“YOU MUST BE NASH!” a man shouted.
Donovan turned and found a young man, arm outstretched. Almost as tall as Donovan was, the man’s muscles pushed against his tee shirt as if threatening to rip the fabric. Donovan found an open yet chiseled face. The man looked at him with welcoming, friendly eyes. But Donovan immediately sensed something cold and dangerous behind them. The stranger seemed oblivious to the noise from overhead.
“I can’t hear you!” Donovan yelled. He shook the offered hand as they both looked up at the hovering Sikorsky. Donovan studied the ungainly submarine. It was twenty-two feet long, one large white cylinder with two smaller tubes attached near the keel. A row of windows marked the side of the passenger compartment. The section of the hull that housed the main hatch jutted up from the main superstructure. The Atlantic Star bristled with various small directional thrusters, as well as a battery of searchlights. In the rear was the single main thruster, larger than the others and shrouded in a metal casing. The entire vessel rested on sturdy iron skids.
Donovan held his breath as the helicopter crew expertly set the Atlantic Star down exactly where Taylor wanted. When the signal was given, the cable was released and the Sikorsky clawed upward and climbed away. Where was his sub pilot? Peggy had assured him that a man by the name of Billy Graff had been briefed; he’d volunteered for the mission, but Donovan didn’t know him. Peggy had explained he wasn’t an Eco-Watch employee, but was fully qualified to pilot the Atlantic Star. So engrossed with the process he’d witnessed, Donovan had forgotten about the man standing next to him.
“Mr. Nash. I’m Lieutenant Howard Buckley, U.S. Navy SEALs. Everyone calls me Buck. I understand you might need a little help?”
“Lieutenant Buckley—Buck.” Donovan silently thanked General Porter. “You know what it is we’re trying to do here?”
“Yes, sir. You’re going to drop that piss-ant little sub out the back of this C-17 to try to save some people. Is that right?”
“Something like that. Though I’m not sure it’s really a pissant little sub.”
“Sorry, sir,” Buck said. “Last submarine I was on was a Los Angeles class attack boat.”
Donovan couldn’t help but be struck by the quiet air of confidence the man possessed. “You sure you’re interested? I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“It’s why I volunteered, sir.”
“Why would you do that?” Donovan couldn’t help but ask.
“Because General Porter and I are friends. He called personally and asked me if I could lend a hand. As a favor to the President. You’re going to need someone with ocean rescue training once the sub is in the water. I’ve taken the liberty of having some of our specialized equipment sent over. It should be here any second.”
“Glad to have you aboard. First order of business is to quit calling me sir. My name is Donovan. And right now we’re at the mercy of Sergeant Taylor. He’s the loadmaster on this thing. I’m also short one sub pilot.”
“Is that him?” Buck pointed toward the Atlantic Star.
Donovan turned and saw the top hatch of the sub open. A bearded man with a bald head lifted himself out of the Atlantic Star. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a tattered tank top. He wore flip-flops on his feet.
“That must be him.” Donovan set off in the direction of the sub.
“Mr. Graff.” Donovan waved at the bearded man. Buck stayed close to his side. “I’m Donovan Nash.”
“Mr. Nash.” Billy Graff let himself down from the sub and dropped to the ground. “Glad we could finally meet. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Despite his aging beachcomber appearance, Donovan was struck by Graff’s intelligent eyes and earnest handshake.
“Is the Atlantic Star ready?” Donovan stepped back as the loader began to slowly inch its way toward the ramp that lead up into the C-17.
Graff nodded, “Everything’s good to go. You’re lucky I was around. Another fifteen minutes and I’d have been down at the harbor bar having a beer.”
Donovan caught sight of Graff’s earring and stopped in his tracks. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful for your help, but exactly who are you, Mr. Graff?”
“I work for Submersible Technologies, the company that builds these. I was called out by Eco-Watch to help oversee some modifications. And yes, Peggy, your most efficient assistant, explained what we’re doing. I have to tell you I was a little hesitant to volunteer at first.”
