Devil's Gate Page 11

  “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked cautiously.

  The Bald Man narrowed his gaze and stared at her. Over her shoulder, she felt the presence of Major Komarov just as strongly. It no longer felt as if they were asking. That shouldn’t have been a surprise. The State rarely made requests.

  “We can be barbarians at times, Ms. Luskaya,” the Bald Man said. “But in this case there is no need. You want to go. You want to test yourself. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She looked down at the photos once more. A strange mix of fear and excitement coursed through her. The feeling was so similar to the adrenaline rush she’d felt before competitions that it scared her. She was quite sure saying no was not an option, but it didn’t matter.

  The Bald Man from the State was right: She wanted to go.

  16

  Eastern Atlantic, June 22

  AFTER ARRIVING ON STATION THE DAY BEFORE, the NUMA vessel Matador had set up shop and begun “mowing the lawn”: a search pattern that allowed them to scan the ocean floor in strips, one ten-mile leg to the northeast and another ten-mile leg to the southwest, and then back again. With fairly precise information as to where the Kinjara Maru went down and good records on the currents in the area, they were able to find the ship in less than twelve hours.

  Once found, the Kinjara Maru and her debris field had been mapped by a pair of deep diving ROVs. With the information and photographs plugged into a computer and a three-dimensional model of the ship created, the crew of the Matador were able to examine the ship and come up with a game plan for actually exploring it before they even went down.

  It was the perfect mission for Rapunzel, with one particular problem.

  “Didn’t anyone bring an extension cord?” Paul Trout grumbled.

  “We weren’t expecting to go deep-sea fishing,” Gamay said in her best calming voice. She knew her husband well enough to know that he was slow to anger but hard to rope back in once he got there.

  “The deepwater kit is on its way out,” she added. “It’ll be here the day after tomorrow, but in the meantime . . .”

  “Dirk still wants us to take a look at it,” he said.

  She nodded. “The ship is resting halfway down a pretty steep slope. Dirk wants us to pull some samples before she goes any deeper.”

  Both of them knew what that meant. Despite the danger, they would have to go down in the deepwater submersible.

  “We can connect Rapunzel to the submersible and operate her free of the tethers once we’re down there.”

  “I’m going with you,” Paul said.

  “You barely fit,” she replied.

  “So it’ll be a little cramped,” he said. “I like being in close quarters with you.”

  THREE HOURS LATER, Paul and Gamay were hovering over the wreck in a bathyscaphe-type submersible named the Grouper. Rapunzel was attached to the outer hull and charging her batteries. They were lying on their stomachs side by side, like kids riding their sled. Paul piloted the Grouper while Gamay readied Rapunzel for her sortie.

  The temperature in the Grouper was a cool 48 degrees as the deepwater currents surrounding them dropped to a few degrees above freezing. Between the cramped quarters and the cold, Paul’s entire body ached.

  “Feels like Maine in November,” he said into the intercom.

  “At least it’s not raining,” Gamay said. “We start getting rain in here, we have a big problem.”

  Paul looked around. The Grouper was the sturdiest of all NUMA’s deep-sea vehicles. It had been to twenty-four thousand feet, sixteen was a walk in the park.

  “We’ll be all right,” he said.

  “I know,” Gamay said. “It does make me wonder about our luck though.”

  They were approaching the hull of the sunken vessel. He slowed them to a crawl.

  “How so?”

  “Somewhere, Kurt and Joe are sitting on a beach, basking in the sun and their newfound fame and probably ogling pretty women all around them.”

  “I’m ogling one right now,” Paul said. “And when we’re done here, I actually get to kiss you.”

  “Promise?” she said, lightheartedly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  A cough on the intercom reminded him that others were listening in and monitoring everything in the sub.

  Suddenly, Paul did not know how to respond. He felt a nervous flush rush across his face, an effect Gamay always managed to have on him.

