Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me (34 page)

“The ship reappeared just a few moments later at Norfolk, Virgina. It was observed, and identified, and then it disappeared again, returning to Philadelphia’s waters. The scientists on shore radioed the
Eldridge
again and again, demanding to know what had happened, but got no reply. There was a lot of dithering among the scientists and the navy brass over possible radiation leaks and the like, but in the end the navy had no choice but to send ships out to make contact with the
Eldridge
sitting still and silent in the water.

“When the team of volunteers got on board to investigate, they found blood and death and horror. Most of the crew were dead. Many were insane. Quite a few were missing. There was extensive damage to the ship, as though it had taken part in a major firefight, but no clue as to who or what they’d been fighting. Worst of all, something had gone terribly wrong when the
Eldridge
teleported. Some of the crew had rematerialised inside steel walls and doors. Flesh and metal fused together on the molecular level. But still horribly alive and begging to be put out of their misery. Luckily, they didn’t last long.

“The whole thing was hushed up by naval intelligence, denied all the way up the line. There was a war on, after all. And while a success has many fathers, a clusterfuck has no friends. The ship was broken up for scrap, after the burnt-out machines had been removed, and another ship was given the
Eldridge
’s name. The surviving crew . . . disappeared. It was wartime, after all. I like to think they were taken care of properly; the U.S. Navy has a long tradition of looking after its own.

“And that . . . is the legend of the Philadelphia Experiment. The U.S. Navy still denies any of these things ever happened.”

“Right!” said Peter. “If you look up
Philadelphia Experiment
on the Net, the first site it offers you is run by the U.S. Navy, presenting their answers to the most frequently asked questions, denying everything. Backed up by loads and loads of official-looking records.”

We all looked at him.

“I was curious,” said Peter. “After the film . . .”

“Be that as it may,” said Walker, “that is the legend. What do we know about the facts?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” I said cheerfully. “Various Droods have looked into it down the years; we’re fascinated by mysteries, and we don’t like not knowing something that might turn out to be important. But American naval intelligence has gone to great lengths to deny, hide, and destroy all evidence of what really went down on that day of October 28th, 1943. And short of launching a major offensive on U.S. soil, we had no way of progressing. So we didn’t. We didn’t care that much.”

Our waitress had been busy removing empty plates for some time, coming and going so often that we’d forgotten she was there and talked openly in front of her. That’s why servants and service staff make such great sources of information. They’re around so much they’re practically invisible. And big people do so love to pretend that little people don’t really exist.

“You folks here about the
Eldridge
?” she said cheerfully, and we all jumped, suddenly aware of her presence. “We get a lot of tourists ’cause of that. We got whole shops dedicated to selling nothing but. They can fix you up with books and posters and films and God knows what else. All junk, of course. Don’t waste your money. They make most of it up over drinks in the back rooms of bars. Tourists do love a good tall tale, God bless them. You know, my granddaddy worked right here in the docks, during the war. What he always called the Big One. He said, people back then used to call that ship the
Eldritch,
’cause of all the weird stuff that went on around it.”

“What kind of weird things?” said Honey as casually as she could.

“Oh, shoot. Bright lights, strange noises, lots of coming and going. And tons and tons of brand-new equipment. Granddaddy always said the ship would have had to be bigger on the inside than it was on the outside to fit it all in!”

“And the . . . legend?” said Walker. “The tall tales . . . Was your grandfather here when all that happened?”

“Bless you, no, honey!” said the waitress. “Never saw any such thing! It’s all just stories to bring in the suckers. Sorry; tourists. Got to work that tourist dollar!” She smiled at Walker. “You know, if you want, I could get you a cup of tea from the cook’s private stock. Real tea bags!”

“We’re not stopping,” Honey said firmly. “Could we have the check, please?”

The waitress bestowed another gleaming smile on Walker and swayed off on her high heels.

“She likes you,” I said.

“Shut up,” said Walker.

“She likes you. She’s your special waitress friend.”