“Mr. Graff. I’m Howard Buckley. How fast can this thing dive?”
“A maximum performance dive is somewhere close to seventy-five feet per minute,” Graff explained. “To a maximum depth of 1,000 feet. On a good day we can make it in less than fifteen minutes.”
“How many pounds per square inch can the hull withstand?” Buck probed further.
“If you’re asking about the shock wave from a nuclear detonation, we’re fine. It’s the acoustic shock I’m concerned about,” Graff explained. “As you know, sound travels very well underwater, and there’s going to be one very loud bang when the thing goes off. I’m a little worried about the acrylic windows and forward observation dome. Sound waves can do funny things.”
“How do we avoid that problem?” Buck scratched his chin as he pondered the information.
“If we can get below 600 feet I think the thermocline will deflect much of the acoustic wave. At least in theory.”
Donovan pictured the stratified layers of the ocean, knowing the thermocline was a naturally occurring temperature inversion. What Graff explained made sense.
“That’ll have to do.” Buck nodded as a Navy truck pulled up and stopped next to the C-17. “Excuse me gentlemen. My equipment has arrived.”
“Mr. Graff. What changed your mind…about volunteering?” Donovan kept one eye on the sub pilot, another on the truck that Buck and several other men were starting to unload.
Graff looked both ways, then lowered his voice. “At first I thought the idea was insane. But, if we manage to pull this off, it’ll be the best marketing tool I could have ever hoped for. That, and a man named William VanGelder was very persuasive. He offered me two million dollars.”
“You help Sergeant Taylor get this thing secured properly in the next ten minutes and I’ll add another million.”
“Ten minutes it is. But you have to understand one thing. When it’s time to dive this sub, the hatch closes. No arguments.”
“Fair enough,” Donovan nodded in agreement.
“Good. Just so you and I are on the same page.” Graff turned and scurried up the ramp to oversee the attention being lavished on the Atlantic Star.
Donovan’s head was swimming. He’d been on the ground for less than half an hour, and each tick of the clock added another twist to the knot in his stomach. An officer came running up to Donovan.
“The C-17 commander says he’s fueled and ready to go. We’re just waiting for the word from the loadmaster.”
“Thanks.” Donovan turned and jogged toward the side of the C-17. Buck had just brought Taylor out from the rear of the plane to look at something. As Donovan approached he could hear Taylor’s astonishment.
“You’re kidding me!” He gave Buck a look of amazement. “You have these in your inventory?” Taylor knelt down to inspect the crate.
“How much longer?” Donovan called out. His tension had started to build even higher as he began to understand how much was left to do. He couldn’t imagine why Taylor was smiling from ear to ear.
“I think our friend here solved our biggest problem.” Taylor turned and shouted an order to a group of men standing close. “Uncrate this and carefully move it into the plane. Let’s look sharp, men. I’ll be right in to help get it positioned.”
Donovan watched as the men descended on the wooden box. “What is it?”
“It’s called GPADS,” Taylor said with enthusiasm. “It stands for Guided Parafoil Delivery System. It’s a single parafoil, over 7,000 square feet of silk. Forget about the cluster of eight G-11s,
one of these will do nicely.”
“What’s the maximum payload?”
“It’s been tested up to 35,000 pounds,” Buck recited.
“Minimum drop altitude?”
“2,000 feet,” Buck stated, evenly.
“Beautiful.” Taylor rubbed his hands together as the canister was lifted from the crate. “Okay, men, this way, and be careful!”
“Your doing?” Donovan looked at Buck.
“A little something we’ve been tinkering with.” Buck reached down and gathered up his wetsuit and harness, mask, and flippers. I’m ready when you are.”
“Sergeant Taylor, how much longer till we can roll?” Donovan asked as the heavy GPADS was carried off toward the waiting C-17.
“Give me five minutes to make sure I have everything I need. Once the sub is secured in the cargo compartment we can go. I’ll rig the chute and harness when we’re airborne. How we doing on time?”
