She’d come in slowly, extending large flaps and dropping to a position just above the water, where the high-pressure cavitation system was engaged.
With a cushion of air to break up the surface tension, the plane had landed smoothly, the central spine of its keel cleaving the water in two. Only when the speed dropped below forty knots was the cavitation system shut down. By then, the entire lower fuselage of the aircraft had been cradled by the sea and the Monarch was settling gently.
It eased to a crawl and stopped near where the Gryphon had been destroyed, but nearly a mile from the wreck site.
Tessa left the cockpit. “I’ll be on the lower deck,” she said. “Keep the engines turning. I want to be able to leave here at a moment’s notice.”
The pilots responded in unison and Tessa left them behind, racing to the bottom deck and heading aft. She arrived to find the tail ramp already lowered and Volke and Woods working together to get the recovery teams into the water.
The disk-shaped submersible was lowered first, followed by a slower, bulkier sub, which her people called the Bus.
Volke was in the Discus. Woods drove the Bus.
Behind them, two high-speed boats were launched, each with four divers aboard. The group in the first boat were commercial divers Woods had rounded up. The group in the second boat were the remnants of the mercenaries Volke had hired. He called them the predator team.
Tessa intended to keep in contact with all of them. She put on a headset with noise-dampening earcups so she could hear over the continued whistle of the engines. After plugging the jack into the transmitter, she moved the microphone in front of her mouth. “How long will this take?”
“No time at all,” Volke insisted. “The depth is a hundred and twenty feet. The vessel seems to be intact. And this time we know what we’re looking for.”
“Get it and get back here,” she said. “Austin may have called for help, we might not have a lot of time.”
* * *
• • •
VOLKE GRIPPED the controls of his submersible. It felt good to be back in control again. “Woods, are your men ready?”
Volke didn’t trust Woods. Even with the threat of death, the man was a fanatic. When told they’d be recovering the antidote, Woods had been furious. He wanted it destroyed, claiming it could only lead the world back to the Oil Age. Tessa had had to explain again that their lives were worthless without the antidote, then Woods had finally come around. Still, Volke and Tessa had agreed to keep a close eye on him and use him only when absolutely necessary.
“They’re ready,” Woods said.
“Tell them to follow me down. We don’t have time to wait for you.”
Volke engaged his propulsion jets and the Discus began crossing the water toward the wreck site. The powerboats passed him, one to either side, while the Bus trailed well behind.
Reaching the dive coordinates, Volke tuned a valve and flooded his ballast tank. The Discus submerged and began dropping toward the bottom. The commercial divers went in the water, swimming beside him in a steady descent.
Volke spotted the Minerve and approached it from the broadside, noticing the opening that had been cut in it.
“NUMA’s already been down here,” he reported. “I only hope the counteragent wasn’t on board their vessel when we blew it apart.”
“They wouldn’t have been sitting around if they had it,” Tessa insisted. “It’s down there.”
Volke looked around. It dawned on him that some of the NUMA personnel might have been in the water when they attacked the Gryphon. He doubted a lone diver or even a group of them would be brazen enough to attack his men, not when it would be far wiser to swim away and call for help, but he put nothing past these men and women from NUMA.
“Group one, take up positions on the hull where you can watch for trouble. Group two, get inside and see what you can find.”
As the divers swam to their new positions, Volke backed away from the submarine, giving himself a wider view. He watched as the two men swam up to the opening and shined their lights inside.
“Looks like the control room,” one of them reported.
“A hundred thousand euros to whoever finds the canister,” Volke said.
* * *
• • •
THE FIRST DIVER went in, disconnecting the small air tank from his dive harness and pushing it in front of him. “I’m going aft.”
He knew he had the best chance of finding the canister. He’d been part of the team that found the oil destroyer in the Dakar and he would know the canisters by sight.
The Israelis had stored them in a refrigerated compartment meant for food. Why, he didn’t know, but he expected the French would do the same. He went aft, heading for the galley, came to a bulkhead door and found it chained in the open position.
He grabbed the door and shook it, interested in whether it would even move at this point. As he did so, his light illuminated the skeletal remains of a crewman, stuck behind the door.
He pulled back instantly, exhaling a cloud of bubbles. It wasn’t fear, just shock, made worse by the adrenaline and the high level of oxygen running through his body.
Waiting for his heart rate to slow, he drifted backward and bumped into something. Spinning around, he saw a metallic monster, bulbous and grotesque, with copper-colored skin. He saw his own reflection in the curved glass of the huge head. Far too late, he noticed a weighty arm crashing down toward him.
The metal fist slammed into his skull and knocked him out cold.
* * *
• • •
THE SECOND DIVER had entered the open space of the submarine’s control room, saw the lead diver going aft and turned toward the forward part of the sub. He swam past the periscope housing and through the forward hatchway door. Like the other doors, this one was chained in the open position.
