Текст книги "Black Wind"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Once past the pontoons, the hangar grew empty for several feet as the ROV passed through a separate open compartment. Like its beagle namesake, Snoopy sniffed along, gingerly examining each silt-covered object or debris item carefully via the touch of Dirk's fingers. A set of low-slung racks gradually grew out of the darkness on either side of the hangar holding what Dirk immediately recognized as torpedoes. Four of the metallic fish rested in each rack, aerial torpedoes that at thirteen hundred pounds each were much smaller than the massive submarine-launched torpedoes found belowdecks.

Dirk and Summer stared at the monitor, straining to see evidence of additional armament. But no other weaponry was visible. Dirk turned and noticed Summer peering at her watch, grimly cognizant of each minute that passed.

“Let's keep going. There should be at least one more plane in here,” Dirk said, trying to keep her mind off the inevitable. The ROV again moved through a vacant compartment before emerging into the next hangar section. Seconds later, the tail and fuselage of a second Seiran bomber emerged into view, complete with folded wings. Just beyond was its matching pair of floats, strapped to the deck by cables. An assortment of wall-mounted tool bins followed and then twenty feet of empty space. Snoopy finally bumped up against the giant round hatch door that led to the submarine's forward deck.

“Well, that's it,” Dirk said solemnly. “We've covered the length of the hangar and no sign of any aerial bombs other than the torpedoes. Summer said nothing for a moment, subconsciously biting her lower lip in dejection. ”Well ... there was no indication of a forced entry anywhere, nor did the silt appear to have been disturbed anytime recently. Perhaps they were destroyed in the torpedo blast?"

“Could be. There's still a small section of hangar behind us we could take a look at.”

Dirk quietly steered Snoopy back toward the submersible, reeling in its dangling electronic power cable while it progressed. The cockpit fell silent as brother and sister contemplated their predicament. Dirk silently cursed their bad luck and failure to locate the aerial bombs. As the ROV passed the second plane's fuselage and approached the first plane's set of pontoons, a quizzical look fell over Summer's face.

“Dirk, hold it there for a second,” she said quietly, focusing on the monitor.

“What is it?” he asked while neutralizing the position of the ROV.

“Look at the pontoons. Do you notice anything different?”

Dirk studied the monitor for a moment, then shook his head.

“The pair at the end of the hangar were cabled directly to the deck,” Summer said. “But these two have a platform under each of them.”

He looked at the images and his brow furrowed. Each of the pontoons sat balanced on a square-shaped platform roughly two feet high.

Dirk eased the ROV around and alongside the base of one of the pontoons, then positioned it next to the platform. Spinning the ROV around, he applied the thrusters hard for a few seconds to try and blow away the encrusted sediment. He repositioned the ROV, then waited for the resulting cloud of sediment to subside. Peering through the murk, they could clearly see an exposed section of the platform. It was a hardwood crate built from what appeared to be mahogany. Dirk carefully studied the entire platform.

“By God, that's got to be it.”

“Are you sure?” Summer questioned.

“Well, I can't say what's inside, but the exterior is the same construction and dimension as the bomb canister crates that I found smashed open on the I-403.”

Dirk surveyed the crate from all angles, then confirmed that a matching crate was wedged beneath the second pontoon. Summer made a notation on the video files, documenting the exact location in the hangar where the crates were found. Pitt observed that each crate appeared to be held in place by the force of the pontoon, which was securely tied to the hangar deck by a half-dozen thick steel cables that crisscrossed the top of each float.

“Nice eye, Summer. You get a beer for that catch.”

“Make mine a bottle of Martin Ray Chardonnay,” she replied with a half smile. “I'm just glad we know where they are now.”

“It's going to take someone a little more doing to get these out of here.”

“Us too, for that matter,” Summer replied glumly.

The wheels in Dirk's mind were still churning to compute an escape plan as he guided the ROV back toward the submersible. He lost concentration when Snoopy's bright underwater lights approached and shined brilliantly into the submersible's cockpit. Blinded in the glare, he instinctively steered the ROV down toward the hangar deck as he brought it closer to the Starfish. But as it approached, the ROV suddenly hung suspended, failing to move the last few feet to its cradle.

“Dirk, Snoopy's umbilical is caught on something,” Summer noticed, pointing out the bubble window.

