger. It was on the back of all their minds that something was coming for them.

“Or something else,” Rick said.

-

Cassandra quickly adapted to life at sea as much as she had to adapt to a life of travel the modern American child would only read about in the comics. She became very comfortable moving around the ship and making herself a part of the crew. At least in a minor capacity. Most of the crew welcomed her aboard like the cabin boys on old tall ships of ages past. Some were even reminded of their own kids back stateside.

By far the closest relationship she’d developed was with Mess Attendant Charles. He was barely out of high school when he was shipped off to boot camp and didn’t know where he’d end up. It was his years of assisting his father at the family's delicatessen on the lower east side of Manhattan that helped get him back in a kitchen while in uniform. With only one other Culinary Specialist aboard for the two-dozen crew aboard, the two were always busy prepping. But he always made time for Cassandra.

“What’s cookin’ little sister?” Charles said while scrubbing the long bench table in the center of the galley.

“You tell me.” Her eyes were focused on the business at hand. If there were sweets aboard, she’d find them.

He whipped his towel around his back and put his hands in the air. “I don’t know what you might have heard.”

She climbed up the bench. Slowly she sat on the freshly wiped table.

“Don’t you have any respect for a man’s duties?”

She stared him down with the eyes of a master interrogator.

He sighed. Carefully he looked around to see if the coast was clear. He leaned in to whisper in her ear,

“They’re in the oven.”

She hopped down. “Thought so.”

“If anyone asked, I didn’t tell ya nothin’. And don’t let Chief catch ya or it’ll be my ass. Not yours.”

She casually made her way into the empty kitchen. It was quiet, with the exception of a kettle slowly coming to a boil on one of the stoves. She browsed the area for a moment with her nose guiding her to the target: freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. She looked around the cupboards until she found the right size plate and spatula. It took only a moment for her to get into the oven, procure a few slightly under baked cookies, and leave the scene of the crime before anyone could notice.

Cassandra took the back exit through the kitchen to a corridor leading straight to her cabin. She reached the steep stairwell that normally she loved to slide down the railing. Now with a plate of hot cookies ticking away at being peak delicious, she couldn’t risk spilling them. Carefully she went down step by step until her mother walked out of her room.

Their eyes locked. Cassandra had the same intense brown eyes as her mother Sunny Oh. The same eyes that had charmed smugglers, pirates, and thieves from Busan to San Francisco. The eyes that captured the heart of her husband like no other could.

“Did anyone see you?” Sunny asked.

Cassandra shook her head.

“Good.”

Sunny grabbed the top cookie. There was no hesitation as she took the first bite but felt it was still a bit too hot to handle.

“Hey!” Cassandra yelled. “I didn’t even get to see which one was best.”

Sunny fanned her mouth trying to have the bite quickly cool down enough to swallow. “They’re all the same.”

Cassandra moved past her mother down the corridor.

“One of those better be for your father.”

Cassandra stopped. She’d learned from Charles how to do a proper About Face like they do in boot camp marches. She put her right toe back behind her left heel and swiftly pivoted her body on the right toe and left heel until she was looking directly at her mother with a precocious smile.

Her father was right where she left him last. Barron Telford had a hulking figure that stood out in the small confines of even one of the larger quarters of the ship. He sat at his desk combing through a pile of books and charts. His eyes were intently focused on a section of writing regarding Polynesian creation myths and the author’s own drawn correlations with the Garden of Eden from the Abrahamic religions.

Cassandra sat the plate directly over the passage he was reading. His eyes adjusted. He wasn’t sure how long he had been doing his research. This was far too common for him to get lost in his work. Something that his wife had taught Cassandra to ignore in an effort to bring him back to the reality of having a family.

“What are you doing up, Cassie?” he asked with a tired smile. He looked at the plate. “Which one’s the best one?”

She looked intently. Her eyes scanned the surface of the two remaining cookies to see which had more chocolate chips. Comparing the size of each with what could possibly be the perfect bite. She settled on her choice. Her father took the other.

“It’s not even that late.” She wasn’t too sure what time it was, but she could feel there was enough energy left in her to stay up for at least a few more hours. The cookie would likely help too.

“How much longer are we going to be here?” she said while chewing her first delectable bite. The cookie had cooled just enough to savor thoroughly for her taste.

He closed the book he was reading and pushed the others aside to reveal a map of the southern Pacific Ocean.

Sunny stood in the doorway watching one of the crew run by her in a hurry while continuing to eat the now temperate cookie. She closed the cabin door and sat on her bed, returning to her copy of Life Story Magazine she picked up at a Hawaiian drug store shortly before the voyage commenced. Desperately she wished to have grabbed something else, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying a particularly entertaining piece by August Derleth that got better on the reread. Occasionally, she’d peer up to see her husband teaching their daughter the basics of cartography.

