Joe couldn’t hit the brake pedal without flashing a bright red beacon that might tell everyone where they were, but he pulled hard on the hand brake, which wasn’t attached to the taillight sensor. It helped, but not enough.
They hit the wall separating the cockpit from the cargo bay with a solid thump. A blizzard of dust rained down upon them and the helicopter rocked back and forth several times. Priya turned off the engine and pulled out the key.
Turning around Joe looked for the other vehicles. “Hold your breath.”
“Will that help?” Priya said.
“We’re about to find out.”
Gazing through the back window, Joe saw the lights of two cars pass by in the distance and vanish, heading toward the perimeter.
“Now what?”
“We find a way to call for help,” Joe said.
52
NUMA VESSEL GRYPHON, IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA EAST OF CRETE
KURT STOOD in the wheelhouse of the Gryphon, an all-metal, ninety-foot boat with a raked nose, wide stance and oversized air intakes for the gas turbine engine that powered it.
They’d picked up the Gryphon in Crete after the overnight flight to the island. Fueling and loading had taken them through lunch and a couple hours on the water had put them over the wreck of the Dakar.
They’d encountered nothing to suggest danger, but Kurt had a feeling that wouldn’t last. And that’s why he’d chosen the Gryphon. Not only was the boat armored, it carried hidden weapon systems, was capable of tremendous speed and could be operated remotely—or even autonomously, if necessary.
For now, it sufficed to hold station against a moderate current while the ROV was descending.
“Passing eight thousand feet,” Paul said from beside Kurt, “fifteen hundred to go.”
“Picking up something on sonar,” Gamay said.
Kurt sat back, arms folded across his chest. “Make a high pass and then bring it around again, we need a full-scale picture.”
Paul tapped away on the computer keyboard and ordered the ROV to begin a forward and back pattern.
“Setting sonar on virtual,” Gamay said.
This would allow multiple sonar returns to be combined into one. A new image appeared on the right side of the monitor. It was soon filling with orange, gray and black details.
“Something isn’t right,” Gamay said. “Are we sure this is the right location?”
Kurt looked at the sonar image. He’d learned both how to interpret the images over the years and how to not overreact to their limitations. Sonar was a wonderful tool and it gave a picture of whatever it scanned, but it was easily obscured or distorted by changes in water temperature, salinity and even the angle at which the sonar beam hit the object in question.
That said, the image on the screen didn’t look much like a submarine.
“We’re in the right spot,” he said, double-checking their position.
“Keep descending,” Kurt said to Paul. “Let’s see what the cameras show when we get in range.”
It would be another five minutes before the lights from the ROV began picking up the bottom.
“Level off and maneuver east,” Kurt said, tracking the ROV’s location.
Paul used the computer to send the ROV on an easterly heading and the cameras began snapping high-definition photos of the seafloor and the scattered bits of wreckage.
There was little to see on the video feed.
“Lots of sediment floating by,” Gamay said.
Kurt nodded. He was waiting for a different image, one formed by the computer as it took the photos from the high-definition cameras and merged them digitally with the data from the sonar system.
It took a few moments for the image to be processed, but eventually a three-dimensional image of the entire wreckage field appeared. The colors were false to show contrast, but the image itself was crystal clear.
The reasons for the skewed sonar readings became obvious. The submarine was no longer in one piece. It had been cut into three sections, one of which had been dragged away from the others.
“Someone took it apart,” Gamay noted.
Detail on the largest section revealed scaffolding like a cage of metal bars. “They tried to raise it. Too heavy to do it in one piece, so they cut it into sections.”
“Did the Israelis do this?” Gamay asked.
“No,” Kurt said, “they took only the conning tower. This was Tessa’s work.” He glanced at Paul. “Make another pass, get in close to the scaffolding.”
Paul guided the ROV back around and brought it in closer to the largest section of the wreck. At this closer range, the welded cradle that had been built around and under the submarine became easy to examine.
“Breaks there and there,” Kurt said. “Stress fractures. They put enough lifting force into the effort, but they didn’t build a strong enough cradle.”
“Seems unlikely Tessa’s people would get their math wrong,” Gamay said.
“I’m sure they got it exactly right,” Kurt answered. “But knowing how much each section of the ship weighed doesn’t account for the inertia caused by the water-filled compartments or the force required to break it loose from the seabed. Nor is subsurface welding an easy art. Looks like the cradle broke at the welds.”
“You seem excited by this,” Gamay said.
“Absolutely,” Kurt said. “Had they lifted this thing onto a barge and hauled it away, they would have had unlimited time to discover everything inside. A failure like this suggests a desperate second act to retrieve what they eventually found. It makes it more likely they left something behind.”
Kurt stood. “Finish the survey. Find the best way in and out of each section and account for any danger you can spot. I’ll be getting the Trench Crawlers ready. As soon as you’re done, we’re going down.”