Dirk followed her guide and could see in the murkiness that the ROV's cable had snagged on some sort of debris lying on the hangar deck, about twenty feet in front of them.

“I'm surprised we even made it so far through this obstacle course,” he replied.

Reversing direction, he backed up the ROV until the cable straightened from its grasp around what looked to be a small engine sitting in a tubular frame three feet off the ground.

“A gas-powered compressor, I bet,” he said, noticing a pair of decayed hoses connected to one end of the motor.

“What's with the big handle?” Summer asked, eyeing a large metal tod protruding from one side of the block. A round, shovel-type grip was attached to the end.

“It has an old mechanical starter. Kind of like pulling the rope on a lawn mower, only pumping the handle cranks the motor over. I saw a Swiss-made compressor on a dive boat once that had the same setup-” Dirk stared at the handle for a moment, not moving the ROV.

“You're going to bring Snoopy home?” Summer finally asked.

“Yes,” he replied with a sudden gleam in his eye. “But first he's going to help get us out of here.”

On board the Sea Rover, nervous apprehension was creeping over the captain and crew. It had been nearly ninety minutes since they last communicated with the Starfish and Morgan was anxiously preparing to call in an emergency rescue. The Sea Rover was not carrying a backup submersible, and the nearest NUMA submersible was at least twelve Hours away.

“Ryan, let's contact the Navy's Deep Submergence Unit. Notify them of our situation and request the ETA on a deep-water rescue vehicle,” Morgan barked, silently dreading the thought.

If Dirk and Summer were in real trouble, he knew they had only a matter of minutes, not hours. Their chances of rescue would be as slim as a dime.

“Okay, Summer, hold the take-up reel.” Dirk had positioned Snoopy near the top of the hangar ceiling a few feet past the compressor when he gave the command to Summer. She pressed a button on the console that stopped an automatic spool from reeling in the ROV's power cable. Dirk gently moved the ROV back toward the compressor, watching the cable slacken beneath it. Like an anaconda coiling about its prey, he carefully manipulated the ROV in a circular motion above the compressor, letting the slack cable wrap loosely around the protruding handle. After dancing the ROV around and around several times, he successfully engineered five loops about the handle, which he tightened by drawing the ROV up and away.

“Okay, activate the take-up spool and I'll pull with Snoopy!” “That compressor must weigh three hundred pounds. Even underwater, you'll never budge it,” Summer replied, wondering if her brother had lost his mind.

“It's not the compressor I'm after, it's the handle.”

Toggling the ROV's controls, he increased the power to Snoopy, now pointed in the direction of the submersible. The ROV surged forward until its power cord tightened around the metal handle. Its small thrusters churning the water, the little ROV fought to move forward but could not muster enough force to budge the handle. Then Summer joined in, reeling in the other end of the cable with the automatic take-up spool until the cord went taut around the base of the handle. Though both ends of the handle were now being yanked at, it was the lower end snagged by Summer that did the trick. The boxed end of the metal bar slid off the sprocketed knuckle that turned the flywheel and the whole handle slipped free of the compressor, gliding through the water toward the Starfish. Dirk carefully dragged it in a horizontal position, so as not to lose his coiled grip, and gently tugged it to the front of the submersible.

“I don't think Ryan is going to appreciate how you're treating his ROV,” Summer said with feigned concern.

“I'll buy him a new one if this works.”

“And what exactly is it that you have in mind?” Summer asked, still not sure of his intent.

“Why, just a little bit of leverage, my dear sister. If you'd be so kind as to grab my newfound crowbar with the left mechanical arm, you'll see what I mean.”

Dirk guided the ROV close to the left side of the Starfish, towing the handle with it. Summer then activated the controls of the left mechanical arm and opened its clawlike hand. Working in unison, they brought the two devices together until Summer could securely snatch one end of the handle with the vise-strong claw. Dirk then slackened the ROV cable and slowly backed Snoopy away, unraveling the cable off the free end of the bar. Once clear, he activated the cable spool up and returned Snoopy to the Starfish, securing the ROV in its cradle.

“For a beagle, Snoopy makes for a pretty good retriever,” Summer remarked.

“Let's see now if our mechanical arm can make for a good floor jack,” Dirk replied.