“Mr. Telford,” the blaring intercom from the bridge startled Sunny enough to frighten Cassandra too.

“Mr. Telford, report to the bridge immediately.”

“I told you to be careful with those scary stories,” Barron said.

“I am,” Cassandra replied.

“I was talking about your mother.”

“It’s not my fault,” Sunny pointed to the cover with a beautiful redheaded starlet she didn’t recognize with a red flower in her hair. “I didn’t know they put scary stories in these ones.”

Barron stood up slowly. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be called up to talk with the captain. Especially as they were drawing near the course he set. He gave his wife a short kiss before heading out with the door closed behind.

Cassandra sat at her father’s desk casually rummaging through his books to see if there was anything of interest to her. Most of the titles she could barely comprehend: Lost Cities of the Ancient World, A Compendium of Accursed Societies, A Treatise on Occult Rituals by Adolphus Graham.

She threw each to the edge of the desk until she came to one that looked much older than the others. It looked like a very worn black leather journal. She turned to the first page.

“The Diary of Oswald Selk,” she read aloud, trying her best to get through the fancy cursive penmanship that she thought wasn’t necessary and didn’t know why people used to write that way all the time. It did make the pages look pretty; she thought as she slowly made her way through some of the passages dating as far back as 1697.

Another noise came over the intercom. This one startled both mother and daughter. It was the sound of an alarm. The sharp “AT AT AT AT AT” caused Cassandra to muffle her ears with her hands.

“Umma?” she yelled to her mother.

Sunny had never heard this alarm before. They had practiced a drill to abandon ship on the first day of the cruise, but she didn’t recall this siren being used.

She grabbed her daughter’s hand from off her ear and held it tightly as they made their way through the corridor. There was shouting coming from above deck, but she couldn’t make out exactly what was being said or just who was yelling. Carefully they climbed the steps. The noise was coming from outside. She looked into the kitchen. Empty. To her left at the top of the staircase was a door to both port and starboard sides. She opened the starboard side door and held her daughter back at the sight of a submarine floating next to the ship.

The submarine dwarfed the Liberty IIin length. The height of the conning tower was almost even to the main deck. Ropes were strung along the side rails of the ship leading back to the sub. Crew moved along the wet upper deck. It was hard to make them out completely in the night, but Sunny could recognize the silhouette of multiple uniformed men with guns.

Sunny turned back to her daughter. “Go to the room and stay there,”

“But…”

Her mother’s face said enough. Cassandra could see the real fear creeping behind those stern eyes she knew so well.

Sunny waited to make sure Cassandra was back down before she slowly made her way outside.

Cassandra could hear the echoing creak of the metal door closing behind her mom. She looked at the door to her cabin. It felt extra empty knowing her parents weren’t there where she left them. She turned back to the stairway. She’d never climbed it as quickly before this time. Her feet instinctively hit each of the metal steps until she reached the top.

She opened the portside door slowly just as her mother had done on the opposite side. There was no one in sight, but the sound of voices was apparent. Carefully she stuck close to the wall as she made her way toward the commotion.

-

Barron Telford was used to having a gun pointed at him. In most cases it wasn’t too much of a bother. Except for when his wife was involved.

He stood on the deck with his hands raised. “There’s no need to take this any further, Oberleutnant.”

Oberleutant Grimme begged to differ. He looked upon his prize with a menacing glee as two of his men dragged Sunny out of the shadows. They tossed her to the deck in front of her husband and a few captured crew of the Liberty II, already on their knees.

“I’m afraid you’re not in charge here, Herr Telford,” the Oberleutnant said. He looked at the woman in front of him with fire in her eyes. “This is your wife, ja?”

Barron could see the fury taking over his wife. He kept his hands up and addressed his captor. “You didn’t sink us. So, what do you want?”

“You, Herr Telford. The Master wants you.”

“No! You won't-” Sunny managed to get to her feet, almost enough for a lunge when she stopped abruptly with a bullet in her heart.

The commander of the submarine U-116 did not hesitate to shoot her with his sidearm. He watched her body fall limp and felt gracious enough to allow her husband to embrace his dying wife.

Barron held her in his arms. His body was shaking as he could feel that life had already left her.

“Umma!” The voice of his daughter pierced Barron’s heart. He looked over to one of the nazi sailors dragging her into view.

Rick remained still next to the bridge crew with their hands behind their heads. He could feel his heart drop into his stomach watching the young girl tossed to the deck with laughter toward her father.

Barron kept his strong arms over his family. Cassandra had never cried this hard in her short life. Her lungs ached as she pulled her mother’s arm trying to get her to move. Barron turned back to the man who killed his wife.