53
KURT AND GAMAY dropped silently toward the bottom of the Mediterranean in what looked like suits of body armor that had been crossed with robotic monsters from a comic book.
Seven feet tall and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, the Trench Crawler was the latest of NUMA’s deep-diving creations.
Known as an ADS, or atmospheric diving suit, because it maintained a surface-level pressure of one atmosphere within its shell, the Trench Crawler allowed its occupant to dive deep and spend extended time on the bottom without the need for decompression stops or extended time in a decompression chamber upon surfacing.
It had a bulbous, rounded head, adorned with external cameras and lights, long mechanical arms that bent in directions no human arm could and legs that were bulky and articulated at the knees. Unlike other atmospheric diving suits, the Trench Crawler had fully robotic arms and a wider body, allowing the diver to keep his or her hands inside the shell, where they could manipulate the controls.
A pair of fully rotatable thrusters were attached to the sides, while a compartment on the back contained batteries, oxygen for eight hours, an emergency surfacing float and a pair of small submersible drones that could be deployed and controlled remotely from within the Trench Crawler’s shell.
Sealed inside, Kurt’s face was lit by the dim glow of small screens, two on the right and two on the left. They displayed the operating systems and the camera views, while a traditional curved helmet view gave an image of the outside world.
Descending beside him, Gamay Trout was in the Bravo model of the Trench Crawler.
“Now I know how a giant feels,” she said over the hydrophone.
“I hope that’s not a crack about my height,” Paul said. He was on the surface, acting as mission control.
“Not at all,” Gamay said. “Although, I wouldn’t need four-inch heels if I wore this on our next date.”
“Nor would you need a reservation, because the waiters would flee the restaurant in horror,” Kurt added, interruptin
g the two of them. “Time to focus, we’re nearing the bottom.”
“Sonar has you just south of the wreck,” Paul said. “With lights on, you should see it in thirty seconds or less.”
Kurt switched the exterior lights on and the water around him lit up as tiny particles reflected it back in his direction. Kurt’s left hand was on the thruster control. His right hand on a keypad.
“Angling lights downward,” he said as he rotated the suit’s exterior lights.
Above and to his right, a second set of lights appeared as Gamay switched hers on.
“Sixty feet,” Kurt said.
For a moment, there was nothing to see but darkness, then, finally, a barren, grayish plain below.
Watching the depth control meter on one of the screens, Kurt saw the absolute depth at 9,758 feet. A second number underneath it read only 50 and was slowly clicking down toward zero. “Fifty feet,” Kurt said. “Switch to neutral.”
“Neutral buoyancy,” Gamay said.
Kurt adjusted the ballast in his suit and his descent slowed and then stopped. Spread out on the plane were metal parts, junk and debris, but nothing more.
“Anyone see a submarine around here?”
“You’ve drifted a little farther south,” Paul told them. “Head north. It’s no more than five hundred feet from your present position.”
Engaging the thrusters, Kurt and Gamay moved north, traveling in a slow formation.
The debris field thinned and then the curved hull of a submarine’s central section came into view. Closer in, it was easy to see how the scaffolding around it had broken. Kurt said, “Where to, Paul?”
“You’ll need to maneuver around the far edge for a safe entry. Too much damage to this side.”
They’d planned the dive in advance, but to allow Kurt and Gamay to concentrate on their tasks, it had been decided that Paul would act as overall director.
Kurt and Gamay activated their thrusters again and moved past the near end of the hull. Impact damage, piping, wires and other encrusted debris made entry there impossible.
On the far side, they got a better view of the entire section. It was covered with marine snow and dripping with rust but in better shape than many wrecks Kurt had seen. Spread out in front of it was another debris field of equipment, machinery and assorted junk.
“Either everything fell out when they raised and dropped her,” Gamay said, “or they just ripped everything out when they were looking for the cultures.”
“Probably a little of both,” Kurt said.
He slowed and held his position, studying the submarine. Looking at it was like studying the cross section of a model. The circular curve of the pressure hull was obvious even with the impact damage. The decks crossed at an angle because the hull did not sit perfectly flat on the bottom, but each deck was wide open to the sea.
“Looks like they cut the hull at the limits of the crew quarters and mess hall,” Kurt said, gazing into the opening. “Obviously, they wanted to leave the heavy engine room at the stern and the dangerous forward torpedo room on the bottom. Have to give them some credit for thinking ahead.”
“Should we go in?” Gamay asked.
Even though the hull was wide open, it was still no place for seven-foot-tall, man-shaped machines.
“No,” Kurt said. “Release the drones.”
As he gave the order, Kurt pressed two red buttons. “Releasing drones Alpha and Bravo.”
A subtle vibration ran through the suit as the drones deployed.
“I’m releasing Charlie,” Gamay replied.
The football-shaped drones would have a far easier time searching through the wreck. They could fit through gaps and hatches. They were smooth-sided, with nothing extending outside their shells that could snag on debris or cables. They could move and see in all directions.