His eyes studied a row of battery ampere gauges on the submarine's control panel. They had spent more than an hour operating the ROV and their power level had been drained to barely thirty percent. Time was running short if they were to have any hope of making it back to the surface on their own.

“Let's do this on one try. Purging tanks,” he said, pushing a pair of buttons that pumped water out of the ballast tank in order to increase buoyancy. He then powered up the main thrusters to the submersible. Summer had meanwhile brought the mechanical arm around the front of the Starfish to its full dexterity and studied the position of the wedged propeller. It would have to be lifted and pushed forward slightly for them to pry themselves away, but there was little space to work the handle in. After leaning the handle against one of the skids and shortening her grip, she was able to work eight inches of the metal bar under the tip of the fallen propeller.

“Ready,” she said tentatively, wiping a sweaty palm on her pant leg. Dirk was also sweating profusely, as the cramped cockpit had grown hot once the air-conditioning was shut down to conserve power.

“Pry us out of here,” Dirk said, his hand at the ready on the thruster controls. With tense anticipation, Summer gently shifted the controls that raised the mechanical arm. Where the hydraulic power of the arm was insufficient to lift the arm on its own, the added leverage of the metal handle prying against the deck was just enough to budge it. Creeping ever so slowly, the propeller blade rose an inch, then two, then a few more. Dirk could feel the rear of the submersible tilt off the deck slightly from the added buoyancy. When Summer had safely jimmied the blade above the height of the front skids, he slammed the power controls to maximum reverse thrust.

There was no immediate blast of power or skyrocketing acceleration by the Starfish but rather just a slight jerk as it backed tail first on the deck. The submersible slid up and away from the grasp of the propeller as the blade slipped down the compressor handle and clanged back to the hangar deck just inches in front of the Starfish's skids.

“Nicely done, sis. What do you say we go get some fresh air?” Dirk said, adjusting the thrusters to raise the Starfish up and out of I-411's hangar.

“I'm with you,” Summer replied with obvious relief.

Almost the second they cleared the walls of the hangar deck, the deep voice of Ryan blew loudly through communication earphones.

“Starfish, this is Sea Rover. Do you read, over,” came a monotonous tone that had obviously been repeating the phrase a thousand times over in the last few hours.

“This is Starfish” Summer responded. “We read you loud and clear. Have initiated ascent, please stand by for recovery.”

“Roger, Starfish” Ryan replied in a suddenly excited pitch. “You have some folks worried up here. Do you need assistance?”

“Negative. We just stubbed our toe down here. All is well; we'll be topside shortly.”

“Copy that. Standing by for recovery.”

Their ascent time, aided by controlled positive buoyancy, was slightly quicker than their descent, and in ten minutes they could make out the glowing bright lights of the Sea Rover's moon pool. The faint outline of the ship appeared as the submersible drew closer and Dirk tweaked the Starfish's thrusters with what little remaining power he had to guide them to the center of the glowing ring of beacons. Dirk and Summer both let out a silent sigh of relief as they popped through the hole in the ship's bottom and bobbed to the surface of the pool. Morgan, Ryan, and a half-dozen crew members ringed the moon pool and watched intently as the Starfish was plucked from the water by a hoist and lowered gently to the deck. Dirk powered down the submersible as Summer opened the rear hatch and the two climbed out for a grateful breath of fresh air.

“We were afraid you got lost down there,” Morgan smiled, then looked quizzically at the compressor handle that was still lodged in the grip of the left mechanical arm.

“That's our walking stick,” Summer explained. “We took a walk where we ought not to have gone and had a little trouble getting back out.”

“Well,” Morgan asked, unable to refrain from the other concern on his mind, “what did you find?”

“Two cartons of eggs waiting to be delivered,” Dirk said with a grin.

The Sea Rover's crew worked feverishly to repair the Starfish's mechanical arm and replenish the submersible's drained batteries while Dirk, Summer, and Morgan formulated a salvage strategy. Reviewing the video footage recorded by Snoopy, they calculated the exact position in the sub's hangar where the bomb crates were situated. Studying the video closely, they determined that the hangar's bulkhead walls were constructed in ten-foot sections.

“We should be able to cut through the original seams and lift out a ten-foot piece of bulkhead alongside the pontoons,” Dirk said, tapping a frozen video image with a pencil. “The Starfish is eight feet wide, so that should give us enough room to maneuver close and remove the bombs with the mechanical arms.”