“I swear to God that-”

“If you don’t want her to join your wife,” Oberleutant Grimme interjected, “I suggest you do as I command. Ja?”

Barron kissed his crying child’s forehead. It took all the strength left in his body to stand up and face Grimme.

The Oberleutnant signaled one of his sailors over. “Show our guest to his new quarters for the time being.”

The sailor pushed his MP-40 submachine gun into Barron’s back and led him to the railing. He turned for one last look at his little girl on her knees sobbing against her mother.

Rick’s German was rusty, but he thought he heard the Oberleutnant give the order for his men to return to the sub. He watched as the sailors cautiously moved away from their prisoners with weapons still pointed at their targets.

Once Barron was safely aboard their submarine, the Oberleutnant gave a mocking salute to the Liberty’s crew. “Safe travels home gentlemen.”

The Nazis had fully departed back to their submarine.

Rick ran up to Cassandra with his arms around her as she struggled to breathe. He picked her up with little struggle. She wanted to resist being taken away from her mother, but there was no more fight left in her frail body.

“Prepare to make way to the nearest port,” Captain Forsythe yelled his order to the crew on the deck as they watched the submarine start to slink away into the dark.

“We need to abandon ship,” Rick said, feeling his heart at the edge of popping out of his chest. “Now. Sir.”

“They came with a mission, and they already saw it through. Our best chance now is to get as far away from these waters as possible, Lt. Sullivan.”

Rick could feel Cassandra shaking in his arms. He made his way down the starboard side of the ship until he came upon the Carley floats secured against the side with rope. He sat Cassandra down and proceeded to free the raft as quickly as he could. He could feel in his gut that the submarine was likely circling its prey like a shark preparing to feast. There was no telling how much time he had or if an attack would even happen at all.

Once the float was free, he got it into the water along with a standard issue survival kit.

He kneeled down to Cassandra who seemed almost catatonic.

“We’re going to go into that life raft, okay?”

He wasn’t sure if she was well enough to understand, but it didn’t matter at the moment. He hoisted her over his shoulder and jumped into the dark water.

The sea was warmer than expected, but chilly enough to pull Cassandra out of her shock. They both bobbed up gasping for air. Rick grabbed her arm and back stroked his way to the float. Cassandra could feel the panic rush over her as she fought to stay above water. Rick’s heart clenched onto the side of the float. He lifted Cassandra up enough until she could pull herself to safety. Rick stayed in the water with his hands against the float, kicking hard to get as far from the ship as he could.

He barely made it a few meters out when Liberty II exploded from a torpedo directly to the port side.

Chapter 2

1697, The Caribbean

Captain Roger Dalton manned the helm of the Bermuda sloop Myna Bird through the harshest storm of his life.

“Captain!” boatswain Talbot yelled from the deck against a harsh spray of the sea. “We need to drop canvas!”

“Belay that thought, Mr. Talbot!” the captain ordered. He knew the boatswain was right. There was little chance the rigging would hold with the storm’s current strength. But their only chance of survival was forging ahead against all odds and praying for mercy from an unforgiving sea.

He couldn’t tell from their position on the rolling waves just how far behind the royal navy frigate H.M.S Oxford remained. Dalton figured pursuing the storm was his best bet rather than fighting outgunned by one of the sharpest pirate hunters of the Spanish Main.

The crew of the Myna Birdbraced themselves as their ship crested one of the tallest waves of the storm before they were thrown down against the might of Neptune’s wrath.

Dalton kept a weather eye to the rear. A flash of lightning revealed that the Oxford was getting closer.

He wondered if his luck had finally run dry and if that damned chest was to blame.

It was only a day before that they raided a merchant ship bound for England from Port Royal. The Canterburywas an easy target that provided little resistance. The ship was only one of the first prizes Dalton had taken since officially taking command of the Myna Bird from John De La Cruz. He wished to find something worthy for the crew to take to help keep his claim to captain strong.

The Canterbury had proved otherwise.

Most of the haul remained insignificant with an array of fancy bolts of cloth and enough exotic fruits to stave off scurvy for a few weeks. However, there was one piece that shadowed the rest: an ornate black chest with no discernable lock or keyhole. Only one member of the Canterbury’s guests seemed to care enough to warn Dalton’s men not to take it as they left. Unfortunately for that man, Quartermaster Bart Teague slit his throat before Captain Dalton had noticed anything was wrong.

The exquisitely crafted obsidian chest was loaded aboard Dalton’s ship where the captain inspected his curious prize. Intricate carvings of esoteric symbols surrounded every inch of the box. If the chest itself looked valuable enough, he figured whatever was hidden inside must be as well or more so.

Though the longer he spent in the presence of the chest, the more he felt on edge. An intense sense of dread came over him when he ran his hand on the flat top of the box, as if the whole thing was cursed by the devil himself. He considered throwing it overboard but knew the crew would not abide abandoning treasure. Especially without at least seeing what lay within.

