“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 backward. “Not such a … fucking pretty boy … now, are you?” he shouted as he delivered three more brutal blows to Mitchell’s face, his own knuckles splitting with the force of the punches.
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 around 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 around 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 around to point at him—
Click.
Mitchell’s finger tightened around 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 upward 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 farther. 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.
THIRTY-ONE
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—plunging into the flooding 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 toward 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, then climbed it, freezing water streaming off him. 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, finding 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 control room, 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-labeled 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, shit!” she mumbled, trying to squirm away from the stinging vapor before blearily taking in Chase’s battered, blood-streaked face. “Oh my God, Eddie! Are you okay?”
“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.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I thought that’d wake you up.” He helped her stand.
“Well, how do we get off it?”
“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?”
He shot her a look and cupped his hands as if comparing two weights. “It was a tough choice—you know, bit of tin, woman I love!”
“Oh, all right—aah!” Nina’s foot sli
pped, and she stumbled down the tilting deck to hit the aft bulkhead, now well on its way to becoming the new floor. Chase gripped one of the plotting tables and made his way to her as she peered through the hatch. “Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“I can see water. That’s supposed to be on the outside.”
He looked past her. Water was indeed rising up the floor of the sonar room. The ladder he’d seen was already submerged. “Buggeration and fuckery! Okay, plan B.”
“You have a plan B?”
“No, but if you do that’d be bloody fantastic!”
More loose items crashed onto the deck. The radio handset on the communications console swung on its coiled cord. The submarine was now close to thirty degrees down by the stern, and the rate of tilt was increasing. The inclinometer clanked as it reached its limit.
Nina jumped away from the hatch as a first wave splashed through it. “Okay, how about we close this?” She slammed the heavy metal door and spun the locking wheel a couple of times, then pointed at the dangling microphone. “What about that radio? Can we call for help?”
“Call who? The Russians won’t be able to reach us in time—assuming they don’t shoot us on sight for sinking one of their nuclear subs!”
“Maybe not, but they might be able to tell us how to get out of this thing.”
“If they speak English—” Chase began, but Nina cut him off.
“Is that a phone?” she asked, jabbing a finger at the piece of equipment mounted next to the radio. It looked like a later addition to the control room, not as utilitarian and military in design.
“Yeah, a satphone.”
“Great!” She battled her way across the room, using the firmly secured legs of the plotting table as steps before clambering over the periscope to reach the console.
“Who you gonna call?” Chase asked as he followed, confused.
Nina resisted the near-automatic urge to cry “Ghost-busters!” in response. “Someone who knows about submarines! What time is it in New York?”
Chase looked at his wrist, but saw only skin; his watch had been confiscated at Vaskovich’s power station. “I dunno—late afternoon?”
“Hope he’s still in the office …” She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear, then pushed a green button on the phone. She heard a bleep. “Yes!” She dialed a number from memory and waited, adjusting her precarious position as the room tilted around her.
A click, then a hollow hiss of static. “It’s working!” she cried on hearing a ringing tone. Another few seconds and she got an answer from the IHA’s receptionist in New York. “Lola! It’s Nina Wilde. This is an emergency—I need you to put me through to Matt Trulli at UNARA right now!”
To her credit, Lola didn’t waste time asking any questions, but immediately dialed Trulli’s extension. Another ringing tone, two rings, three …
“Hello?” said Trulli.
“Matt! It’s Nina!”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just that Eddie and I are trapped aboard a sinking Russian submarine.”
Even with the time lag of a satellite link, a reply was a long time coming. “Really?”
“Yes! Really! You said you’d been on a Russian sub—so tell us how to get off this one!”
“I’ve been on a Russian sub, but they’re all different. What kind is it?”
“A … a big one! Eddie, what kind of sub is this?”
“A Typhoon,” Chase told her.
“A Typhoon,” she repeated. “We’re in the bridge and we can’t get to the ladder behind us because it’s flooded!”
“When you say bridge, do you mean the observation deck in the sail, or the main control room?”
“What?” Nina shook her head in exasperation. “The second one! Matt—we are going to die! Get us out of here!”
“I’ve never been on a Typhoon—I was aboard a Sierra!” Trulli protested. “I’ve read about ’em, though. Hang on, let me think.”
Nina gave him exactly three seconds. “Matt!”
“Okay, okay! If you can’t get up into the sail, there’re supposedly escape pods on each side of the control deck.”
“Supposedly?”
“The Russians don’t exactly put the plans on the Internet! But there are big hatches in the hull, and everything I’ve read says they’re for escape pods.”
“Okay! Great! How do we get to them?”
“I dunno! If there’s no direct access to the sides, you’ll have to go forward or aft and double back to them.”
Nina glanced at the aft hatch. “Going back’s out. This thing’s sinking ass first.”