“We're fortunate in that the currents around the wreck are only about 1 to 2 knots, so we'll be able to work unimpeded by the seas. It will still take us a couple of dives, though,” Summer added.

“Ryan can alternate dives with you two,” Morgan said. “Why don't you grab a few hours' rest while we turn the submersible around and prepare for some cutting?”

“You don't have to ask me twice,” Summer yawned in reply. Her sleep was short-lived, however, when Dirk woke her three hours later and they prepared for another dive. With a fresh set of batteries the Starfish was released again and they made their slow descent to the submarine. The submersible hovered off the side of the hangar facing the blast hole, then slowly moved sideways toward the conning tower. At six-foot intervals, measured by the width between the two semi-extended mechanical arms, Dirk would push the submersible forward and scratch a measuring mark on the encrusted surface with the left claw. At the tenth interval, or sixty feet from the torpedo gash, he scratched a rough A on the side of the hangar.

“This is where we cut,” he said to Summer. “Let's see if we can find the seams.”

Dragging one of the claws along the surface of the hangar, Dirk thrust the submersible sideways, leaving a long scratch along the wall. Moving back and closely examining the scarred section, which bled a dirty rust and gold, they quickly found an exposed vertical crease, representing the seam where two plates of the watertight hangar were welded together. As expected, another vertical seam was found ten feet away. While the Starfish hovered, Summer scraped away at the seams, using the claw like a knife, exposing the weld lines. When she was finished, a square outline in the shape of a garage door had been etched on the hangar.

“So much for the easy part,” Dirk said. “You ready to cut?” “Pop these on and let's get started,” Summer replied, handing him a pair of welder's protective glasses while donning a pair herself. Taking control of both mechanical arms, she reached into a basket mounted on the front skid pad and with the right claw retrieved an electrode holder, connected via a reinforced line to a 230-amp DC power source inside the submersible. With the left claw, she attached an iron oxide non exothermic cutting rod into the electrode holder and flicked on the power. Unlike a typical underwater cutting rod, which required a supply of oxygen to fuel the burn, the iron oxide rods simply required a power source to generate a superheated cutting arc. The less complicated design was more practical for welding at remote underwater depths. The electrical surge popped through to the end of the rod, igniting a brilliant arc of yellow light that flared from the tip, burning at several thousand degrees.

“Let's start at the top right corner and work down,” Summer directed. Dirk maneuvered the submersible to the corner seam and held it stationary while Summer extended the right mechanical arm toward the hangar wall until the high-temperature flame flared against the surface. With the Starfish suspended against a light current, Summer applied the heat from the arc to cut through the sixty-year-old plating weld. Progress was measured in inches, as the swaying of the submersible undermined the cutting efficiency. But, gradually, a surgical line appeared on the hangar wall, which lengthened as Dirk slid the Starfish down the seam. After fifteen minutes, the electrode rod burned down to the stub. Summer shut off the electrical power and replaced the electrode, then powered it up again and continued cutting. The tedious process continued until a fine cut was made around the entire perimeter seam of the hangar wall. With just a few inches to go, Summer worked the free mechanical claw into an open gap and grabbed onto the panel. She then cut the last of the seam, then yanked with the secured claw. The cut section broke free and fell back onto the main deck of the submarine with a swirling cloud of sediment.

Dirk backed the Starfish away and waited for the water to clear before moving up to their newly created entryway. As he maneuvered back in, he could see that they had measured perfectly. The pair of aircraft pontoons sat directly in front of the opening, the wooden crates sitting just below. He crept the submersible in as close as he could get, bumping the hangar ceiling a time or two before setting it down on the deck near a large protruding iron loop. Through the circular eyelet ran several cables, which secured the nearest pontoon to the deck while the submarine was in motion.

“Let's torch those cables, then figure out a way to slide that pontoon out of the way,” he suggested.

Summer reignited the underwater torch and quickly cut through the first of three steel-braided cables. The corroded lines disintegrated quickly under the flame of the cutting rod and she soon ate through the second cable. She was surprised when the pontoon lurched slightly as the second cable fell away. When the third cable cut free, she was shocked to see the pontoon rise gracefully off the deck and float to the top of the twelve-foot hangar ceiling.