  “Paul, your heart rate is rising,” a voice said over the comm.

  “Umm, we’re at the wreck site now,” he said, all very official. “Traveling along the port side.”

  “Better get into my gear,” Gamay said.

  Paul brought the Grouper up and over the Kinjara Maru’s deck. The big ship was tilted hard over on one side, leaning into the slope. Her massive hatches were yawning wide, fish swimming here and there, but the vessel had yet to be claimed by the sea.

  In a way it felt odd to Paul. Most of the wrecks they explored were old, covered in sediment, barnacles, and sea life. The Kinjara Maru looked as if she didn’t belong, all brightly painted and scarred only where the fires had burned her.

  “All of her cargo hatches are open,” Paul said.

  “Kurt said the pirates were firebombing the holds,” Gamay replied.

  “No need to open all of them,” Paul said.

  “Could they have been looking for something?”

  In some ways that made sense to Paul, although what a group of pirates in speedboats could be looking for on a bulk cargo ship was beyond him.

  “Maybe they just wanted her to go down faster,” he said. “As soon as the forward hatch started taking on water the ship was a goner.”

  “Back to hiding something,” Gamay said.

  So far, the ship’s owners and the insurance company had been uncooperative. They seemed loath to disclose the ship’s manifest or even confirm the type of cargo on board. An odd situation, to say the least.

  “We get anything from the company yet?” Paul asked

  “Negative,” the controller said. “Nothing but silence.”

  “You know, technically this ship is a wreck,” he said. “We salvage it, and the cargo is ours.”

  “I don’t think Dirk is going to approve the budget for that,” Gamay said. “But there’s nothing to stop us poking around. Let’s find an opening and see if we can get Rapunzel inside.”

  Paul brought the Grouper toward the aft end of the big ship. The crew’s quarters and the bridge lay there, partially torn open, as the crushing impact with the seafloor had ripped away a third of the structure.

  “It looks like a cross section,” Paul said.

  “That might be good for us,” Gamay said. “Nothing like easy access.”

  Again Paul blushed, not sure Gamay even realized her double entendre. He brought the Grouper to a hover twenty feet away from what was left of the bridge. Moments later, Rapunzel was in the water and moving toward the gaping hole where a part of the wall had once been.

  With the autopilot keeping the Grouper in position, Paul turned to his wife. She lay flat in the aft section of the sub. The familiar visor covered her head, the wired gauntlets and boots on her hands and feet. The rest of her was clad in skintight neoprene.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “Feels weird to be lying down,” she said. “I’m used to doing it standing up.”

  The intercom buzzed. “Paul, your heart rate is jumping again. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied tersely, then covered the intercom. “Honey, can you just watch what you say until we get back up topside?”

  She laughed, and Paul knew full well that she was teasing him. There was little she liked more than to poke holes in his reserved New England attitude. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much.

  “Sorry,” she said with a sly smile.

  Paul looked outside and watched the little mechanical figure move toward the shattered bridge and then disappear inside. On
a smart phone–sized monitor he watched what Gamay saw in the visor: the view through Rapunzel’s eyes as she traveled deeper into the ship. In a corner of the bridge they discovered something.

  “Is that a body?” Paul asked.

  “Looks like it,” she said.

  “What happened to him?”

  Rapunzel moved closer.

  “Looks like he’s been burned,” Gamay said. “Except . . .”

  The cameras on Rapunzel panned around the room. The walls were clean and smooth, the gray paint unmarred. Even the chair beside the man looked undamaged.

  “No sign of fire,” Paul said.

  “As gross as this sounds,” she said, “I’m going to get a sample.”

  Rapunzel moved in, extended a little drill with a vacuum tube attached. The drill hit the man’s thigh and began to turn, drawing out a two-inch core. The vacuum system pulled it into a sealed container.

  “I’m taking her deeper into the ship.”

  With Gamay occupied controlling Rapunzel, and the autopilot keeping the Grouper on station, Paul had little to do.

