But he couldn’t slow down, not yet. Mitchell was now over halfway along the jetty with Nina.
The track was perfectly straight, heading to a vanishing point at the bottom of the tunnel. The semicircle of light was partially obscured by a dark box—the funicular car, blocking his path. And there was a gap between the two tracks, making it impossible for him to swing into the open lane.
He looked to the side. Just before the tunnel was a concrete expanse running to the edge of the cliff. Some kind of fuel storage, tall cylindrical tanks lined up along it.
No choice—
Now he braked, pushing the pedal down as hard as he could and turning sharply. Tires and brake discs shrieked in unison. There was a horrific bang as the wheels crossed the steel track, then the GL Class was clear, slithering sidelong down the rough slope before flattening a chain-link fence and hitting the concrete so hard it almost flipped over.
Chase frantically spun the wheel into an opposite lock steer. The SUV wavered on two wheels for a moment before thumping back down on all four—heading right for one of the fuel tanks.
He yanked the wheel back the other way. The Mercedes skidded, spinning around … and stopped. It was actually touching the white-painted tank, the door panel bent inward.
Maximov winced when he saw how close they had been to an explosive collision. “Next time, I drive.”
“No, this is where you get out,” said Chase. “Unless you want to go swimming.” He jerked a thumb toward the low wooden fence at the edge of the cliff.
Maximov’s eyes widened. “You are mad!”
Chase threw open his door. “Mad? I’m fuckin’ furious!” He quickly reversed past another fuel tank, and sliced the door off the Mercedes with a crunch of tearing metal. “Seriously—out!”
The Russian had no further arguments, hurriedly flinging open his own door and rolling out. Chase didn’t even wait for him to close it, instead slamming the SUV into gear and flooring the accelerator. The tanks flicked past as he picked up speed, the black sea coming into view over the edge of the cliff.
As did the lights at the end of the jetty.
Chase adjusted his course, aiming straight for them—then plowed the Mercedes through the flimsy fence and off the edge of the cliff at over fifty miles an hour.
He threw himself out as the GL Class rolled in midair, the water rushing up fast. He had barely enough time to twist into a dive before hitting the freezing sea just short of the jetty.
The SUV continued without him. A fraction of a second after Chase splashed down, it nose-dived into the pier and exploded, blasting the end of the wooden structure to pieces—and cutting the shocked Mitchell off from the boats, knocking him on his butt less than thirty feet away.
He dumped the unconscious Nina on the planks and jumped up, staring in disbelief at the burning wreckage before looking at the water. Only one person could have been driving the SUV. “Eddie!” he roared, unslinging the XM-201 and running to the jetty’s edge to point the weapon at the expanding splash below. “Fuck you, Eddie! Fuck you!”
Stunned by the cold, Chase was only just struggling to the surface when the water above him erupted with sizzling spears of metal and froth. Cheeks bulging as he held in his breath, he desperately swam back downward as Mitchell kept firing into the dark water. The 3.6mm bullets only reached a depth of a few feet before the water slowed them to a nonlethal speed, but they were still hot, a couple like cigarette burns against his shoulders.
Mitchell exhausted the twenty rounds in his current load. He was about to switch the gun to different ammo when he remembered he had something more powerful.
Chase was already expecting it. He swam deeper, heading for shore as fast as he could—
The 25mm grenade smacked into the water, sank four feet deep—and detonated.
A spherical shockwave blasted outward at the speed of sound. Its upper half reached the surface in a fraction of a second, sending a huge plume of white spray into the air. Beneath the surface, the shockwave continued to expand, much more powerful and deadly in dense liquid than in air.
However fast he swam, Chase had no chance of outrunning the blast. A grenade tossed into a swimming pool could kill everyone in it through hydrostatic shock alone—his only chance of survival was to be moving directly away from the epicenter, feet toward it to spread out the impact along his body, as the shockwave swept past him. If it hit him squarely, he would be dead, organs ruptured …
The blow was horrific, a crushing pressure pummeling him from all sides and knocking him into an uncontrollable tumble. Air was forced from his lungs. He spun limply into the darkness.
