Nighthawk

19

Joe Zavala sat in the cockpit of the Air-Crane as it rested quietly on the helipad near the bow of the Reunion. Captain Kamphausen was in the crane operator’s seat, working the winch controls and reeling in a long section of cable. At the far end was a jury-rigged contraption Joe and the Reunion’s engineers had built to pluck Angler off the bottom of the sea.

“Are you sure this electromagnet is going to work?” Kamphausen asked.

“I used the best coils from your main generator,” Joe said. “With the power from the Air-Crane’s aux unit, it should have plenty of power.”

Still believing the Angler might be stuck on the bottom, Joe’s plan was to find the submersible with the side-scan sonar, lower the magnet down on a cable and stick it to the steel hull of the sub. That done, he’d reel them in.

Kamphausen, who’d worked cranes for half his years at sea, would do the honors while Joe piloted the Air-Crane. He shut down the winch as soon as the final length of cable wrapped itself around the drum and the magnet locked in place. “Now all we have to do is find them,” he said.

Before Joe could reply, a deep, echoing thud reached them from the port side. Joe turned to see a momentary bulge on the surface of the sea. The circular displacement rose up and then fell back, releasing a tower of white water and foam from its center.

“Looks like someone else found them first,” Kamphausen said.

Joe turned around and rushed through the preflight in record time, hitting the starter and getting the rotors moving above them. “Kurt and Emma must be on the move.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there’s no other reason to shoot at them.”

“At least we don’t have to get them off the bottom,” Kamphausen said.

“I have a feeling they’re still going to need our help,” Joe said.

As Kamphausen clicked his seat belt and the rotors flicked past at ever-increasing speed, Joe pulled on a headset and changed the frequency on the number one radio. He’d sent one of the small boats out on the water trailing the side-scan sonar and trying to pinpoint the location of the Angler without giving it away to the Russians. “Survey 1, did you catch that?”

The replay came loud and clear. “We saw it on the surface. No idea what caused it, though.”

“Do you still have the Typhoon on the scan?”

“Yes, but the latest return is blurred.”

“The Typhoon is moving, too,” Joe concluded. “They wouldn’t be doing that unless they were chasing something.”

He turned his attention back to the instrument panel. Everything was operating in the green. With a firm twist of the throttle, Joe commanded full power. The weight came off the landing gear and the orange helicopter rose from the deck. With a kick of the rudder, Joe turned the nose to starboard and accelerated toward the widening circle of white water in the distance.

The Angler continued to ascend, moving upward at two hundred feet per minute. Kurt watched the light grow around them and Emma tried to pick up something, anything, on the hydrophone.

“It’s blown-out,” she said.

Kurt wasn’t surprised; his ears felt as if they’d almost blown out as well. “Never mind,” he said. “Just get ready to abandon ship in case they fire another torpedo our way.”

She pulled a life jacket on as Kurt continued to pilot the submersible. They could see the surface now: a shimmering, waving mirror of silver that meant freedom.

As soon as the sub breached the surface, Kurt grabbed the radio. “Reunion, this is Angler,” he said. “We’re on the surface and need immediate pickup. Do you copy?”

“Let’s just hope our antenna didn’t get blown off,” Emma said.

Kurt pressed the transmit switch again. “Reunion, this is Angler, do you read?”

Joe was cruising across the water at an altitude of three hundred feet when he heard the radio call. Seconds later, he spotted the white and red submersible bobbing in the swells.

He turned the volume up. “Kurt, this is Joe. I have you in sight. We’ll be on you in thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds?” Kurt replied. He sounded shocked.

“We’re already airborne. We thought you might need help.”

Joe brought the Air-Crane onto a matching course, setting up to grab the Angler off the water. As he finished the turn, he noticed something else: a long white trail of bubbles coming in from the west. “Don’t look now but you have a torpedo heading your way.”

“We’ll bail out,” Kurt replied.

“Stay put,” Joe said. “I think I can get you before it hits.”

“You’ll never hook on in time,” Kurt said.

“We don’t need a hook,” Joe said. “We have a magnet.”

The submersible was moving, but it was ponderous on the surface. The white line of bubbles from the torpedo was tracking quickly toward them.

Joe cut in front of it, brought the Air-Crane down closer to the water. “Lower the magnet.”

Kamphausen let out fifty feet of cable. The heavy, bell-shaped electromagnet trailed out behind them. He aimed for the red strip across the top.

“Activate the magnet,” Joe said. “Full power. We’re only going to get one shot at this.”

“Coils are powered,” Kamphausen shouted. “Electromagnet is live!”

From the corner of his eye, Joe saw the compass spin wildly as it picked up a new source of magnetism. They were thirty feet above the waves and closing in on the submarine at a shallow crossing angle. The torpedo trail was coming from directly behind them. Kamphausen could see it; Joe couldn’t.

“It’s going to be close,” he said.

Joe slowed as he came in behind the sub and matched its course. The magnet skipped across the water, and the cable scraped across the sub’s back. The magnet came free of the water, hit the stern of the small sub and bounced.

It looked as if the impact might cause it to skip over the top, but the powered side of the magnet was drawn toward the flat iron spine of the submersible. It snapped onto the hull with a solid clunk. The winch strained and let out several feet of cable before the brake locked it tight. The Air-Crane was pulled downward as the tension on the cable threatened to whip the helicopter into the sea, but Joe countered the effect and the Angler surged forward, riding high in the water for a moment before pulling free. It swung forward underneath the Air-Crane, shedding curtains of seawater behind it.

Joe was too busy stabilizing the Air-Crane to worry about the torpedo. Kamphausen held his breath as it passed underneath.

Nothing happened. No explosion. No detonation. The torpedo didn’t even turn to acquire a new target. It just continued on a straight line and traveled off into the distance.

Kamphausen watched it go and gave it a mock salute. “Good riddance,” he said.

Joe laughed and turned back toward the Reunion with the Angler flying beneath them.

Nine hundred feet below, Tovarich and the rest of the Typhoon’s crew waited for a detonation that never came.

“What happened?” Tovarich asked finally.

“Nothing, sir,” the sonar operator replied.

“I know that already,” Tovarich said, the fury barely restrained. “What went wrong this time?”

“Nothing, sir,” the tactical officer said. “Torpedo still running straight and true.”

“So it missed?”

“No, sir, it… it was right on target… It’s just…” he replied, baffled by the situation.

“It’s just what?” Tovarich demanded.

“It’s just that the American submersible is gone.”

The captain stared at his sonarman in disbelief. “What do you mean gone?”

“It’s no longer in the water, Captain.”

Tovarich hauled the man out of his seat. He’d begun his career as a sonarman. He’d show these two amateurs how it worked. He snatched the headset and listened intently, adjusting the frequencies, the bearing and the sensitivity settings. He heard what they heard: the torpedo running but not the submersible.

“Give me an active ping!”

The emitter sounded almost immediately and the return came moments later. The torpedo was there, running off into the distance, as was the stationary freighter he assumed the NUMA submersible to be working from. But the submersible itself was gone.

Tovarich pulled the headset off. “Detonate the torpedo,” he said. “And return to the crash site. Once the cleanup is finished, set course for the deep. I’ll be in my quarters. Alone.”