A form clamped itself about his neck and a hand gripped his right wrist. Steve couldn’t use the knife. He felt a hand tearing at his own hoses. He brought up his left hand. Something created pressure, then yielded slightly. He knew he was against skin. The bionics thumb pressed hard against the bottom of the extended middle finger. Compressed air rammed a frangible dart through the finger, directly into the skin. It took longer than he expected as he fought to free himself. The poison took effect with explosive reaction. Something thrashed wildly behind him, fell away.
Too late. Another form loomed in front of him, a knife sweeping unerringly toward his hoses. He sucked in air, held his breath, knew he’d lost his tanks. He didn’t fight it. He hit the snap release on his chest, slipped away from the harness.
He pushed the tanks away. Oxygen bubbled in a hissing stream as the tanks wobbled through the water. Steve drove as hard as he could, straight ahead, where he could see light now. He swam fifty or sixty feet, went for the bottom, his lungs straining.
That’s it . . . they know you’ve lost the tanks. They’ve got you. They’re convinced of it. You’ve got to come to the surface. They’ll be waiting for you. He looked behind him. Sure enough, the lights were all ascending. This was his chance. They knew he couldn’t go far. He’d have to surface to breathe. He moved by feel. The plug in his left thigh; there. He pressed in, felt the plug yield, pushed it aside. He knew he was running out of air . . . His head pounded, but he had the mouthgrip out. He extended the flexhose, jammed the mouthpiece between his teeth, clamped hard, sucked in air. He felt his head clearing. Move.
He measured his strength, a fast, driving motion but with a sure rhythm to it. They were searching behind him for the man who’d lost his air tanks and must come to the surface. He could see now as he approached the open mouth of the tunnel. The current was stronger, helping him. Screws pounded overhead; they must have radioed to the boats for help in the search. But the boats were over him and they were moving behind him. Arms folded back along his sides, he rushed straight ahead, his legs flailing like pistons, moving him with steady speed through the water. He was much lighter now without the tanks and with less drag. He put more energy into his swimming. His only chance was open water. If he had to, he could rest there for a moment. Certainly not here where he could be trapped. He was out now, the shore line fading away to each side. He went deeper, his ears hurting. No other way. He drove his legs, pistoning.
He decided against an erratic course. He couldn’t chance it, but he also couldn’t move continuously in a straight line. He swam steadily, straining, hoping he was moving in a curving line away from the entrance to the tunnel. He suddenly realized something was different. No explosions. That couldn’t last long. When they didn’t find a swimmer back in the tunnel, or a dead body . . . any minute now.
Shadows rippling before him. Again the mooring cables from one of the decoy oil rigs. Decoy. It wouldn’t be occupied. He made for the cable, followed it to the surface, got beneath the rig over him. He had to take the chance no one would be looking here. He felt dizzy, realized at the same moment he was exhausting himself. He was running out of air. Had he really been on the cylinder from his left thigh for nearly thirty minutes? It had to be. Then this must be one of the rigs more distant from the shore.
He came up slowly, lost in the shadows. He spit out the mouthpiece, sucked in long draughts of air. He clung to the cable to conserve his strength, to regain his wind. He studied the sea about him. Patrol boats were moving out from the shore under full throttle, already starting to fan outward in a wide search pattern. A storm had moved in during the late night hours and he saw heavy rainshowers in the distance. That might be to his advantage. He turned slowly to scan the distant surface. Even better. Dark buildups against a gray sky; if the cumulus got heavy enough . . .
He reached into the waistbelt, withdrew a sealed package. High-energy rations. He needed them now. He couldn’t get caught by those boats. There was another danger, he realized. It was daylight now. Rain or not, they might bring helicopters into use.
