70
The rattling sound on the exterior lock signaled everyone in the Sargasso Sea’s lab that the door was about to open. All the occupants scurried to the back of the bay, where they ducked beneath a large desk. Everyone except Dirk and Giordino, who stood at separate angles to the door shielded by a pair of lab benches.
The door flung open and the helmsman Ross was again shoved into the lab at the point of a muzzle. A commando followed him in and looked about. His eyes squinted in puzzlement. It wasn’t the concealed crew at the back of the lab that baffled him as much as the attire of Dirk and Giordino.
Each had a shop towel wrapped around his nose and mouth while wearing crude goggles cut from plastic water bottles. Before the commando could respond, Giordino sidearmed a glass beaker in his direction. The gunman ducked as the beaker struck the door above his head, releasing upon him a shower of glass and liquid.
“Ross, get down!” Dirk yelled.
The helmsman dove to the floor as the commando sprayed the room with gunfire. Anticipating the move, Dirk and Giordino dropped beneath the lab benches. The firing soon stopped as the gunman dropped his weapon and began rubbing his eyes, which were flooding with tears.
At the sound of the shooting, a second commando came rushing through the door. Dirk popped from behind the bench and let his weapon fly. Another sealed glass beaker, it smashed into the doorframe inches above the man. He, too, was instantly overcome, choking and hacking as his eyes swelled.
The pain-inducing liquid was a homemade batch of tear gas concocted from chemicals in the lab. Aided by the ship’s biologist Kamala Bhatt, Dirk had mixed iodine with portions of nitric acid and an acetone solvent and heated it in a sealed container with a match. The mixture was a crude facsimile of riot-control tear gas.
They had tested a small sample on a volunteer crewman, whose red, watery eyes an hour later vouched for its efficacy. Giordino had found a pair of empty beakers in a cabinet, which proved the perfect delivery vehicle.
Dirk and Giordino waited briefly for the gas to disperse, then sprang from their cover. The first commando was crawling toward the door while the second staggered after him. Dirk ran over and scooped up the first commando’s weapon. Giordino in turn launched himself at the second commando with his elbows flying. He struck the man hard in the side, propelling them both out the doorway.
Dirk sprinted out after them, finding the two commandos writhing on the deck with Giordino on top. Giordino had already wrestled the AK-47 from his victim as the man clawed at his eyes. Dirk was reaching down to help Giordino to his feet when a burst of gunfire tore into the bulkhead just above their heads.
“Drop your weapons!” Calzado shouted from twenty feet away. Alerted by the gunfire, he had rushed to the scene accompanied by two more commandos. All three stepped closer, each with an assault rifle aimed at Dirk and Giordino. The NUMA men had no choice but to drop their weapons and stand empty-handed.
With considerable effort, the two tear-gassed guards rose to their feet, their eyes red and burning.
“Close and lock the door to the lab,” Calzado ordered.
The guards nodded and did as instructed. After the door was sealed, one of the commandos motioned toward Dirk and Giordino. “What about them?”
“I have no time for further hindrances,” Calzado said. “Stand out of the way. I will take care of them right now.”
Raising his rifle, the commando leader took aim at the two captives and tightened his finger on the trigger.
71
Absent the normal humming of its heat-producing electronics, the Starfish felt like an icebox. Summer sat with her teeth chattering as the bulk cutter made a return appearance, inching past the submersible while dragging the long detonator tube. She tried to watch the cutter insert the end of the tube in the trench, but her view was blocked by one of the ROVs.
The boxy device approached the submersible and hovered outside its viewport. Summer resisted the urge to extend her middle finger at it, instead shielding her eyes from its glaring lights.
Then an odd thing happened. The ROV flashed its lights.
This time, she didn’t hesitate, letting loose with her finger while cursing Díaz for his taunting gesture.
Though clearly observing Summer’s response, the ROV didn’t waver. Instead, it flashed its lights again, in a short-long-short sequence, as if sending a modified SOS signal.
