Both helicopters were emptied within ninety seconds. As soon as they hit the deck, the boarders threw their gloves away. The first four men down adopted a circular formation that was reinforced as the others joined them. The helicopters darted off like startled dragonflies and hovered a few hundred yards from the ship on either side. They would await the word that the ship had been secured, or that the mission had failed. Their orders were to evacuate the assault team and sink the ship with well-placed missiles.
Mason swept his eyes around. He was glad to see that the ordnance expert, Joe Baron, had made it safely. Mason could handle explosives in a pinch, but Baron was a pro. The lieutenant pulled a light stick from his vest and snapped it back and forth so that the chemicals inside mixed and glowed a cold blue. He waved the light stick to let the port team know all was well. His signal was returned a second later. Radio talk would be kept to a minimum as they swept the ship from one end to the other.
Mason got on his cell phone. “Omega Three. Stern LZ secured. No assets encountered. Report in, Omega Two.”
“Omega Two. Stern secured. No one home, so we will roam.”
“This is Omega One. Proceed according to plan and cut out the lousy poetry.”
“Roger,” Louis answered, although it must have killed him not to say “Dodger.”
“Omega Three. All A-OK.”
Mason ordered the teams forward. They broke into two squads on both sides. One squad formed the base element, taking up firing positions to protect the other group as it raced forward. Then the assault team became the fire team and the other squad leapfrogged ahead in a maneuver that quickly covered ground.
Within minutes, they had rendezvoused in the bow of the ship with the port team. Mason ordered his 2IC to probe the bridge and superstructure while he took his squad to the decks below. Using the same leapfrog technique, Mason and his men made rapid progress through the storage areas and holds. They stopped in front of one door that was welded shut. Since they couldn't get in, no one could get out, so they moved on. They burst into the boiler room with guns ready. The engines were going, but there was no sign of boiler men or engineers.
A voice crackled in Mason's earpiece. “Up Squad. Gone through the crew and officers' quarters. Beds all made. No one here. Spooky as hell.”
“Boiler room. Engines are purring away. No one here either.”
The squads continued into the ship, and still they encountered no one. After a thorough search, they climbed back to the main deck.
The voice of the 2IC came onto Mason's radio. “Lieu- tenant, I think you should get up to the bridge as quickly as possible.”
Moving quickly, Mason led his team to the wheelhouse. On the way, they passed men who were stationed on the decks and wings of the bridge keeping watch.
“Anything?” Mason said to the man who carried the shotgun.
“No, sir.”
Mason made his way into the wheelhouse. The 2IC and several of his team were waiting for him. Nothing seemed out of place. “What did you want to show me?”
“This is it, sir. Nothing. There's nobody here.”
As he looked around at the computer monitors glowing with blue light and the blinking faces of the digital readouts, the truth dawned on Mason. He and his men were the only human beings on the great ship.
CALLS WERE COMING in from the other Omega teams. Louis and Carmichael reported that the Ataman II and III were deserted. As he listened to the reports, Mason detected a change in the ship's movement. He was sure of it. The ship had stopped its forward motion. He went over to the big window that overlooked the deck and stared out into the darkness. Something was definitely happening. He couldn't be sure, but the ship seemed to be moving laterally.
“Lieutenant,” one of his men called. “Look at this.” The man was standing in front of a large computer monitor. Pictured on the screen was what looked like an archery target. The image of a ship was slightly off to one side of the bull's-eye. The ship was turning on its axis as it moved closer to the center of the concentric circles. Red lights flashed intermittently on both sides of the ship image. The situation became clear to Mason in an instant. The ship was a drone. The vessel and its sister ships were being controlled from another location.
Mason ordered his 2IC to secure the bridge and called the choppers and told them to land. Then he instructed Joe Baron to assemble with the squad members trained in explosives on the foredeck. He called the other Omega teams and instructed them to proceed to the main objective, the bombs. Mason raced down to the first level and led the way inside the ship, with Baron and the other SEALs pounding down the stairs behind him until they came to the sealed door they had seen on their first exploration.
