He looked aggravated. “Tell me you have a suggestion?”
She racked her brain. It was fuzzy from the lack of sleep and the half bottle of wine, but finally something came to mind.
“The coolant,” she said.
“Liquid nitrogen,” he said.
She nodded. “If we shut off the nitrogen, the magnets will rapidly warm above their operating temperature. Their superconducting properties will fail, and the array will lose power. Hopefully, enough to keep it from doing the job.”
Katarina noticed Kurt’s face tighten with determination. Then he turned slightly at a sound she also heard.
The door to the cabin opened with a rush. A crewman stood there. “I told you to stand guard out—”
They were the last words he ever said as Kurt drilled him with two shots from the Beretta. Kurt ran for the door, but it was too late, the man had fallen back out into the hall.
He crumpled in the passageway. By the time Kurt reached him, shouts were raining out from down the hall.
Kurt fired, first in one direction and then the other.
“Come on,” he shouted to Katarina.
She ran out and cut to the right as he fired down the hall to the left.
Kurt ran after her, and in a moment they were scampering down a ladder.
“I know where to go,” Kurt said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. “Let’s just hope we can get there in time.”
57
PAUL TROUT SAT in the command seat of the new submersible, cramped like a basketball player in a compact car. Even though this sub was smaller than the Grouper, it was designed with a taller profile, one that at least allowed him to sit up. There was also enough space for Gamay to do her virtual reality thing without having to lie down.
Currently she sat in her getup, unmoving and staring out the small portholes in front of them. The view was surreal. They were speeding along at 140 knots a mere ten feet above the surface, suspended beneath the SH-60 Seahawk on a swaying group of cables.
Though it was night, the whitecaps were visible as they raced by.
The plan was for them to be air-dropped to the south, as close to the Event Horizon line as possible. From there they would dive into the canyon and work their way up, carrying their little robotic bomber with them.
In twenty minutes the first wave of air attacks would commence. While no one expected it to go well, the hope was that waves of missiles and feints by the Lincoln’s fighter squadrons would distract Djemma Garand’s forces and allow Paul and Gamay’s insertions to go unnoticed.
“One minute to drop point,” the helicopter’s pilot told them.
“Roger,” Paul said. There was nothing for him to do. The sub was all buttoned up and ready to go. When the pilot decided to drop them, they’d drop. He hoped it wouldn’t be at a hundred miles an hour.
“I brought along some supplies,” he said to Gamay.
“Like what?” she asked. “This isn’t a picnic.” He pointed behind them. Diving gear secured with bungee cords. “In case we have to repeat our miraculous escape. This time, we can do it a little more leisurely.” She smiled, just enough to let him know he’d reached her. Then her eyes grew suspicious. “Do you remember?” “Climbing into this thing brought it all back,” he said.
She looked sad. “Too bad.” “Why?” he replied.
“It was horrible,” she said.
“It was scary, but we survived. I like to think it was one of our shining moments.” He hoped they wouldn’t have to do anything like it again, but the tanks, masks, and fins would help if they did.
“Thirty seconds to drop,” the pilot’s voice said.
“Let’s do this,” she said bravely. “Many will die if we fail.” “Ten seconds,” the pilot said.
He saw Gamay take a deep breath.