  Boredom at sixteen thousand feet. It was worse than being trapped on an airliner.

  The intercom buzzed. “Paul, we’re picking up a sonar contact.”

  Now his heart had a different reason to race. “What kind?”

  “Unknown,” the controller said. “West of you and very faint. But moving fast.”

  “Mechanical or natural?” Paul asked.

  “Unknown . . .” the controller began, then, “It’s small . . .”

  Paul and Gamay could only wait in silence. Paul imagined the sonar operator staring at the screen, listening to the earphones and trying to place the nature of the target.

  “Damn it,” the controller said. “It’s a torpedo. Two of them, heading your way.”

  Paul grabbed the Grouper’s thrust controller, switching off the autopilot.

  “Get Rapunzel back,” he said.

  Gamay began to move, gesturing quickly as she turned the little remote explorer around.

  “Move, Paul,” the controller urged. “They’re closing fast.”

  Forgetting Rapunzel, Paul threw the Grouper into reverse, backing away from the wreck and then turning the small sub around.

  “I can get her out of there,” Gamay said.

  “We don’t have time.”

  Paul pushed the throttle to full and blew out some of the ballast. The Grouper began to rise and accelerate, but she was nothing like the Barracuda. Seven knots was her maximum.

  Suddenly, the controller’s voice broke in a panic. “The targets are above you, Paul. You’re climbing right into them.”

  Paul went back to a dive, thinking it would have been nice to have known that a few minutes ago. “Where are they coming from?”

  “Don’t know,” came the reply. “Head south. Toward the bow. That will take you away from their track. “

  Paul put the Grouper in a turn. Unable to see or track the targets, he had to rely on the controller.

  “Keep moving,” the voice on the intercom said. “You have ten seconds.”

  There was no way the Grouper could avoid a torpedo that had locked onto it; their only hope was to confuse it with clutter. Paul decided to pop up, taking the Grouper over the deck, hugging the Kinjara Maru as closely as possible.

  A resounding clang told him he’d hit something protruding. The reverberation was loud but inconsequential, and Paul didn’t dare separate from the larger ship.

  “Three seconds, two . . . one . . .”

  “Paul?” Gamay called. She was scared, he could hear it. There was nothing he could do about it.

  A high-pitched whining sound raced overhead as the first torpedo passed. Another followed moments later, heading off into the distance. The torpedoes had missed. And as Paul listened he couldn’t hear them coming back.

  Paul breathed a sigh of relief, but he had to be sure. “Are they turning?”

  “No,” the controller said. “They’re continuing on. Straight and true.”

  Paul sighed with relief, his shoulders visibly slumping. And then a pair of reverberating explosions rocked the depths of the Atlantic.

  The shock wave slammed the Grouper. Paul hit his head and felt the craft tilt. Gamay slid into him, and the submersible banged into one of the Kinjara Maru’s crane booms.

  Another explosion followed, more distant but still strongly felt. The Grouper shuddered and then steadied as the shocks passed on.

  “Are we okay?” Gamay shouted, pulling off the visor.

  Paul glanced around, he saw no leaks. Time to get to the surface.

  “Where on earth did those come from?” Paul shouted.

  “Sorry,” the controller said. “The first two masked them. This isn’t exactly a Seawolf-class sonar array we’ve got going here.”

  Paul understood that the setup was designed to find small objects and map the seafloor, not track fast-moving torpedoes at great depths. Time to upgrade, he thought

  “Any more of them?” he asked over the comm.

  The controller was silent for a moment, as if he were checking and rechecking. “No,” the man said finally. “But we are picking up a vibration. It sounds like . . .”

  The controller’s words trailed off, an act that concerned Paul. A vibration. What did he mean?