The lieutenant checked their location against the ship's diagram. They were outside the bomb chamber. Baron got to work right away and taped strips of plastic explosive C-4 onto the door. He inserted the blasting cap into the puttylike material and ran an attached wire around a corner. Mason and the other men cleared out of the area and squatted a safe distance away, with their hands covering their ears. Baron squeezed the M-57 firing device attached to the other end of the wire. A loud, hollow thump echoed through the passageway. They rushed back to the smoking door, now marked by a ragged-edged square hole. Baron, who was as skinny as an eel, easily wriggled through. The others handed their packs to Baron, then squeezed through the opening after him. Flashlight beams stabbed the darkness. Then someone found a wall switch, and the chamber was flooded with light.
The SEAL team was standing on a platform with a large rectangular opening in the center. The missile hung down through the opening from the ceiling, held in place by gantries that extended from the walls like helping hands. There was silence as the men gazed with awe at the huge cylinder. The light gleamed off the metal skin and the rotor housings.
“Look sharp. No time for sightseeing!” Mason barked.
Baron ran his fingers over the surface of the missile. Then he inspected the intricate network of hoses and elecical connections that snaked down to the missile from a ole in the ceiling. He sucked his breath in. “Man, I've ever seen anything like this.”
“The question is, can you deactivate it?”
Baron grinned and rubbed his palms together. “Does the pope live in Rome?”
“No, actually he lives in the Vatican.”
“Close enough.” Baron dug into his pack, pulled out a stethoscope and plugged it into his ears. He listened at several points on the outside of the missile, smiling and frowning like a heart specialist examining a patient.
“She's all dressed up and ready to go. I can hear humming.”
“What about those connections?” Mason asked.
“Fuel and electrical. I could cut them, but that might tell this baby it's operating on its own.”
“In other words, it might start the launch.”
Baron nodded. “I've got to cut the heart out of this thing.” He ran his fingers along the slightly raised edge of a panel on the side of the missile. Then he dug out a set of tools from his rucksack, and after a couple of tries found a lug that fit the nuts holding the panel cover on. Using a battery-operated wrench, he started to unbolt the panel cover.
Like a sportscaster broadcasting play-by-play, Mason kept up a running account of Baron's work for the other teams, instructing them to stay one step behind. His men, in the meantime, had scoured the area and come up with one-inch cable they'd found in a storeroom. They ran the cable under the thrusters, hoping to rig up restraints on the projectile.
Baron was making slow progress. He stripped some bolts that had rusted in the dampness of the big room and had to use a special attachment to get a grip on them. He was leaning against the missile, his head close to the exterior. All at once, he stopped his work and listened.
“Crap!” he said.
“What's wrong?” asked Mason, who'd been peering intently over Baron's shoulder. Baron started to answer, but Mason stilled him with a hand signal. The 21C was callin
g from the wheelhouse.
“I don't know if this means anything, Lieutenant, but all the screens and panels are going crazy up here.”
“Stand by.” Turning to Baron, he said. “That was the wheelhouse. The instruments are showing unusual activity.” Mason cocked an ear. A loud humming that grew in intensity filled the chamber.
Baron looked around as if he could see the sound. “The damned thing is about to launch.”
“Can you do anything?” Mason said evenly.
“There's a chance. If I can get this panel off, maybe I can sabotage its activation circuit. Stand by with those wire cutters.”
Baron unscrewed another bolt and was working on the next one when they heard a new noise, like the grinding of great gears. The sound was coming from below. They looked down, which probably saved them from eye damage when the electrical conduits and hoses blew off the sides of the missile a few feet above their heads. They dove onto their stomachs. Below them, the moon pool gates started to move apart.
Then the rotors inside the thruster housings began to whir.
As the moon pool fully opened, there was another explosion and the gantries holding the missile blew off. The jerry-rigged cables snapped like thread and the loose ends sliced the air and would have decapitated anyone in the way.