Something else he needed to do. He could almost feel his body drawing energy from the rations. He reached down to his right leg, slid open a panel in the calf and withdrew a cylindrical container. He held in his hand a marvel of microminiaturization; in the one package was the wire recorder, antenna, buoy, and radio transmitter. He separated the components, glancing every few moments at the boats moving away from the shore line. None made any particular move in his direction. Not yet, anyway. He switched on the recorder, spoke clearly and slowly into the microphone. He pulled the wire connection free, let the microphone sink below him, then twisted the top of the recorder. He pressed a red button, and a small CO2 bottle inflated a plastic buoy. An antenna unreeled and he released the unit. It floated away from him. In sixty seconds his message would be burst-transmitted. He hoped one of the high-flying planes or a communications satellite would pick up his message about his condition, which would be repeated every five minutes. The battery would last two hours, after which a small charge of acid would eat through its container and puncture the buoy, allowing the unit to sink from sight forever.
His strength had returned to him with the rest and the rations. Well, he’d done his best. Time to execute for himself and get the hell out of there.
Something else. The homing transmitter. The sub would be waiting to pick him up but they had to know he was free of the base and in open water. Of course, when the plane or a comsat, or both, picked up the automatic transmissions from the floating buoy, they’d know he had made it in, and back out. But they had to get a better fix on him to do something about it. He knew the sub would be patrolling on a bearing of zero seven zero degrees from the underwater tunnel. But could he maintain that kind of course? Impossible if he had to elude pursuers. And if he had the chance to get into the heavy rainshowers now moving through the area, well, to hell with the bearing. He had greater safety in concealment than simply plugging away in a straight line. His best chance was to start out and keep going. If the buoy kept the transmitter going long enough he knew the sub would be looking for him. And if his friends in the patrol boats got too close, well, they’d be perfect sonar and radar homing targets for the sub.
He slipped away from the cables, trying to keep the dummy oil rig between himself and the boats. Almost at the same moment he heard the explosions beginning again. They were taking no chances. The impossible could have happened and the man they sought had made it safely from the underground passageway. Or maybe there was more than one man. Better, from their viewpoint, to waste a few explosive charges.
He could make good time on the surface. He began swimming with a powerful, steady stroke. He still had that second oxygen cylinder in his right thigh, but he hated the thought of having to use it. Far ahead of him, maybe a mile or two, a cloud was dumping a wall of rain into the ocean. That was for him, he decided, accepting the risk of detection. He knew the sharks were still about but they hadn’t been aggressive before and he counted on them still ignoring his presence.
The sharks ignored him, but not the Russians. Gunfire mixed with the booming explosions as they fired at anything that moved. Swimming steadily, he turned to scan the sea behind him and saw two boats, their prows out of the water, their wakes foaming behind, making high speed in his direction. At this distance they couldn’t tell who or what he was, but they were angry and frustrated and they weren’t taking any chances.
He felt the first light touch of rain, the windblown edge of the heavy rainshower ahead of him. Lightning flashed between the ocean and the cloud. It could mean a thundering downpour within which he could disappear from sight. If he could make it. He put everything into his swimming, cutting the water like one of the sharks in the area. The rain was getting heavier and his hopes began to rise. He struck out even harder than before, and—
The horizon twisted crazily, and he knew he was tumbling through the air even before he heard the shattering crack of the exploding
shell. He slopped crazily back into the water, hidden from sight for the moment by the spray all around him. He gasped for air, swimming wildly at a sharp angle from the line he’d been following. Sucking in air, he kicked his way beneath the surface, then turned sharply again, his legs pistoning him ahead with great speed. He knew they’d figure on his changing his direction, but they couldn’t expect his speed, and that could give him an advantage. Each second counted now. Visibility was lowering steadily as he neared the rainshower. He stayed just under the surface, hammering ahead. He had to come up, his lungs threatening to burst. He gulped in air, then dove as explosions rattled the air and a line of geysers moved rapidly in his direction. They were throwing it all at him. Again he changed direction, and finally started using his head.
