Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

He kept the nose of the submersible pointed down and the throttles full open, trying to put as much distance between the torpedo and themselves as possible.

“It’s still going to hurt when it explodes,” Emma said.

She wasn’t wrong. Ten seconds later, a white and orange flash lit up the dark water as the torpedo obliterated the cargo container. The explosion caused a shock wave that slammed the Angler and sent it tumbling end over end.

With his ears ringing, Kurt stabilized the sub. “Now to make them think they hit us.”

He shut down the thrusters and blew the ballast tanks. The little sub righted itself and began moving upward, headed for the surface propelled by buoyancy alone.

“I’m borrowing a play out of the old U-boat textbook,” Kurt said. “They would make their escape after the depth charges went off because the water was so turbulent, it was impossible for sonar to hear through for several minutes.”

“Won’t they just ping us again?” Emma asked.

“Maybe,” Kurt said. “But I’m betting they’ll just listen for wreckage first. And it’ll be a while before the water settles down enough for them to hear anything. By then, I’m hoping to be on the surface and out in the bright light of day.”

The elevator ride picked up speed as the last drops of water were forced from the tanks. Kurt and Emma sat in silence, eyes locked on the slowly unwinding depth gauge.

“Anything?” the Typhoon’s captain asked.

The sonar operator was listening, but all he could hear were the bubbles and cavitation left over from the explosion. It had rendered the passive sonar temporarily useless.

He waited and listened, keenly aware of the captain standing over his shoulder.

“Well?”

“Bubbles,” the sonar operator said. “A moderate volume of released air traveling toward the surface. That would indicate a hit.”

“Any wreckage?” Tovarich asked.

“Wreckage?” the tactical officer said. “Captain, that torpedo is designed to take out warships and American attack submarines. There won’t be enough left of that submersible to qualify as wreckage.”

Tovarich understood, but he was a cautious man. “Humor me,” he said. “Use the active sonar. I want to be sure.”

The sonar was adjusted, another ping was released and the return echo examined. The results astonished everyone on board. “Target zero-six-one,” the sonar operator said. “Depth one hundred and twenty feet and headed for the surface.”

“Can we get them before they get there?”

The tactical operator made a few quick calculations. “No, sir,” he said. “They’ll be up top before we can fire.”

Tovarich hesitated. He had standing orders not to allow any interference in the salvage, but he’d also been given similar—and now conflicting—orders to keep the mission clandestine. “They know too much,” he said finally. “Load and fire. And, this time, you’d better not miss.”

19

Joe Zavala sat in the cockpit of the

Air-Crane as it rested quietly on the helipad near the bow of the Reunion. Captain Kamphausen was in the crane operator’s seat, working the winch controls and reeling in a long section of cable. At the far end was a jury-rigged contraption Joe and the Reunion’s engineers had built to pluck Angler off the bottom of the sea.

“Are you sure this electromagnet is going to work?” Kamphausen asked.

“I used the best coils from your main generator,” Joe said. “With the power from the Air-Crane’s aux unit, it should have plenty of power.”

Still believing the Angler might be stuck on the bottom, Joe’s plan was to find the submersible with the side-scan sonar, lower the magnet down on a cable and stick it to the steel hull of the sub. That done, he’d reel them in.

Kamphausen, who’d worked cranes for half his years at sea, would do the honors while Joe piloted the Air-Crane. He shut down the winch as soon as the final length of cable wrapped itself around the drum and the magnet locked in place. “Now all we have to do is find them,” he said.

Before Joe could reply, a deep, echoing thud reached them from the port side. Joe turned to see a momentary bulge on the surface of the sea. The circular displacement rose up and then fell back, releasing a tower of white water and foam from its center.

“Looks like someone else found them first,” Kamphausen said.