Then the bomb dropped.
VOICES WERE YELLING in Mason's ear. The other teams were seeing similar developments. Joe Louis was yelling. “Omega Two. Bomb has dropped.”
Then Carmichael's voice came on. “Omega Three. So has ours.”
Mason and his men crawled to the edge of the opening once occupied by the bomb and stared down. Waves and froth created where the missile splashed into the sea and its thrusters dug in. As they peered into the dark roiling sea, it was as if they were looking into the bowels of hell.
NUMA 3 - Fire Ice
-36-
PETROV'S LEAD MAN, a giant whom Austin had nicknamed Tiny, stepped forward and drove the wooden butt of his AKM into the side of the guard's head. The guard's legs turned to rubber and he crashed to the deck. Figures were running toward them. Someone flicked on a flashlight that caught Austin in its beam. An AKM burped once. At a firing rate of six hundred rounds per minute, even a short burst was deadly, especially at close range.
The flashlight skittered across the deck, but in its quick flicker, Razov's men had sized up the strength and position of the assault group. White-hot muzzle bursts blossomed in the darkness. They dove for cover. In the stroboscopic effect created by the fusillade,.Petrov's men looked as if they were moving in slow motion.
Austin and Zavala hit the deck belly first and rolled over until they were behind the protection of a bollard. Bullets shredded the air over their heads and ricocheted off the big steel mushroom. Austin hauled out his Bowen and blasted at a moving shadow, unsure if he'd hit anyone. Zavala pecked away with his H and K. The muzzle bursts became more scattered, indicating that Razov's men were spreading out.
“They're trying to outflank us," Zavala shouted.
Tiny, who was on his belly a few feet away, was waving to get their attention.
“Go!” he bellowed. “We hold position.”
Austin had his doubts. Tiny and his men could defend the narrow deck for a while, but like the Spartans holding the pass at Thermopylae, they too would eventually be outmaneuvered. Tiny jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The gesture needed no translation. Get moving. They let off a few more rounds, then inched backward on their elbows and knees until they were under a lifeboat davit.
With Razov's men still shooting at their last position, they got to their feet and dashed heads-down toward a salon door. It was unlocked. They stepped inside, weapons cocked. The crystal chandeliers were dark, and the only illumination came from a series of wall sconces. In their yellow glow, Austin could see the outlines of tables, chairs and settees. They crossed the dance floor to the opposite side.
Austin paused. Petrov's men might be in the vicinity, and it could be a lethal mistake to surprise them. He called Petrov on the radio and gave him their position.
“Sounds as if you stepped into a hornets' nest,” Petrov said.
"Couldn't be helped. Don't know how long Tiny can hold them off.”
“You might be surprised,” Petrov said without concern.
“Come through the door onto the deck. We'll be watching for you.”
Austin clicked off, opened the door and stepped out. There was no sign of Petrov or his men. Then dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows where the commandos crouched. Petrov came toward them. “You were wise not to stick your heads outside. My men are a little edgy. I've sent a few around to the other side. We should hear from them in a - ”
He was interrupted by the thud of exploding grenades. The gunfire became more sporadic. “Evidently, my men have thinned out the ranks of the opposition,” he said. “I suggest you proceed to your objective. Do you need any help?”
“I'll call you if we do,” Austin said, moving toward a ladder that went up the side of the bulkhead on the bridge superstructure.
“Good luck!” Petrov called out. Austin and Zavala were halfway up the bridge when the chilling reports started coming in from the Omega teams. He stopped to tell Zavala the bad news coming in through his earpiece.
“The bombs have dropped,” he told Zavala. “All of them.”
Zavala had taken the lead and was hanging on to a ladder to the next deck. He turned at Austin's words and let out a long string of curses in Spanish. “What now?”
