At exactly 23.20 Van Lee opened the door to storage area 45; the assault team fanned out along different routes to the control room on the bridge.
Van Lee and his partner, former SEAL Chris Tomkin, were last out. They turned right along Corridor F, then up a flight of stairs to Deck 3B, all senses alert, adrenalin pumping.
The first to hear the crewman approach was Van Lee. He pulled in behind a bulkhead, Tomkin a fraction of a second behind him. They let the man pass, then Van Lee came up behind him, pulled the garrotte about his neck and jerked it back. The man struggled, gurgled and died. The team leader let the body slip to the floor. Tomkin had moved along the corridor, found a door to a cupboard and helped drag the corpse along the floor.
From there, the two men had a clear run up to the boat deck on the port side. Van Lee checked his watch. Delayed by the crewman they had so efficiently dispatched, they managed to catch up a few seconds as they ran fast along the exit corridor.
Nearing the bridge, the two men slunk along the deck and up the first set of steps. In a few seconds they were just yards from the control room. Van Lee caught a glimpse of the other two teams. One was poised close to the door into the room, the other had held back from the starboard exit.
Van Lee checked his watch again, raised his arm and gave the signal to go. Tightening his grip on his G3 assault rifle, he turned the handle on the control room door and charged inside.
There were six men in the room. Two heard the door open and turned. They each received a bullet between the eyes. Van Lee darted in, firing as he went, killing another crewman. One of the officers dived for cover, pulled his weapon and went to fire. Tomkin blew the man’s chest apart with his G3.
The remaining two sailors, a young guy who looked as though he had only just left his teens behind, the other a man in his thirties, a couple of stripes on his sleeve, raised their hands. Two of Van Lee’s party were already at the controls of the ship.
‘Down,’ Van Lee hissed at the two crewmen.
They lowered to their knees, their hands on their heads. Van Lee walked behind them and shot them in the back of the neck. They fell forward onto the metal floor.
The team leader nodded to Tomkin, who stepped over to the main control panel. At the door he called to his men at the starboard exit. ‘Secured… Clean up the rest of the ship.’
They turned without a word and slipped away.
‘The captain isn’t here,’ Van Lee said as he came back onto the bridge. ‘Grainger, find him.’
Phil Grainger turned from the control panel and left, his G3 at waist height.
Captain Derham was in the galley kitchen a short distance from the bridge and had just filled his mug with strong black coffee when he heard the first shots. He pulled his revolver from its holster and fell back to the door.
Straining to hear, he discerned at least four voices, some belonging to his own crew, some he did not recognize. Then there were more shots. He heard a pair of loud thumps coming from the bridge and went out into the corridor.
Derham slid along the wall, reached a junction and heard a man giving instructions. He ducked behind a bulkhead.
Phil Grainger was a big man, six foot four and 250 pounds of solid muscle, but he could move like a leopard. He emerged from the control room, took a right and then a left, turning on his heel every three steps, scanning the corridor. He reached the passage leading to the galley. He had no idea Derham was poised to spring.
The mercenary took two paces along the corridor and a fist slammed into his face with such force his nose cartilage shattered. He fell back in a spray of blood, but got up as Derham stepped forward with his gun pointed at his forehead. Grainger swung out his right hand as he straightened and connected with Derham’s wrist, sending his gun flying. The captain fell back and Grainger was on him.
Slipping a hand behind his back, Derham found his commando dagger in its sheath on his belt, pulled it round and shoved it into Grainger’s side, aiming for his heart. He leaned back so he could shift his weight and twisted the man over onto his side, caught sight of his gun a few feet to his left, reached it, and swung it round just as Grainger, his front drenched in red, levelled his assault rifle.
Derham fired and dived to one side almost simultaneously. He heard the dull thud of a bullet hitting flesh and straightened to see the side of Grainger’s head gaping open, his right eye socket obliterated. The man’s G3 went off as he fell back, his dead finger jammed on the trigger. The gun waved around, bullets spraying the ceiling and ricocheting along the corridor.
Derham jumped up, pulled the assault rifle away, found a full magazine tucked into Grainger’s belt and listened for anyone approaching. Satisfied, he slunk to the end of the corridor.
In the control room Van Lee stood behind Tomkin, watching him manipulate a row of keypads. In front of them above the nearest control rack stood a large monitor. It offered a murky image of the ocean floor 12,600 feet beneath the ship. In the centre of the screen stood the deep-sea submarine JV1, its lights splashing a puddle of radiance around it.
‘I’ve cut comms,’ Tomkins said. ‘This image,’ and he pointed to the screen, ‘is from a remote camera on the tether line that contains the fibre-optic cables.’
‘What’s the status of the sub’s crew?’
‘The vessel is empty. They’re all out on the ocean floor.’
Van Lee raised an eyebrow. ‘You have the electrostatic charge ready?’
‘A few more seconds.’ Tomkin ran his fingers over the keypads, paused to check a display then resumed the tapping. ‘Ready.’
‘Do it.’
Chris Tomkin punched in a series of numbers and poised a finger over the return key. The other two mercenaries stopped what they were doing and came over. He hit the button.
A loud screech came from a speaker above the control panel. There was a blinding flash of yellow on the monitor and JV1 exploded, 12,600 feet beneath Armstrong. The fragments flew outward as if in slow motion. Under the water and at a pressure of almost 500 atmospheres, the burst of flame lasted only a fraction of a second.
44
Derham heard gunfire from far off, towards the stern. Stopping for a second, he pulled back against the wall. He needed to take stock. There had been six crewmen in the control room when he left to make coffee. By now they might either be dead or out of action. That meant that out of the crew of twelve, there were, at best, only six others active on the ship. It had been a surprise attack and so it was unrealistic to hold out much hope for the rest of his men. In fact, he could well be the only one left alive.
He moved along the passageway. A closed door stood to his left… the secondary comms hub. He went back against the wall, G3 held vertically, the side of the barrel close to his nose. Springing forward, he jerked on the door handle and with one smooth action swung round into the room, sweeping his assault rifle around.
A man was leaning over the control panel. He had his rifle slung over his right shoulder, finger on the trigger, tapping a keyboard with his free hand. He started to straighten. Derham sprayed the room with bullets and the man flew backwards against the wall, torn apart.
Derham dashed over to the panel, ran his fingers over the keys and heard a crackling sound over the monitor. He leaned in. ‘Mayday… Repeat Mayday… This is USS Armstrong … we are boarded and under attack… Repeat, we are boarded and under attack.’
More static. Then a muffled voice. Derham could not understand a word. He cut in. ‘Cannot hear you. Please repeat. Over.’