“Yes. Can you hear me?”
“Barely!” Tay shouted. “We need help. This goddamn thing has us pinned to the wall!”
Borger shook his head. “Listen to me. We don’t have time. There’s a torpedo in the water, and it’s going to strike within a couple hundred yards of you. Maybe closer.”
“Jesus Christ!” Lightfoot yelled. “Get us out of here!”
“We can’t. There is no time!”
Behind Borger, the sonar officer called to Emerson. “Captain! Impact in ninety seconds!”
Borger’s voice came in again over their headsets. “Has that drill punched through the hull?”
“Yes!” Tay shouted.
“How big is the hole?”
Tay looked to his left. “About two feet in diameter. Maybe more. And it’s goddamn scary looking!”
“Listen to me,” Borger ordered. “Listen! We have barely one minute left. And exactly one option. And you have to do it RIGHT NOW!”
96
Caught by the increasing pull from the alien ship, the trajectory of the Mark 46 Mod 5 torpedo curved tighter and tighter, until it smashed into the side of the hull with its full force at forty-two knots.
The nearly one-hundred-pound warhead exploded in a concussive blast at more than eight thousand feet per second, directly into the alien wall. The already glowing hull instantly brightened beyond its white color, turning ultraviolet. The impact rippled in all directions, causing waves within the metal itself.
The resulting shockwave raced outward, traveling faster than the speed of sound. Great swaths of coral that were still wrapped around the lower half of the ship were instantly obliterated. Plant life either disintegrated or became flattened under the intense pressure, as did all sea life caught in the devastation.
The wall of devastation could have run for miles without obstruction, but found itself caught in something far more powerful instead. Abruptly, in less than a hundred yards, the shockwave began to slow, simultaneously with the momentary disappearance of all color from the alien hull. At that instant, all light and explosive force began to transform into pure energy.
The outward movement of the shockwave slowed to a sudden halt at which point it froze for a moment before relinquishing its momentum and beginning to recede. Like a vacuum pulling it back into the darkness, the torpedo’s deadly force was reabsorbed first, then redistributed through the walls of the alien shield.
In just moments, the devastating blast vanished almost as quickly as it had begun.
97
The blast was heard by every living thing within several square miles, including Junior Sergeant Levin and the rest of his four-man team, all of whom had reached the lowest level of the Valant oil platform.
Feeling the shaking of the platform, Levin peered out over one of the rusted railings and down into the dark water but could see nothing. Nothing except the brightly lit Pathfinder ship in the distance, where the gunfire continued unabated.
However, unlike Popov and his team, Levin’s team met no resistance at all. From what they could see, most of the platform was largely empty. No sound at all could be heard from the bottom level, which was the rig’s largest. And aside from just a few lights left on, the entire vessel appeared to be vacant.
Levin signaled two of his men to check the span of the bottom level, while he and the fourth man maintained positions near the stairwells. Their rifles were pointed up, ready for any surprises descending from above.
Several minutes later, the two men returned and signaled that the level was clear. Levin nodded, and together, he and two more climbed to the next level, leaving one team member to secure their escape route.
Popov was not aware of the other team’s stroke of luck aboard the oil rig. Instead, he and his men continued to press forward, methodically dropping magazines and reloading. Each team member maintained a steady stream of fire.
Popov’s own luck, if you could call it that, was being close enough to make it onto the stern of the ship before the Americans were fully ready. The emergence of more American machine guns rang out only seconds after Popov’s leap over the side, and he was thankful the timing went in the Russians’ favor. The second stroke of luck was having more room to maneuver than some of the sailors above them, two of whom were killed by ricocheting bullets in confined spaces. Three others were killed by inferior training, rather than circumstance— something Popov and his team were relying on.
Still, the remaining Americans continued to fight back, but were forced to retreat to the middle of the ship. This provided the Russian team enough room to move up the ladders, pushing forward toward the science ship’s main lab.
Even with his team down to three, Popov eventually managed to force his way to the lab’s door. He carefully made his way into the room with a sense of relief, only to find it empty.
The female officer he was looking for had clearly fled. Outside, his men continued to fire in short controlled bursts while Popov’s dark eyes scanned the room. The equipment all looked in order. An open drawer and a satellite phone lying atop the counter indicated an abrupt exit.
Popov soon spotted the compact laboratory refrigerator and advanced immediately across the room, where he yanked the glass door open. Stacks of small test tubes lined the top two shelves, all filled with a clear solution exhibiting a slight pinkish hue.
Without hesitation, he withdrew a black neoprene pouch from within his wetsuit and unzipped it along three edges — the inside carefully lined with a silver-coated material. He hastily grabbed a handful of tubes and placed them in a single layer inside the pouch. Then he did the same again, layering the second row over the first.
Popov ignored the machine gun bursts and yelling from outside. He returned the pouch under his wetsuit before checking the room again. He noted three microscopes of varying sizes behind him, two wide computer screens, and several wire cages. He opened a tall cabinet and quickly scanned the shelves before doing the same to the overhead cabinets, but he found nothing else of consequence.
Popov unslung his weapon and yanked the door open again, stepping out behind one of his men.
“To the rig!” he yelled.
Below and further back toward the stern, the sound of wet feet slapped noisily across the metal deck before stopping next to one of the fallen sailors. The man lay face down with blood pooling beneath his chest.
Jake Corbin reached down and quietly picked up the M4 carbine. In one motion, he flipped it over and withdrew the magazine, quickly slapping it back into place. He searched the soldier and found a second unspent magazine, tucking it just beneath the top of his suit. Not far away, Alan Beene found a second rifle and signaled back to Corbin.
Still in bare feet, both men moved back to the ladders on opposing sides. And climbed without a sound.
It was Popov’s only mistake.
They had so effectively cleared the rear of the ship that he simply did not expect more men approaching from the stern. Let alone two Navy SEALs.
When he realized his mistake, it was already too late.
Popov watched both his men go down in front of him in a flurry of bullets as the Americans reached the top of the ladder. The Russians returned fire as they collapsed, wounding Corbin in the shoulder and forcing Beene to jump against an inside wall.
Caught in the crossfire, Popov took the only option he had and instantly launched himself from the upper deck out over the water. Plunging forty feet into the dark swells next to the ship, he was followed by a hail of bullets. Beene emptied the remainder of his ammo and ran forward, grabbing the fallen Russian’s rifle and waiting for Popov’s body to reemerge.