Intrigued, Summer watched the ROV repeat the flashing twice more. She then reached up and toggled a switch, flashing the submersible’s forward external lights.
Her mouth dropped when the ROV responded by tilting up and down as if nodding. Somewhere, someone at the other end of the controls was trying to help.
She leaned forward and watched the ROV as it eased closer. It turned slightly to angle its bright lights away from the cockpit and brushed against the submersible’s low-mounted manipulator arm. Again, the ROV flashed its lights.
Summer activated the controls, raising the robotic arm from its cradle.
Again the ROV nodded approval. When Summer continued to raise the manipulator, the ROV pivoted side to side, expressing its disapproval.
Through trial and error under the ROV’s guidance, Summer extended the manipulator laterally to its full reach and opened its claw grip.
Ahead of the submersible, the bulk cutter had completed its task and was retracing its tracks to the drop point. Those tracks would bring it alongside the Starfish in another minute or two.
Summer watched as the ROV seemed to consider the cutter for a moment, then darted to the submersible’s side. Summer had to press her face against the viewport to see its next move.
The ROV pivoted and dropped to the seabed. It thrust toward the Starfish, shoving a thin layer of sand in front of it like a snowplow. At first baffled, Summer saw the intent. The ROV had begun its push on the opposite side of the detonator tube’s firing cable. It was shoving it toward the Starfish. Or more specifically, toward the submersible’s manipulator arm.
The ROV wanted her to grasp the cable. She waited as the ROV pushed again. When the cable came into reach, she snatched it with the arm’s claw grip.
The ROV gave a quick flash of its lights, then rose and hovered over the approaching bulk cutter. As the big mining machine churned close, the ROV dropped along its side and bumped up against a stubby metal appendage that protruded at a forward angle.
It was a spud, or stabilizer leg, that could be lowered for extra leverage when the cutter was battering through hard rock. The ROV moved up and down along the spud’s flat metal foot and flashed its lights.
Summer understood. She retracted the manipulator arm clear of the bulk cutter’s path and waited.
The churning steel treads shook the seabed as the machine crept across the bottom. The operator held to his prior tracks, driving alongside the Starfish. As its forward treads inched past her viewport, Summer raised the manipulator and aimed it toward the bulk cutter.
When the stabilizer assembly drew within reach, she extended the manipulator and draped the firing cable around the spud’s foot. The bulk cutter moved so slowly, she had ample time to loop the cable a second time before releasing her grip. As the machine crept forward, the loop drew tight, snagging fast on the metal appendage.
The ROV appeared outside the viewport and nodded its approval. With a final flash, it whirred off to follow the bulk cutter. Summer waited a minute, then flicked on the Starfish’s external lights. She saw the detonator tube unraveling from the trench and sliding past her, tailing the cutter. She killed the lights and watched the glow of the assorted mining equipment again recede into the distance.
Summer checked her remaining battery power, then sat back in the cold, dark confines of the submersible, contemplating the mysterious ROV. It had saved her from dying in an explosion, but could it find a way to get her off the bottom?
72
/> Pitt was contemplating the same question when the rear door of the control room burst open. An armed soldier stepped in, supporting the woozy frame of the ROV operator. The dazed man regained his focus at the sight of Pitt at his workstation.
“That’s him!” He pointed a finger at Pitt. “That’s the man who attacked me. Shoot him!”
Pitt jumped to his feet but refrained from further movement when the soldier leveled his assault rifle on him at point-blank range. The two guards at the front of the room sprinted up a second later. Pitt was now surrounded.
“What’s going on here?” Díaz stepped over to see what the commotion was about. His jaw dropped when he saw Pitt standing by the ROV console.
“I believe you have a submersible of mine,” Pitt said calmly. “I’d like it back.”
The ROV operator stepped forward. “He attacked me and dragged me out of here so he could control the number two ROV.”