“I am old enough to be her father,” said Walker with great dignity.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” said Peter. “This is America. Most men here wouldn’t be seen dead with a woman old enough to be their wife. This is the only country that thinks Zimmer frames are sexy.”

Honey slapped him round the back of the head.

“Stop that!” said Peter, edging his chair back out of her reach.

“Then stop being you,” said Honey.

“Well,” I said quickly, “I think it’s safe to assume we were sent here to investigate the mystery of the Philadelphia Experiment.”

“Seems like our best bet,” said Honey.

“You could ask your people at Langley to lean on naval intelligence,” said Walker. “Get them to open some of these secret files they claim not to have.”

“Take too long,” said Honey. “Our intelligence agencies have a really bad track record when it comes to cooperating with each other. Partly politics, partly jurisdiction, partly because each agency has its own secret agenda, but mostly it’s just a pissing contest. The Company has more clout than most, but even so . . .”

“We don’t have the time,” I said. “Especially since we lost three days at Tunguska.”

“Right,” said Peter. “Grandfather could be dead by now, or getting close.”

“I have to say,” said Walker, “that you don’t sound too concerned.”

“Well, that’s probably because I’m not,” said Peter. “Except that the old goat could turn up his toes at any time, and then all of this would have been for nothing. Are any of you going to try to pretend you care?”

“I don’t know the man,” said Honey. “All I know is the legend of the Independent Agent.”

“It’s always sad when a legend passes,” I said. “One less wonder in the world.”

“Like your uncle James?” said Walker. “The famous, or perhaps more properly infamous, Gray Fox?”

“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”

“How did the Gray Fox die, exactly?” said Honey. “We never did get all the details.”

“And you never will,” I said. “That’s family business. We will now change the subject.”

“What if we don’t want to?” said Peter.

I looked at him, and he stirred uneasily in his chair. “Don’t push your luck, Peter,” I said.

“Now, children,” said Walker. “Play nice.”

“We need to go back to the docks,” I said. “I can use my Sight, boost it through the armour, if necessary. Perhaps pick up some ghost images of the experiment itself, back in 1943.”

“You think they’ll still be here?” said Honey.

“Of course,” I said. “Bad things sink in; remember?”

“Have we got time for some dessert?” said Peter. “Stop hitting me, woman!”

“How are we going to split the bill?” said Walker.

“Hell with that,” I said. “Honey can pay. CIA’s got the deepest pockets of anyone at this table.”

Honey scowled as she reached for her credit card. “Hate doing my expenses,” she growled. “They challenge everything these days. Whole damn Company is run by bean counters.”

Before we left, Walker made a point of leaving a generous tip for the waitress.

 

We headed back to the docks, strolling along with the portly, unhurried steps of the well-fed. There were tourists all around in brightly coloured shirts, looking like mating birds of paradise. Mostly they seemed interested in architecture, historical points of interest, and shops selling overpriced tatt. We were the only ones standing on the edge of the docks, staring out at the ships. No one paid us any special attention. I checked. The river was calm and peaceful, the sky was untroubled by cloud or plane, and the sun was pleasantly warm. Just enough of a breeze blowing in off the water to be refreshing.

I raised my Sight and looked at the river again. To my surprise, I couldn’t make out a thing. So much psychic energy had been released in the vicinity that the aether was jammed solid with an overlapping mess of signals. As though so many strange and wonderful things had happened here that the atmosphere had become supersaturated with information. It was all just a fog of events, magical and scientific, piled on top of each other like a thousand voices all shouting at once, desperate to be heard. I subvocalised my activating Words and clad myself in golden armour. Honey moved in close beside me.

“Is that really wise?” she hissed. “We’re supposed to be undercover agents, remember? Aren’t you in the least concerned that the tourists will see you in your armour and run screaming for their lives? Or an exorcist? All it needs is one quick-thinking onlooker to catch you on his phone camera, and we will be the local news, on every channel!”

“Try not to panic,” I said, still looking out over the river through my golden mask. “It’s very unbecoming in an agent. My torc broadcasts a signal that prevents anyone from seeing the armour. Unless I decide otherwise.”

