Shadows appeared in front of his eyes. There was a round circle — the hatchway handle.
The damn thing is still attached!
They were still trapped. Danny’s fingers grabbed the wheel. He pulled himself forward, hoping to somehow find the strength to open it now. As he did, his legs shot upward behind him.
He didn’t understand at first. The world swirled and moved violently. His lungs strained. Finally, desperate, he let go of the wheel and allowed the rest of his body to follow his legs upward.
He burst above the surface of the ocean. Wind hit his face — it was a delicious feeling, almost as welcome as the sensation of the air that filled his lungs.
Danny looked for Guzman but couldn’t see him.
“Guzman! Guz!”
Realizing he must still be below, Danny ducked under the water. It was too dark to see. He flailed around with his hands, then remembered his wrist light. The light did very little; he saw shadows and shapes.
Something moved to his right. He grabbed at it, felt cloth, then pulled up.
It was Guzman. The Whiplasher surfaced coughing and spitting water.
“My lungs,” he gasped.
“Colonel Freah!” shouted a voice nearby. A weak beam of light shone on the water. Danny turned, realizing he was only a few feet from the reef. He paddled for it. Guzman was next to him.
The coral and hard volcanic rock scraped Danny’s fingers as he clambered up. The reef was only two feet below the ocean’s surface.
“Colonel, you all right?” shouted Achmoody.
“Fine, fine,” said Danny, sitting to rest.
Guzman stood next to him.
“Been a while since I did anything like that,” said the trooper.
Danny looked at him. “You’ve been shot out of a submarine chamber?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the shit they put us through when I was a SEAL,” said Guzman.
12
To cowboy, the battle seemed like an encounter between a hawk and a pair of falcons. The Sabres were slightly smaller than the enemy UAV, and in its damaged state, a bit faster; they worked together, spinning and poking at the other aircraft with their guns as it tried to get away.
While outnumbered, the UAV wasn’t completely overmatched; its laser was still operative, and it seemed able to outaccelerate the Sabres for a few seconds before they could catch up.
Cowboy was both fascinated and frustrated watching the three planes — fascinated because he’d never seen a dogfight between UAVs, even in an exercise, and frustrated because he was simply a spectator. He tried maneuvering into a position to catch the enemy UAV as it dodged the Sabres, but the little planes were simply too maneuverable for him to get a firing solution with his Sidewinder or cannon.
“Basher Two, you’re getting pretty far north,” said Greenstreet.
“I’m trying to nail that other drone,” explained Cowboy.
“Negative. Your mission is to support and protect our people.”
“Roger that. Understood.”
It felt odd to leave the Sabres, as if he were leaving comrades in the middle of a fight. They were only drones — and yet they were comrades, weren’t they?
“Whiplash, your Sabres are going north with the other UAV, trying to get it down,” he radioed Turk. “I have to stay with my Marines.”
“Yeah, roger that, they’re good, they’re good. They know what they’re doing.”
“Uh—”
“Have my hands full right now. Trust the machines.”
“Roger that,” said Cowboy. Though that wasn’t exactly what he was thinking.
It’s a brave new world. I want to be part of it.
Don’t I?
“Basher Two, the Ospreys are going to take off and go home. We’re escorting them. Check your fuel.”
“Roger, acknowledged. I’m coming,” said Cowboy, turning back south.
13
Turk zoomed his low-light camera feed on Danny and Guzman as they clambered back aboard the wrecked merchant ship. The shell from the minesweeper had collapsed a good portion of the forward deck and enough of the hull. The ship had not only moved a dozen yards but bent inward at the middle; if it had been a rusting hulk before, it was now more like a pile of junked metal. The girder that had been used to dock submarines at the stern was fully exposed, pushed up on the reef by the shifting of the ship.
All but one of the Chinese fishing boats were moving to assist the minesweeper. The lone exception was sailing across the area below the reef at about four knots, apparently trying to keep watch while not getting close enough to be fired on.
Turk turned his attention back to Sabres Three and Four and their continuing tangle with the enemy UAV. The other aircraft had managed to hold them at bay so far; it couldn’t escape but it wasn’t being shot down either. It was a tribute to the original combat programming, which was now nearly a decade old.
Turk ached to respond himself — he was sure he could take the enemy plane down — but he knew his place was here.
“Tigershark, what’s the situation with the minesweeper?” asked Danny, back aboard the decrepit merchant vessel.
“Dead in the water. The fishing boats are going to its rescue.”
“The Ospreys will be here in zero-five,” said Danny. “We’re going to see if we can recover the compartment with the gear.”
“How, Colonel?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
“We have lines we might be able to use to lift it,” the Osprey pilot told Danny over the radio. “What’s the weight?”
“I have no idea.”
“A cubic foot of water weighs sixty-two pounds,” said Rubeo, who was listening on the circuit back in D.C. “Based on the rough dimensions, the volume would be roughly 4,616 cubic feet. That’s—”
“Way the hell too heavy for us to get it in the air,” said the pilot. An Osprey could lift some 60,000 pounds, but that included its own weight.
“What if we dump the water out first,” suggested Danny.
“It’s not going to work, Colonel,” said the Osprey pilot. “It’s going to be too big.”
Danny didn’t want to leave the cylinder there for the Chinese to inspect after they left, but blowing it up seemed like a waste.
“How long will it take you to get the equipment off?” Rubeo asked.
“Hours,” said Danny. “We only have two diving suits. Everything was bolted to benches.”
“If you can show me the gear, I can tell you what to take,” said Rubeo. “Assuming time is a constraint.”
“It is,” said Danny. “I don’t know how long before the Chinese carrier task force responds.”
“Do your best, Danny,” said Breanna.
“Always.”
Danny took off the borrowed helmet and looked over at Boston. “Who are our best divers?”
“Guzman’s number one. After that, take your pick. Probably Dalton.”
“They’re going to need torches. And a video up to the deck so we can send it back to Rubeo.”
“We have one torch, Colonel.”
“It’ll have to do.”
Danny went to the bow where the Filipinos had been confined. Still cuffed, the men were somewhere between stunned and resigned. He suspected that most if not all were happy to see the black smoke curling from the minesweeper. At the same time, they knew there would be hell to pay, and they were undoubtedly concerned about the consequences.
To a man, they claimed not to know anything about the secret compartment at the bottom of the ship. They had rotated in it for a six-month stint only a few weeks before; the Filipino in charge — a short noncommissioned officer who gave his name as Bautisa and only came forward after being outed by the others — theorized that the last group had installed it.