Valhalla Rising (64 page)

Pitt was an extension of Flett’s eyes. Only he could make the split-second judgment call when the great bronze screws came into sight. The movement of the huge ship through the water was blurring his visibility. He moved forward and lay down on the carpet deck with his face less than an inch from the viewing port, eyes straining to penetrate the froth and green pall to see the magnetic explosive charge on the end of the spar protruding from the bow of the
Wanderer,
but it was obscured by the restless water.

“Ready, Jimmy?”

“Say the word,” Flett replied, his voice solid as a stone.

“You should see the starboard prop only three seconds after it comes into my view on the bow.”

Nothing more was said as the suspense deepened. His mind and body as taut as banjo strings, Pitt’s knuckles turned ivory as he clenched the phone only an inch from his lips. Then the green curtain parted in a white explosion of bubbles. “Now!” Pitt yelled.

Flett reacted with the speed of a lightning bolt, shoving the throttles forward until he felt a jar from the front of the boat and then whipping them into reverse, praying that his timing was on a thin dime.

Pitt could only watch, helpless and exposed, as the magnetic charge impacted against the steel plates of the hull and clung an instant before Flett went full speed into reverse. The massive propeller came like an out-of-control windmill, beating the water of the bay into sparkling foam.

From the control bridge, Giordino and Flett stared in rapt wariness, seeing the mighty blades pound toward them. For a brief instant, they were certain they would not pull clear in time, that the blades would beat the luxury boat into splinters and their bodies along with it. But in the final seconds, the
Coral Wanderer’s
diesels roared and her own propellers chewed the water in a violent frenzy. She leaped astern as the LNG tanker’s fifty-foot-diameter propellers flailed past no more than two feet from the bow view port, rocking the submarine yacht like a tree whipped in a tornado.

As he lay on the deck, arm raised and clutching the hand railing of a circular stairway for support, all Pitt could see out the view port was a maelstrom of enraged water, embellished by the ear-pounding drumming of the spinning blades. A brief thirty seconds later, the yacht came back on a smoother keel, the water calmed into the
Mongol Invader’s
wake and the throb of the propellers began to fade.

“Now is as good a time as any, Al,” said Pitt, coming to his feet.

“You think we’re far enough away.”

“If this boat is built to withstand the water pressure at a thousand feet, she can take the stress of a detonation a hundred yards away.”

Giordino held a small black remote control in both hands and pressed a tiny lever. A loud thud sounded, amplified by the acoustics through the water. This was followed by a pressure wave that struck the
Coral Wanderer
with the force of a twenty-foot swell before sweeping over and around. And then it was gone and the water calmed again.

Pitt popped his head above the deck at the head of the stairway. “Bring her up, Jimmy, and let’s see if we did any good.” He looked at Giordino. “Soon as we break the surface, let’s mount another charge.”

U
nable to comprehend the source behind the muted underwater explosion, Admiral Dover was overcome with fleeting relief at seeing the
Mongol Invader
swinging away from the channel and making a wide, sweeping turn back the way she had come. He could not have known that Pitt and Giordino on board a submarine yacht were responsible. Everyone who wasn’t wounded on the
William Shea
had been too busy to notice the unusual craft before it slipped underwater and rammed a magnetic charge of explosives just ahead of the
Mongol Invader’s
starboard propeller. The explosion had blown an eight-foot hole in the hull below the base of the propeller shaft, shearing it apart, while the rudder mounting, already damaged by the heroic suicide run by the Coast Guardsman, became jammed in a forty-five-degree position to port.

The propeller dipped downward on a slanted angle, barely held by the outer stub of its severed shaft, while the big turbine-driven engine inside the machinery compartment abruptly tripled its RPMs and raced out of control before the chief engineer could shut it down.

With the port propeller still turning at full speed and the starboard critically damaged, the bow of the ship pulled slowly, deliberately, toward Staten Island, around on a reverse course that would eventually return her to sea or keep her running in circles.

The worst of the disaster has been averted, thought Dover. But would the crazy man in command of the LNG tanker carry out his plans and blow her up, knowing that he could still cause great loss of life and billions in damage?

Dover had prepared for certain catastrophe after losing the fight, but now that a sudden miracle had occurred, he prayed that a holocaust might still be avoided.

I
f Admiral Dover was surprised at seeing the great ship suddenly reverse its course, Omo Kanai was stunned into absolute confusion. Though he had felt and heard the explosion deep beneath the
Mongol Invader’s
stern, he had felt no concern, since no vessel or aircraft within twenty miles would dare to attack him. Then, as the ship began its unscheduled turn, he shouted down to the engine room.

“Get back on course! Can’t you see we’ve come around!”

“We’ve lost our starboard screw from some kind of explosion,” replied the chief engineer, anxiety obvious in his tone. “Before I could shut down the port engine, its screw pulled the ship around.”

“Compensate with the rudders!” Kanai ordered.