“It's still holding air,” she blurted.

“Compliments to the engineers who built her. That will make our job a little easier,” Dirk replied as he maneuvered the Starfish alongside the wooden crates. Summer grabbed control of both mechanical arms and gently danced their claws over one of the containers. Manipulating the metal fingers, she grasped the top lid on either side and lifted the arms up. The once durable hardwood lid rose like a damp pancake before it split in two as Summer tried to place it off to one side.

“So much for the boxed set,” Dirk said drily.

Inside, however, they could see the bonanza. Six silver-porcelain aerial bombs sat secure and intact, aligned in a neat row. Dirk and Summer looked at each other with a profound sense of relief.

“Guess it's our lucky day after all,” Summer said triumphantly. “They're still here, safe and sound.”

Dirk carefully inched the Starfish closer to the crate as Summer prepared for the harrowing prospect of removing the fragile bombs from their disintegrating case.

“Be gentle, sis. Remember, they're made of glass,” he cautioned.

Summer hardly needed the warning as she manipulated the mechanical arms with great caution. Working with the nearest bomb, she gently slid the canister away from the others, then gingerly worked the claws underneath either end. Moving with patient deliberation, she lifted the bomb up and away, then set it into a padded mesh box that had been hastily attached to the front of the submersible. Confident that the canister was stable, she moved the arms back and retrieved the next bomb in the crate. Lifting and laying it next to the first snugly in the box, she grasped its tail fin with one claw, then snatched the fin of the first bomb with the other claw and locked both arms in place.

“Bombardier to pilot. Ready for takeoff,” she said. Fearful of damaging dangerous cargo, two bombs would be all that the Starfish would safely transport at a time.

The submersible made a slow ascent to the surface, where the bombs were carefully unloaded and stored in a makeshift container that the ship's carpenter had hurriedly constructed.

“Two down, ten to go,” Dirk reported to Morgan and Ryan. “Both crates are readily accessible with the mechanical arms, so, if the second batch is intact, we should be able to recover all twelve canisters.”

“The weather is holding,” Morgan replied. “If we work through the night at the same pace, we should have the recovery operation complete by morning.”

“I'm all for that,” he replied with a grin. “With all these dives, I'm beginning to feel like a yo-yo.”

Less than a mile away, Tongju peered at the NUMA vessel through a pair of high-powered marine binoculars. For nearly forty minutes, Kang's personal executioner studied the Sea Rover, making careful mental notes on passageways, stairwells, hatches, and other elements of the ship that he could detect in the distance. At last satisfied with his observations, the bald assassin entered the Baekje's bridge and walked into a small side anteroom. A pug-faced man with short-cropped hair sat in a wooden chair intently studying a set of ship plans. He stiffened slightly as Tongju entered the room.

“Sir, the assault team has studied the plans to the NUMA research vessel that was relayed by the Kang Shipping corporate office. We have formulated an assault and seizure strategy and are prepared to commence at your direction.” Ki-Ri Kim spoke in a clipped, blunt tone that could be expected from a former special operations commando of the Korean People's Army.

“From the bits of underwater communication that we have been able to intercept, it appears that they have located the weapons and are in the process of retrieving them from the seabed,“ Tongju said in a quiet voice. ”I have notified the captain that we will be launching the operation tonight.”

A broad grin fell over the commando's face before he uttered the single word “Excellent.”

“As we formulated,” Tongju continued, “I will lead Team A to capture the starboard and bow sections and you will lead Team B to take the port and stern sections. Have the men assembled for a final briefing at 01:00. We will commence the strike at 02:00.”

'“My men will be ready. They are curious to know, however, if we will be expecting any resistance?”

Tongju snarled a confident reply. “None whatsoever.”

Shortly after midnight, the Starfish bobbed to the surface of the moon pool, its bright orange frame reflecting golden rays through the water from the blazing underwater lights. Dirk and Summer stood watching on the deck as the submersible was hoisted from the water and parked gently on a platform. A pair of technicians working the graveyard shift rolled a portable hoist to the submersible's front skids and began the delicate process of removing the two porcelain bombs wedged into the mesh basket.

Dirk walked around and helped open the Starfish's rear entry hatch and lent a hand as Ryan and an engineer named Mike Farley corkscrewed their way out of the cramped compartment.