Confidently, he kicked smoothly and entered the compartment, moving methodically and removing his tank as the first diver had. He went one compartment at a time, shining his light in every nook.
He’d reached the forward torpedo room when a strange sound reached his ears. Sizzling, bubbling, burning, is how he would have described it. He looked around for the source of that noise, noticed a glow coming from far behind him and turned, swimming back toward the control room.
He kicked harder and faster as he neared the hatch, a supernatural sense of danger driving him forward. Getting closer, he saw a jet of fire lighting up the hatchway. He quickly realized it was a cutting torch.
He swam for the gap, caught sight of a diver in a bulky ADS on the far side and then realized what was happening. The armored diver was cutting the chain that held the hatch open.
The links were severed, the chain dropped to the deck and the hatch began to swing closed.
The diver shoved his air tank forward and wedged it in the gap, momentarily preventing the closure. The hatch rebounded open and he tried to swim through.
It was not to be.
The diver in the ADS blocked him and grabbed at his face with the metallic arms. The diver pulled back, only to have his helmet ripped off his head.
Bubbles exploded in all directions and the world was instantly blurred. All he could see were indistinct shapes and shadows moving around as his dive light bounced loose.
He grabbed for his backup regulator, got it into his mouth and took a desperate breath. Before he could do anything more, a resounding metallic clang told him his fate had been sealed.
The hatch door had been slammed shut. The wheel turned and locked.
He grabbed the handle and tried to twist it. His only hope lay with the other divers still outside of the submarine. But without his helmet, he couldn’t even call for help.
* * *
• • •
PAUL STOOD BESIDE the sealed hatchway. He’d knocked one foe into unconsciousness with a single
blow and sealed the second one in the forward part of the hull—after removing his helmet with its communication system.
He moved back in the other direction, spotting Gamay as she emerged from the aft section of the submarine, dragging the banded steel cylinder behind her. It was partially encrusted with salts and rust but identifiable as the canister they were after. “You found it.”
“I did,” Gamay said. “Now we have to get out of here.”
“That’s going to be a challenge,” he said, pointing at the man he’d knocked out. “This guy wanted to join you in the mess hall.”
“How did they not see you?”
“I hid on the ceiling,” Paul said. “They swam right underneath me.”
“What happened to the other diver?”
“He went forward. I locked him in. But I’m pretty sure they’re not alone.”
Gamay twisted, exhaling a stream of bubbles. “We’re trapped.”
Paul nodded inside the suit. “Unless we get some assistance to break the blockade, this submarine is going to be our Alamo.”
* * *
• • •
WAITING OUTSIDE the Minerve, Volke drummed his fingers on the control panel. The delay soon became too much for him. “Divers, report. What’s going on in there?”
Wreck diving was dangerous business, but the Minerve was in such good condition it was doubtful his people faced the kind of dangers usually associated with sunken ships.
With no response forthcoming, Volke’s frustration grew. Underwater radios were not that reliable, it was possible the hull of the submarine was blocking the signal.
“Team two, get in there and find out what’s going on,” he said. “Stick together.”
The second pair of divers moved toward the hull, reaching the opening and entering more cautiously.
Almost immediately, Volke knew something had gone wrong. A wave of bubbles exploded through the gap in the hull and the beams from divers’ hand lights could be seen dancing around chaotically.
“They’re in here!” a shout came over the radio.
“Get out!” the other diver shouted. “Get out!”
One of the men burst from the opening, swimming hard. The second diver was halfway out when he was grabbed by a large metallic arm, which clamped down on his leg, raking his calf and drawing blood.
He squirmed and twisted, shouting as his ankle snapped and the fin was ripped from his foot. With another kick, he pulled free and went right for the surface.
“Two members of the NUMA team are in there,” the first diver reported. “One in regular gear and one in a hard suit.”
A moment later, the diver in the hard suit emerged from the opening, the suit’s huge shoulders barely fitting through.
Volke instinctively attacked, pushing the throttle of his vessel to full.
As the Discus sped forward, the pincers at the front opened wide, targeting the diver’s helmeted head, but the armored figure dropped back into the Minerve and hid before Volke could hit him.
Volke pulled up, crossed over the top of the submarine and spun his vessel around. This time, he set up closer to the opening, ready to hammer anything that emerged.
* * *
• • •
BACK ON THE SURFACE, Tessa heard the radio chatter. Through a set of binoculars, she saw one of her scuba divers popping to the surface. He was bleeding and swimming for one of the dive boats.
A radio call from Volke arrived next. “They’re down here. At least two of them. We have them trapped in the Minerve, but we can’t get inside.”
She pressed the transmitter. “Don’t let them escape.”
“That’s not what they’re trying to do,” Volke replied. “This is obviously a delaying tactic. The longer we stay, the more likely help is to arrive.”
“Help is coming,” she insisted. “But not for them.”
She contacted the second team of divers, the predator team who were used to fighting and killing. “You’re needed,” she said. “Go.”