“If we can be in the air in ten minutes.” Donovan looked at his watch and did the calculations. “We’ll be at the drop zone with about forty minutes to play with.”
“That’s cutting it pretty close,” Buck said, as he envisioned the task at hand.
Donovan’s head was beginning to pound from the stress. He knew once they were in motion he’d be fine. But all this organized chaos just added to his stress level.
“She with you?” Buck glanced at Donovan, then motioned behind him.
Donovan turned and found Erin running at full speed across the ramp toward them. He’d told Frank and Nicolas to keep her on the plane. She must have slipped out on her own. In his mind, she was now nothing but a liability.
“Donovan!” Erin gasped as she came to a stop. “General Porter is on the phone. He says it’s urgent!”
“Go!” Buck urged. “We can plan the rest of this once we’re airborne.”
“When I see the main cargo door close, I’ll run over and jump on,” Donovan yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the da Vinci.
“Sorry,” Frank confessed as Donovan pounded up the stairs, taking them three at a time. “She bolted out of here before we could stop her.”
“Don’t worry about it. Which phone?” Donovan replied, winded from running.
“In the back.”
Donovan covered the distance quickly. He threw himself into the chair and snatched the receiver while keeping one eye on the C-17.
“Nash here.”
“Captain Nash. I understand you’re a go at that end. How close are you to leaving?”
“In a matter of minutes, I hope.”
“Two things. First, the eye is starting to shrink even further. It’s now less than eight miles across. As you know, our primary targeting information was going to come from the Galileo. Our experts at this end think the device should be detonated at 25,000 feet, but there is some debate on this. I’d sure like to hear Dr. McKenna’s opinion. She is, after all, at the scene.”
“I think we could relay that information once we’re out there.” Donovan hated the thought of Lauren directing the bomb on top of herself and the others.
“Good. Is Lieutenant Buckley with you?”
“He’s in the C-17. We’ve just loaded the Atlantic Star.”
“Very well. Could you please inform him that one of the scientists on your airplane is a suspected spy. It’s Dr. Carl Simmons. It’s information he should be made aware of.”
“I’ll brief him, sir. I’ve met Dr. Simmons.” Across the busy ramp the rear doors of the C-17 begin to close. “I have to go, General. Thanks for all your help.”
“Godspeed, Captain Nash.”
Donovan dropped the phone and headed toward the door of the Gulfstream. He slowed at the expectant faces of Nicolas and Frank.
“Go bring them home.” Frank reached out and grasped Donovan’s hand. Volumes of unspoken words passed between the two men.
Donovan nodded, deeply touched by the loyalty and friendship of his crew.
“They’re moving!” Nicolas pointed out the door as the giant C-17 began to slowly wheel around.
“See you guys later!” Donovan hoped he could keep his promise as he leaped to the ground and ran toward the slowly taxiing cargo plane. As he neared the C-17, a side door opened and Buck stood in the entrance.
Donovan timed his jump perfectly, gripping Buck’s waiting hand. He was pulled into the stark interior of the C-17. The instant the door was shut, the C-17 began to taxi faster. Donovan followed Buck’s lead and pulled a retractable seat from a bulkhead. The two men quickly strapped themselves in.
“Mind if I ask what General Porter wanted?” Buck casually crossed his legs.
“He wanted to tell me the eye is getting smaller, and so is our window of opportunity.”
“What else?” Buck probed. “I doubt he called to tell you something we’ll know in short order.”
“There’s a suspected spy on the Galileo. His name is Carl Simmons. You can’t miss him. He’s a big man, probably close to 300 pounds, so be careful. General Porter wanted you to know about him.” The C-17 swung onto the runway. The four big Pratt and Whitney turbofans began to spool up. As Commander Hays released the brakes, Donovan felt the push from a combined 166,000 pounds of thrust. He watched as the Atlantic Star sat unmoving in the cavernous belly of the C-17 as the airplane pitched up and clawed its way into the sky.