The wind hissed with violent ferocity as a mass of dense fog fell upon the Myna Bird. Captain Dalton grabbed a loose line of rope and lashed himself to the helm. No longer could he visualize where the sea was taking him. His stomach dropped with the rise of another wave, taller than he thought possible for the ship to survive. He braced for the unknowable fate of heaven or hell.

-

The morning light felt like a godsend to the crew of the H.M.S Oxford.

Captain Ellison remained positive that his prey, or any sign of wreckage, would show itself sooner than later. He’d manage to sail his ship through the storm with only minor damage to the sails and rigging. It was enough that just a short visit back to port could easily overcome the night’s gambit.

A steady breeze from the northwest fixed the sails taut as the ship continued the search. Not a single piece of flotsam or jetsam was found. It appeared that the Myna Bird and all aboard had been claimed by the sea.

Chapter 3

1960 - Off the Florida Coast

“Can I get you another drink, General?” Cassandra Oh asked with all the fake enthusiasm she could muster.

She felt the intense stare of the Cuban eying her body through the tight baby blue skirt suit as she removed an empty martini glass from his tray table.

“Maybe some of your bourbon this time,” General Perez shifted around in the well-padded brown leather seat. He looked over to his young wife gleefully staring out the window as TWA flight 23 leveled off above the clouds. “Your vodka was no good.”

“I’ll get that right away,” she tried to leave, but his hand gripped hers as if a trap abruptly sprung. It took all of her training to hold back the reflex of jabbing her white gloved fist into his throat.

“Have you had real Russian vodka, senorita?”

Indeed, she had. Many times. Her last encounter with the spirit almost cost her life in Vladivostok. But this wasn’t the time for the truth.

“No. General.”

He looked back as she retreated towards the front, wishing the hemline of her skirt was much higher.

She closed the curtain dividing the first class to the galley and took a deep breath of cigarette smoke provided by air hostess Rebecca Gables. Cassandra set the martini glass on the prep counter. She removed her pillbox hat and stretched her neck, glaring at Gables reading a thin mass market paperback with the image of a farm girl luring a cowboy on the cover.

“Can you get the General a bourbon?”

“I’m on break,” Rebecca answered sharply, pulling another drag from her cigarette with eyes scanning the page.

“We just took off.”

Gables sighed. She put the cigarette between her lips and stowed the book in one of the many top metal cupboards.

“Bourbon neat or with ice?” Rebecca asked with the cigarette tucked into the side of her mouth.

“Lots of ice,” Cassandra answered. “I think the General needs to cool off.”

Rebecca scooped a generous serving of ice into an old-fashioned glass. She pulled out a fresh bottle of 6-year 90 proof Bond & Lillard from the drink cabinet.

First Officer Danny Dekker stepped out of the cockpit with a smile. Rebecca quickly put the cigarette out in the dirty martini glass. She threw Dekker a flirty gaze while Cassandra’s glare found a new target.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Rebecca said, pouring the bourbon to the top.

“Good afternoon, Miss Gables. Miss?” He looked at Cassandra.

“Macintosh.”

“Miss Macintosh,” the name seemed to give him a bit of a chuckle. “How’s our special guest?”

“About to give him his second drink of the flight,” Gables said.

“Actually,” Cassandra corrected, “his third.”

“Lovely,” Danny didn’t seem to listen to Cassandra’s answer. “Carry on then.”

Rebecca put a red propeller drink stirrer in the cocktail as she left the galley. Cassandra made sure the curtain was shut before hitting Danny with her pillbox hat.

“Hey!” Danny said. “Watch it. This is one of the few uniforms I actually look pretty good in, don’t you think?” He dusted off his dark blue co-pilot jacket.

“Why’d you get to be in the cockpit and I’m back here with these…”

“Civilians?”

“Whatever. What’d you find out?” she asked.

“Nothing we didn’t already know.”

This wasn’t their first mission together. If anything, they were starting to feel like partners. There was a brotherly energy about him that she couldn’t stand, but she still respected that he knew how to handle himself when the situation turned ugly. This mission seemed like it could turn that way at any moment.

Cuban General Alejandro Perez was selected for a goodwill exhibition with select delegates in Miami and the United Nations in New York. A contact in Havana to their agency revealed the trip would end with Perez dead and the US to blame. A seemingly peaceful mission verged on the edge of WW3 if they failed to guard him. The hard part was seeing exactly when the attack on Perez would occur.

Even though there was a short notice switch in planes, the jet was searched top to bottom before they departed Miami. There was only about two hours left before they’d arrive in New York. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the longer Cassandra spent with General Perez the more she wanted him dead.