In answer, Austin jerked his arm up to shoulder level and pointed his gun at Zavala, who froze in place. The Bowen barked. The slug passed within inches of Zavala's head and the breeze created by its passing ruffled his hair. A heavy object plunged from above and crashed to the deck with a thud. Zavala blinked the light spots out of his eyes and stared at the Cossack spread-eagled on the deck. A saber lay a few feet from the man's outstretched hand.
“Sorry, Joe,” Austin said. “That guy was about to cut you down to size.”
Zavala ran his fingers through his hair on the side the bullet had passed. “That's okay. I always wanted to part my hair on this side.”
“There's nothing we can do about the bombs,” Austin said somberly. “But we can deal with the murdering scum who launched them.”
Austin took the lead, and they climbed higher until they were under the wings that extended out from either side of the wheelhouse. They split up, with each man taking a wing. Austin sprinted up the stairs. With his back to the bulkhead, he edged up to the open door and peered around the corner.
The spacious wheelhouse was lit by red night-lights that washed the interior in their crimson glow.
The wheelhouse seemed deserted, except for the solitary figure of a man who stood in front of a large computer monitor, his back to Austin, apparently staring at the screen. Austin whispered into his radio, instructing Zavala to keep watch while he investigated. Then he stepped inside.
Razov's wolfhounds must have smelled him. They rushed out of nowhere in a flurry of clicking claws and wagging tails and pounced on Austin. He pushed them down with his free hand, but the dogs had spoiled all hopes of a silent entry. Razov turned and frowned at the dogs' attention to Austin. He gave a sharp command that brought the dogs whimpering back to his side with their heads low and tails between their legs. His thin lips widened in an evil smile.
“I've been expecting you, Mr. Austin. My men told me that you and your friends were aboard. It's good to see you again. Pity that you had to depart so abruptly on your last visit.”
“You might change your mind when we blow your operation out of the water.”
“It's a little late for that,” Razov said. He pointed toward die monitor. The screen was subdivided into three vertical segments. On each section, a blip was rapidly descending toward a wavy line at the bottom.
“I know you've launched the bombs.”
“Then you know there's nothing you can do. When the missiles hit bot
tom, the thrusters will drive them into the seafloor, where they will explode, releasing the methane hydrate, collapsing the shelf and triggering tsunamis that will destroy three of your major coastal cities."
'“To say nothing of launching your mad scheme to trigger global warming.”
Razov looked startled, then he smiled and shook his head. “I should have known you would figure out my ultimate goal. No matter. Yes, Siberia will become the breadbasket of the world, and your country will be so busy licking its wounds and trying to feed itself that you will no longer be able to mind Russia's business. Maybe we might sell you Siberian wheat, if you behave.”
“Would lrini have agreed with your insane plot?”
The smile disappeared. “You're not fit to speak her name.”
“Maybe not.” Austin pointed the Bowen at Razov's heart. “But I can send you to join her.”
Razov spat out a command. The curtain that divided the main section of the wheelhouse from the chart room parted, and two men came out, a bearded Cossack and Pulaski, who had hijacked the NR-1. Machine pistols at the ready, they moved around behind Austin. Then the curtain parted again. A tall man dressed in a long black robe emerged. He gazed at Austin with deep-set eyes and licked his lips, as if he were about to feast. He said something in Russian; his voice was deep and sonorous, as if it were issuing from a tomb.
A chill danced along Austin's spine, but he kept his gun leveled at Razov.
Razov seemed amused at Austin's reaction. “I'd like you to meet Boris, my associate and closest advisor.” The monk grinned at the mention of his name and spoke in Russian. Razov translated. “Boris says he's sorry he didn't meet you when he boarded the NUMA ship.”
“You don't know how sorry I am,” Austin said. “He wouldn't be standing here now.”
“Bravo! A fine attempt at bluff. Put the gun down, Mr. Austin. As we speak, your companions are being eradicated by my men.”
Austin had no intention of relinquishing his gun. If he had to, he'd go down in a hail of machine gun fire and take Razov and Boris with him. He wondered where Zavala was. While he pondered his next move, he heard Yaeger's voice in his earpiece.
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