Above, Mitchell surveyed the foaming surface for any sign of life. Nothing. He waited a little longer to be sure, then shouldered his rifle, picked up Nina and hurried back toward the submarine dock.
THIRTY
Chase had no idea which way was up. Freezing saltwater stung his eyes as he forced them open. No sign of any lights showing the way to the surface, nothing to be heard except the hiss of billions of tiny air bubbles swirling around him.
He was running out of air. In the SAS, he had been able to hold his breath underwater for over five minutes, but without regular training his capacity would have decreased, and he didn’t know how much air the explosion had driven out of him. All he knew was that there wasn’t much left; the pressure was rising in his chest and his heart was beating faster …
A new noise—a deep, booming splash. Close by. Mitchell’s last grenade. He braced himself for the explosion—
It didn’t come. Instead a huge hand locked around his arm and pulled him to the surface. He burst out of the water, gasping for air, and saw the grinning Maximov beside him. “Did—did you jump off the cliff?”
“If little man like you can do it, hey! No problem for big Russian like me.” He swam for the jetty, pulling Chase after him. “Mitchell went in the dock with your wife.”
They reached one of the pilings and clung to it. “She’s not my wife. Well, not yet.”
“No? So when is wedding?”
“Why does everyone keep asking that?” His breath regained, Chase climbed up the piling. He heard echoing gunfire from the sub pen—explosive rounds. What was Mitchell shooting at? A few seconds later came a much louder detonation. The last grenade.
Maximov dragged himself from the water. “What is he doing?”
“Dunno, but we’ve got to get in there.” Aching all over, Chase shook off some of the water soaking his clothes. The cold sea wind was already slicing through him; if he didn’t get into cover soon he’d be at risk of hypothermia.
They limped down the jetty, the pen’s brightly lit interior coming into view. The Typhoon’s broad black bow rose menacingly above the water, the squat sail set way back behind the rows of missile tubes. Chase saw people running along the opposite side of the dock. He guessed that Mitchell’s gunfire had prompted them to flee, but there was no sign of the American himself—
The submarine started moving.
Only slowly at first, but the rising wash of water over its bow was unmistakable as it angled away from the dock. Mooring lines hung limply down the side of the hull—Mitchell had used explosive rounds to sever them.
An echoing crash came from the sub as a gangway slid loose and fell into the water. Further aft, smoke drifted across the dock. The aftermath of the grenade explosion, Chase realized: a bollard had been blown apart, all the lines connected to it shredded.
The Typhoon was free, but Mitchell hadn’t cut the power cables running from the sub’s reactors through the hole in the hull. They slackened as the submarine slid past the pylon on the dockside, but it wouldn’t be long before they pulled taut again.
The vessel’s stern came into view, its giant propellers churning up the water on each side of the high rudder. The screws were mounted inside metal rings to shield them from damage by objects in the water, ending Chase’s faint hopes of entangling them in the cables.
And his chances of eve
n getting aboard the sub were rapidly diminishing. By the time it drew level, it would be too far from the dockside for him to jump onto the casing—and if he fell in the water, he would be swept into the screws. The protective rings were more than large enough for him to be dragged inside and torn apart.
No way to get aboard … except for the crane at the end of the dock.
It was turned away from the submarine, jib pointing along the jetty. But if it could be brought around …
“Can you turn this?” Chase asked, running to the crane. Its paint was scabbed with rust, the machine apparently unused for some time. But there was a crank at its base that still seemed to be in fair shape.
“Da, but why?”
“Because I need to get on that sub.”
“What if it is too short?”
“Then I’m fucked! Come on, turn it!” He started scaling the rusty frame.
Maximov released the brake, then gripped the crank and strained to turn it. “It won’t move!”
“Shake it loose!”
With a growl, Maximov pushed and pulled at the recalcitrant crank. It screeched horribly, then began to turn. “It’s moving!”