There was only one clue: “1959” written hastily on a cocktail napkin stuffed into the pocket found on the choked body of their informant in a Miami nightclub.

“I’ve checked most of the bags overhead,” Cassandra said.

“You went through people’s luggage?”

She shrugged. “Not that they noticed. Did Jimmy go through the cargo?”

Dekker nodded. They’d had their associate Jimmy running point on inspecting the baggage coming into the cargo hold below. If something was out of the ordinary, they assumed it would be found by now.

“What about in there?” Cassandra pointed to the cockpit.

Danny shook his head.

Cassandra pushed past him into the cabin. Flight Engineer Davis and Flight Captain O’Brien were in the middle of a laughing fit.

“You boys better not be having too much fun up here,” she said, feeling Dekker trying to move her out of the doorway.

“Don’t you worry about that,” the captain said. “How’s it going back there?”

“Business as usual. Can I get you boys anything?” Cassandra’s eyes were scanning the wide array of dials and meters on the control panel. It all looked rather intimidating in the broad scan, but the more she focused it began to make sense to her.

“A round of coffees maybe,” Dekker pushed his way past Cassandra and sat in the co-pilot's chair. “Black.”

She focused on one particular dial near the center console labeled “Hours” showing a reading of 1958 in white numbers on black plates next to a black four at the end on a white plate.

“What’s that one for?” Cassandra pointed it out.

“This?” Dekker confirmed. “It’s the Hobbs meter. It shows the time that the aircraft’s been in use. The numbers are for the hours and these to the tenth of an hour.”

“Do you see anything particularly interesting about that number?” she said, hiding the fear she was starting to develop thinking of the worst-case scenario.

Dekker examined the meter again. It took him less than a moment to realize what his partner had discovered. There was a large chance that this meant nothing, but in their line of work coincidences were rarely just coincidences. Danny was aware that this Douglas DC - 8 was replaced at the last minute due to an issue with the landing gear. His mind conjured up images of men posing as technicians to work on this aircraft before the switch.

“Captain O’Brien,” Dekker tapped on the meter, “I think we need to make an emergency landing.”

“Are you joking?” the captain chuckled.

“No sir.”

“Then what are you babbling on about?”

“Once that meter hits 1959,” Dekker said.

“We’re dead,” Cassandra interrupted.

Davis and O’Brien exchanged quizzical glances. “You’re crazy. You know that?”

“Is there any way we can check what that meter is plugged into?” Cassandra asked.

“Not without taking off this portion of the panel,” Flight Engineer Davis responded.

The tenth of the hour indicator flipped to a black five on a white plate.

“We have about 30 minutes left to get this bird out of the air,” Dekker announced. “What’s the nearest airport?”

“At this point maybe Orlando,” O’Brien thought out loud. “But even if that were true, it’ll likely be too late.”

“Tell Orlando we’re on our way,” Cassandra said.

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” the captain asked.

“We’re the ones trying to keep you and everyone aboard alive,” Dekker said.

“I’m going to need some identification,” the captain asked.

Cassandra reached below her skirt and removed a Whitney Wolverine semi-automatic .22 LR caliber pistol from her thigh strap. She held it up for the captain to see. “How’s this?”

O’Brien reluctantly nodded to his engineer. They began their preparations to adjust the course and alert Orlando International that they were on their way.

Dekker flew small engine planes before. This was the background information he used during the planning phase of their assignment to get his way into the copilot’s seat. He realized now that he was a bit over his head with handling the responsibilities of a jet airliner traveling 600-miles-an-hour.

Cassandra closed the cockpit door. Stewardess Gables walked back into the galley with a tray full of empty glassware.

“It’s time to get the lunch service started,” Gables said. She set the tray down. Her eyes immediately caught sight of the gun in Cassandra’s hand.

Cassandra noticed it too. She quickly put her free index finger to her lips. Rebecca moved her hand down without thinking. The tray of glassware spilled onto the ground with broken glass shooting out in all directions. Rebecca put her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.

“Just take it easy,” Cassandra said as she put the weapon back on her leg strap.

“Are you a hijacker?”

“I’m a secret agent. Now help me clean this up.”

The hour indicator flipped to six as they turned West toward the peninsula. It flipped to seven when Dekker and the flight engineer removed the panel around the Hobbs meter. Carefully Davis removed the time gauge and stopped at the sight of additional wires attached to the back of the unit.

“That’s not good,” Davis remarked. He pointed to additional red wires barely blending in with the rest that connected the device to the rest of the plane’s control center. “These shouldn’t be here.”

“Can you disable whatever it is?” Dekker asked.

“Not without knowing exactly what it is that the Hobbs is tied into,” Davis said. He put the meter back in its place. Davis turned to O’Brien. “This isn’t a joke.”

