“
VOICE IDENTIFICATION VERIFIED.
“Explain current maneuvers.”
REALIGNING PUMP-JET PROPULSORS, RECONFIGURING TACTICAL SYSTEM TO OPTIMIZE ALL FIELDS.
“Terminate maneuvers.”
REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN ONE MINUTE, ZERO-THREE SECONDS.
“
REALIGNMENT WILL BE COMPLETED IN FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS.
Chau’s eyes widen. “It’s ignoring you.”
Covah grips the armrests of his chair, closing his eyes as the sub rolls hard to port and keeps on rolling, the ship’s wingspan nearly vertical as it glides through a narrow opening set between two towering peaks.
Chau’s feet go out from under him. The falling crewman lunges for the support rail of Central Command and holds on, his body dangling thirty feet above the tilting chamber.
“
The sub passes between the two mountainous barriers and rights itself.
REALIGNMENT COMPLETE. TACTICAL EFFICIENCY NOW 100 PERCENT.
Thomas Chau pulls himself up and over the rail, a murderous look in his almond eyes as leans toward Covah, and whispers, “You’ve lost control.”
Covah stares impassively at the giant viewing screen, sucking in painful breaths. “Step away from me, Mr. Chau.”
The engineer pauses, then dutifully backs down the platform’s steps.
Covah wipes beads of sweat from his caterpillarlike mustache. “
WARNING: SUBMARINE DETECTED. BEARING ZERO-TWO-FOUR. RANGE, 122 KILOMETERS. SPEED, TWENTY KNOTS.
“Can you identify?”
AFFIRMATIVE. VANGUARD-CLASS. HMS VENGEANCE.
Covah looks below and to his right, where the tall African remains strapped in his chair. “Mr. Kaigbo, is
Kaigbo nods, still on the verge of puking.
Covah attempts to lighten the mood. “Once more then, to the thrill of the hunt.
Before he can finish the order, the ship’s propulsion system kicks in, driving the mechanical devilfish up and over the seamount and through the cold North Atlantic to intercept.
Aboard the HMS
“Sir, we’ve reached the rendezvous point.”
“Very well.” Commander Whitehouse turns to his XO. “Are the Americans in the ASDS?”
“Aye, sir, standing by.”
The British skipper reaches for the shipwide intercom. “Sonar, conn, any sign of the
“Conn, sonar, no tonal contacts.”
Whitehouse grinds his teeth.
The Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, is a fifty-five-ton minisub designed to transport a SEAL squadron from a surface ship or submarine to an objective area. Resembling a pygmy sperm whale, the blunt-nosed vessel is capable of descending to depths of 190 feet over a range of 125 miles.
Gunnar is strapped in at the pilot’s chair, General Jackson, Rocky, and David seated in the rear. Pulling back on the joystick, he eases the minisub up and away from the
Gunnar focuses on his control panel, listening at sonar. The noise from the British sub grows quiet in the distance, replaced by the ambient sounds of the sea.
Beads of sweat break out along his brow. Like most subs, the ASDS has no viewports through which to see. Somewhere in this white noise of ocean are two killer vessels, one friend, the other foe.
He increases his speed to eight knots, listening and waiting.
The mammoth steel stingray glides slowly over the seafloor, the turbulence from its five pump-jet propulsors barely disturbing the sandy bottom. Rising majestically, it scatters a school of mackerel as it overtakes the minisub, its winged hull dwarfing the ASDS like a dog to a flea.
A forty-foot-long rectangular hatch suddenly opens along the belly of the mechanical beast, inhaling the sea and the SEAL minisub into its flooding compartment.
“What the hell—” Gunnar fights the controls as the minisub twists upward and sideways within a sudden, powerful torrent.
General Jackson smashes his shoulder against an equipment rack. “Gunnar—”
Sonar echoes off steel walls, alerting Gunnar to his new environment. Cursing under his breath, he shuts down the minisub’s engine as the mechanical sounds of a hatch closing reverberate beneath them.
The ASDS lands upright with a double
“What a ship,” says David, beaming. “Sneaked up on us and shanghaied the minisub before we ever knew she was there. Can I build a stealthy ship, or what?”
Rocky shoots him a look to kill.
Gunnar shares her sentiments. “Your captain’s got some set of balls, pulling a stunt like that.”
“Best in the business,” David brags, missing the point.
The sounds of heavy pumps from the draining compartment echo around them. Moments later, a metallic rap along the outer hull signals the all clear sign.
Gunnar opens the rear hatch, stepping out into the light.
Standing at rigid attention, waiting to greet them, is the ship’s CO, an African American in his early thirties carrying the physique of a track star. Next to him is a smaller man with sand-colored hair, the sub’s executive officer.
David steps forward to make the introductions. “General Jackson, this is Commander Anthony Lockhart, captain of the
The African American flashes a confident smile. “Welcome aboard the
“An interesting way to greet us, Commander. You should have warned us before swallowing us like that.”
Lockhart loses the smile. “She’s a quiet ship, sir. I don’t expect your pilot heard us coming. Thought it might be safer if we extracted you from the sea instead of alerting you and, potentially, the
“Agreed. This is Commander Jackson-Hatcher, and Captain Gunnar Wolfe.”
Lockhart shakes Rocky’s hand, then eyes Gunnar. “You played for Penn State, right?”
“About ten years ago. Wait a sec … Lockhart? Jackson State QB?”
Lockhart nods. “Quarterbacked two years before I blew out my knee. But you—the NFL had you slated to go in the third round.”
“Second.” Gunnar smiles. “But duty called.”
“I do know the feeling.” Lockhart turns to the general. “We’re shadowing the
