The Savage Deeps, page 19
“Possibly,” was the faint reply. “Good luck, Mac.” Then the hatch slammed shut.
I sealed the hatch just behind the two pilot seats, and sat back.
There was nothing I could do now. The controls were out.
The living area, including the couches and bunks and kitchen and lavatory, was flooding. Only the control cabin and the engineering spaces were contained, but when the living space was full of water—
That would be a lot of weight.
We’d grow negatively buoyant.
And sink.
—••—
Already we were descending, and with blown ballast tanks too. I frowned. We should have been floating to the surface, at least until the cabin filled with water.
A look at the ballast displays hit me in the gut, however. They were flooded.
But how was that possible? We’d been positively buoyant before the detonations.
Unless the explosions had ruined the valves or pumps. Or both. Even if Johnny got the cabin cleared, we’d still hit bottom.
The depth finder was operating, but it was flickering. Three hundred meters. A stroke of luck. I’d been piloting at a depth of 1000 meters for hours before the attack. There must have been a rise in this area. We could survive the sinking, but if Johnny couldn’t clear the sub, we were in trouble.
—••—
Ten minutes passed. The pressure mounted as the sub sank, the hull creaked, and the air grew cold and damp. My feet were freezing—the water in the control cabin was up to my ankles, but no longer rising—and there were muted thumps coming from somewhere behind me. All systems were now out. Emergency lights were on, but that was it.
Another hour passed. I spent the time rooting through the control panel, and I found a few shorts and a few loose connections that I bypassed, but nothing had any impact on the status of the ship. I needed Johnny for that, back in engineer—
The lights flickered back on. The control panels came to life. Ventilation fans started whirring. But not because of anything I’d done.
A series of chugging pulses sounded from behind me—pumps were clearing the cabin of water. There were still major problems on the seacar—water kept spilling in from the top hatch, for instance—but at least the pumps could keep up with the flooding now. Our ballast was full, however, and I gingerly reached to the controls to change them to neutral. . . .
Nothing happened.
The hatch behind me opened and Johnny sloshed in. There was still a stream of green water falling into the cabin just behind him, which was more than a little disconcerting.
“Good job,” I said, pointing at the top hatch, “but we’re going to have to fix that.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to go outside. Flood the living cabin again, fix the seal. Then pump it out.”
There was a sudden clang on the hull, and a dragging, scraping, screeching as something moved across the steel.
A glance at the sonar, then a look upward through the canopy confirmed my fears. There was a warsub settling over us.
They meant to tow us away.
—••—
Verdun class. Top speed, 45 kph. Almost two football fields long. A nuclear missile boat—we called it an SSBGN, or Ship Submersible Ballistic/Guided Missile Nuclear—it held twenty nukes, could hit a depth of 3200 meters, had one huge thruster on the aft end of the fuselage with five two-meter long screw blades, a crew of 113, and eight torpedo tubes as well as mines.
They also had grappling hooks.
I bolted to my feet. “Johnny, suit up, now! Flood the living compartment, fix the seal on the hatch.” I started to gather my scuba gear.
His face was slack. “Where are you going?”
“We can’t let them hook onto us. We can outrun this sub, but we have to get operational first.”
“There are other warsubs with them!”
I snorted. “One thing at a time, partner.”
The chain scraped across the hull again, and this time some links drifted past the canopy. Massive twists of iron. I grimaced as the screech hit. Kat was going to freak out when she found out about this. “Is the SCAV operational?”
He scowled as he pulled on his wetsuit and threw the tank over his shoulders. “No. It’s out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”
So we’d have to run and evade with conventional tactics.
The thought made me stop in my tracks. My flippers were on and the mask was around my head. The tank was already across my back. I was standing in water and there was still a waterfall cascading from the top hatch. I shot a glance back to the control cabin. “Hold it.” I frowned as I thought the situation over.
I had made a couple of big mistakes in this situation. One had been firing a torpedo at the French torpedo. But the other mistake had happened earlier. Returning to this area on our way back to Trieste. I had been trying to avoid the USSF tracking our path to The Ridge, but I should have known the French would be here. After all, Renée had put a tracking device on us. It wasn’t operational anymore—we’d removed it long before—but it had led them to the canyon where we had destroyed Hunter. That canyon was to the east. . . .
They’d been waiting for us to return.
Shit.
They outmatched us completely. But they had made a terrible mistake too. Perhaps it was because they thought we were down and out—which we had been, for an hour or so—but now we had some systems back up and running, thanks to Johnny. The pumps were running full time, pumping the water flooding in right back out.
“Fire torpedoes first.” I clenched a jaw as I thought about it. The underbelly of the massive vessel was right over us. They’d been hunting us, because they knew we’d destroyed two French ships already. I couldn’t blame them for being mad, but I also couldn’t go willingly with them. We had two SCAV and three conventional torpedoes left. “I’ll go out the airlock with a welding torch. I’ll cut the grapples off.”
As if on cue, the seacar lurched to the side. The magnetic hooks had us.
