by Joe Buff
Challenger was a huge black shape, longer than a football field and more than forty feet in diameter. Jeffrey couldn’t see as far as the bow or the stern. The water here was murky as he gazed down, alive with tiny organisms, clouded by their waste, and further obscured by silt from rivers swollen by the rainy season. As he observed her from outside, breathing through his Draeger, Jeffrey felt a mix of pride and concern. He remembered that more than ten dozen people worked inside that looming pressure hull. He prayed that they’d be safe, and he’d be reunited with them soon under favorable circumstances.
Challenger had come close inshore off the coast of Brazil, up on the continental shelf—the water beneath her keel right now was only three hundred feet deep. She was following a safe corridor arranged by President da Gama’s senior naval staff, as laid out in the instructions from Admiral Hodgkiss. This side trip hadn’t helped the schedule any, but the minisub lacked the required range and was much too slow to be of use. Jeffrey’s ship, under Bell’s command, was already running hours late; the atomic torpedoes in all eight tubes had been replaced with conventional ADCAPs.
Jeffrey saw the sail cockpit’s outer streamlining clamshells swing closed. Even this nearby, his ears could register no sounds as Felix and his chief locked back into the ship.
Isolated so suddenly, left all by himself in a state that verged on sensory deprivation, he was struck by a surge of paranoia. What if it’s all a giant trap? Challenger ’s pinned against the coast and the bottom, and now she’s half disarmed.
Jeffrey almost physically reasserted self-control and told himself to trust his chain of command, to have faith in their security measures. But it wasn’t easy.
He allowed himself to drift slowly south just beneath the surface, riding the one-knot Brazil Current, saving his strength. COB and Meltzer kept Challenger on a perfect trim beneath the gentle swells. Now they moved the sub sideways, north, by engaging her auxiliary maneuvering units—again there was nothing but silence. They needed to get well away from Jeffrey before they went deeper and picked up speed, or he might be pulled down by the suction, with fatal results. Too close, he might even be drawn into the pump-jet propulsor intake. Challenger would be crippled, and her captain would be very dead.
Jeffrey watched with growing misgivings as his vessel shied away and disappeared. Soon he felt a firm jostling and suspected it was Challenger’s rudder wash as she turned.
The Draeger mouthpiece he had donned tasted rubbery, and the oxygen he breathed felt dry. But he knew his throat was dry for other reasons too. He rose to the surface and took a quick peek up into the air.
The sun overhead was deceptive. Not far off, eastward, threatening low dark clouds were massing, their undersides blurred by what Jeffrey knew was strong rain. As expected, as detected on passive sonar before, a squall line was forming, moving inshore. Then brilliant lightning sizzled, and unfettered thunder cracked—and a fuzzy gray funnel reached down to the sea.
Jeffrey realized he was near a waterspout, a tornado on the ocean. To a ship or swimmer, it was as deadly as any twister on land.
A seaborne tornado was not part of the plan, nor was a squall so sudden and violent. Jeffrey felt defenseless as the wind began to pick up. Lightning sizzled again, and hit the surface of the highly conductive sea. He knew Brazil had more lightning-bolt strikes per square mile each year than anywhere else on earth; someplace or other in the country received such a million-volt shock on average every half second. Jeffrey gripped his waterproof travel bag more tightly, as if that would help; it was attached to his gear belt by a lanyard, and also had a floatation bladder so its weight didn’t drag him down.
He wondered how deep he’d have to dive to be safe from the lightning, and if the metal in his equipment would draw the terrifyingly sudden energetic bolts, even if he was submerged. He wondered as well if the Brazilians would cancel the pickup because of this squall—and leave him helpless, abandoned, with no radio and very little shark repellent and no drinking water at all.
Will they even be able to find me once the storm passes, assuming I survive? Delay of another hour could spell a disastrous loss against the von Scheer.
Then Jeffrey heard a powerful clattering roar and the whine of twin-engine turbines. A helicopter was approaching him from the north, skirting the forward edge of the oncoming storm. But the waterspout and the squall line were advancing rapidly too. It seemed a toss-up which would reach him first.