“Then you need to go forward.”
She looked ahead—and up. The forward hatch was now above her, the floor at forty degrees from the horizontal. “Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Nina!” Chase warned, pointing at one of the panels in front of the dead sailor. He had realized it was a depth gauge some time ago, but ignored it, with the Typhoon on the surface. Now, though, it was starting to tick down … and with increasing speed. The sheer volume of water in the stern section was outweighing the buoyancy provided by the remaining air in the bow. “We’re going down, and not in the good way. Time to go!”
“Matt,” Nina said, “if you’re right about this escape pod, you’re going to get such a great thank-you present from us both.”
“And if I’m wrong?”
“Then it was nice working with you! Bye!” She dropped the handset and pulled herself up the consoles.
Chase was right behind her. “Escape pod?”
“Hopefully. He says there’s one on each side of the control room.”
“Shit, then they’re probably flooded by now.”
“There you go with that British pessimism again! Stop it!”
The forward hatch hung open. Nina braced herself against a console and stretched to grab its frame. Chase pushed her up from below until she was able to wriggle over it, then climbed after her. They found themselves in a narrow passage running across the sub. A closed hatch led forward, but Nina was more interested in the routes to the left and right, which as Trulli had suggested headed back along each side of the control room. “This way’s not flooded,” she said, looking left.
“This way is!” Chase yelped as seawater reached the top end of the other corridor. The sub was now at a forty-five degree angle, walls turning to floors, the water flowing with increasing force along the welded corner where the two joined.
“Oh boy.” Nina ran left and looked down. “Eddie! I think I’ve found it!”
Chase joined her. The hatch at the far end of the corridor was closed, keeping out the water—however temporarily. About ten feet below them was another hatch set in the side wall, this one hydraulically operated. A large button on a panel beside it glowed with a green light. “Great, but we’ve still got to get to it,” he said as the water gushed past their feet and spewed into the passage like a waterfall.
One side of the passage was lined with protruding metal boxes—electrical switch gear. Chase climbed down them until he reached the level of the hatch, then leaned across. Water splashed over him from above. Some of it sprayed into the boxes, causing a bang and a flash of sparks. Nina shrieked. Chase winced and shifted his grip to something he hoped was nonconductive, then pushed the button.
The hatch hissed open. Through it Chase saw another, smaller hatch opening more slowly, beyond it a white-painted cylindrical chamber. “Is it the escape pod?” Nina asked.
“Either that or a Portaloo. Come on!”
Nina gingerly descended. The water was coming faster now, rushing down the steeply sloping floor to churn against the bulkhead below. More spray found its way into the electrics—something farther down the passage exploded, sending a cloud of smoke swirling up past Chase. Flames crackled briefly before the rising water extinguished them.
Chase brought up a hand to help Nina, directing her toward the open hatch. “Come on, quick—”
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The entire submarine shook, titanium and steel groaning as if in pain. A wave burst over the top of the corridor, hundreds of gallons of freezing water cascading down on them. Hanging halfway across the passage, Nina was hit by the deluge and slipped, sliding down the sloping deck.
Chase’s hand flashed out, snagging the baggy sleeve of her overalls. A seam tore, but he clenched his fist tighter around the bunched material as Nina swung below him. Water drenching her, she managed to clamp her hand around the edge of the hatch and shakily pull herself back up. “Thanks,” she gasped.
He gave her a relieved smile. “Didn’t want you to miss the wedding.”
“Uh-huh. And when’s that going to be, exactly?”
“Oh, don’t fucking start,” Chase moaned, pushing her through the hatch. He followed as more water gushed down the corridor, the dying submarine moaning around them.
Nina had already found a control panel by the hatch, helpfully annotated with diagrams beside illuminated push buttons. She hit each in turn.
The inner hatch rumbled shut, closing with a clang. Nothing seemed to happen for a nerve-racking moment—then the escape pod trembled as its compartment flooded. The hatches on the Typhoon’s outer hull retracted, and with a thunderous bang of compressed air the pod was blown free of the stricken sub.
Nina was thrown against Chase as the pod abruptly righted itself. A digital depth gauge rapidly counted down to zero, and before they had a chance to recover, a whoosh of spray over the hull and a bobbing motion announced that they had reached the surface.
Deeper booms and thumps came from below as the Typhoon finally hit the seabed. Nina looked worriedly at Chase, pushing her sodden hair off her face. “What about the sub? What if the reactors explode?”
“They won’t,” Chase assured her. “That’s not how they work. And sub reactor casings are tough: they should be able to recover them without too much crap leaking out.” He stroked her cheek, then took in the pod’s interior. As well as the hatch through which they had entered, there was another in the ceiling with small portholes set beneath it. “I think this is the bit where M and Q are supposed to catch us having a shag.”