“Prepare to fire three torpedoes into her underbelly. Set all three at impact detonation. Aim for the aft—engineering.”
His jaw dropped. “Mac.” His voice was quiet. “We’ve been through a lot together, but that’s a nuclear missile sub out there. There are over a hundred sailors on her. We’ve never fired on a—”
“I know. But the situation is dire. When I give the order, fire the torpedoes. I’ll be outside cutting off the grapples. Then we’ll fix the hatch as that boat floods.”
“And the other subs?”
“Like I said, one thing at a time.”
Chapter Nineteen
There was no going out the moonpool; we were way too deep. I grabbed a tank of the correct mix for our current depth and went through the airlock. Johnny would try to repair the hatch from inside, then he would have to pilot us away during our escape attempt. I would have to depressurize before I could enter the living area and control cabin; it meant another few hours lying on the airlock deck, wet and freezing—something I was not looking forward to. The hatch opened and I drifted outside cautiously. I was wearing flippers and kept my buoyancy neutral. The welding torch was heavy, however, so I had to lug it up to set it on the scratched and dinged-up hull. There was a stream of bubbles rising from the top hatch.
The warsub cut off my view, however. It had a flat underbelly studded with sensor pods, hatches, torpedo tubes, and airlocks. There were at least ten airlock hatches in view on the starboard side alone, for infantry and personal scooters. Four thick chains connected the sub to SC-1. They were attached to the seacar with powerful electromagnets. I would have to cut through each to release the vessel, and I’d have to do it fast. Once they realized what I was doing, they would try to stop me.
We were over the ocean floor by a few meters, and as I watched, the gargantuan screw blades of the Verdun class missile sub began to churn. Bubbles formed around the screw surfaces and joined the air escaping from SC-1 on its 300 meter trip topside. The warsub was close enough to the seafloor that the giant thruster kicked up sand from the bottom, and a cloud formed behind, swirling counterclockwise. Fish caught in the maelstrom swam valiantly to stay upright, but the power of the current overcame them. They flailed away, helpless, as they disappeared into the darkness of the water.
The current was strong, but the ship had so much mass it would take a while to build up speed. Her max velocity was forty-five. As I watched, the chains stretched taut and SC-1 hung back, like an animal straining at a leash. It became obvious I would have to sever the two chains at the rear first, and I quickly swam over to them, dragging the tools behind me.
“Johnny,” I said into my facemask. “I’m starting now.”
“They’ll notice you soon. Work fast.” His voice was small and tinny.
“Roger.” I hesitated for a heartbeat, and then, “Fire all torpedoes, now.”
With a burst of bubbles from the bow, the first torpedo lanced out. It quickly arced upward and soared straight and true to the warsub’s aft. Then another torpedo emerged and followed a similar course.
An instant later the first weapon struck. I watched it happen from just fifty meters away. It plunged right into the thick steel of the armored vessel and a flare of white and concussion waves blossomed. A flood of water cascaded back in, and bubbles streamed from the puncture. Sharp shards of hull angled into the submarine, jagged and warped, like angry teeth intent on devouring French sailors.
Compartments flooded.
Men died.
Then the second torpedo hit.
I had to shield my face and eyes; material was shooting out from the blasts, and I was in danger of losing my grip on the hull. The detonations were so near and huge that they dazed me. My sight grew dark.
I was dimly aware of a third launch and a third explosion, but I pushed my facemask against steel, trying to shield my head from the shock waves.
The warsub had been completely unprepared. No countermeasures, no evasion, nothing.
They’d assumed we’d been permanently disabled.
Their screw kept spinning, but we had flooded sections of the warsub. It would slow her somewhat. Bubbles shot from the three punctures, each about five meters apart.
“Good shooting,” I said.
Above, the warsub was shifting course to the northeast. The current was really picking up, and I had to hook a flipper through a rung in the hull. I had to be careful the welding tank didn’t get thrown away in the swirling water.
The welder fired up instantly at my touch. More bubbles streamed to the surface.
It took two minutes to get through the first link. It actually took longer than I thought it would; the metal was not ordinary. It must have been a stronger alloy for the towing of larger vessels. But soon I’d made it all the way through, and the seacar lurched under me as the chain fell free and hung behind us, trailing into the darkness. The magnet was a large plate that peeled away and plummeted downward to the seafloor. Once I’d cut the connection, the magnetic properties had disappeared. There must have been an electrical cable sealed within the metal. And no electricity, no magnet.
They’d notice that, I thought.
“A hatch just opened on the warsub,” Johnny warned. “Hurry.”
I hauled the tools over to the next grapple and started to cut.
“Here they come,” Johnny said.
“How many?”
“I see eight scuba—no, ten now—soldiers coming for you. They have scooters to help them against the strong current.”
“ETA?” Sweat dripped from my eyebrows into my eyes, and I shook my head to clear the droplets.
“I’d say two minutes.”
