The next hour was the strangest of Sal's life.
He stood in the forward berthing compartment, holding Giacomo like a divining rod, while Franklin and Hollister connected wires and calibrated instruments and argued about frequencies. The snake trembled in his hands—not from his own shaking, but from something else. Something in the ship. Something in the steel.
The voices were all around him now, thirty presences pressing close. He could almost see them—faint outlines, human shapes, hovering at the edge of vision. They were waiting. Hoping. Terrified.
Almost ready, he thought at them. Just a little longer.
...we're here... Miller's voice. Calmer now. Almost peaceful. ...we're ready...
Franklin's voice broke through. "Lombardi! We're set. When I give the signal, I need you to touch the snake to the bulkhead. Hold it there no matter what. Can you do that?"
Sal nodded. His throat was too tight for words.
"On my count. Three. Two. One. NOW."
Sal pressed Giacomo against the steel.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the world exploded.
Energy surged through the snake, through Sal's hands, through his entire body. He screamed—or tried to—but the sound was swallowed by a roar that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Light filled the berthing compartment, green and gold and blinding white. The voices rose in a chorus of terror and hope and desperate prayer.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
Sal fell to his knees. Giacomo clattered to the deck. His hands tingled, numb and burning at the same time.
The berthing compartment was silent.
Then, from somewhere behind him, a voice spoke.
Not in his head. In the air. Real. Human.
"Did it work?"
Sal turned.
Thirty men stood in the berthing compartment. Naked, confused, trembling—but whole. All of them. Miller was there, his hands restored, staring at them like he'd never seen hands before. The cook was there, still wearing his apron. The signalman was there, blinking in the sudden light.
And in the corner, leaning against a bunk, was the young sailor who'd tried to flush his love letters. He looked at Sal with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lombardi? Did you... did you save us?"
Sal looked at his hands. At Giacomo, lying on the deck. At the thirty men who'd been trapped in steel and were now free.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."
Then he passed out cold.
He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of arguing.
"—can't just let them walk away. They've seen things. They know things."
"They're sailors, Reynolds. They follow orders. They'll keep quiet."
"Will they? Thirty men who were dead and are now alive? Thirty men who spent eighteen hours trapped in a ship's hull? You think they'll just forget that?"
Sal opened his eyes. He was lying on a bunk in the berthing compartment, a blanket thrown over him. The compartment was empty now—no sailors, no scientists, just him and the hum, which was finally, blessedly quiet.
He sat up slowly. His head throbbed. His hands still tingled.
Outside the compartment, the arguing continued. Reynolds's voice—smooth, dangerous, the voice of a man who made problems disappear. And Franklin's voice—tired, defiant, the voice of a man who'd had enough.
"These men deserve to go home. To their families. To their lives."
"They deserve to be debriefed. Extensively. And then they deserve to be assigned to posts where they can be... monitored."
"You can't do that."
"I can do whatever the Navy deems necessary. And the Navy deems this necessary."
Sal stood. His legs were shaky, but they held. He walked to the door and pushed it open.
Reynolds stood in the passageway, facing Franklin. Behind them, a dozen men in suits waited—the kind of men who didn't need to introduce themselves.
"Mr. Lombardi." Reynolds's eyes flicked to him. "You're awake. Good. We have much to discuss."
"No," Sal said. "We don't."
Reynolds's eyebrow rose. "Excuse me?"
"You're gonna let those men go home. All of them. And you're gonna leave their families alone. And you're gonna forget you ever saw me."
Reynolds smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "And why would I do that?"
Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object—a piece of metal, twisted and strange, that he'd picked up from the deck after the pulse. It glowed faintly, green and gold.
"Because if you don't, I'll take this to every newspaper in Philadelphia. I'll tell them what happened here. I'll tell them about the experiment, about the men who got stuck in the walls, about the plumber who pulled them out with a snake. And I'll tell them about you—the man from Washington who tried to bury it all."
Reynolds stared at the glowing metal. His face was unreadable.
"That's a bold threat from a plumber."
"I'm not just a plumber anymore. I'm the guy who talked to ghosts and brought them back. You think anyone's gonna call me a liar? You think they won't want to hear what I have to say?"
A long pause. Then Reynolds laughed—a short, sharp sound with no humor in it.
"You're either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Lombardi."
"Probably both. So what's it gonna be?"
Reynolds looked at Franklin. At the men in suits. At the glowing metal in Sal's hand.
"The sailors will be debriefed," he said finally. "Quietly. Discreetly. And then they'll be reassigned—to normal posts, with normal duties. Their families will be told they were involved in an accident. Nothing more."
"And me?"
"You'll go home. You'll forget this ever happened. And if you ever speak of it—to anyone, for any reason—I'll know. And I'll make sure you regret it."
Sal met his eyes. "I understand."
Reynolds nodded. Then he turned and walked away, his men following.
Franklin let out a long breath. "That was either the bravest or stupidest thing I've ever seen."
"Like I said. Probably both."
ns216.73.216.253da2
and then Add to home screen.