Nighthawk

18

The NUMA submersible was maneuverable, but not very fast. Certainly not in comparison to the torpedo homing in on it.

“Use this to control the hydrophone,” Kurt said, placing Emma’s hand on a large dial. “Keep it focused on the torpedo. We need to hear it coming if we’re going to have any chance to avoid it.”

“Torpedo?”

“Shouldn’t have told you that,” Kurt said.

A different kind of sonar found them next: rapid clicks with short intervals and a higher-pitched sound.

“It’s locked onto us,” Kurt said.

They’d put about a mile between themselves and the Typhoon by the time they were discovered. At that distance, and considering the comparative speeds, they might have forty seconds before getting obliterated.

“Can you take evasive action?” Emma said.

“We’re making eight knots,” Kurt said. “Nothing we do would be considered evasive. But we’re not out of options.”

He reached past Emma to the cargo controls. “If we can create a diversion, we might survive.”

Kurt had loaded the flight recorder into the right-hand cargo container. But the left-hand container was filled with nothing of real value, just junk from the wrecked bomber. Pressing one button, he unlocked the clasps that held it to the side of the Angler. Turning a pair of valves to full open, he inflated a pair of yellow bags attached to the container. The rush of bubbles drowned out all noise for several seconds and the bags expanded like hot-air balloons. They rose toward the surface and lifted the cargo container free.

At almost the same instant, Kurt blew the air from the ballast tank and pointed the submersible straight down, hoping the wall of bubbles and the ascending cargo container would draw the torpedo off course.

For several seconds, the water was too turbulent to hear anything, but as the disturbance cleared, Emma refocused the hydrophone. The sonar pings from the torpedo had changed pitch, becoming weaker.

“It’s headed for the container,” Kurt said. “It’s lost us.”

He kept the nose of the submersible pointed down and the throttles full open, trying to put as much distance between the torpedo and themselves as possible.

“It’s still going to hurt when it explodes,” Emma said.

She wasn’t wrong. Ten seconds later, a white and orange flash lit up the dark water as the torpedo obliterated the cargo container. The explosion caused a shock wave that slammed the Angler and sent it tumbling end over end.

With his ears ringing, Kurt stabilized the sub. “Now to make them think they hit us.”

He shut down the thrusters and blew the ballast tanks. The little sub righted itself and began moving upward, headed for the surface propelled by buoyancy alone.

“I’m borrowing a play out of the old U-boat textbook,” Kurt said. “They would make their escape after the depth charges went off because the water was so turbulent, it was impossible for sonar to hear through for several minutes.”

“Won’t they just ping us again?” Emma asked.

“Maybe,” Kurt said. “But I’m betting they’ll just listen for wreckage first. And it’ll be a while before the water settles down enough for them to hear anything. By then, I’m hoping to be on the surface and out in the bright light of day.”

The elevator ride picked up speed as the last drops of water were forced from the tanks. Kurt and Emma sat in silence, eyes locked on the slowly unwinding depth gauge.

“Anything?” the Typhoon’s captain asked.

The sonar operator was listening, but all he could hear were the bubbles and cavitation left over from the explosion. It had rendered the passive sonar temporarily useless.

He waited and listened, keenly aware of the captain standing over his shoulder.

“Well?”

“Bubbles,” the sonar operator said. “A moderate volume of released air traveling toward the surface. That would indicate a hit.”

“Any wreckage?” Tovarich asked.

“Wreckage?” the tactical officer said. “Captain, that torpedo is designed to take out warships and American attack submarines. There won’t be enough left of that submersible to qualify as wreckage.”

Tovarich understood, but he was a cautious man. “Humor me,” he said. “Use the active sonar. I want to be sure.”

The sonar was adjusted, another ping was released and the return echo examined. The results astonished everyone on board. “Target zero-six-one,” the sonar operator said. “Depth one hundred and twenty feet and headed for the surface.”

“Can we get them before they get there?”

The tactical operator made a few quick calculations. “No, sir,” he said. “They’ll be up top before we can fire.”

Tovarich hesitated. He had standing orders not to allow any interference in the salvage, but he’d also been given similar — and now conflicting — orders to keep the mission clandestine. “They know too much,” he said finally. “Load and fire. And, this time, you’d better not miss.”