Díaz nodded, not taking his eyes off Pitt. “You may have cheated death once, but you won’t a second time. I will personally deliver you to Havana and take a front-row seat at your execution. But before that, you will join me up front . . . to watch your daughter die.”
He turned to the operator. “Quickly check on the submersible. We’re about to raise the equipment.”
Díaz strode to the front of the room, taking a seat in his command chair. The guards were more diligent this time, taking up positions on either side of Pitt.
Pitt looked up at the video screen and watched the feed from the number two ROV as it circled about the Starfish. For an instant, Pitt saw Summer peering out of the viewport as if expecting a message from the ROV. But this time, it just looked at her coldly.
Pitt remembered the detonator tube and held his breath that the ROV wouldn’t turn the other direction and find it missing. But the ROV operator didn’t think to survey the explosives. He hovered the ROV over the submersible a minute or two, then raised it off the bottom and thrust it toward the distant bulk cutter.
Díaz looked on in satisfaction. “I hope you said good-bye to her, Mr. Pitt,” he said, then addressed the entire room. “All equipment to the surface. Prepare for detonation.”
Four giant winches began turning around the main deck, spooling the cables attached to the bulk cutter, the utility platform, and the two ROVs. Inside the control room, the underwater video feeds turned to snowy images as the equipment was tugged up through the water.
When all four devices were thirty meters off the bottom, Díaz phoned the bridge. “Reposition the ship two hundred meters up-current. We are preparing to detonate.”
The Sea Raker’s propellers churned the sea as the big ship slowly moved off station. A few minutes later, the captain reported they were holding the new position as ordered. Díaz asked the chief mining engineer for an update on the deployed equipment.
“Both ROVs are aboard and the utility platform has just cleared the water. The bulk cutter is ascending slowly and is presently showing a depth of twenty meters.”
“We’re well clear of the shock zone. Let’s proceed with the detonation.” Díaz turned to Pitt. “Would you like the honors?”
Pitt gave him a hard stare. “No. I think the last act belongs to you.”
Díaz stepped to the utility platform’s control panel and placed his finger over the firing cable activator. He smiled at Pitt and pushed the button.
73
Dirk sunk to his knees, waiting for the slugs from Calzado’s assault rifle to tear into his chest as he made a desperate grab for his dropped weapon. Instead, an agonizing bolt of pain shot through his head. His ears felt like they were going to explode, while his skull seemed to vibrate with an intensity that rated a ten on the numeric pain scale.
He thought he had been shot in the head, but as he raised his hands to muffle his ears, he felt no blood. Looking up, he saw that Calzado and his commandos, as well as Giordino, had also fallen to their knees and were crushing their hands against their ears.
Compressing his ears did little to alleviate the pain, but it was an instinctive act of survival against the unseen force. Giordino dropped his hands and reached for the gun at his feet, but the painful auditory assault forced him to abandon the act and return his palms to his ears.
As he cringed from the pain, Dirk noticed a trio of figures emerge from the shadows of the aft deck and slowly approach. They were dressed in commando-style fatigues similar to the Cubans, only black. Curiously, they wore motorcycle-type helmets with thick, dark visors. Two carried assault rifles and were following a third man, who led with an octagonal paddle held in front of him that was wired to a bulky backpack.
The intruders were oblivious to the pain. Drawing closer, the two armed men kicked away the Cubans’ weapons, pulled out flex cuffs, and bound the commandos as they squirmed on the deck. The third intruder eased alongside Dirk and Giordino, keeping his electronic paddle aimed at the Cubans.
The pain eased from Dirk’s ears and he realized the paddle was somehow generating the auditory assault. When all the Cubans were subdued, the man clicked a button on the paddle and lowered it to his side.
Flipping open his visor, Rudi Gunn smiled at his two NUMA friends. “Sorry for the earache. Your little escape attempt forced us to engage sooner than we planned.”
“Rudi, you’re a sight for sore eyes, but that’s as far as it goes,” Giordino said, his ears ringing like the bells of Big Ben at high noon. “What is that torture contraption?”