The helo-engine noise grew very loud and the aircraft passed right overhead, its rotor downwash lashing the surface into a rippling foamy white. Someone in the helo, standing in an open door, was searching the water.
The helo banked, turned back, and came in at less than twenty feet. Jeffrey recognized a Sea King, wearing Brazilian Navy insignia. It slowed. One after another, seven men in black wet suits and Draegers leaped from the door and into the water. The Sea King rushed back north.
Jeffrey ducked beneath the surface.
He activated a weak sonar transponder, worrying that the ultrasonic signal might draw sharks.
Soon six men were swimming toward him underwater. Their technique, their form, their team discipline, all were outstanding. Submerged, the men surrounded Jeffrey. He was unarmed except for his dive knife—an emergency tool, not a weapon. His instincts were to draw himself into a ball, but he resisted doing so.
One of the scuba divers took a quick look at Jeffrey through his mask. He tapped him on the shoulder and then pointed up.
Seven men had jumped from the helo. Seven men now swam in the sea, including Jeffrey. One of the “men” from the helo had been a heated rubber dummy, weighted to sink and stay down. The others were Brazilian Navy frogmen.
Jeffrey heard a new noise now, a screaming two-toned throbbing buzz. It came at him both through the air and through the water. The frogmen spread out in an extended line, leaving him in the middle.
Lightning sizzled again, very close, and hit the ocean with a blinding blue-white flash. The ripping thunderclap came almost instantly. The curving, whirling funnel of the waterspout seemed not to have moved.
Then Jeffrey saw that it had moved, it just hadn’t changed relative bearing. It was bigger now, substantially bigger, and it was coming right for them. They could try to dive, but Jeffrey wasn’t sure this would help. He had no idea how deep the suction of the big tornado might reach. He did know that much below thirty feet, his Draeger could kill him instead of helping him breathe.
One of the frogmen shouted something to him in Portuguese. Jeffrey didn’t understand his words, but he sounded tough and confident. The frogmen spread out even more. The two-toned buzzing was very loud, and now it felt and sounded like a whooshing and a growl. It competed with the roaring of the waterspout.
As if out of nowhere, a big black air-cushioned hovercraft raced by in a cloud of spray, so close that the noise of its diesel was deafening. As it passed, its wake rolled over Jeffrey, and he was pummeled by the turbulence of the big airscrew that drove the vessel forward.
The hovercraft continued south, riding just over the water on a man-made wind blown out from under its air-cushion skirt, making at least forty knots.
There was another thunderclap. The sky above was dark now. It began to pour rain; heavy drops pounded the surface. The waterspout was closer and louder. Jeffrey started to hyperventilate. His Draeger air grew stale, and he forced himself to calm his respiration. But still his heart raced from raw fear. The tornado towered above him, much too close, bridging the gap between the clouds and the sea. Its vortex spun so fast it was impossible to make out details: wind and water revolving tightly at two hundred knots or more. When the twister caught him, it would sweep him high and tear him into pieces.
Another vessel came out of nowhere, a smaller one shaped like a race boat. It circled the line of frogmen, then slowed. Now Jeffrey could see someone in the low enclosed wheelhouse and another person at the open stern.
The man working aft leaned over the side and held out a b
ig orange ring. The first Brazilian frogman reached and grabbed this hoop as the speedboat went by. The boat’s momentum lifted the frogman out of the water and he rolled and tumbled bodily into the stern.
Soon it was Jeffrey’s turn. Now his heart was in his throat. He reached up and tried to time everything just right.
The shock of connecting almost dislocated his arm. The world in an instant seemed to do a somersault around him. He thumped into the speedboat. A crewman gestured for him to hurry up and move aside. Almost at once another frogman came aboard. In moments the entire team had been recovered.
The boat turned north to skirt the waterspout and picked up speed. Jeffrey went into the small wheelhouse, his wet suit hood up and his dive mask on. He looked around inside. The speedboat had a crew of two. Both sailors were intent on piloting the vessel now. One of them pushed the throttles all the way forward.
