Like a sportscaster broadcasting play-by-play, Mason kept up a running account of Baron's work for the other teams, instructing them to stay one step behind. His men, in the meantime, had scoured the area and come up with one-inch cable they'd found in a storeroom. They ran the cable under the thrusters, hoping to rig up restraints on the projectile.
Baron was making slow progress. He stripped some bolts that had rusted in the dampness of the big room and had to use a special attachment to get a grip on them. He was leaning against the missile, his head close to the exterior. All at once, he stopped his work and listened.
"Crap!" he said.
"What's wrong?" asked Mason, who'd been peering intently over Baron's shoulder. Baron started to answer, but Mason stilled him with a hand signal. The 21C was calling from the wheelhouse.
"I don't know if this means anything, Lieutenant, but all the screens and panels are going crazy up here."
"Stand by." Turning to Baron, he said. "That was the wheelhouse. The instruments are showing unusual activity." Mason cocked an ear. A loud humming that grew in intensity filled the chamber.
Baron looked around as if he could see the sound. "The damned thing is about to launch."
"Can you do anything?" Mason said evenly.
"There's a chance. If I can get this panel off, maybe I can sabotage its activation circuit. Stand by with those wire cutters."
Baron unscrewed another bolt and was working on the next one when they heard a new noise, like the grinding of great gears. The sound was coming from below. They looked down, which probably saved them from eye damage when the electrical conduits and hoses blew off the sides of the missile a few feet above their heads. They dove onto their stomachs. Below them, the moon pool gates started to move apart.
Then the rotors inside the thruster housings began to whir.
As the moon pool fully opened, there was another explosion and the gantries holding the missile blew off. The jerry-rigged cables snapped like thread and the loose ends sliced the air and would have decapitated anyone in the way.
Then the bomb dropped.
VOICES WERE YELLING in Mason's ear. The other teams were seeing similar developments. Joe Louis was yelling. "Omega Two. Bomb has dropped."
Then Carmichael's voice came on. "Omega Three. So has ours."
Mason and his men crawled to the edge of the opening once occupied by the bomb and stared down. Waves and froth created where the missile splashed into the sea and its thrusters dug in. As they peered into the dark roiling sea, it was as if they were looking into the bowels of hell.
36
PETROV'S LEAD MAN, a giant whom Austin had nicknamed Tiny, stepped forward and drove the wooden butt of his AKM into the side of the guard's head. The guard's legs turned to rubber and he crashed to the deck. Figures were running toward them. Someone flicked on a flashlight that caught Austin in its beam. An AKM burped once. At a firing rate of six hundred rounds per minute, even a short burst was deadly, especially at close range.
The flashlight skittered across the deck, but in its quick flicker, Razov's men had sized up the strength and position of the assault group. White-hot muzzle bursts blossomed in the darkness. They dove for cover. In the stroboscopic effect created by the fusillade,.Petrov's men looked as if they were moving in slow motion.
Austin and Zavala hit the deck belly first and rolled over until they were behind the protection of a bollard. Bullets shredded the air over their heads and ricocheted off the big steel mushroom. Austin hauled out his Bowen and blasted at a moving shadow, unsure if he'd hit anyone. Zavala pecked away with his H and K. The muzzle bursts became more scattered, indicating that Razov's men were spreading out.
“They're trying to outflank us," Zavala shouted.
Tiny, who was on his belly a few feet away, was waving to get their attention.
"Go!" he bellowed. "We hold position."
Austin had his doubts. Tiny and his men could defend the narrow deck for a while, but like the Spartans holding the pass at Thermopylae, they too would eventually be outmaneuvered. Tiny jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The gesture needed no translation. Get moving. They let off a few more rounds, then inched backward on their elbows and knees until they were under a lifeboat davit.
With Razov's men still shooting at their last position, they got to their feet and dashed heads-down toward a salon door. It was unlocked. They stepped inside, weapons cocked. The crystal chandeliers were dark, and the only illumination came from a series of wall sconces. In their yellow glow, Austin could see the outlines of tables, chairs and settees. They crossed the dance floor to the opposite side.
Austin paused. Petrov's men might be in the vicinity, and it could be a lethal mistake to surprise them. He called Petrov on the radio and gave him their position.
"Sounds as if you stepped into a hornets' nest," Petrov said.
"Couldn't be helped. Don't know how long Tiny can hold them off.”
"You might be surprised," Petrov said without concern.
"Come through the door onto the deck. We'll be watching for you."
Austin clicked off, opened the door and stepped out. There was no sign of Petrov or his men. Then dark shapes detached themselves from the shadows where the commandos crouched. Petrov came toward them. "You were wise not to stick your heads outside. My men are a little edgy. I've sent a few around to the other side. We should hear from them in a – "
He was interrupted by the thud of exploding grenades. The gunfire became more sporadic. "Evidently, my men have thinned out the ranks of the opposition," he said. "I suggest you proceed to your objective. Do you need any help?"
"I'll call you if we do," Austin said, moving toward a ladder that went up the side of the bulkhead on the bridge superstructure.
"Good luck!" Petrov called out. Austin and Zavala were halfway up the bridge when the chilling reports started coming in from the Omega teams. He stopped to tell Zavala the bad news coming in through his earpiece.
"The bombs have dropped," he told Zavala. "All of them."
Zavala had taken the lead and was hanging on to a ladder to the next deck. He turned at Austin's words and let out a long string of curses in Spanish. "What now?"
In answer, Austin jerked his arm up to shoulder level and pointed his gun at Zavala, who froze in place. The Bowen barked. The slug passed within inches of Zavala's head and the breeze created by its passing ruffled his hair. A heavy object plunged from above and crashed to the deck with a thud. Zavala blinked the light spots out of his eyes and stared at the Cossack spread-eagled on the deck. A saber lay a few feet from the man's outstretched hand.
"Sorry, Joe," Austin said. "That guy was about to cut you down to size."
Zavala ran his fingers through his hair on the side the bullet had passed. "That's okay. I always wanted to part my hair on this side."
"There's nothing we can do about the bombs," Austin said somberly. "But we can deal with the murdering scum who launched them."
Austin took the lead, and they climbed higher until they were under the wings that extended out from either side of the wheelhouse. They split up, with each man taking a wing. Austin sprinted up the stairs. With his back to the bulkhead, he edged up to the open door and peered around the corner.
The spacious wheelhouse was lit by red night-lights that washed the interior in their crimson glow.