north of Khabarovsk. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Stanford Tuck, was standing beside him. “Nukes,” Hood told him. “The bastards are trying to nuke each other.”
“What are the targets?”
“The Russians are sending two strikes, one against Tokyo, one against the missile-launch facilities on the Tateyama Peninsula. Mean while, the Japanese are trying to nuke the F-22 base at Chita.”
Tuck was horrified. “Tokyo …”
“The F-22 squadron,” Hood said, pursing his lips. “There are hotheads in Congress who will want Japanese blood if they use a nuke to kill Americans.”
“How did we get to the edge of the abyss?” Stanford Tuck asked. “How do we keep from falling in?” Hood countered. He pointed to the computer presentation on the wall. “The Russians are too far east to be intercepted by the F-22’s. It would be a futile tail chase. The Japanese are going to have to take care of themselves. Our only option is to scramble the F-22’s to intercept the Japanese strike headed their way.”
“The planes near Khabarovsk must be the Japanese,” Tuck said. He grabbed a satellite telephone.
Stunned by the agony of the knife that had been rammed through his left shoulder from behind, michman Martos almost lost his scuba mouthpiece. His instinct and years of training saved him. Without conscious thought, he turned and grabbed his assailant’s throat with his left hand and buried his knife in the man’s stomach again. Continuing the same movement, he then spun the man toward Esenin and flippered as hard as he could.
The agony in his shoulder was extraordinary, so bad that he could barely stay focused.
Esenin tried to push the dying naval infantryman out of the way so that he could get at Martos, but while he was using his hands for this, Martos pulled his knife from the human shield and stabbed Esenin under his left armpit.
Esenin twisted away before Martos could withdraw his weapon. He floated away, looking down at his left side, reaching with his right hand. Martos turned back toward the bomb.
Lights … numbers … Where was the on-off switch?
As he looked for it, the sheer volume of the pinging noises got his attention. And a noise like a train. Martos looked up, toward the surface a hundred feet above.
He saw the destroyer speeding over, and splashes. Out to either side of the racing ship’s hull, splashes.
Depth charges! The Japanese destroyer was dropping depth charges!
“Depth charges in the water, Captain.”
“All hands into life jackets. Let’s pray these charges are set too shallow. If we survive them, we’ll blow the tanks, surface the boat, and abandon it. Pass the word.”
Every man in the boat was talking to someone, reaching for something, bracing himself.
“Close all watertight fittings.”
Saratov heard the hatches clanging shut. He reached for a life jacket and pulled it on, fumbling with the straps.
He was still at it when the first depth charge exploded.
The detonation rocked the sub, causing circuit breakers to pop and emergency lighting to come on.
Another blast, like Thor pounding on the boat with his mighty hammer.
Then the worst of all, three stupendous concussions in close succession.
Silence. “Damage reports?” Saratov shouted the question into the blackness. Even the emergency lights were out.
The reports came back over the sound-powered telephone. The boat was still intact.
“Emergency surface. Blow the tanks. All hands stand by to abandon ship.”
Martos had only a few seconds, so he looked again at the panel on the bomb still sitting in its cradle on the transport container. Esenin and his helpers had merely opened the container by releasing the two steel bands that held it together. Surely these damned fools weren’t arming the thing before they got it off the submarine?
But it was armed.
Martos tried to remember — as he knifed the first man, Esenin had been on his left, and doing something to this panel. What?
Which is the power switch?
Running out of time … Which one is it?
He heard a powerful click, and instinctively he slammed his knees into the fetal position and hugged them. The concussion smashed into his left side like a speeding truck. For a second or two, he lost consciousness. Another blast, and another. These blasts were above him and to his right, farther away than the first, which had almost opened him up like a ripe tomato. Martos concentrated on staying conscious and keeping his mouthpiece in place as the shock waves from the explosions hammered at him. The knife buried in his shoulder helped. The pain was a fire that burned and burned, and his mind couldn’t shut it out. Then the explosions were over. Amazingly, he was still alive. And deaf. He could hear nothing. His eardrums must have burst. He tried to find the warheads, the containers, but couldn’t. The water was opaque. The rising submarine hit him, carried him upward on an expanding tower of bubbles, a universe of rising bubbles. Instinctively, Martos used both hands to grasp the slippery tiles of the deck, which was pushing him up, up, toward the light. He was going upward too fast. He was going to get the bends. He could feel his abdomen swelling. Oh, sweet Christ!
More and more light, coming closer and closer … When the submarine surfaced, Pavel Saratov used the public address system. The emergency power was back on, so the loudspeakers worked. “Abandon ship. All hands into the water.”
Already the control room crew had the hatch open to the sail cockpit. “Let’s go. Everybody out,” Saratov roared. Amazingly, the sonar michman held back. “I’m sorry, Captain. What I said—“
“Forget it, son. Ou. Up the ladder.”
He waited until the last man was out of the control room and conning tower area, then Pavel Saratov climbed the ladder to the cockpit. The daylight shocked him. The men that preceded him were in the water, wearing their life vests, paddling away from the sub. Men were still coming out of the torpedo room forward and the engine room aft. The swells — they weren’t so large, but they were lapping at the open engine room hatch.
The destroyers were circling. One was coming back with a bone in its teeth. The choppers were out there circling … Saratov’s attention turned to the bomb containers welded to the deck forward of the sail. Three of them were still sealed. One, however, was open. The top of the container was missing, but the steel straps were there, loose. Entangled in one was a body in a wet suit, wearing a scuba tank. Saratov climbed down the handholds on the port side of the sail to the deck and carefully walked forward on the wet tiles. The man entangled in the strap moved. Esenin. The hilt of a knife protruded from under his left arm. Saratov lifted Esenin’s head. “Where is Martos?”
“Captain, over here.”
The cry was from beside the sail, on the starboard side. Saratov went aft. Martos was trying to get erect. He had found a handhold on the sail to hold on to as the sub came up from the depths; otherwise, the water would have washed him away. The point of a knife was sticking out of Martos’s shoulder. “Don’t pull it out,” Martos said. I’ll bleed to death.”
“Can you get in the water and swim? The Japanese may start shooting.”
“I can barely hear you. I think my eardrums are ruptured.” Saratov raised his voice, “I said—“
“We must check the bomb. I think Esenin armed one, started a timer. Help me.”
The two men went over to look, Saratov half-carrying the Spetsnaz fighter. “See the numbers, ticking down.”
“We need something to break into this, to cut the circuits.”
“The knife in Esenin,” Martos said. “Get it.”
Saratov moved the three steps and pulled the knife from the tangled man. He handed it to Martos, who raised it in the air with his right hand and jabbed it into the electronic box with all his strength. The knife went in about three inches. Martos pried with the blade. “Captain!”
The call came from the water. Saratov looked in that direction. Askold was calling. Now he pointed. “Water … the engine-room hatch. The boat is flooding.”
Now he could feel the deck shifting. The bow was rising. “Quickly,” he said to Martos. “I—” Martos passed him the knife and ripped at the top of the control box that he had pried loose. It gave. He bent it, trying to enlarge the opening. The deck was shifting, rising from the sea and tilting. “Help me,” Martos gasped. Saratov grabbed the
