“Not sure,” Paul said. “But I’m beginning to think someone doesn’t like us very much.”
He looked up and trained the binoculars on the second helicopter, coming in low and slow. It was over a mile away and less than a hundred feet above the water when it released its payload.
Paul had been on heightened alert since the incidents during the dive on the Ethernet, but even he needed a moment to process what he was seeing. The payloads were long and thin. They hit the water with tiny splashes and then vanished, leaving only thin trails of bubbles stretching out behind them to mark their course. It was clear to see that they were tracking straight for the Waratah.
“Torpedoes,” he said.
“Torpedoes?” Gamay sounded as shocked as he was.
“Coming right at us,” he added and then turned to the crew. “Everyone off! Abandon ship!”
Paul’s urgent warning reverberated across the deck. The crewmen, who had recently scrambled for cover, got back on their feet and charged toward the rope ladders that led to the launches below.
“Go,” Paul said, helping people over the edge. “Quickly.”
As they scampered down the ladders, Paul glanced around. The helicopters were swinging around, strafing the tugs first and then the Condor. At the same time, the torpedoes they’d dropped were tracking slowly inbound.
The torpedoes were running toward the Waratah at just over thirty knots, and with a mile between them, it gave the crew nearly two full minutes to abandon ship and move out of harm’s way. It was just slow enough that something extraordinary began to happen.
In the distance, the red hull of the FRC flashed into the picture, racing at full speed and dropping in behind the charging torpedoes.
Paul grabbed the radio. “Duke, what on earth are you doing?”
“Intercepting the torpedoes,” Duke replied. “Seems like an awful shame to let that old rust bucket go down now. Especially when she’s just recently returned from beyond like this.”
Paul watched as Elena went over the side and down the ladder. Gamay was next. But the chief was still down below.
“You’re damn right it is,” Paul said into the radio. “Do what you can.”
Duke had been halfway back to the Condor when the helicopters appeared and launched their attack. He saw the strafing run and watched the torpedoes drop, realizing quickly that the Waratah, for whatever reason, was the target.
Instead of continuing on toward the Condor, Duke had slammed the throttles forward and spun the FRC’s wheel until it was tracking back toward the old derelict. His first thought was that he might be needed to help get the crew off the ship, either before or after it was struck. But as the speedy little boat raced toward the hulk of the old liner, it quickly came across the trail of bubbles from one of the torpedoes and, in that moment, Duke came up with a different plan.
“Pull the guns out of the weapons locker,” he shouted to the other divers.
Ahead of them the broad flank of the Waratah loomed, growing larger in his sight with each passing second, but they were gaining rapidly on the second torpedo.
“Don’t hit the warhead,” Duke shouted to his gunners. “We’ll be blown to pieces. Hit the prop or the motor or the fins. We just ne
ed to get it off course.”
The men nodded and switched off the safeties on their weapons. They had only handguns to work with. But if Duke got them in close, it would be enough.
Skipping across the surface at full speed, they came up alongside the torpedo. It was a light gray color beneath the water, running at a depth of five feet.
“Take it out,” Duke shouted, matching the torpedo’s speed.
The divers began firing, drilling holes in the water with the Ruger pistols. Duke would have given a year’s pay for a rifle, but two of the rifles were on the Waratah with Paul and the rest were back on the Condor.
Despite both weapons being emptied at the target, the torpedo continued on undeterred. It was no more than thirty seconds from impact.
“It’s too deep,” one of the gunners said.
“Reload,” Duke shouted. “I’m going to try something.”
He gunned the throttle and crossed in front of the torpedo and then back over it again. By the third pass he could see the torpedo bucking up and down like a Jet Ski crossing the bow wave of a passing cabin cruiser. It nosed down and then came up, breaching the surface momentarily. At that moment the divers opened fire, plunking the rear casing with several direct shots. Whatever they’d hit, the torpedo dove out of control, twisting to the right and spiraling down.
Duke cut the wheel to the left and had covered a hundred yards when there was a flash beneath the water. A concussion wave hit next and a ball of white water erupted, blasting up into the air and raining down in a wide circle.