tackled the taller man at the waist and slammed him back against the console. Excalibur spun to the deck and dropped into the hole beneath the raised periscope.
Chase swept out an arm, knocking the XM-201 from Mitchell’s hand. He was about to drive his fist into Mitchell’s crotch when a knee rammed into his face. His nose cracked, hot blood gushing over his lips.
‘Oh, you fucker!’ Chase roared, whipping up his head and catching Mitchell under his chin. The American’s jaw snapped shut, and he spat out blood. Chase punched him twice in the stomach, doubling him over, then smashed a fist into his mouth and knocked him backwards. ‘
But Mitchell was far from down, an arm snapping up to block Chase’s final attack. The heel of his palm hit the Englishman’s jaw like an axe, and as Chase reeled Mitchell kicked him in the stomach and knocked him back against the periscope. He hit one of the handgrips, the tube spinning round and pitching him to the deck.
Face swollen and bleeding, Mitchell shot Chase a look of rage, as if about to leap at him and continue the attack with his bare hands - before diving for the fallen rifle.
Sprawled on the floor with no cover, there was only one place Chase could go—
Bullets clanged around him as he threw himself into the hole and smashed down on the unyielding floor of the periscope compartment below. He scrambled forward as Mitchell ran to the edge of the opening and kept firing, ricochets pinging and sparking off the bulkheads. He was now moving uphill, the Typhoon undeniably tilting down at the stern. But that was far from the forefront of his mind as he reached an open hatch - and saw something few Westerners had ever seen.
The Typhoon’s missile bay stretched out before him, three decks high and the better part of two hundred feet long. He was on a narrow catwalk round the uppermost level, looking down at the ten pairs of launch tubes sandwiched between the two cylindrical pressure hulls. Even though the tubes were empty, the whole dimly lit chamber exuded menace, a symbol of fearsome destructive power.
But a much older force of destruction was also in the room with him. Seawater sloshed through the aft hatches on the bottom level, foaming waves creeping forward as he watched. The lowest deck was already flooded, water gushing through the hole in the hull, and the deluge would only speed up as the ever-growing weight dragged the stern deeper under the surface.
A thump behind him. Mitchell had just jumped down from the control room. Chase rolled under the heavy hatch and kicked it with both feet. It slammed shut on Mitchell’s rifle. Something cracked. The American forced his way through the gap, snarling down at Chase and swinging the XM-201 round to point at him—
Mitchell’s finger tightened round the trigger, but no bullets emerged. He tried again, then fumbled with the ammo selector. It refused to move, the mechanism damaged.
‘Told you it’d break!’ Chase shouted, delivering another forceful kick and crushing Mitchell against the jamb. He let out a gurgling groan. As Chase prepared to strike again, he pulled back into the periscope chamber. The hatch clanged against the frame.
Chase stood, wiping blood from his face. The submarine was now tilting down by about ten degrees at the stern, the leading edge of the water halfway along the missile bay. Dealing with Mitchell was rapidly becoming a secondary priority - he had to find a way to get himself and Nina off the sub.
With luck, Mitchell would now have a few cracked ribs. Chase swung open the hatch - and jerked away as Excalibur slashed at his head.
If Mitchell had been hurt, he wasn’t showing any signs of it. He thrust again, Chase leaping aside to avoid taking the sharp tip in his face.
Mitchell advanced, expression furious beneath the blood. Chase jumped back as Excalibur stabbed at his abdomen. Another attack, this one slicing upwards from groin to chest. Chase grimaced and retreated more quickly. He glanced over his shoulder, only to see that the catwalk came to a dead end at a large control panel.
Mitchell saw it too, a mocking sneer on his split lips. He jabbed at Chase’s chest, forcing him back still further. Chase saw nothing he could use as a weapon or to fend off the blade. He was literally about to die by the sword.
He reached the control panel, trapped. Mitchell drew back Excalibur for a killing thrust—
The deck trembled, a deep metallic groan echoing through the submarine. Wind suddenly blew around the huge chamber, water surging through the hatches with much greater force than before. Something clanged back and forth across the missile bay with a sound like a rifle shot - a rivet popping loose under the strain.
The bow had risen out of the water, nothing supporting it as the stern continued to drop, causing the massive vessel to flex.
It was going to sink, very soon.
Mitchell gripped the handrail to steady himself, and struck.
31
Chase was no longer there. He flung himself off the catwalk. The blade ripped his wet shirt, slicing a gash in his shoulder as he fell - to plunge into the water flooding the chamber.
Even with the water to cushion his fall, he still thudded against the deck, the impact knocking the breath from him. The force of the incoming water swept him against one of the missile tubes. He grabbed a pipe and pulled his head above the churning surface, coughing.
He looked up, seeing Mitchell glaring down before the American hurried back to the hatch. He hesitated, then turned and ran up the catwalk towards the bow, the sword glinting in his hand.
Chase knew why Mitchell had paused. He had boarded the submarine with two prizes, but considered only one of them irreplaceable. He was taking Excalibur, leaving Nina to drown.
Chase dragged himself through the water until he reached a ladder, and climbed it, freezing water streaming off him. More almost animalistic moans sounded around him. The submarine was still dropping at the stern, the flood now at the missile bay’s forward bulkhead.
He was on the catwalk. The thought of going after Mitchell didn’t even occur to him; instead, he ran back to the periscope compartment and went through the hatch at its rear to find himself at the base of the control deck ladder once more. A cold, sinister wind blew past him - air being displaced by the rising water.
By the time he entered the conn, the Typhoon was tilting up by over fifteen degrees, loose objects sliding down the deck. Nina was still in the corner. Chase searched the room for a first-aid kit. He spotted a small cabinet marked with a green cross and pulled out a plastic case before going to her. He pawed through the Cyrillic-labelled contents before finding what he was after: smelling salts. He cracked the ampoule under Nina’s nose.
No reaction for a moment. Then:
‘Gah! Wha’ the, what,
‘You should see the other guy,’ he said with a pained grin.
A long, mournful groan rolled through the room, followed by a series of rifle-shot cracks as more rivets broke. The submarine shuddered, the pointer on the inclinometer rising faster. Nina surveyed her surroundings, then tipped her head in bewilderment to match the angle of the room. ‘We’re on the submarine,’ Chase told her.
‘Why?’
‘Long story. But we need to get off it, because it’s sinking.’
‘Yeah, I thought that’d wake you up.’ He helped her stand.
‘Well, how
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can we get up into the, what’s it called, the conning tower? Maybe there’s a life raft!’
‘Worth a try,’ Chase decided. He had seen another ladder aft of where he had entered the control deck; the only place it could go was into the sail. ‘Watch your step - the whole thing’s going down at the arse. This slope’s only going to get worse.’
‘Where’s Jack? And Excalibur?’
‘Last I saw, he was running for the bow, with the sword.’
‘Why didn’t you stop him?’
