“It is. There seems to be—“ Ahana paused as her computer chimed and she checked the report. “The other towers seem to have been destroyed.” She held up a hand, anticipating Foreman’s next question. “It will be bad, Mister Foreman. The Russians fear they will have to evacuate Moscow. If they can accomplish such a task before the radioactivity reaches their capital.”
Foreman didn’t seem too concerned. “Radioactivity or tectonic action, the clock’s ticking.”
The captain of the FLIP entered and went straight to the CIA agent. “We’ve been ordered by the navy to evacuate the area.”
Foreman didn’t even acknowledge him with a glance. “Any muonic activity in our gate?” he asked Ahana.
She checked her screen. “Nothing.”
“We hold in place,” he told the captain.
The captain had already seen Foreman ignore the navy once. “Sir, I must protest. The navy is responsible for our—”he never finished as a loud chime sounded from Ahana’s computer. She spun in her chair to face the screen.
“Activity. Here.”
Foreman jumped to his feet. “Get us out of here!” he yelled at the ship’s captain.
“Back us off, all weapons systems at ready.” Captain Stokes remained in his leather command chair, issuing the orders in a calm voice. “Sonar?” he asked.
“No contact, just the warning from the FLIP of muonic activity.”
The operations center of the Connecticut was bathed in a low red light, allowing crewmen to more clearly see their computer screens. It was a long way from the days of World War II submarines with cramped conditions and water dripping from pipes, looking more like a high-tech computer lab than the nerve center of a submarine.
“Range?” Stokes called out.
“Four thousand,” the executive officer replied. “Speed fifteen knots and increasing.”
“Contact, contact,” the sonar man called out. “At the edge of the gate. Coming out. Large.”
Stokes forced himself to stay seated although he was tempted to walk over and grab a set of headphones.
“Range?” he asked.
“Four thousand.”
“Speed?”
“Not clear yet.”
Stokes turned his seat slightly. “XO?”
“We’re four thousand, five hundred meters from the gate. Speed twenty knots and accelerating.”
He turned in another direction. “Radar?”
“I have the contact, sir. It’s big. Very big. Range four thousand and holding steady.”
Stokes knew that meant the contact was coming toward his ship at the same speed. “Helm, ahead full.”
The Connecticut’s true top speed was classified. Stokes had gotten the submarine up to over thirty miles an hour.
“Target still maintaining distance,” the radar man reported.
Stokes had read the intelligence on encounters near the gates. He knew that if this was the large sphere — and it appeared to be so — then he would shortly lose all his electromagnetic power. He was prepared for this encounter.
“Helm, zigzag course. XO, launch mines on schedule.”
The submarine began cutting hard turns, left and then back to right. From the rear deck of the Connecticut, a dozen MK-40 mines were released one by one, the zigzag pattern spreading them in an arc behind the ship. The disadvantage of this tactic was that he wasn’t getting away from the pursuing craft as quickly as possible. But the reports had indicated that the sphere was able to travel at speeds in excess of fifty miles an hour, which meant it could easily overtake his ship. The mines had no electromagnetic parts and had been specially designed to explode on contact.
“Three thousand five hundred meters and closing,” radar reported.
“Time to impact?” Stokes asked.
His XO had a stop-watch out, an anachronism in the high tech center but one Stokes had insisted on, given the possibility they might lose their high tech gear any second.
“Thirty seconds.”
Stokes looked about the control center, proud of the professionalism of his crew as they went about their tasks.
“Twenty seconds,” his XO reported.
“Range three thousand and closing,” the radar man called out. “Target speed is forty-five knots and accelerating.”
“Ten seconds.”
Stokes noted that his sonar man had taken off his headset in precaution.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
Stokes fingers dug into the arms of his command chair as he tensed. Nothing.
“Past one,” the XO reported, looking at the stopwatch.
“Radar, is the target still coming?” Stokes asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Approaching two. At two and—”the XO’s next words were cut off as an explosive wave swept over the Connecticut, immediately followed by another. A cacophony of sound hit the submarine as the final eleven mines went off one after another. A cheer broke out in the control center.
“Radar?” Stokes yelled, his voice cutting through the celebration.
Before the radar man could reply, the control center became pitch black, the cheers cut off as abruptly as the light.
“Battery power,” Stokes ordered.
Dim red lights came on, bathing the room in a much darker light. Stokes could tell by the feel of the ship that the engines had stopped.
“Contact is closing,” the radar man reported as soon as his system was back on line.
Dead in the water — a phrase no captain, whether he is on board a surface ship or submarine, wanted to hear. Stokes stood.
“XO, take the center.”
He could see the blood drain from his executive officer’s face. He was the only other man on board who was privy to their last ditch plan. There was no time for Stokes to comfort the man. He made his way forward, toward the cruise missile storage area. He could feel the eyes of crewmembers on him as he passed through compartments. They all knew the submarine was stopped and had heard the explosions. Stokes entered the storage area where a half-dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles rested in their bins.
“All systems are off-line, sir,” the chief petty officer in charge of the missiles reported as Stokes entered.
“Clear the area, chief,” Stokes ordered.
“Sir?”
“Clear the area.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The petty officer hustled his men out of the compartment. Stokes swung shut the hatch behind and dogged it closed.
He then went to a plastic case secured to the middle of the floor. He pulled a key from around his neck and unlocked the case. He paused as the ship shuddered, then canted to the left twenty degrees before halting. He’d seen the video of what had happened to the Revelle, the research ship taken in by the sphere and he knew his ship was now sharing the same fate.
He flipped open the lid, revealing a powerful array of batteries along with a laptop computer that was off. He pushed the on button for the computer, then took a lead from the case and went to the nearest missile. He attached the lead to a port on the side of the cruise missile, then went back to the laptop.
Stokes cursed when he saw that the computer hadn’t booted. All he had was a screen full of unintelligible lines of numbers and letters. He unhooked the computer and grabbed a clacker, similar to the one used for Claymore mines. He quickly screwed the wire into the clacker.
Stokes paused as he heard the sound of metal tearing, then screams coming from the center of the ship. He took a deep breath, then squeezed the clacker, sending a burst of power to the cruise missile.
He cursed when nothing happened.
Then a golden glow suffused the compartment and he collapsed.
CHAPTER 8