The force of the shockwave had been dangerously powerful — especially for a boat whose hull was mostly above the waterline. If Don Jordan’s crewboat had absorbed the force of that blast, it had been shredded into grapeshot.
No way to tell if anybody had still been on board.
He checked his air. Less than two minutes. They had to surface soon.
Then a second, more powerful explosion and another one-two shockwave rushed through them. Unlike the first one, the follow-up blasts felt as if they’d detonated completely beneath the surface. Depth charges? That meant kill shots at any divers still down. The extra distance they’d pulled had probably saved their lives but Dex’s eardrums were clanging in pain from the sudden compression.
Tommy was hanging in the clearing water, staring through his faceplate with wide eyes. Dex indicated he follow him and began a series of leg kicks upward at the appropriate angle. He could sense the seconds clocking past as he watched the flat silvery ceiling of the sea get closer and closer with each kick.
He didn’t want to think about what might be waiting for them when they cracked the surface, but he had no choice…
Chapter Twenty-Four
The incident report was short, and not very sweet.
The Blackbird assault copter had landed a team on the dive boat, neutralized the crew almost instantly, and swept the premises within desired parameters.
No evidence of the 5001 found.
The team leader had intercepted, but had not defeated, a call from the target to the Coast Guard just before the incursion had been initiated. This factor had compressed the operation timeline, and because of this, the team had no chance to confirm or deny any target personnel unaccounted for. There was an assumption that at least one diver was in the water, but this had not been confirmed. Anti-personnel depth charges were dropped with no indication of success or failure.
The dive boat had been destroyed utterly with some C4 placed between its twin engines.
Follow-up recommended.
No kidding, thought Sinclair.
Less than an hour had elapsed since the incursion, and the Coast Guard was investigating a terrible boating accident. Tragic, but… well, these things happen. Having ops in so many governments and so many corporations for hundred of years afforded the Guild a certain leverage in dealing with things like the sinking of the Sea Dog in the Chesapeake Bay. They operated and existed through continued covert placement of their own people in every organization in the world.
An article in the Baltimore Sun, a few minutes on WBAL-TV evening news, and the accident would be forgotten.
Not by everyone, of course. Entwhistle was working through all the information conduits to find out everything he could about the dive boat and its crew. If there had been more than the four men on board, then there was additional clean-up to be done.
A job worthy of any competent Guild team, but nothing out of the ordinary. Sinclair selected men for the job, assigned them to Entwhistle, and assumed they would have plenty of data as soon as possible.
But Sinclair’s real work was just beginning.
Before the Blackbird chopper had even reached the dive boat, he’d assembled his crew for the undersea phase of the operation — the “follow-up” the incident report had fatuously suggested. His vessel was a prototype of the Dragonfish — a deep-sea assault and rescue submersible being built for the Navy. The contractor, Sea Dynamics, because it was ultimately Guild owned, always found ways to provide Guild forces with renditions of its vessels. Sometimes, one of their test-models suffered an “accident,” which covertly provided the Guild with state of the art equipment.
The Dragonfish was fast, stealthy, and capable of inserting a SEAL team just about anywhere, including any sheik’s private bath. Its crew and dive team would have no trouble compromising the U-5001 right under the unsuspecting noses of the Coast Guard. In fact, Sinclair was anxious to pull it off just to see how good the new DSAR actually was.
He stood in the launch bay with his helmsman, a short stocky guy named Taggard, and his navigator, a Navy-retired graybeard named Sypniewski. Sinclair had trained both men; they were top-notch sailors. He trusted his life to them, which said it all.
“Dive team ETA?” said Sinclair.
“On schedule,” said Sypniewski. “When they arrive, we we’ll be ready to launch, sir.”
Sinclair nodded and they boarded the long, lean underwater craft. Looking very much like its namesake, it bristled with the latest weapons and two prehensile arms which folded invisibly into the hull when not in use. Sinclair sealed the hatch behind him, looked at his helmsman and nodded.
Taggard adjusted the ballast vents, toggled up the reactor-powered electric screws, and eased the DSAR into the Atlantic. Sinclair strapped into the captain’s chair as the Dragonfish traversed a short undersea tunnel that exited him and his men beyond the island’s breakers. Just as they cleared the shallows, Sinclair looked at the sky through vessel’s eye-like starboard bubble.
Beautiful day. Sky a serene blue dome with few clouds. Even the Atlantic surface looked calm. He continued to scan the horizon until a seaplane rose above it on a course that would intersect theirs within minutes.
“Right on time,” said Sypniewski.
Sinclair nodded. “Recognition code hailing frequency. Defensive systems ready until you get the code-back.”
Taggard keyed in the encrypted code, sent it. Routine protocol, thought Sinclair, but you never assumed anything when you worked as covertly as the Guild. He exhaled as the correct reply code came back to them.
The three-man dive team entered the Dragonfish and began suiting up in the belly assault bay. Before the seaplane had even lifted off, Taggard had begun to slip the DSAR beneath the surface. Once fully submerged, the vessel cut through the cold water at an impressive forty-plus knots.
They would be onsite within four hours, and that’s when Sinclair figured things would get interesting.
Chapter Twenty-Five
His pulse had jumped and the extra pulmonary action had used up his tri-mix at a precipitous rate; his tank was damned close to zero when he reached the surface. Regardless, Dex tried to make his return to the air world as unnoticeable as possible. Yanking off his mask, he arched his back to maneuver his nose and mouth above the surface, gulped some air and chanced a quick 360 scan of his position.
Nothing.
No sound.
No boats or planes anywhere. Barely even a trace of smoke. Other than a lot of very small pieces of flotsam, he saw nothing in any direction. The exception being the long swipe of the Bay Bridge in the distance and a scattering of distant white dots — sailboats out doing not much of anything.
A splash to his left announced Tommy’s ascent, and he gasped and sucked in air with all the noise he could muster. He looked around with half-panicked expression. So much for being careful.
“Dex! You okay?”
“So far…”
“Jesus, what happened? Where’s the boat?”
“Gone, Tommy. They blew it to hell.”
“Jesus! What! Who?”
As the easy bay chop bobbed them lightly, Dex searched the sky. “I don’t know… could be anybody.”
Tommy looked around the empty water and sky for a moment. “What about… what about the guys?”
“Doesn’t look good. That was one big mother of a blast.”