The oxygen line. For God’s sake, get on the oxygen and stay under, stay deep. They won’t expect that. He drifted, doubled over, fighting to get the plug from his right thigh, to get the mouthpiece gripped between his teeth. There; done. But he’d lost his bearings. The boats pounded the water with their screws; he was confused. He saw the shore line through heavy rain, turned and started down again. A sledgehammer smashed into him, burst the mouthpiece from his teeth. He grasped for it, clamped it again in his mouth. If he could get ten or fifteen good minutes of swimming he thought he could get away from them. He felt pressure waves pulsing through the sea. They were probably tossing hand grenades from the boats. Bad enough, but they had to be closer to knock him out for good. He stayed as deep as he could, the pressure driving icepicks into his ears.
The minutes dragged by as he pumped his legs with the steady piston movement. The boats were farther behind now, circling, covering the area where they figured a man could swim underwater. No one could expect what was happening and he knew he was outdistancing them as they milled about. But he couldn’t keep this up forever. Where was the sub?
He eased toward the surface and was surprised to find himself moving in a curving line. Something was wrong . . . He felt a strange tingling in his right leg. In his leg. He slowed just below the surface. Enough light to see. No wonder his course had become erratic.
His leg was mangled, plastiskin hanging in shreds, the steel alloys within showing a naked metal skeleton of a leg. That last explosion . . . something had torn into the leg. He didn’t need the plastiskin to protect his wiring system, it was thoroughly sealed. But a piece of metal had flayed wires open and the sea water was now playing hell. The leg was twisted, bent at a crazy angle, useless to him. He turned again, grateful for the rain, using his left leg as a fluke to keep him moving. He went to the surface. Not enough air left in the cylinder to matter. He’d have to keep going, pace himself, swim this way for hours if necessary, hope the sub would find him.
Then the sky exploded. A shattering roar overhead, coming from the open sea . . .
They had picked up the explosions. Sonar pinpointed the blasts that nearly finished Steve. A KG-135 tanker was orbiting above the clouds at twenty thousand feet, two F-4C fighters in formation, picking up fuel from the tanker to stay on station. The sub moved toward Steve but its commander felt he might not get there in time. He played another card, spoke directly with the pilot in the load fighter. “Red Fox from Gray One, you read?”
“Go ahead, Gray One.”
“Are you homing our position, Red Fox?”
“Roger that, Gray One. We’re locked on.”
“We’d like you people to come around to the east of us, home on us, and make a low pass on a heading of two nine zero. We’d like that as low as you can handle it in the soup. Over.”
“Roger, Gray One. We can take it down by radar to about three hundred feet. Do you wish immediate execution?”
“Affirmative, Red Fox. Execute immediately. And we’d like all the noise you people can put out with these things.”
“Okay, Navy. Hang on to your hats. We’ll be coming through in the Mach. Starting down now.”
The two fighters plunged toward the sea, pulling out by radar altimeters, dropping to just below three hundred feet over the water. As they came out of their dives the pilots went into full afterburner, sending a howling roar of thunder downward, accelerating the fighters past supersonic speed. Double shock waves ripped across the patrol boats with all the sound and fury of bombs going off nearby. It was at least enough to stop the pursuit.
Steve found himself nearly hysterical as the shock waves pounded over him. Still, he managed to recognize the swept-wing shapes overhead, realize what was happening. Relief also shuddered through his body and he moved slowly through the water, waiting. Not for long. The sensitive sonar had him dead center, and the sub was easing off its speed before he even saw the hull looming through the heavy rain.
Ricardo was in the rubber raft that reached him moments later to drag him from the water.
The crew pulled in the line swiftly, bringing the raft to the side of the hull. Steve looked up to see a white-faced sailor staring at the twisted, mangled leg. He exchanged glances with Ricardo as the sailor, instinctively, crossed himself at the sight.
CHAPTER 20
“It’s everything we wanted. That, and more,” Goldman was saying to McKay about the four glossy photographs spread on McKay’s desk. “The radio transmission was picked up by the plane we had orbiting the area, and then, we’ve got Austin’s own report.” He shook his head in admiration. “He’s got an incredible memory for detail, Jackson.”