They went in the water one after another, four men carrying spearguns with explosives-tipped heads.
68
TWO MILES from the Minerve, another submersible drifted slowly downward. It was scorched and silent.
“Would it help if I got out and pushed?” Rudi asked.
“It might,” Kurt said.
Kurt and Rudi had been controlling the Gryphon remotely from the submersible while it hung from the crane over the transom of the boat. They’d held on until just before the final missile impact, when Rudi had pressed the button to release them from the crane.
They’d dropped free just before the explosion, but the fire had toasted the exterior, coating the submersible in burns. While the shock wave battered the sub, no mortal damage had been done, but the submersible had been shaken so severely that the computer-based systems had shut down.
Going through the restart procedure for the third time, Kurt finally got the power restored and the systems up and running. Lights on the control panel came to life, followed by the subsurface comm system.
“. . . We’re completely surrounded. If you’re out there, now would be a good time to show up and render assistance.”
“Your plan seems to be working perfectly,” Rudi said from the copilot’s seat, “if it includes us nearly getting incinerated and the Trouts coming under attack with only the creaky hull of an old submarine between them and certain death.”
“The plan was to buy Paul and Gamay some time while lulling Tessa into thinking she’d killed us,” Kurt replied. “I never intended our deception to come that close to reality.”
“She has to have counted us out by now,” Rudi said. “So that part is a success.”
“I’m sure she has,” Kurt said, pushing the throttle forward. He got his bearings and turned toward the Minerve’s position. “Time for us to surprise her by returning from the dead.”
* * *
• • •
VOLKE WATCHED the new team of men descending toward him. The grenade-tipped spears they carried wouldn’t be enough to destroy the submarine, but they would be more than enough to put the last of the NUMA operatives out of their misery.
“Predator team,” he called out. “Stop your descent seventy feet above the Minerve’s hull. Be ready to unleash a barrage directly into the opening.”
The divers did as ordered, forming up high above the hull of the old submarine. As they got into position, Volke cycled through various channels on the aquatic communications system. There were only so many frequencies used for underwater radio. The NUMA divers would be using one of them.
“NUMA personnel hiding in the Minerve,” he announced. “My name is Volke. I wish to discuss terms of your surrender.”
He repeated this greeting on a dozen different channels before finally getting a response.
“You’ll be the one begging for a chance to surrender when the U.S. Navy arrives,” a woman’s voice said.
“We’ll be long gone by then,” Volke assured her. “As for you, they can either arrive to rescue a couple of forlorn survivors or to pick up your broken and battered bodies. The choice is yours.”
“I’d tell you what you can do with that offer,” the woman said. “But my parents taught me to act like a lady, even when I didn’t want to.”
Volke almost laughed. “Let me demonstrate what’s about to happen here,” he said, before switching channels. “Predator leader, fire a single charge, target the hull beside the opening.”
Up above the Minerve, one of the divers shouldered his speargun, tilted his body to aim and pulled the trigger. The thick elastic cords released instantly, propelling the iron spike with its explosive tip downward. It traveled sixty feet on its momentum and then continued forward assisted by a burst of gas from a small canister in the tail.
The rounded tip
of the spear hit the Minerve, detonating in an orange flash and sending a reverberation through the submarine’s hull and the waters around it.
Had they been asked, the divers would have said seventy feet of clearance was not enough, as the shock wave hit them with the strength of a solid punch. Inside the Minerve, the impact was louder and more painful, even with the hull to deflect most of the blast.
Volke allowed the water to clear before he switched back to the NUMA radio channel. “That was a demonstration. Assuming you can still hear me, I renew my offer to let you simply swim away. Otherwise, the next grenade comes through the opening, and it won’t be the only one we fire.”
“Go pound sand,” the woman said.
“Show her we mean business,” Volke ordered.
The other three men on the predator team moved into position, a little higher and a little farther away. They raised spearguns and took aim.
“Look out,” one of them shouted.
From out of nowhere, several high-speed projectiles the size and shape of American footballs came rushing toward them. Two men were hit. One firing his spear as he tensed, the other taking a headshot that cracked the glass of his helmet.
The man with the shattered helmet began swimming upward, the others turned to track the danger only to see the small objects coming back their way for another ramming attempt.
“They’re just sea drones,” Volke said. “Ignore them.”
Barely had the words left Volke’s mouth when the Discus jerked violently forward. The impact was sudden, forceful and unstoppable. He knew in an instant it wasn’t caused by a sea drone.
He snapped his head around. Another submersible—one of the NUMA designs—had rammed him and locked onto his stern, using its front claws. It was pushing the Discus forward, driving it away from the Minerve and down.
Volke’s reactions were quick. He pushed the throttle to full and grabbed the control stick. The Discus was larger and more powerful. Once he got free of the grasp, he would punish the fools who’d attacked him. With the throttle at the firewall, the engine revved quickly and the intake at the nose began gulping seawater.
Sea of Greed Page 31