“Where’s everyone else?” Donovan couldn’t see Graff or Taylor.
“They’re probably up top with the flight crew.” Buck pointed behind them. “Your assistant is quite a little fireball. Damn good looking if I say so myself.”
“My what?”
“Ms. Walker.” Buck smiled.
“She’s on the plane?” Donovan shook his head in disgust. He’d had every intention of leaving her stranded in the middle of the Naval base.
“Yeah. She’s up with Graff. I’ve never been on a mission with so many civilians. Especially a looker like her.”
“You can have her. She’s nothing but a pain in the ass.”
Buck grinned, then changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking about the best way to get your people in the sub once everyone’s in the water.”
“I’m listening.” Donovan was miffed at Erin’s presence on the C-17.
“We have the Gulfstream ditch at the far northwestern quadrant of the eye.” Buck used his hands to illustrate. “Once we know there are survivors, we’ll drop the submarine in the middle of the eye. By the time they drift to where we are, I should be ready to retrieve them.”
“I saw some of your equipment. Were those line guns?”
Buck nodded. “Once I free the sub of the chute and harness, I’m going to fire a pattern on both sides of the sub. The explosive charges will shoot a rescue line out to 300 feet. I’ve got three of them. As the survivors drift past, they should intersect one or more of the lines.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” Donovan was grateful for Buck’s matter-of-fact approach. The SEAL left no doubt he could accomplish what he’d just outlined.
“Do you think your people will be in rafts, or in the water?”
“I’m guessing rafts.” Donovan pictured the two inflatable life rafts on board the Gulfstream. “That would make it easier, wouldn’t it?”
“Affirmative. Spotting a raft in sixty-foot seas is easier than trying to find a person’s head.”
Donovan nodded, then squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of sixty-foot waves.
Buck cocked his head. “You don’t like the water?”
Donovan shook his head before he could stop himself. Admitting to his fear was the last thing he’d wanted to do.
“That’s a bitch,” Buck said sympathetically. “Did something happen?”
“Yeah,” Donovan said wistfully. “Something happened.”
“Good thing I’m here then,” Buck continued. “My diver’s mask is outfitted with a two-way radio. I’ll be able to communicate with you in the plane. Depending on how much time we have to work with, I’d like
it if you could relay to me their exact positions in relation to the sub. It’ll help me retrieve them quicker.”
“You ever do anything like this before?” Donovan asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
“There’s nothing a Navy SEAL can’t do, sir.” Buck unbuckled his seat belt. “The air is pretty smooth. I’m going to go get my equipment ready. I’m sure Sergeant Taylor is going to need my help to rig the sub.”
Donovan released his straps as well. “I’m going to the cockpit. I need to brief Commander Hays on what to expect once we get to the eye.”
As Donovan turned to go, Taylor, Graff, and Erin were coming down from the cockpit. Donovan stopped as they approached.
“Commander Hays says we’ve got a hell of a tailwind. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Donovan nodded at Taylor’s update, then looked directly at Erin. She averted her eyes. Donovan gently gripped her upper arm as she tried to move past him.
“Let go of me!” she snapped, but her defiance vanished under Donovan’s withering glare.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come on this flight,” Donovan’s tone was quiet, yet forceful. “If I’d wanted you here I’d have invited you.”
“Look,” Erin’s tone softened. “This is the story of the decade. I had to be here. This is what I’ve dreamed about since my first day as a journalist. Plus, I can help. Sergeant Taylor said he could use me to help get the submarine ready. Mr. Graff agreed.”
“I thought you had reservations about my single-minded rescue mission. That I’m only doing this for Lauren?”
Erin lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I was wrong. I’ve learned a great deal about you in the last few hours. You’ve got to understand that for the last six months I’ve had a picture of you in my mind. I had you pegged as a traitor, a manipulator, someone who would sell classified data for money. I’m still trying to readjust my point of reference. I’m truly sorry.”
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