“Great, keep it up!” As Chase ascended, the jib slowly rotated, flecks of rust falling on him like sharp-edged snowflakes. He looked across at the Typhoon. The bow had already passed him, the massive submarine picking up speed.
A crunch of metal echoed inside the pen. Some of the electrical cables had torn loose from the sub, but others were holding firm, the pylon buckling as they were pulled taut. Sparks flew as the cables twisted against each other, then the pylon’s legs gave way and the whole thing crashed to the dock, dragged along as the submarine moved into open water.
“Come on, come on!” Chase yelled. The jib had turned through about thirty degrees, but he needed it to go much farther. He reached the jib, clambering along its top as Maximov kept working the crank. The Typhoon’s missile tubes rolled past below. “Faster!”
Maximov roared as he pushed harder. The jib picked up speed, but Chase realized he was out of time. The submarine’s sail had almost reached him, and by the time he got to the end of the jib and climbed down the cable the stern would have passed.
Instead he ran along the jib.
One slip and he would fall to his death. But he kept running, feet clanking along the weather-worn metal until he reached the end—and leapt from it, arms and legs still pumping as he flew through the air …
Chase slammed against the rear end of the sail, slithering down the steep black wall to crash onto the rounded hump at its base. He rolled painfully down it, ending up skidding on his back down the wet stern. Barely missing the edge of the hole cut in the hull, he picked up speed on the sloping casing, one of the churning propellers rising out of the water just ahead—
His hand bashed against a recess in the hull. He reflexively grabbed it, swinging around with his feet just short of the enormous bronze blades. Freezing spray sluiced over his body. Gasping, he pulled himself forward.
An ominous crack. He looked toward the sail …
Another overstretched power cable ripped loose from the reactor. Chase ducked as it whipped over his head and tore a chunk as big as a man out of the rudder before splashing into the sea. The pylon was still being dragged along the dock, sweeping up smaller objects as it went.
It reached the crane. Maximov, who had been watching Chase’s battle for survival in frozen fascination, suddenly realized the danger he was in and fled along the jetty as the wrecked pylon crashed into the crane behind him. The Typhoon was now moving at near running pace, the impact shaking the crane to its foundations. Another cable tore free in a shower of sparks—but the remainder were firmly secured, thirty thousand tons of submarine jolting as if it had run into a wall.
With an earsplitting screech, the crane was wrenched from the jetty and toppled over. It fell into the water, pulling the pylon with it. Both broken structures sank, sweeping the cables across the submarine’s stern.
Chase pulled himself up and vaulted them as they sliced over the recess. “Jesus!” he gasped, seeing them pile up against the ring shrouding the propeller. The safety feature had done its job—not that it helped him. The Typhoon was now clear of the dock and heading out to sea at an increasing pace.
He staggered up the stern and reached the gap in the casing. The Typhoon consisted of two long titanium pressure hulls mounted side by side like a catamaran, enclosed in an outer steel shell. Looking down, he saw where the inner hulls had been cut open to facilitate the decommissioned vessel’s new life as a mobile nuclear power station, cables running through them. Some of the gaps were large enough for him to fit through. He dropped into the opening.
Behind him, unnoticed, water crept up the stern as the weight of the wreckage being dragged behind the submarine pulled its back end lower and lower, waves sloshing toward the hole in the hull …
Chase slipped through a gap to land on the deck beneath—and found himself facing a huge radiation warning symbol on a bulkhead. He instinctively clapped both hands protectively over his groin and looked for the quickest possible way out of the reactor room.
An open hatch led forward. He moved through it, the low thrum of the driveshafts turning the screws fading behind him. There were no other sounds of activity. Presumably the sub only had a skeleton crew, just enough to operate the reactors rather than actually take it out to sea. Either they had gotten off or Mitchell had killed them.
He guessed that the sub’s control room would be under the sail, where its commander could use the periscopes. He headed forward until he found a ladder to the next deck, and crept up it.