“Nice work, Tim. That makes a total of eight. I take it you accessed the second case without any problems?” Dirk asked.

“Piece of cake. We cut the cables on the second pontoon and she floated out of the way like the first. Mike deserves the credit, though. He operates those mechanical arms like a surgeon.”

A likable, soft-spoken man who smiled constantly, Farley grinned modestly. “The second crate fell apart like it was made of mashed potatoes. But all six bombs were lying there intact. We snatched the first two, and the remaining four are readily accessible. Be mindful of the current, though, it seems to have picked up since our last dive.”

“Thanks, Mike, will do.”

Dirk proceeded to help the technician crew change out the batteries on the Starfish, then methodically worked through the pre dive checklist, ensuring that all onboard systems were operating properly. Shortly after 1 a.m." he and Summer squeezed back into the submersible and were released into the moon pool for another dive to the I-411. They relaxed in their slow descent, saying little to each other. The around-the-clock, repetitive dives were beginning to take their toll, casting a veil of fatigue over them. But Dirk was enlivened by the fact they were recovering the bombs intact and would soon find out what biological agent they contained.

Summer let out a wide yawn. “Wish I was back in my bunk snoozing like the rest of the crew,” she murmured. “We'll have the last two dives complete before everyone even wakes up.”

“Look on the bright side,” Dirk smiled. “We'll be first in line for breakfast.”

They came out of the darkness like muted demons, gliding across the water in silence. Black-clad men in black rubber boats dashing across a blackened sea. Tongju led the assault from the first boat, accompanied by five gritty-looking and heavily armed commandos, while Kim followed behind in a second boat with a similar contingency. Together they raced toward the Sea Rover in rubber Zodiacs propelled by high-power electric motors, beefed-up versions of the trolling motors used by lake fishermen to cruise quietly. Only, these boats were capable of running at 30 knots, emitting just a barely detectable hum. Running in the dead of night, the only audible evidence of their presence were the waves smacking against their semirigid hulls. On board the Sea Rover, the helmsman on watch glanced at a sweeping radarscope on the bridge, observing the large smudge of a ship off the starboard bow. The large cable ship that had stood a mile off the Sea Rover since they arrived on site was still sitting parked in the same position. He watched as a pair of faint white smudges appeared against the screen's green background periodically, positioned somewhere between the two ships. Too faint for a vessel this far from shore, he reckoned. More likely some cresting waves registering on the equipment.

The two rubberized cresting waves throttled back as they approached within a hundred meters of the NUMA ship, creeping the remaining distance at a slow crawl. Tongju brought his boat alongside the starboard flank of the Sea Rover and waited momentarily while Kim's craft skirted around the ship's stern and eased up on the port side. In unseen unison, a pair of rubber-coated grappling hooks sailed up from the sea on either side of the ship, catching secure grips around the Sea Rover's lower-deck railing. Narrow rope ladders trailing off the grappling hooks provided the means of entry. In orderly unison, the commandos quickly scrambled up the swaying lines.

On the port deck, a sleepless marine biologist was taking in the night sky when he heard something strike the ship. A pronged hook materialized around the railing just a few feet away. Curious, he bent over the side to look down the trailing rope just as a black-capped head emerged from the other side. In mutual surprise, the two men banged heads together with a crack. The startled scientist fell back, groping for words to cry out, but, in an instant, the commando was on deck, brandishing an assault rifle. The rifle stock caught the unfortunate biologist across the jawbone and the man crumpled in an unconscious heap.

The two commando teams assembled independently, then moved forward along the deck, intent on subduing the bridge and radio room first before any calls for help could be sent. Silently creeping through the sleeping ship, their 2 a.m. raid found the vessel ghostly quiet.

On the bridge, the Sea Rover's helmsman and second officer were sipping coffee while discussing college football. Without warning, Tongju and two of his men burst through the starboard wing door, aiming their weapons at the men's faces.

“Down on the deck!” Tongju yelled in clear English. The second officer quickly dropped to his knees, but the helmsman panicked. Dropping his coffee, he bolted for the port wing in a futile attempt at escape. Before Tongju or his men could cut the man down, one of Kim's commandos appeared in the doorway, striking the man in the chest with his assault rifle, then kicking him in the groin for good measure. The helmsman withered to the deck, groaning in agony.