Devil's Gate

57

PAUL TROUT SAT in the command seat of the new submersible, cramped like a basketball player in a compact car. Even though this sub was smaller than the Grouper, it was designed with a taller profile, one that at least allowed him to sit up. There was also enough space for Gamay to do her virtual reality thing without having to lie down.

Currently she sat in her getup, unmoving and staring out the small portholes in front of them. The view was surreal. They were speeding along at 140 knots a mere ten feet above the surface, suspended beneath the SH-60 Seahawk on a swaying group of cables.

Though it was night, the whitecaps were visible as they raced by.

The plan was for them to be air-dropped to the south, as close to the Event Horizon line as possible. From there they would dive into the canyon and work their way up, carrying their little robotic bomber with them.

In twenty minutes the first wave of air attacks would commence. While no one expected it to go well, the hope was that waves of missiles and feints by the Lincoln’s fighter squadrons would distract Djemma Garand’s forces and allow Paul and Gamay’s insertions to go unnoticed.

“One minute to drop point,” the helicopter’s pilot told them.

“Roger,” Paul said. There was nothing for him to do. The sub was all buttoned up and ready to go. When the pilot decided to drop them, they’d drop. He hoped it wouldn’t be at a hundred miles an hour.

“I brought along some supplies,” he said to Gamay.

“Like what?” she asked. “This isn’t a picnic.” He pointed behind them. Diving gear secured with bungee cords. “In case we have to repeat our miraculous escape. This time, we can do it a little more leisurely.” She smiled, just enough to let him know he’d reached her. Then her eyes grew suspicious. “Do you remember?” “Climbing into this thing brought it all back,” he said.

She looked sad. “Too bad.” “Why?” he replied.

“It was horrible,” she said.

“It was scary, but we survived. I like to think it was one of our shining moments.” He hoped they wouldn’t have to do anything like it again, but the tanks, masks, and fins would help if they did.

“Thirty seconds to drop,” the pilot’s voice said.

“Let’s do this,” she said bravely. “Many will die if we fail.” “Ten seconds,” the pilot said.

He saw Gamay take a deep breath.

The sub swayed back and forth as they slowed almost to a complete stop. And then a sudden feeling of weightlessness hit, followed a second later by a sharp deceleration and the sloshing feeling of the sub in water. They were already configured for a dive, and in seconds the waves had closed over them.

Paul gunned the throttle, kicked the right rudder, and brought the sub onto course. “We’ll be in that canyon in five minutes,” he said. “From there, it’s a Sunday drive. Fifteen minutes to the top and then it’s all Rapunzel.” Twenty minutes total. It didn’t seem bad at all, but somehow Paul knew they would be the longest twenty minutes of his life.