Everyone in the cramped cockpit kept their eyes on the hour indicator as it continued ticking away the minutes. The plane pushed full throttle toward the Florida coast.

Captain O’Brien took hold of the intercom. After a deep breath, he made the announcement for everyone aboard that they were preparing to make an emergency landing. The joyous mood of a quick trip to New York quickly turned into the beginning of a nightmare for the passengers of TWA flight 23.

Rebecca dumped the last of the broken glass into the trash can held by Cassandra. They listened tensely to the announcement from the pilot.

“Look at me,” Cassandra said to Rebecca. The frightened stewardess tried to control her emotions.

“You can do this. We can do this.”

“Okay…”

“Let's do our jobs and make sure everyone is prepared. Can you help me with that?”

Rebecca nodded sheepishly.

Cassandra put the trash can away before leading Rebecca down the aisle to make sure their passengers were securely fastened.

Cape Canaveral came into view as the indicator flipped to eight. The captain kept his mind busy with mental calculations that didn’t give him the answers he wanted.

“Start a hard descent,” the captain said to his copilot.

“Now?” Dekker asked. He began cycling through his training and following the captain’s lead.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice was somber and steadfast. “Brace yourselves.”

Cassandra sat in the galley crew chairs looking across at Rebecca. It was silent except for the clicking of their seat belts locking in place. Cassandra could see through a nearby window that they had just passed through a patch of clouds heading toward the ocean.

-

Florida State Trooper Johnson stayed heading eastbound on the A1A over Indian River when he noticed a jet airliner heading his way. He tossed his coffee out the window and fired up his sirens. There wasn’t a lot of traffic this time of the afternoon, but he noticed a stream of cars entering the highway now that he’d reached Merritt Island.

He tried to estimate exactly where it looked like the plane may land. All he could do was pull his ‘59 Ford Galaxie ahead fast as the engine would allow. He turned hard and slammed his brakes to stop the cars behind from getting closer.

The jet airliner’s landing gear bounced off the highway ahead a few times before managing to keep it on the ground. It was swiftly barreling down the road, barely slowing down as cars narrowly swerved out of the way.

Trooper Johnson got out of his patrol car. He realized it wasn’t a question of if the plane would reach him, but when.

He ran down the highway through the line of blocked cars still mostly filled with startled passengers.

“Get out of your vehicles!” He banged on windows as he passed. “Now! Get out! Get Out!

Everyone started to follow his lead as they caught a glimpse of the massive airliner hurtling towards them.

Johnson opened the door of an old pickup truck for a mother with her young son. He helped get the boy out of the car and into his arms. He took the woman’s hand as the plane was about to reach his car not far ahead. He jumped over the side of the highway with the boy and woman in tow.

They landed in Sykes Creek below as the plane came to a sudden halt above.

Chapter 4

1960, The Pentagon

“You pulled a gun on the pilot,” the voice of Rear Admiral Baynes struck a nerve with Cassandra. It wasn’t exactly what he was saying, but how he was saying it that really got on her nerves.

“He wouldn’t listen,” Cassandra stood tall near the podium next to a slide of the emergency responders assisting the passengers of TWA Flight 23 projected against the white canvas backdrop. “To be clear, I didn’t point it at him.”

Baynes looked down at the dossier opened in front of him at the head of the large conference room table.

“And it says here you told a stewardess that you are a quote ‘secret agent’?”

“She thought I was a hijacker. It seemed like the best thing to say to get her to calm down. I think it worked.”

Danny Dekker sat in his dress white uniform at the other end of the table near his partner. It was hard for him to listen to the details of the debrief and even harder to hear Cassandra’s answers. He wished she’d at least have worn her uniform for the admiral. Though he didn’t mind looking at her in the stylish auburn short shirt dress buttoned all the way to the collar with a geometrical pattern that pulled in his eyes.

Rick Sullivan peeled an orange as he sat across from Danny and Cassandra. He could see how visibly uncomfortable Danny was feeling. For an intelligence agent, he thought the young man didn’t hide his discomfort easily. That was a natural quality that some adopted quicker. He knew it came easy to Cassandra. At least when she tried.

“Sir,” Dekker stood to address the admiral. “If I may speak freely.”

Baynes waved a dismissive hand.

“Lieutenant Oh is the reason everyone aboard survived that flight. Including General-”

“Sit down, Lieutenant Dekker,” Baynes closed the dossier. “This operation will remain open until a more thorough investigation can take place. Until then,” he addressed Cassandra directly, “You are suspended from further duties.”

The projector cut out as the beaming fluorescent bulbs hissed back on from above to illuminate the dark wood paneled conference room.

“Sir,” Cassandra stepped up to the table. She was unsure of what to say that wouldn’t result in more trouble.