The second grapple fell away. I could do one more before I had to worry about the troops. I spun and began to pull myself along the hull toward the front magnets. I couldn’t swim; we were now forging too quickly through the water. If I lost my grip, it’d be all over for me. Johnny would not be able to come back to find me.
“Careful,” he said.
“I’ve got it.” I finally arrived at the third magnet. The chain was tight as the weight of SC-1 strained against the links. A risky glance up confirmed Johnny’s warnings.
The troops were there, moving toward me. Each straddled a motorcycle-sized tube with a single nozzle at the aft end. There were no screws on these little vehicles—they utilized a pump-jet, with all moving parts inside the machine. A gimbaling nozzle angled the thrust, which controlled the direction the scooter moved. It was fast and maneuverable.
“They’ll have weapons, Mac.”
“I know.” I focused on the welder. Another minute and I would have the third grapple severed. “Get ready to turn our thrusters on.” I checked the direction the scooters were coming in from—the bow. “Turn on full reverse when I say.”
The current would wash across the vessel toward the bow, hopefully disorient the troops, and perhaps even slow the warsub’s progress.
“Okay. They’ve contacted us, Mac, and they’re pissed.”
The chain separated and SC-1 lurched suddenly to the starboard. There was only one grapple left.
I ignored Johnny’s comment about the French communication. “Get ready,” I said.
“Ready.”
I lunged over to the last chain and started to cut. Bubbles churned all around me. It was hard to see anything. I was breathing hard and my mask was fogging. Damn. You needed full visibility in an undersea environment like this.
Especially with armed people on their way to kill you.
“Do you have a gun?” Johnny asked. I could detect his worry.
“Of course.” The holster was on my thigh. It was tight, and the strap was snapped on so the current wouldn’t yank the weapon into the depths.
“Time to grab it.”
A glint flashed before my eyes; twenty-centimeter-long steel needles ricocheted off the hull only inches in front of my mask. I pulled back and whipped my gaze toward the scooters.
I drew my gun.
Another swarm of needles shot toward me. Bursts of gas erupted from the weapons as the scooter operators gripped them tightly. But the current was too strong and the speed too great. I knew it would be difficult to aim in this situation.
“Turn on the thrusters!” I barked.
In an instant the screws started and SC-1 jumped backward, hauling on the last remaining chain. We began to rise, and the chain stretched tauter than ever. It was quivering it was so tight now.
I studied it carefully, and something occurred to me.
Another flash of needles hit the hull and a cloud of something filled my vision before trailing away behind the seacar. Blood.
My blood.
The pain hit next. Strange that I’d seen the results before I’d felt the needle that had lanced through my right thigh—in and out without even slowing.
There was little evidence of the puncture, but the stream of blood from both sides of my leg gave it away.
Aiming at the tightest cluster of scooters—three of them, just to my left—I fired three rapid shots. Fifteen needles in all.
Then I ducked low, grabbed a rung, and pressed myself to the seacar.
The vessel was rocking in the water, swinging back and forth, and there was an enormous current whipping past me. The welding tank was slamming up and down against the hull, the tubes flailing in the water. I’d tethered it to a rung with a belt, but it wouldn’t last long.
Then without warning the tank split. A surge of bubbles rushed out—
And it soared up and behind and disappeared into the distance.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Lost the torch.”
“You got a couple of the guys though.”
As he said it, I noted two riderless scooters spin away behind us, following the welding tank.
I could feel each beat of my heart in my thigh. Not a good sign. The blood continued to trickle out, but at least it wasn’t spurting. Missed the arteries.
Another spread of needles shot toward me, and they ricocheted against the hull of the seacar, the bent steel flipping away harmlessly.
“Do you have ballast control?” I asked.
“No.”
That’s what I’d thought. The two torpedo blasts had damaged the pumps or valves—or both. “We need to rise a bit. Use the yoke—pull back a bit. Slowly.”
There was a hesitation and then he swore in realization. “Got it.”
Behind me, the flaps on the horizontal stabilizer whined. I craned my neck as I clung to the ship. The currents were insane, and I couldn’t take much more. The sweat in my eyes was growing unbearable, and my biceps were on fire. But I watched the flaps move, and the seacar began to rise.
Toward the warsub.
Our ballast may have been frozen at negative, and we were currently heavier than the water that we displaced, but with that velocity and the ability to angle our nose up and down, we could alter our depth.
We continued to rise.
And the chain leading to the hatch in the warsub’s underbelly moved with us.
Toward the giant screw.
I held my breath.
Still it moved closer.
“A bit more,” I said. “Just a bit.”
“Get ready for a jolt!” Johnny cried out.
“Change thrusters to forward, full power!”
And then the chain came close to the churning screw of the warsub. Too close. In an instant the swirling current of the thruster hauled it in, and SC-1 jerked forward suddenly. There was a pop in my shoulder and I ground my teeth against the agony.
The chain wrapped once around the propeller shaft, and—
It fell free. Severed by the giant blades.
“Turn to port, now!” I yelled.
“Hold on!”
