Carter spit out his mouthpiece and pulled Morgan closer. "As soon as we round the corner into the pen, I want you to plant your explosives."
"How long do you want on the timer?"
"Wait until we come out. I'll tell you then. But we might be on the run, so you'll have to work fast."
"Aye, aye," Morgan said.
"You all right?" Carter asked Barber. The man seemed to be hyperventilating.
"Let's get on with it," he snapped irritably.
Carter debated with himself if he should send the CIA man back to wait with Hansen. But it was too late now. It would be much safer for them all to go ahead rather than split up and risk discovery.
They submerged again and continued along the length of the turning basin. They were only a few feet under the surface. Below and to either side the water was inky black. But above, they could see odd shapes from the strong lights shining in many of the individual submarine pens.
Near the far end of the turning basin they angled into the Petrograd's pen and surfaced just behind the stern of the huge boat.
Carter reached out and touched the black hull. The surface was soft, almost rubbery; it reminded him of the skin of a dolphin. Evidently it was a special surface treatment that helped absorb radar and sonar pulses, much like U.S. stealth-capable aircraft.
For a minute Carter watched along the length of the boat for a sign of activity. A series of very strong overhead lights illuminated most of the boat. But only every fourth light was on, and there were no workmen or naval personnel on deck.
He turned and motioned for Morgan to submerge and place the explosives. "We're going aboard now," he whispered. "As soon as you're ready, stand by back here. If anything goes wrong aboard, set the timer for a few minutes and get the hell out."
Morgan nodded, then sank silently out of sight. He was in his element now, and Carter knew the man would do exactly as he was told.
A Soviet guard, his automatic weapon slung barrel down over his shoulder, appeared on a catwalk at the front of the pen, walked to the end, turned, and slowly walked back the way he had come, disappearing beyond the conning tower. He was bored. He hadn't even looked down at the sub as he passed.
Carter reached down, pulled off his flippers, clipped them to his belt, and then scrambled up onto the after-deck, using the vent holes as handholds.
Barber joined him a few seconds later as Carter pulled out his remaining gas bomb and the silenced Mac 10. Barber had his gun out.
Silently they hurried forward to the lee of the huge sail that housed the conning tower itself, periscopes, antennae, and the bridge.
They crouched in the darkness. A few seconds later the bored guard crossed in front of the catwalk, turned again, and walked back.
The moment he was out of sight, Carter and Barber climbed up onto the cigarette deck, then around to the bridge. The hatch was open. A dim white light shone from below, and they could hear someone talking in low tones.
Carter motioned for Barber to watch for the guard on the catwalk, then he set the timer on Pierre, waited a second or two, and tossed the bomb below.
It hit with a metallic clatter. For a moment the talking below ceased, then someone swore. An instant later, Pierre went off with a soft pop.
Carter looked up as the guard on the catwalk passed once again. But he had not heard a thing. The sounds of the diesel engine running somewhere nearby were loud enough to drown out any incidental noises.
The guard turned and went the other way, disappearing again.
The entire setup was beginning to bother Carter. Security here was supposed to be very tight. But the perimeter fence had not been electrified, nor had there been any foot patrols out there in the woods or at the edge of the sub pens. To cap it off, the guard here at the Petrograd sub itself seemed indifferent to his duty. It didn't make a lot of sense.
Carter swung his legs over the edge of the hatch and cautiously climbed down into the boat. The air smelled like a mix of almonds — the residue of the gas from Pierre — and new electronic equipment.
No one was on the upper deck. It was obvious that this boat was still under construction. There were blank spots in the equipment racks, gauges missing, wires hanging ready to be connected.
Barber came down the ladder, closing and dogging the hatch behind him.
Carter looked down into the lower level. The odor of almonds was stronger here. He could see at least two men down, one of them slumped over a piece of electronic equipment.
Barber looked over Carter's shoulder.
"The ECM room," he said softly. "The chip is down there."
Something was definitely not right. Where was the security?
Carter scrambled down the hatch into the ECM room. A third man lay crumpled on the deck in front of a tall equipment rack. Electronic gear was crammed into nearly every available space in a large compartment.
Barber came down.
"Dog the forward hatch, and watch aft," Carter said. He took off the carrying case, opened it on the deck, and opened the tiny compartment that would hold the chip.
He was sweating now in the warmer air of the sub. Something was wrong. Drastically wrong. He could feel it thick in the atmosphere.
Barber disappeared through an aft hatch as Carter straightened up and looked around the compartment. The main computer took up the forward starboard corner, just about where Forester had guessed it might be. It did not look much different than his best guess either.
Carter went to it, studied the panel for a moment or two, then undid four knurled knobs that dropped a clear plastic window. Inside, a triangular stainless steel plate was secured by three snap catches. Carter undid these and carefully eased the cover off, pulling it free from a thick rubber gasket.
A puff of warm dry air came out of the narrow cubicle behind. The chip itself was plugged into an oblong socket about the size of two large postage stamps. It was held in place by a pair of Phillips head screws.
Carter pulled out his stiletto, and working slowly so as not to strip the screw heads, he worked the screws out.
Barber came back. "There's someone else in the boat," he whispered urgently.
Carter looked up. "Where?"
"Aft. The crew quarters, I think. Sounds like a lot of them. Maybe as many as a dozen."
"Can you lock the hatch from inside here?"
Barber shook his head. "I can close and dog it, but there's no way of locking any of the hatches on the boat except for emergency dive conditions. And then every hatch is locked from both sides."
"Then stand watch. If anyone shows up, kill them," Carter snapped. He turned back to the chip. Already temperature and humidity control had been lost on the delicate electronic circuitry. He had no idea how long the chip would last outside its protective cocoon, but he didn't think it would be very long at all.
He reached inside and eased the tiny chip out of its nest. The instant contact was broken, the computer's panel went dead and a klaxon broke the silence.
The computer protected itself, Carter realized. The chip had been alarmed. That was why security was seemingly so lax on the base.
"Let's get out of here!" Barber shouted.
"Watch aft," Carter said calmly. Carefully he turned with the chip and brought it over to the open carrying case.
"There's no time for that now!" Barber shouted.
"Watch aft!" Carter snapped without looking up. He laid the chip within the tiny compartment in the carrying case, then closed and locked the hinged cover over the nest. Three lights winked green on a small control paneclass="underline" one indicated that humidity was being controlled, another monitored temperature, and the third was for a tiny maintenance current fed into the chip to maintain its memory.