“We can see it,” said Peter.

“Only because I let you,” I said.

“Hold everything,” said Walker. “Are you saying your torc has influence, even control, over our thoughts?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. I am a Drood and therefore by definition far too nice and good and noble to even think of abusing such a privilege.”

“Typical Drood arrogance!” said Honey. “You never thought to mention this before, because . . . ?”

“I thought you knew,” I said. “You’re CIA. You know everything.”

“Don’t hit him,” Walker said to Honey. “You’d only hurt your hand. Wait till he’s armoured down; then hit him.”

“My turn to say,
Hold everything,
” I said. “I See something.”

Focused through my golden mask, my Sight forced its way through the mass of information to show me ghost images of the final voyage of the USS
Eldridge.
The long ship came out of the docks on a gray afternoon in 1943, not knowing it was sailing out of history and into legend. The
Eldridge
was travelling severely low in the water, as though carrying far more weight than it was designed for. Every square inch of the open decks was covered with bulky equipment trailing wires and cables all fussed over by uniformed sailors dashing frantically back and forth. Tall spiky antennae thrust up at regular intervals the whole length of the ship, and long traceries of vivid electricity crawled up and down them, spitting and crackling. Strange energies pulsed and seethed, building an increasingly powerful aura around the ship.

Up till then, it was just a weirder than usual scientific experiment, but that all changed abruptly with the arrival of the green fog. It appeared out of nowhere: no warning, no clue, just thick green mists boiling up around the ship and enveloping it from stem to stern. A green fog thick with otherworldly magic, merging with and then suffusing the
Eldridge
’s energy field. Magic and science combining, producing an effect neither could achieve on their own.

I could hear the sailors screaming faintly, all the way back in 1943. The green fog rose up, swallowing the ship, and then both fog and ship were gone in a moment, and nothing at all remained. No invisible ship, no depression in the water. Just . . . gone. Snatched away. The other ships sent out to observe the effects of the experiment sailed back and forth across the empty waters, to no avail. Back on shore, scientists and navy brass shouted hysterically at each other.

And then the fog returned, thick and pulsating, glowing with its own sick bottle green light. The colour and the texture of the fog was subtly different now; it looked . . . rotten, corrupt, poisonous. The
Eldridge
burst out of the green mists, as though forcing its way out, and headed jerkily for the shore. The green mists faded away almost reluctantly, revealing a ship that had been to war. All the antennae were gone, nothing left but jagged trunks and snapped cables, as though the antennae had been torn away by some gigantic hand. The ship’s hull had been breached in several places, fore and aft. It was a wonder she was still afloat. There were great blackened burn marks and fire damage throughout the superstructure, smashed glass everywhere, stove-in bulkheads and blast damage all over. And dead crewmen scattered the length of the ship, many torn to pieces.

Blood everywhere.

I concentrated, focusing my Sight still further, closing in on the ghost image of the ship to get a better look at what had happened. Because I had a horrid feeling I knew where the
Eldridge
had been, and who and what had done this to her and her crew. And it had nothing at all to do with invisibility or teleportation.

The green fog had been the first clue, and the unearthly lights that burned within it. I had Seen the colours of magic, interfering and then combining with the ship’s science, heard the great sound of a door opening between dimensions. The
Eldridge’
s brand-new machines had inadvertently opened a portal to outside, and something had reached into our world and taken the ship and its crew as casually as a hand removes a goldfish from its bowl.

Up close, it was clear the
Eldridge
had fought a major battle. Hours or even days had passed for the ship in those few moments it had been away. Solid steel bulkheads had split like paper, compartments were crushed, and the crew . . . Torn and broken, crushed, ripped apart, the pieces scattered over the blood-soaked deck. And yes, some caught up in the misfiring energies of teleportation: merged horribly with steel walls and doors, trapped in bulkheads, rematerialised inside metal, flesh fading seamlessly into steel. Screaming for help that would never come. This crew had fought one hell of a battle, and only some of them had come home to tell of it.