“It’s called an MRAD, or medium range acoustic device. This is a portable version of a system built for the Navy, used to ward off small-boat attacks or Somali-type pirates. It’s a high-intensity directional acoustic array capable of emitting sound waves at an extremely high volume, which are in turn relatively focused.”
“A loudspeaker on steroids,” Dirk said, rubbing his ears.
“Pretty much. Jack and I borrowed it from a friend at the Naval Research Laboratory.”
Jack Dahlgren, the burly marine engineer who was old friends with Dirk, approached carrying an assault rifle. “Glad to see you boys happy and healthy. Rudi, we best move to the bridge. Does anybody know how many commandos are aboard?”
“I counted nine.” Giordino picked up one of the Cuban guns. “You keep that ear blaster away from me and I’ll back you up.”
Gunn passed some small headphones to Dirk and Giordino. “These will help.”
He reactivated the system and led his armed companions to the forward superstructure. The ship’s bulkheads acted as a deterrent to the MRAD system, so Gunn didn’t hesitate, scrambling up the companionway and bursting onto the bridge.
The remaining four commandos were on duty and alert to the commotion on deck. Two were standing watch with assault rifles and instantly turned toward Gunn. He dove to the floor, holding the MRAD paddle aloft. Dahlgren and his partner turned the corner and fired. Their aim was true and they took down the two shooters.
The other two Cubans, unarmed, had fallen to the floor during the audio bombardment and now climbed to their feet. They raised their hands as Dirk and Giordino entered with their weapons drawn.
Dirk stepped over and helped Gunn to his feet. “Rudi, are you okay?
“I’m good. Is everybody on the ship safe?”
“They won’t be for long,” Giordino said. “Word is, our friends planted explosives on the ship and were about to send her to the bottom.”
He stepped to the smaller of the two Cubans. Grabbing him by the lapel, he raised him off the floor and ground his teeth in the man’s face. “Where are the explosives? Dónde están los explosivos?”
The soldier saw the unflinching determination in Giordino’s eye. “La sala de máquinas,” he grunted.
“The engine room,” Dirk said. “Let’s go.”
He and Giordino sprinted from the top of the ship to the bottom, reaching the engine room two minut
es later. They didn’t have to search long before finding several crates of explosives positioned aside a seawater induction valve. It would have quickly flooded the ship.
Giordino found a simple digital timer wired to a detonator that was packed into the high explosives. He nervously removed the detonator. “Two more hours and she’d be on her way to the bottom.”
“Good thing Rudi and Jack arrived when they did.”
They climbed back to the main deck and released the crew from the two labs, but not before Giordino flung the timer and detonator over the side. They helped Dahlgren lock up the surviving Cubans, then rejoined Gunn on the bridge.
He stood over a communications console, shaking his head. “The satellite communications system was destroyed in the shoot-out.”
“We’ve still got marine radios,” Giordino said. “By the way, how’d you find us?”
“Tracked you with satellite imaging, until we left Bimini on the NUMA research ship Caroline. Fortunately, you hadn’t moved by the time we crossed the straits.”
“Where’s the Caroline now?”
“She’s holding in friendly waters, about ten miles due north.” He gave Giordino a studious gaze. “I’ve been afraid to ask. Where’s Pitt and Summer?”
“As of two days ago, a mining ship called the Sea Raker,” Giordino said. “They were abducted aboard the Starfish while investigating the subsea mining. The Sea Raker was operating at the site of the Alta’s sinking. We need to find her and fast.”
Gunn nodded as he took the helm and dialed up the ship’s engines. He stabbed a finger at a horizontal radar screen that had survived the shoot-out. “If the Caroline doesn’t find her first,” he said in a determined voice, “we will.”
74
Fifty feet beneath the hull of the Sea Raker, an electrical charge ignited a lead azide detonator. The small primary detonation instantly ignited the eight hundred pounds of TNT packed into the sleeve that dangled from the bulk cutter.