They had almost finished when a buzzer sounded, and a red light started to flash on the HUD.
“Countermeasures, Javeed,” said Massoud. “There are torpedoes in the water, coming toward us from the rear. They’ve found us.”
“Damn. There are four of them. We can handle two, maybe three, but four?” said Javeed.
“Peace,” responded Massoud. “We are in the hands of Allah. We are at the gates of Paradise.”
“Yes, brother, we are, but we have to deal with this before we go in.”
Almost three weeks earlier, in Kumar’s manufacturing facility in Long Beach, Yousseff had ordered Kumar to install two defense systems in the small sub. Kumar had tried to protest, but Yousseff would have none of it. “Two defense systems,” Yousseff had said. “At least two. Always a backup for the backup.”
And two they had. Javeed flipped a number of switches on the complex console. A large box that had been installed near the tail of the Pequod opened. The box had looked odd and out of place, and many people had questioned it, but the craft was not designed for appearances. The sides and roof of the box fell away, and four large mesh wings unfolded. In the center sat a small torpedo, which, with the flick of another switch, slowly began to rise. Each mesh wing unfolded until it was approximately ten feet by ten feet. The overall size of the structure was 20 feet by 20 feet. About the same size as the sub itself.
The design of the weapon worked. Once it was launched, three of the harpoons changed course and headed directly toward it. The onboard computer systems of the missiles were unable to differentiate between the dish system and the Pequod.
The fourth harpoon, though, continued on its steady course toward the Pequod.
“Watch out Massoud. The fourth missile still comes toward us.”
“Javeed, in our position we cannot be afraid to die. That is what we are here to do. Now let us wait until the fourth missile is 100 feet away, and we will use the second skin Kumar installed.”
Their HUD was registering in diminishing numbers the distance of the fourth torpedo. Javeed grew nervous, and soon found that he was unable to wait any longer.
“Now, Massoud. Now.”
Massoud flipped another switch, and the metal second skin on the rear of the Pequod was launched, meeting the fourth harpoon approximately 50 feet from the Pequod. Backups to backups.
All four of the harpoons exploded almost simultaneously. Three when they hit the mesh, and the fourth when it hit the second skin. The shock waves from the blast nearly destroyed the Pequod. The little submarine swayed violently back and fourth, and the Ark was nearly pulled from its platform. There were wrenching sounds as the bulkheads and rails were twisted by the force of the blasts. Some damage was done to the Pequod, and water came rushing in. A number of red lights started flashing, and for a second or two it appeared that they might lose power, but everything held precariously together.
“Keep going, Javeed. Remember the mission. Get the Ark into the tunnel.”
“I’m trying, dammit,” said Javeed. “But it’s hard to do it when you’ve almost been blown to Hell.”
“Blown to the gates of Paradise, you mean. That’s where we’re going.”
Water was pouring into the small cabin now, but they were able to continue their mission. Ultimately, Javeed was able to get the Ark completely into the tunnel.
“We are there, Massoud. Now let’s push her in.”
Massoud was able to detach the Ark and its platform completely from the Pequod, aside from the connecting electrical cable, which was now played out of the Pequod to give them more maneuvering room. Massoud raised the Pequod up eight feet and moved her forward. Once again, Kumar’s elegant and simple solutions to problems made the mission. The wounded Pequod began to slowly push the Ark’s platform forward, ever deeper into the penstock tunnel. Another ten seconds passed and they were completely inside.
At that moment, Daley, the FEMA representative at TTIC, was finally put in contact with the foreman of the small crew looking after the Glen Canyon Dam’s operations that day. “Open all the penstocks. Open them now. You are under attack,” he shouted.
The clock ticked forward. From 9:03AM, to 9:04, to 9:05. Nothing happened. No one moved.
Yousseff’s plane was over the Pacific at that moment, having taken the longer route to get back home to Pakistan. Yousseff had ordered Mustafa to get them out of American air space as rapidly as possible. Regardless of whose airspace they were in, he would be able to monitor international news feeds in this plane — a technological luxury that had cost him a few million dollars. And it was better for them, at this point, to be over international waters.
Yousseff was cool under pressure. He had demonstrated that to Marak 40 years ago, and countless times thereafter. But now he was starting to fidget. Nothing. No regular program interruptions. No CNN, NBC, CBS, or even Al Jazeera breaking news banners drifting across the bottom of the screens. Nothing.
“Dammit Izzy. Did we mess it up?” he asked his lifelong friend.
There was no response from the group; everyone was silent.
“Ease up Youss,” said Kumar, at length. “Give it a minute or two. And if we’ve screwed up, big deal. We keep going.”
“I’m not sure, Kumar,” said Yousseff. “Can you go back to the States? Can Izzy and Ba’al go back to Canada? And me? Most of the money is gone if the market doesn’t do what I’ve bet it to do, which it won’t unless Massoud and Javeed come through. Hell, we’d be lucky if we all ended up working for Marak, if this doesn’t work.”
Again there was no response. No one wanted to state the obvious — that it had been Yousseff’s decision, and ultimately his actions, that had put them all in this position.
“Be patient, Youss,” said Rika, who was also watching the less-than-perfect images of the world news feeds. Even with $10 million thrown at the technology of watching TV in a fast-moving jet, the results were hit or miss.
They all continued to watch the TV’s… 9:04… 9:05…
Three past 9AM. Catherine had accepted Sandra Becker’s invitation to clean herself up a little. She was horrified when she looked in the small medicine cabinet mirror. No wonder the Beckers were freaked out. The mystery was that Duane Becker hadn’t actually shot her. If she had seen a stranger coming to the door in her condition, covered in twigs, dirt, and a sweaty layer of coal dust, she might well have shot first and asked questions later. Finally exiting the bathroom in a somewhat cleaner state, she agreed to a second cup of coffee. It was 9:04.
It was 11:04AM in Washington, DC. The TTIC control room had gone quiet, as had innumerable board rooms in Langley, the Pentagon, and of course, the Situation Room in the White House. Dennis Daley, the FEMA representative, had been able to get through to those in charge at the Glen Canyon Dam, but had been told that opening the penstocks was not a quick process. There was a collective holding of breath.