The twin diesels growled and throbbed at over a thousand horsepower. The deck vibrated strongly and the ride became rough as the vessel skimmed and slammed through the strengthening windblown swells from the squall. White water creamed and splashed and sprayed from the long and sharply pointed bow. The wake behind was a fast-receding blur of churning white.
Rain pelted the forward windshield. Visibility closed in. All the noise made conversation difficult.
The radar display glowed a reassuring green. The speed log on the boat’s instruments said they were doing a solid forty-five knots. The vessel turned without warning, banking steeply and skidding and pounding hard. She leveled off. The gyrocompass showed they were heading 070 now, east-northeast.
Their next stop, Jeffrey knew, was Rio de Janeiro. The speedboat he rode was an ex–Royal Navy FIC-145 covert operations craft. Fifty feet long, its Kevlar-sheathed hull was a hybrid, with two hydroplane steps underneath. The frogman training exercise had been a cover for picking him up.
The hovercraft that had headed south was also ex–Royal Navy, sold to Brazil. It was a Type 2000 TDX(M) and could maintain forty knots for a full three hundred nautical miles before needing more fuel.
That hovercraft was Challenger’s free ride south. The Type 2000’s immense noise and her kicked-up wake would help disguise the sub’s own acoustic and surface-turbulence signature as both made toward Argentina well inside Brazilian waters. At Paranaguá farther down along the coast, according to the orders from Admiral Hodgkiss, another Type 2000 would take over for the next leg of Bell’s high-speed dash toward Buenos Aires.
Jeffrey settled back on a bench in the FIC-145’s wheelhouse. The frogmen cleaned equipment and mostly ignored him. He figured they were preoccupied by visions of impending war—war with Argentina, in which they’d play a central role and probably take losses. He thought these men looked ready, intense and well trained. They were Brazil’s equivalent of U.S. Navy SEALs, an elite, and they knew it.
Jeffrey noticed the speedboat was armed with two .50-caliber heavy machine guns. But both were wrapped in canvas shrouds, protected from the rain and corrosive salt spray. No one seemed to think they’d need them soon.
The frogmen showed so little interest in Jeffrey, now that he’d been safely retrieved, that he suspected they had no idea at all who he was. He thought it was interesting how this whole process had been compartmentalized.
Suddenly Jeffrey had to blink. The special-operations craft pierced through the squall’s far side. The morning sun once more shone brightly. The radar display showed land approaching fast off the port bow. Soon he saw the tops of a line of tall hills. Even through the thin haze lingering just above the water, the hilltops shimmered a verdurous green.
Jeffrey watched as the special operations craft moved inshore. In quick succession they passed a series of scenic coves and headlands, islands, reefs, and lagoons. The vessel slowed to twenty-five knots and the frogmen began to examine the coast with binoculars. As they rounded a point, Jeffrey caught his first glimpse of greater Rio. A wide curving beach of glittering yellow-white sand stretched before him. Behind the beach spread a broad boulevard, backed by high-rise luxury hotels and apartment buildings.
“Copacabana,” the frogman leader told him.
Jeffrey nodded. The sand, he saw, was dotted with people, a thick speckling of multicolored bathing suits, umbrellas, and towels. The surf was mild, but very few actually went in the water.
That squall was miles away. It hasn’t rained here yet today. The sky was crystal-clear pale blue, flecked with scattered fluffy white clouds. The bright sun made the ocean sparkle, golden flecks against a deep blue shading to rich green closer to shore.
The frogmen continued to use binoculars. One of them handed Jeffrey a pair and helped him stand steady and zoom in.
Jeffrey focused. He spotted a big gathering of what looked like Japanese tourists sitting on beach chairs. All were fully clothed from head to foot, including wide-brimmed hats and dark sunglasses.
“Japanese? Nippon?”
The frogman nodded. He shifted Jeffrey’s field of view to the right.
The new object of attention was a group of young Latino women sunbathing topless. Nearby were others wearing bathing suits so skimpy Jeffrey wondered why they bothered dressing at all. Then he saw people tanning themselves nude.