“I have Alpha,” Kurt said. “Paul, I’m releasing Bravo to your steady hand.”
“Roger that,” Paul said. “Telemetry is active. I have control of Bravo.”
The drones entered the hull on a different deck, their lights illuminating the vacant spaces while their motors stirred up small amounts of sediment.
Gazing at the computer screen inside his helmet, Kurt watched the video from his drone as it navigated the wreck. The inspection was done at a painstakingly slow speed. Compartment by compartment, foot by foot.
The process would take hours. They didn’t know exactly what they were looking for, but anything out of the ordinary, anything that could hold a dangerous bacterial culture and keep it secured against the sea for fifty years despite the pressure, depth and cold.
“Drone Bravo is searching the medical bay,” Paul announced.
“Charlie entering the mess hall,” Gamay said moments later.
In some ways, the work Tessa’s people had done made the search easier.
“Looks like they used blowtorches to remove the hatches and watertight doors,” Kurt said. “I’ve encountered nothing to slow our progress.”
“There are several gaping holes in the upper deck,” Gamay replied.
“They cut a hole in the side of the hull on deck two as well,” Paul added. “Looks like they’ve looted the entire medical bay. There’s nothing left in here.”
“They’ve done the same thing to the mess hall,” Gamay replied. “No fryer, no refrigerators, no containers—they’ve left nothing behind.”
Kurt was discovering the same thing. Not a footlocker remained in the crew quarters. Nothing that might be used to hide a sealed container.
“Finish the sweep and then search the aft section with the engine room,” he said. “I’m recalling my drone and switching to the forward section of the submarine.”
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” Paul reminded him.
“I’m calling an audible,” Kurt said. “They’ve picked this segment clean. If the counteragent was here, they’d have found it.”
“There are twelve unexploded torpedoes in there,” Paul reminded him.
“Don’t worry,” Kurt said. “I left my sledgehammer on the Gryphon with you.”
Using his thrusters, Kurt maneuvered toward the forward section of the wreck and then guided his drone in through a small gap.
This section didn’t seem to have been ransacked. That gave Kurt some hope that they might find what they were looking for.
“Central hull cleared,” Gamay said. “Heading for the engine room.”
“I’m right behind you,” Paul said.
Kurt heard the chatter but focused on his own task. The forward compartments were a jumble, skewed to the side and half filled with sediment. The torpedoes had come off their racks and lay about like fallen logs in a dark forest. That none of them had exploded upon impact was a testament to the design of their safeties. Still, Kurt avoided even bumping them. He didn’t want to find out if those safeties were still working after fifty years.
Maneuvering past the last of the torpedoes, he found an area of smoothly deposited silt. As the drone’s thrusters began to disturb it, the outline of a boot became visible. No foot. No bone. Just a boot.
Kurt knew from studying previous wrecks that marine life consumed almost everything organic within a few decades of a sinking. Still, the presence of the boot reminded him that this was a grave. He continued the quest soberly until he’d examined the entire forward section and come up against the damaged forward bulkhead. There was nothing beyond that except the sand and the sea.
He glanced at the chronometer. They’d been on the bottom nearly four hours. With the hour it had taken them to descend and the time required to surface, they were nearing a full day.
“Nothing in the forward section,” he called out over the radio. “Any luck in the engine room or aft quarters?”
“We’re finishing up now,” Gamay said. “Nothing to report.”
&
nbsp; “Time to head up,” he said. “Otherwise, Rudi will be screaming about the overtime. Recall your drone and get ready to surface.”
As Paul and Gamay confirmed the order, Kurt maneuvered the drone back to where he’d found the boot. He allowed it to descend until it was almost touching the sand. As the sediment swirled, other parts of a uniform were exposed. This was someone’s last resting place.
Opening a compartment in the nose, he extended a tiny arm from the drone. The arm held a small round stone that Kurt released, allowing it to fall onto the silt beside the uniform.
A small gesture of respect.
That done, Kurt retracted the arm. He was about to bring the drone out of the hull when he noticed a small metallic object sitting upright in the silt. It was a brass pin. A decoration given to sailors for completing a special type of mission.
As Kurt focused on the pin, he realized he’d seen that type of pin before, not on an Israeli sailor but on the uniform of a friend who was a longtime French submariner.
Without pause, Kurt plucked the decoration off the sediment and stowed it away. He then retrieved the drones and joined Gamay for the nearly hour-long trip to the surface.
All the way up, he mulled over a single question. What was a French naval insignia doing in the wreck of an Israeli submarine that was supposedly sent to the bottom by the French Air Force?
54
BEN GURION INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
RUDI GUNN stood on the curb outside the main terminal at Ben Gurion International. Despite a lightweight linen jacket and a hat to keep the sun off his head, he was sweating in the August heat the moment he stepped out of the air-conditioned building.
Fortunately, a white Lincoln was already pulling up in front of him.
“Mr. Gunn?” the driver asked.
Sea of Greed Page 24