The Russian sailor was clawing at one of the racks, where a military-style belt and holster were hung from the frame. He slid a pistol — a deadly little Makarov automatic — from the holster just as Randall collided with him.
They fell together, slamming into the racks, Randall grappling for the other man's gun hand. The Russian was smaller than Randall, and didn't move with the fluid, graceful training of a Spets. Probably he was just a sailor, the submarine's driver, perhaps… but that Makarov was the perfect equalizer. If Randall, weakened by the wound in his side, couldn't disarm the man…
The pistol went off, the explosion close beside Randall's head, deafening and shocking. The detonation was still ringing when Randall heard the stuttering ping-ping-ping-pang of the ricochet, as the bullet bounced wildly about the interior of the vessel.
Both men ducked instinctively; Randall, by chance, was staring across the Russian's shoulder at the plastic viewing bubble when the ricochet ended with a final, sharp crack,ac-companied by a brilliant white star's appearance dead center in the bubble.
With a final surge of fast-draining strength, Randall picked the Russian up and slammed his back against the metal framework of the bunks. The man shrieked. Randall pulled him forward, then slammed him once more, hard enough to snap his spine. The Makarov clattered to the deck. The Russian's eyes glazed, and his head sagged; Randall dropped him like a sack of meal, then delivered a single quick mercy thrust with the knife.
The narrow steel compartment appeared to be spinning, and it took a moment for Randall to figure out that the spinning was in his head. Carefully, he made his way forward, lowering himself belly-down onto the thin padding of the pilot's couch to inspect the damaged canopy.
Not good. Not good at all. A needle-thin jet of water was spraying into the compartment through a tiny hole in the center of the starred plastic. As he watched, the starring worsened, a craze of cracks spreading out from the impact. He heard the snap of yielding plastic above the thin, high hiss of water.
He began searching about the compartment for something, anything, with which to seal the crack. Sealing putty… a rubber patch… hell, chewing gum … but all he could find was a roll of heavy gray tape, something like duct tape. He tried applying that to the crack, but it slid uselessly from the wet plastic and stubbornly refused to stick.
He heard another crack, and the stream of incoming water grew thicker. That canopy wasn't going to hold for very much longer.
And Randall was rapidly running out of options.
"We've got trouble, Skipper," Rodriguez announced. "Sierra Three-one, Three-two, and Three-three have just gone active. They're moving this way, banging away like metalsmiths in a boiler room."
"Did they hear us?"
"I don't think so, sir. It looks like they're spreading out in a line and just moving south blind. Uh… they might be trying to drive us."
"Which implies they knew we were here all along. Damn…. "
"If we wait here too long," Latham pointed out, "we'll be trapped against the coast."
"We still have divers out, Mr. Latham."
"New contacts," Rodriguez said. "Bearing zero-three-zero, range … estimate thirty miles. Multiple contacts, can't sort them out yet…. "
Gordon could picture the strategic situation. Pittsburgh was at the bottom of a bowl… and three separate groups of Soviet ASW ships were positioned across the bowl's mouth, while a fourth group charged in to stir things up.
If they didn't leave, and quickly, they would be trapped.
But Gordon was unwilling to abandon any of Pittsburgh's own… even passengers.
You didn't abandon shipmates, no more than SEALs left their own wounded behind.
Randall used the last of the surgical tape he'd found in the first-aid kit, snugging it tight against his chest. That kit, which he'd found secured to a bulkhead and marked with a red cross, had provided him with gauze, scissors, and a goodly amount of white tape. All he needed to do, really, was staunch the bleeding a bit, and tape his ribs tightly enough that he didn't puncture a lung.
The pain was manageable — barely. He pulled the top of his wet suit back into place and zipped it up, moving experimentally. Yeah… not bad at all. If he focused his mind hard, he could beat the pain down. There were syrettes of what was obviously morphine in the first-aid kit, but he wasn't going to touch those. He needed a clear head… especially since he was going to have to go back outside. The thin stream of water from the cracked canopy was hissing still, and the deck was already covered to a depth of five or six inches, lapping in dark, bloodied waves about the broken body of the Russian sailor.
The problem was what to do next. Pittsburgh was a mile or more away. He had no SCUBA gear — correction, there was undamaged equipment on at least two of the bodies outside, including Nelson's, but to get it, he would have to lock out of the Russian sub — a process that took several minutes at best — and still have air enough to swim out and find it, in total darkness and swirling mud.
And if he didn't find it, and quickly, he was dead; he wouldn't be able to hold his breath long enough to lock back inside once more.
On top of it all, the wound in his side would slow him, and would certainly make it all but impossible to draw the deep breaths he would need to oxygenate his blood. The mere thought of taking a deep, chest-expanding breath made him wince.
So… what was left? He could try driving the submarine closer to the 'Burgh, but he had his doubts that he would be able to operate something as complex as a submarine tractor. His Russian was good enough to puzzle out the Cyrillic labels over the valves in the airlock, but operating heavy machinery would be damned chancy at best. Besides, how was he supposed to navigate? The Pittsburgh was doing her best to keep quiet and out of trouble; he could drive this thing around in the darkness and murk until doomsday and not get close enough to see her… and if he switched on the crawler's sonar — he was pretty sure that that was the active sonar switch — and if he could interpret it, chances were the Pittsburgh would assume bad guys were hunting for them and move well clear.
Damn it, there had to be something he could do. If he couldn't go to the 'Burgh, maybe he could bring her here … or at least McCluskey and Fitch. Randall and Nelson were due back aboard just about anytime now; when they were late, the other SEALs would be champing at the bit to come find him.
Would Gordon let them? He would have to weigh Randall's recovery against the safety of the vessel. He might rule out a rescue attempt as too risky, and Randall wouldn't blame him at all.
Damn, damn, damn. He couldn't think straight. The pain in his side was gnawing at him, and shock was setting in, leaving him light-headed, trembling, and fuzzy-brained.
The need to do something other than wait and watch the incoming water drove him back to his feet, and into a determined search of the Soviet crawler's interior. The vessel was cramped, obviously designed for a crew of one or two, and no more than two to four passengers, and even that many would be crowded inside this narrow tube with a claustrophobic coziness that made Pittsburgh's torpedo room seem as roomy as the wide-open spaces. Most of the bulkhead space not occupied by pipes, valves, and wiring conduits was taken up by storage cabinets of various descriptions, including lockers for canned food, bottled water, tools, charts, a camera, spare parts, survival gear, life jackets. What he was hoping to find, however — another set of SCUBA gear— was not there, though he did find the lockers, now empty, that had held the tanks, wet suits, and other diving gear worn by the four Spets swimmers outside.