The faint sound of someone talking reached him. Mitchell. Chase couldn’t make out what he was saying, but from his clipped tone it sounded as though he was issuing orders. Was he sending a radio message?
He quietly advanced through what turned out to be the sonar room, seeing the first physical sign of Mitchell’s presence, a splatter of blood on one of the pale cream walls. A few more steps and a body came into view, a man slumped over a hatch entrance. A large wrench lay beside him. Chase picked it up—any weapon was better than none—and peered through the hatch.
It was the control room. Two long tubes ran down from the ceiling through large circular holes in the deck to the level below: the sub’s periscopes, both lowered. At the front of the room was a pair of seats facing banks of instruments and almost aircraft-like controls. Another corpse was slumped in one, blood trickling down the seat back. Mitchell must have forced the luckless sailor to get the sub under way before killing him.
Chase couldn’t yet see Mitchell, but he could see Nina. Still unconscious, she lay in a corner beneath a bank of computer screens. He watched for a few seconds until he was sure that she was breathing. Then he heard movement from the other side of the room, and slowly leaned farther around the hatch.
Mitchell stood before what he assumed was the communications console, his back to Chase. The XM-201 was propped beside him. As Chase watched, the American unzipped the pack containing Excalibur and took out the sword to examine it.
Chase assessed the situation. If he could get close enough, he could smack Mitchell over the head with the wrench and knock him out—or kill him, either was fine. But the rifle was within easy reach of the DARPA agent, and apart from a faint hiss of static from a radio the control room was all but silent. It would only take one footstep, one slap of wet clothing, for him to be heard.
There wasn’t much choice. He couldn’t wait forever—Mitchell definitely wasn’t planning to sail the Typhoon all the way back to the States. Someone was meeting him, either a ship or another submarine.
Hefting the wrench, he stepped through the hatch and moved behind the nearer of the two periscopes. Glancing through the hole in the deck he could see the handgrips and eyepieces in a compartment below, ready to rise at the push of a button. Mitchell was about ten feet away. Close enough to rush him?
A small noise caught Mi
tchell’s attention. Chase ducked back, but it wasn’t him the American had heard. The sound had been a faint scrape of metal. Mitchell stared intently at a piece of equipment resembling a weighing scale, low-tech in the computerized control center. Chase realized it was a mechanical inclinometer: a weighted pendulum, a simple but near-foolproof way to deter mine the sub’s angle of climb or descent. As he watched, the pointer slowly moved. The Typhoon’s bow was gradually rising—or the stern was sinking.
A chill ran through Chase as the implications of that hit home, but then Mitchell took a step closer to the inclinometer, Excalibur still in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the pointer.
Chase saw his chance and crept around the periscope behind him.
Mitchell turned, about to put Excalibur down on the console, and his eyes locked onto Chase’s, reflected in the sword’s polished blade.
Chase jumped back behind the periscope as Mitchell snatched up the rifle. He expected gunfire, but nothing came. He quickly realized why. Even if Mitchell switched to armor-piercers, shooting the thick titanium casing of the periscope would result in a potentially lethal spray of ricochets.
But he only needed take a few steps around the periscope to have a direct line of fire.
“Goddamn, you’re persistent, Eddie!” said Mitchell, dropping Excalibur on the console and moving toward him. A couple more steps and he would be exposed—
Chase slapped his hand on the periscope controls.
With a hiss of hydraulics, the metal tube rapidly rose into position. Chase dropped, hurling the wrench under the bottom of the periscope. It cracked into Mitchell’s knee and clanged to the floor.
Mitchell staggered back in pain. Chase rushed at him. The rifle came back down, but too late, as Chase tackled the taller man at the waist and slammed him back against the console. Excalibur spun to the deck and dropped into the hole beneath the raised periscope.
Chase swept out an arm, knocking the XM-201 from Mitchell’s hand. He was about to drive his fist into Mitchell’s crotch when a knee rammed into his face. His nose cracked, hot blood gushing over his lips.
The Secret of Excalibur_A Novel Page 36