  As Paul waited for clarification he began to feel something. Where his hand rested on the control panel he could feel a tremor of some kind. At first it was subtle, but then the Grouper began to shake and slide to the side as if some force or current was pushing it out of position. In seconds the tremor became a deep rumbling, like a freight train approaching.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “We’re reading a massive signal up here. I’ve never seen anything like it. All kinds of movement.”

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere,” the voice said, sounding panicked.

  There was a terrible pause as the rumbling increased and then their controller spoke again.

  “Good Lord!” the controller shouted. “There’s an avalanche coming your way.”

  17

  THE RUMBLING IN THE DEPTHS shook the Grouper. Sliding rock and sediment from the slope that the Kinjara Maru sat on was tumbling down at an accelerating pace, released by the exploding torpedoes.

  As the avalanche came on, it forced the water out of its way, creating its own current and stirring up the sediment. Clouds of silt engulfed them, lit up by the submersible’s lights. The world outside the view port became a swirl of brown and gray.

  “Get us out of here,” Gamay shouted.

  Paul intended to do just that, but whatever vessel had fired the torpedoes at them was probably still waiting out there. And, in all honesty, being blown to bits seemed just as ghastly as getting buried alive.

  He flipped the ballast switch and dumped the rest of the iron that held them down. He pushed the throttle back to full and angled the nose of the Grouper upward, but the Grouper was too underpowered to overcome such a current, and it banged against the Kinjara Maru’s hull once again.

  Gamay put her hand on his arm as they began to rise. Then suddenly they were yanked to a stop.

  “We’re caught on something,” Gamay said, craning her head around, desperately trying to see what it might be.

  Paul threw the motor into reverse, backed up for a few feet, and then went forward at a different angle. Same result: a steady acceleration followed by sudden stop that twisted the Grouper around like a dog being yanked backward on its leash.

  Through the dust and silt Paul could see items tumbling across the deck and bits of the Kinjara’s superstructure being torn away. The rumbling sound reached a deafening pitch.

  A wave of thicker sediment hit the sub, and all went dark. Something metallic snapped, and then the Grouper started to tumble.

  Gamay’s visor and a couple of other items slid to one side and then toppled over and up the wall and then onto the ceiling. Paul held on but saw his wif
e was unable to brace herself. She hit the side wall and then banged against the ceiling two feet above them and then came back down.

  He realized they’d rolled over, becoming momentarily inverted. He reached out, pulling Gamay to him.

  “Hold on to me,” he shouted.

  She wrapped her arms around him as they continued to bang and twist at the mercy of the current and the landslide. Something slammed against the view port for a second, racing out of the murky water, hitting it hard, and then being swept away. The lights failed, and the wrenching sound of something being torn off the outside of the Grouper ended with a snap.

  And then it stopped.

  The rumbling sound continued for another minute or so, dissipating into the distance like a herd of buffalo had stampeded past.

  Paul held his breath. Amazingly, incredibly, they were still alive.

  In the darkness, he felt his wife breathing hard. His own heart pounded, and his body prickled with adrenaline. Neither of them said a word, as if the mere sound of their voices might set off another landslide. But after a full minute of silence, and no further sounds of danger, Paul felt his wife move.

  She looked up at him through the dim illumination of the emergency lighting, She appeared as surprised to be alive as he was.

  “Any leaks?” she asked.

  He looked around. “Nothing up here.”

  She eased off him. “When we get home, I’m finding out who built this thing and I’m buying him a bottle of scotch.”

  He laughed. “A bottle of scotch? I might put his kids through college if he has any.”

  She laughed too.

  As Gamay moved back, Paul eased over to the control panel. They were obviously resting at an odd angle, maybe forty-five degrees nose down, and rolled over thirty degrees or so.

  “The main power is out,” he said. “But the batteries look fine.”

  “See if you can get them back online,” she said, pulling on the headset that their tumble had ripped off.

  Paul went through the restart, got most of the systems back online, and then rerouted the lights through the backup line. The lights came back on. “Let’s see if we can—”