Rick’s eyes lit up as he continued to eat his orange. This was mostly a military matter. He was no longer a part of the chain of command, but as a civilian intelligence director, Cassandra was still one of his direct reports that included Dekker and a few other select analysts. He was also no longer relegated to a uniform. He didn’t mind wearing a suit, but he longed for the days stationed in Hawaii where an aloha shirt was still acceptable in certain meetings. Though he knew that would never fly with Baynes.

“On top of the incidents listed under this operation,” the admiral stated with vigor, “your constant lack of military bearing will be subject to review as well. Is that understood, Lieutenant Junior Grade Oh?”

“Yes, admiral.”

“You’re dismissed. Bring in the next briefer.” The admiral could see Danny starting to get up. “Stay here, Lieutenant Dekker.”

Dekker cautiously sat back down. His eyes locked with Cassandra’s as she exited. A tall balding man in a gray suit too big for his slender frame walked in carrying a bundle of dossiers in his arm. He passed them around the table before taking his place at the podium.

“Good morning Admiral Baynes. Mr. Sullivan. Lieutenant Dekker. My name is Alan Sprawling. I’m one of the senior analysts on Mr. Sullivan’s team. Lights please. Slide one.”

The lights dimmed as the projector kicked back on with a display image stating the following brief is Top Secret.

“Slide two.”

The image on the screen was of a light cargo ship with the caption: USS Wilden, Camanoclass (AKL-15), pictured Guam 1958.

“Two weeks ago we lost radio contact with USS Wilden on route to the Marshall Islands from San Pedro, California. Her final transmission indicated she had been taken severely off course due to a storm. Unfortunately, our other ships and stations in the area were not able to verify such a storm, but were tasked with locating the vessel. Slide three”

The projector switched to an image of the ship washed ashore on a patch of rocks.

“It was found by fishermen near the Cook Islands four days ago. Roughly three thousand nautical miles off course. The ship was found without any sign of crew or cargo.”

“What were they carrying?” Dekker asked.

“Slide 4.”

Dekker was pretty sure it was some kind of torpedo, only much wider all around. Then he saw “14 kilotons” in small type at the bottom of the photo.

“A Mark 12 nuclear bomb. Specifically designed with a W-12 warhead variant to be used as a part of the new Talos Surface to Air Missile system developed in conjunction with Operation Bumblebee. A smaller and more tactical nuclear deterrent.”

“If there is such a thing,” Sullivan said. He finished his orange. “Continue Alan.”

“Slide 5.”

A large blue map of the South Pacific appeared with a scattering display of far flung islands. The only marked reference points visible seemed to be Fiji, the Cook Islands, French Polynesia and a small speck of land circled in red below them.

“It’s the assessment of this team that the weapon and possibly the crew were taken from the Wildento one of the nearby islands. Specifically, here,” Alan pointed to the circled island at the bottom of the map.

The admiral turned to give Sullivan a stern look of disapproval. “Not this nonsense again.”

Dekker looked confused at their interaction. “Can someone elaborate on what the issue is?”

“The issue,” Admiral Baynes chimed in, “is that the island doesn’t exist.”

“Can he continue with the brief?” Sullivan interjected. “A lot of effort has been put into this job.”

Baynes checked his watch. “Proceed…”

Alan stumbled to remember his place as he checked his notes. “The island, referred to in certain select texts.”

“You mean mumbo jumbo?” the admiral inserted.

“Is called Mola’Kalar. Not much has been documented and corroborated for certain. It was first referenced officially in the diary of a British occultist and explorer named Oswald Selk in the late 17th century. The diary was found in possession of a Nazi spy captured during the war with ties to a global spiritualist organization known as the Hermetic Order of the Rising Night. Or simply: THORN.”

“Mr. Sullivan took part in Operation No Man’s Island in 1944 to validate a theory that the Nazi's had found the island and were using it as the hub for clandestine activities in the Pacific.”

“I’m very aware of Mr. Sullivan’s work on the matter,” the admiral commented. “I’m also aware of the incident with theUSS Clovisa few years back in the same area.”

“Next slide,” Alan’s voice squeaked out.

The image on the screen was of a light cruiser with the caption: USSClovis, Juneau class (CL-123), pictured Lima, Peru 1955.

“The official line is that the ship had been caught in a storm,” Alan said. “With only one survivor.”

“I think we all remember hisofficial line?” the admiral chuckled. “A sea monster.”

“Yes,” Alan tried to continue, “but-”

“He confirmed the existence of the island,” Sullivan said as he stood from his chair. His laid-back demeanor quickly shifted to defensiveness. “He provided a detailed eyewitness account of it along with the willing witnesses interviewed that assisted his escape.”

“What’s your point, Sullivan?” The admiral’s patience was at an end. “I have a lunch appointment with the Under Secretary that can’t be missed. How many more slides are there?”

