Page 79 of Wild Temple
We approached from the south. JD cut the engines about a mile out. The boat slumped into the water and pitched and rolled with the troughs and valleys.
With IR optics, I scoped out the abandoned submarine base. Carved out of the mountainside, the sheer cliffs in the bayoffered the perfect location for the underground structure. The bay had been dredged, and the facility offered much-needed support to the Soviet Navy during the Cold War. It remained secret for quite a long time.
Long since abandoned and short-lived, the site was a marvel of engineering. Steeped in Cold War history and myth, it took eight years to build. Now defunct, there was a possibility it was operating as a black site for a foreign intel agency—off the books and unaccountable.
We approached the island and navigated to the southeast shore. JD anchored in the shallows, and we donned our scuba gear. We didn't have Dräger rebreathers—beggars can't be choosers. We had to take what we could get from the local dive shop. This would have to be good enough. It was better than driving the boat into the submarine pen.
We had high-tech, consumer-grade, quick-drying wetsuits with handy pockets. Lightweight dive boots with rubber soles were the closest thing to tactical booties we could find. Mesh dive vests with plenty of storage served our tactical needs, holding extra magazines, grenades, and other toys we’d gotten from Duke.
I did a safety check of the gear, press-checked my weapons, then fell into the water. I cleared my mask, and JD and I swam through the black water. We made our way around the shoreline and into the bay.
A singular tunnel carved into the mountain served as a channel for submarines. Wide and deep enough to accommodate two Whiskey class subs side by side, the facility was home to refueling stations and dry docks. The diesel electrics built in the ’50s were heavily influenced by GermanU-boats. They served as coastal patrols, some with twin 57mm deck guns and two 25mm conning tower guns.
The arched ceiling of the tunnel was made of poured concrete with reinforced steel struts, spaced like vertebrae. Diesel fumes and briny air coated the walls. Conduit and wiring lined the long, curved tunnel that exited the other side of the mountain. Non-operative mercury vapor lights lined the ceiling. Monolithic slabs of concrete formed support pillars on one side of the channel, creating recessed alcoves—a rib cage for the giant structure. Concrete catwalks ran along the channel on either side, edged with guard rails in some locations.
A forgotten relic of the Cold War still occupied the space. Rusted and covered with barnacles, the tattered, corroded shell of a Whiskey class submarine lay forgotten. The sail poked above the water at a slant, the faded red star visible—a ghost of a bygone era. Left in a hurry to be reclaimed later, no one ever came back for the sub.
Of course, the sail was covered in graffiti. So were the walls of the tunnel.
JD and I swam past the leviathan and surfaced quietly, hugging the concrete wall of the channel. We dropped the gear and let it sink to the bottom. We climbed out of the water onto the steps and hovered low. With eyes at dock level, we scanned the area.
It was empty and desolate.
Signs in Russian had suffered over half a century of salt and corrosion. Cyrillic stencils spray painted on the walls barked warnings and instructions.
Water dripped from our suits and drain holes in our boots, pooling on the concrete. I drained the barrel of my M4.
A few rusted steel drums lined the dock by the wall. The air was still tainted with the smell of diesel and oil.
I scanned the area, looking for surveillance cameras. But with the way technology was these days, a small camera would be easy to miss.
With my weapon shouldered, JD and I climbed to the catwalk and flattened our backs against the arched wall.
Inky water lapped against the concrete, echoing through the tunnel.
We advanced to a doorway that led down a narrow hallway. We held up at the door frame and angled our weapons down the corridor.
The beam of my flashlight cut through the darkness.
We moved down the corridor to an area that widened. Conduit, cabling, and ductwork lined the ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of metal, rust, mold, and decay.
Two massive arched steel blast doors protected the facility from an atomic explosion. At two-feet thick, and lined with lead, the behemoths weighed upwards of 40 tons each. With industrial-strength hinges and gigantic locking pins, the doors had been left wide open since the late ’60s. They hadn’t moved an inch since. Designed to withstand a direct hit, they were a reminder of just how heightened tensions were at the time. The threat of mutually assured destruction was ever-present. In hindsight, it's a miracle we made it this far without turning the earth to lava.
JD and I continued through the blast doors and made our way down another corridor that led to command centers and control rooms. Old comm equipment had been stripped to the bone, and what remained bubbled with rust and corrosion. Wires and conduits hung from the ceiling. Paint peeled and cracked. Faded Soviet-era maps still hung on the wall, yellowed and stained.
We kept moving through the base, searching room by room, clearing the radio room and a listening post. This structure was massive, hidden underneath the mountain.
JD and I continued to the generator room. Rows of diesels had been the lifeblood of the facility. Drab green and marred by corrosion, they had once churned at deafening volumes. The air was still thick with the smell of grease and evaporated fuel. Steel drums lined the wall. My flashlight beam raked across the graveyard of power.
We crept into the room, flashlights cutting the darkness. With cautious steps, we moved around the beasts, now seized with rust. Control panels with toggle switches and hazy gauges covered the walls.
We cleared the area and found no trace of Isabella.
A storage area was our next stop. Full of rotting crates and old parts. When the Soviets had left, they left in a hurry. Most of the crates had been busted open and pilfered. Trash littered the area, but there were still some items on shelves.
JD and I swept the area. One by one, we’d search every room in this base. But we wouldn’t have to search much longer.
Flashlight beams slashed the darkness in the hallway outside the storage room. They closed in from either direction. Light footsteps pattered.