Copacabana soon fell behind. The speedboat closed on the entrance to the harbor. The vessel’s green, yellow, and blue Brazilian flag snapped jauntily in the breeze. The frogmen, more relaxed now, chatted among themselves while Jeffrey listened. Their Portuguese didn’t sound at all like Spanish. If anything, snatches seemed vaguely similar to Italian. The frogmen were very expressive, and talked constantly with their hands. The speedboat made a sharp left turn.
Jeffrey saw at once that Rio de Janeiro’s Guanabara Bay formed a truly superb natural harbor. Volcanic formations jutted from the shoreline on both sides of the mouth of the huge upper bay. The tall granite features worked as ideal breakwaters. He recognized Sugarloaf Mountain, shaped like a gigantic cone, an unmistakable soaring landmark. Parts of Sugarloaf were densely overgrown with bushes and vines. The more sheer drops, of hundreds of feet, were stark naked rock—shades of brown and tan embedded with vertical seams of milky quartz. A cable car led to Sugarloaf’s peak; it was running and its spacious cabs seemed crammed to capacity.
As the speedboat entered the main shipping channel into the port, Jeffrey passed lighthouses and buoys. The boat skirted Sugarloaf; the protruding hump fell behind. He noticed that both sides of the harbor entrance were guarded by ancient forts.
Now Jeffrey caught a sweeping panorama of Rio itself. On the left sprawled more modern buildings, of gray concrete, white masonry, and glass. He saw parks and marinas, and the gilded domes and weathered copper steeples of many churches, plus two airports along the water—one small, then one large. Several miles ahead and to his right were shallows, leading to mangrove swamps and stream outlets and housing projects and slums. In the middle of the bay there were islands of all different sizes, and anchorages where merchant ships were moored. Ferries plied between opposite shores of the bay. There was also a bridge, under which the speedboat passed.
Beyond the bay rose Brazil’s great coastal escarpment: more towering solid granite, only superficially weathered. The mountainsides were covered with lush greenery, or held clusters of dwellings for more of Rio’s poor. Overlooking the whole scene from just inland on Jeffrey’s left soared another prominent summit, Corcovado, Hunchback Mountain. At its 2,400-foot peak stood the world-famous statue of Cristo Redentor—Christ the Redeemer—with arms outstretched, a hundred feet tall.
The motorboat turned left again and headed for a pier on the mainland. A long enclosed shed covered the structure, and the slip alongside was protected by an awning, for security; Jeffrey noticed armed guards.
The crew brought their craft under the awning and alongside the pier with skill. The frogmen and Jeffrey climbed out, hurrying into the shed.
Inside, Jeffrey saw an armored personnel carrier—an old M-113, a boxy thing that rode on track
s. Dating from the Vietnam era, it could have been fifty years old. This one was painted matte black. Yellow letters on the side said POLICIA.
The big rear hydraulic ramp hatch was down. Jeffrey and the frogmen clambered in.
The odor of diesel fuel and exhaust was sharp and thick. The ancient engine was idling roughly, and the whole vehicle shook. Headroom was low and Jeffrey had to stoop.
At the front of the troop compartment, on one of the passenger benches, dozed a man in civilian clothes. His right arm was in an air cast and sling. The man woke up when he heard the frogmen take seats and raise the ramp hatch closed.
He looked at Jeffrey and was obviously glad to see him.
“Sorry, the painkillers made me drowsy.”
“What the heck happened to you?” Jeffrey shook the man’s left hand with his right.
“I’m the senior surviving military attaché. Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Stewart, United States Army Green Berets, at your service.”
“What happened to your face, Colonel?”
“Shrapnel. It’s nothing. They closed the wounds with surgical glue, then smeared on antiseptic.” The colonel had long gashes on his cheeks and forehead, unbandaged.
Jeffrey nodded sympathetically. “I heard there were attacks.”
The man’s eyes clouded with anger and grief. “We’re hardly out of the woods yet, not by a long shot…. Anyway, I’m supposed to be protocol and liaison officer for your visit.”
Jeffrey hesitated. “In other words, my handler. Make sure I don’t put my foot in my mouth in front of somebody important.”
“Pretty much.” Stewart patted the bench next to him. Jeffrey sat and put his travel bag in his lap. The lighting in the vehicle’s interior was dim.