“Twenty…” Alan could feel the bureaucratic hate coming from the admiral’s eyes at the answer.

“Good god…”

“I’m requesting Operation No Man’s Island be reinstated,” Sullivan stated plainly. “I have a lead to a smuggler in Hong Kong who we’ve tracked making regular voyages to the area. Dekker is more than capable of intercepting him and investigating further. This is the best trail we have at getting this weapon back without incident. I doubt the Under Secretary or Secretary of Defense would want to hear that we didn’t investigate a potential lead on a missing atomic weapon.”

The admiral stood and buttoned his jacket. He grabbed his coffee as he headed to the door. He stopped for a moment to let out a very vocal sigh. “Operation approved.”

-

Cassandra sat on one of the many benches encircled around the edges of the Pentagon courtyard overlooking the hot dog stand cheerfully nicknamed “Ground Zero” Café.

The rush of people all around meant it was time for lunch. The time when hundreds of low-level civil servants passed through the center of the building from every corridor and hidden chamber to visit the robust cafeteria. The higher brass and directors typically enjoyed their own special dining rooms when not needing to venture into the heart of D.C. for important meetings of state. She’d only been to one of the executive dining rooms briefly when Rick wanted to treat her after a grueling trip to North Africa.

“You look like shit, Cassie,” a familiar voice said from nearby. It was Rick.

“It’s not like you were any help in there,” Cassandra didn’t want to look at him. He sat down next to her anyway with a dossier in his hands.

“I have to pick my battles with the admiral…and most of the intelligence community. But that’s beside the point.” He dropped the dossier into her lap.

She looked down and moved it to the other side of the bench.

“Did you get my suspension revoked?” she asked with glee.

“Eh, not exactly.” Rick stood up with a groan feeling his body ache. “Might I suggest you take a trip. I hear Hollywood is lovely this time of year.”

She watched him stretch while disappearing into a crowd of secretaries. This was the first time in a long time that she felt the ache in her heart that maybe she wasn’t cut out for this life. It was Rick’s life. No matter how good of a godfather he’d been, she felt at times that he wasn’t raising a goddaughter. It was more that he was raising another Rick.

Cassandra took the dossier with her as she left the Pentagon. She kept it closed as she got on her number 12 bus to King Street in Alexandria. It was only a block and a half walk from the stop to her apartment above Ray’s Appliances. It wasn’t the best, but she liked that it was next door to the Richmond Theater.

The marquee above read “The Time Machine.” She hadn’t seen it yet, but she could hear it through the walls. It wasn’t too loud. At least not enough to bug her. She found it soothing. Occasionally she’d get to spend her hours rewatching movie after movie. Especially on hot Virginia summer days that felt particularly brutal with the humidity creeping all over her body.

This summer hadn’t been too hot, but she realized now that most of her time lately was spent out of the city. There was a nice breeze coming through the two open windows of her small one bedroom living space that lacked what some may describe as ‘a woman’s touch’.

She dropped the dossier on the folding table that served as a multipurpose space for dining, working, and generally holding mail that accumulated faster than she could open.

Cassandra grabbed a juice glass from the kitchen sink that looked clean enough. She opened the fridge and poured the last of a batch of iced tea she’d made the day before. The smell of grilled meats from one of the neighbors wafted through the windows. It hit her stomach hard, but the only thing that was in her fridge just disappeared into her juice glass.

She sat at the table. Slowly looking through the raw data and pre-analyzed reports that filled the dossier. The full picture in her head began to form with each bit of information. Her heart beat faster with every page absorbed. It seemed too intense to be true. A dream or a nightmare revisited from the last voyage with her parents. In her mind, she could still feel her mother’s cold body on the deck of that infernal ship. She could still feel the last embrace her father gave her before being dragged into the dark abyss of her memory.

Clipped on to the last page of reports was a picture that brought back happier feelings. She looked at the smiling faces of her mother, father, her young self, and Rick taken at a dinner only a couple of weeks before the incident. The back of the card read “Spenger’s Fresh Fish Grotto, Berkeley, 1944” at the top. The writing on the bottom looked fresh and familiar. “Go get ‘em, Cassie.”

She wasn’t sure how long she studied the photograph. Seeing the joy and love in her parents eyes recaptured a feeling she thought was lost years ago.

Cassandra set it down next to the final page of the report. It was a profile of Rodrigo Martinez, the only survivor of the USS Clovis who claimed to have been to the island. His last address on file listed Los Angeles. Rodrigo’s picture was stapled at the bottom. He looked familiar, but not in a way she could remember ever meeting.

It took a few minutes to realize that she’d seen him before at the Richmond Theater. Only he wasn’t in the audience. He was on the screen.