“You may find this humorous, Colonel Farbeaux. I assure you, I do not.”
“Attention, attention. Unauthorized use of motor launch at station number three. Station number three.”
“Damn!” Henri said as he turned and ran from the companionway to the star-filled sky outside. He was soon passed by Dishlakov and his marines. They all ran to the port-side station where the announcement had said the theft was occurring. The dangling lines told Henri all he needed to know. As he peered over the side, he saw two of the large motor launches as they sped away. Both were filled with the remaining Russian commandos and a waving Salkukoff.
A Russian marine stepped to the railing and took aim with an AK-47, but Henri reached out and lowered the weapon’s barrel. He shook his head and turned to Second Captain Dishlakov.
“Too late.”
They watched as the two boats vanished into the night.
At dawn, the small armada of ships slowed and then came to a stop. Captain Johnson and his officers not on watch joined Jack, Carl, Henri, Ryan, Charlie, and Jenks on board Peter the Great. The off-duty personnel gathered at the stern of the cruiser, and the crewmen of Shiloh and the riggers on Simbirsk watched from a distance. The covered body of Captain Viktor Kreshenko was prayed over, and then the makeshift platform, a table from the ship’s galley, tilted forward, and the sheet-wrapped body of their captain slid into the violet-colored sea. They watched until the weighted body vanished below the surface.
The mood of the Russian crew was somber at first, but after the word had spread that their commander had been murdered by one of their own, the morale had changed from one of sorrow to that of vengeance.
Jack saw the mood of the crew as he and the others lowered their offered hand salute. Jenks snorted, and then he and Charlie moved away. Carl, Jack, Ryan, and Henri stayed behind as they studied the sea.
“I think that settles the question of whether Colonel Salkukoff has an emergency out in getting away from this crazy world,” Everett said as he leaned on the railing and stared out at the calm ocean.
“I agree,” Jack said, but he was otherwise unnaturally silent, as he also was lost in the view.
“After the confession as to this Northstar Committee, he cannot allow us to return to our world alive.”
All eyes turned to Henri, who was battered and bruised from his excitement with Salkukoff.
They heard a small disturbance coming from the fantail as several of the crewmen of Peter the Great simply tossed the body of the dead commando into the sea as if he were nothing more than garbage.
“The Russians have a hard time expressing their true feelings, don’t they?” Ryan said as he turned away from the scene.
“Jack, the master chief and Doc Ellenshaw have a request for you and Captain Johnson,” Everett said as he turned and saw the two captains conversing quietly not far away.
“What’s that?”
“They want the use of the drone.”
Jack finally relented his hold on the calm, violet sea and faced Carl.
“For?”
Carl looked uncomfortable.
“Come on, Swabby, it’s a little early in the morning to be hesitant about anything.”
“They want to overfly the island’s interior to find the remaining villagers who escaped the slaughter. They seem adamant about it.”
Everett was sure the colonel would deny the request, as they had operational concerns as far as the drone went.
“If Captain Johnson concurs, I don’t see why not. We don’t have much time before we make the attempt to return, so get it done.”
“The least we can do for those poor bastards is try to get them living again,” Henri said as he continued to look out to sea.
Carl was about to say something snappy to Farbeaux, but Jack shook his head. Everett could see that Henri was taking his failure of the mission personally and became silent.
“I see even the master chief is being affected by the loss of the innocence of this world,” Jack said.
“Well, then, the least we can do is ease his and Professor Ellenshaw’s minds,” Farbeaux said, surprising all who heard. “We need some good to come out of this.” He walked away with his head bowed and joined Jenks and Charlie as they spoke.
“Henri’s beginning to scare the hell out of me, Jack,” Everett said as they watched the three men converse.
“Why is that?”
“He’s actually morphing into a human being. And gaining respect for that man is the most frightening thing of all.”
20
Blankets and other soft materials had been spread out on the deck after the Mark 48 torpedo warhead had been removed. The entire warhead assembly had been taken to the mess to be disassembled by Machinist Mate Ramirez. Captain Thorne and XO Devers watched the kid of nineteen as his white cotton gloves felt for the pin release that would separate the 650-pound charge from its working innards. The entire torpedo, built by Lockheed Martin, weighed in excess of 3,500 pounds when fully assembled, but all Ramirez had was the stainless steel cap. The business end. He pulled the final pin inside the warhead, and his eyes closed momentarily when the warhead’s gyroscope released easily. He turned and handed the expensive part to the chief of the boat, who was assisting. The officers in the hatchway watched with sweaty palms as their lives and the life of Houston hung in the balance.
Ramirez swallowed and took a deep breath. If the warhead detonated inside the pressure hull, there wouldn’t be enough left of them to float to the surface.
“You’re doin’ fine, kid,” the chief said as he too wiped sweat from his dripping brow.
“Now, if I can pull her guidance board without any electrostatic discharge, we may be in business.”
The chief looked up and saw Thorne standing silently in the hatchway. He nodded, feeling far less confident than his display to the captain.
Ramirez reached inside past the charge of high explosives. He had his eyes closed as he visually pictured the torpedo from months and months of training. His fingers probed past the metal-encased charge and felt for the panel that had the waterproofed circuitry.
“Oops. That’s the trigger. Don’t want that,” the young machinist mate said as he backed his hand away slowly. He then started over, edging his probing fingers closer to the charge that was strong enough to break a capital ship’s back and sink her straight to the bottom.
The chief felt panic at the nonchalant way the kid did things.
“There we are. Now, where is that damn cable?” he asked aloud as his fingers finally found the electronic cable that connected the targeting computer board to the gyroscope. Again, he closed his eyes as he freed the three-inch-wide cable from its motherboard filled with computer chips. “That’s it. Now, to pull the board.”
Suddenly, Houston lurched. The submarine once more lost its grasp on the shelf and started to slide. The chief and Ramirez both lost their footing. The 190-pound nose cap slid free of the table and crashed to the deck, missing Ramirez’s head by five inches. He rolled free as the rest of the warhead, including her guidance package, came down next. It smashed into the blue-tiled floor and rolled against a bulkhead, where it came to a stop.
Thorne grabbed for a handhold as Houston gained speed. This time it looked as though the boat was going to slide right off the far end and down into a grave they would never rise from.
Suddenly, as men and women sang out prayers for their delivery from the crushing depths, Houston rolled to port. Her sail tower dug into the rocky strata, and her periscope and radar mast inside the tower sheared off as Houston slid to a stop only six feet from the edge. The grinding halt sounded throughout the boat as her four-story-tall tower had saved them.