McKay studied the photographs, nodding slowly. No question but that Austin had carried out his tough assignment, had provided the hard evidence needed to make the OAS take action and force the Russians to back down and get out. Fine, mission accomplished, but it was only the prelude. Now that Steve had proved himself in a preliminary, he was ready for a main event. And the time was now.
“Oscar,” McKay said. “How long to repair the leg?”
“It’s up to Killian and the others.”
“Two weeks?”
“You’re pushing pretty hard, aren’t you? What’s the big sweat?”
McKay swung his chair about, pulled a drawer from the desk, and rested his feet. “Afsir,” he said.
“Afsir?” Goldman repeated. The desert. North Africa . . .
“It’s heated up,” McKay told him.
“That hot? I mean, to use Austin so soon?”
“They need him yesterday,” McKay said.
Jean Manners couldn’t wait. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, tears on her cheeks. “I really didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, kissing him. He tried to move, clumsy on the crutch, until she drew back and studied him at arm’s length, smiling. “I understand you’ve had enough swimming for a while.”
“Enough,” he agreed with a laugh. “Got my old stall ready for me?”
“Ready.” She turned to walk by his side. “I’d like just to sit with you for a while, Steve. You know, catch up on things.” She glanced at him. “Maybe even hold hands for a while.”
He smiled at her. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”
“Got a fresh pot of coffee up.”
“Great.”
She studied his walk. “You’re all tensed up, Steve,” she said. “The crutch. You’re pulling muscles. You’re going to be all knotted up soon.”
He nodded. “Can’t help it. I’m forbidden to use a wheelchair.”
“Who would—?”
“Private joke.”
“I might even be talked into giving a certain party an expert rubdown.”
“Look, Jean. I—”
“Shut up, Steve. Please. Just for once shut up and let someone do something for you and enjoy it. I promise I won’t attack you.” A promise, she thought, but hardly a preference.
More than twenty-five men scattered throughout the Fort Carson obstacle course couldn’t stop Steve Austin. They were tough veteran combat troopers. His leg had been repaired in a matter of days, and it seemed he was even, faster and stronger now than before.
Watch
ing him, Marty Schiller thought of a place known as Afsir. “He’s ready,” Schiller said to Carpentier.
Carpentier looked at him. “I hope so,” he said, finally. “Surinam was a piece of cake compared to Afsir.”
Dr. Killian looked up from the long charts he had been studying for the past several hours. He had gone over every line, every bend and squiggle and mark with painstaking care. He had compared the recorder charts with instrument readouts, with biomedical records. His staff had been on the grill through every moment. Earlier in the day he had put the records back on the long table, walked from the room straight to where Steve was undergoing electrical flow tests. Killian hadn’t said a word, had exchanged no more than a brief nod with Steve. He watched the tests, suddenly straightened, nodded again to Austin and returned to the charts. Then, finally, Killian pushed away the papers.
“Get me Goldman,” he said to Art Fanier. The OSO man was there in ten minutes, and Killian, who despite his aversion to all security people had grown rather fond of the sophisticated agent, greeted him with surprising warmth.
“Goldman, good to see you.” When Goldman received this with a startled glance, Killian smiled and gestured at the papers to his side. “It’s all there,” Killian said. “You’re prepared to send him out as soon as possible.” It was more a statement than a question.
“The moment you tell us he’s ready,” said the OSO man, “we’d like him in the home office.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks, maybe less. It depends, Doctor, on whether we can complete his briefings and special training here or . . . where he’s going.”
“Which is where?”
“I’m not free to say, Dr. Killian.”
“Nonsense. You are planning to send him to North Africa,” Killian said. “Something about desert work. That much is obvious. You are also planning to have him fly again. Relax, Goldman. I’m hardly about to sell your precious secrets. But I want you to get something clear in your mind. We are cooperating with your office. So if you let us know where he’s going, it’s likely we can better prepare him for what you have in mind for him. Now, do you have a list of the modifications this assignment will require?”
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