“Impossible. Something struck the port rudder earlier, wreckage maybe, and jammed it, adding to the uncontrolled turn.”

“What are you telling me?” demanded Kanai, beginning for the first time to lose his composure.

The words came back steadily and lifelessly. “Either we continue to go around in circles or we come to
all stop
and drift. The truth is, we ain’t going nowhere.”

It was the end of the trail, yet Kanai refused to accept defeat. “We’re too close to give up. Once under the bridge, no one can stop us.”

“And I’m telling you, with the starboard rudder jammed forty-five degrees to port and my starboard screw useless with a broken shaft, the sooner we get off this gas can, the better.”

Kanai saw it was fruitless to argue further with his chief engineer. He stared up at the great bridge. He could almost look straight up at the suspended roadway as it began to fall away astern. Less than a few hundred feet had separated success and utter failure before the
Mongol Invader
had been diverted by the mysterious explosion. He had come so close and defied the odds—it seemed impossible that triumph had been snatched from him at the beginning of the end.

His eyes swept the water. It was at that moment that he saw what looked like a private yacht cruising in the wake of the
Invader.
There is a strange look to it, he thought. Kanai was about to turn away, but then stared with sudden understanding and anger as the yacht suddenly slipped beneath the waves.

O
kay, Jimmy,” Pitt said to the submarine yacht’s skipper. “We turned her. Now let’s put those big balls of gas on the bottom.”

“I only hope those devils don’t set off the charges,” Flett said, as he worked the controls to level the
Coral Wanderer
at thirty feet and make another run at the LNG tanker. If there was the slightest thought of hesitation, none showed in the old seaman’s ruddy face. If anything, he looked as though he was enjoying himself for the first time in ages.

The
Wanderer
was running under the water as if she were a fish. Flett felt more at ease now that it looked as though they might not damage his precious boat. He set his eyes on the radar screen and the GPS to keep his course straight toward the
Invader.

“Where do you want to hit her?” he asked Pitt.

“Below the engine room, port side of the stern, careful not to set off an explosion in the hull under one of those tanks. We put a charge too far forward and the whole ship could go up and everybody within two miles along with it.”

“And our third and last charge?”

“Same area but on the starboard side. If we can put a pair of big holes in her stern, she should slip under the water quickly since she doesn’t have a deep draft.”

Giordino spoke with a curious look of satisfaction on his face. “With no screws to contend with, this run should be a piece of cake compared to the last one.”

“Never count your chickens before the check clears the bank,” Pitt retorted, as he had on other occasions. “We’re not ready for bed yet.”

J
ohn Milton Hay wrote, ‘Luckiest is he who knows just when to rise and go home,’ ” quoted Jimmy Flett, as a missile launched from the
Mongol Invader
flashed narrowly past the submerging control cabin, exploding on impact with the water less than a hundred feet astern. “Maybe we should have taken his advice.”

“They’re onto us, all right,” said Pitt.

“They must really be mad now that they’ve discovered we’re the ones who broke their boat,” Giordino cracked.

“She looks like she’s dead in the water.”

“If her crew of rats is abandoning the ship,” said Giordino, as the water rose past the windshield, “I don’t see them lowering the boats.”

The instant the water closed over the cabin roof and the
Coral Wanderer
was out of sight to those on the LNG tanker, Flett dove at full speed and hung a sharp turn to starboard. And not a moment too soon. An audible thump rocked the luxury submarine as another missile struck the water and exploded almost where they would have been if not for Flett’s quick maneuver.

He straightened out and set the bow on a dead-set course for the port hull of the disabled LNG tanker. Another missile burst, but farther away. The Vipers had lost their chance to destroy their nemesis. The
Wanderer
was now shrouded by the water and invisible to those on the ship. What little wake her propellers left behind was mostly dissipated by the time it reached the surface.

Pitt returned to the observation view port in the bow and took up his vigil again. With the big ship heaved to, this run would not be nearly as intricate or hazardous as the first assault. The Viper crew must be preparing to escape, he thought. But where? They weren’t lowering the boats. They couldn’t just swim away. Then something he’d seen earlier flashed through his mind.

Now was not the time to ponder variables. He had to concentrate every brain cell, focus his eyes and be ready to warn Flett again … and then the mammoth hull burst across the view port. It was easier this time. Flett did not close the gap at full speed as before; they were approaching a stationary ship without having to dodge its propellers.

A minute, then two, then Pitt saw the hull fill up the viewport. “We’re on her, Jimmy.”

Flett expertly reversed the engines to slow speed and turned parallel to the hull. In a display of masterful seamanship, he brought the sub alongside no more than six feet away. Then he increased speed as they moved toward the section of the stern that contained the engine-room machinery.

In the control cabin, Giordino studied the screen of the computerized underwater radar system intently. Slowly, he raised a hand, then waved it. “Coming up in thirty feet.”

Flett dutifully made a turn, using the reverse thrusters until the bow and the charge on the end of the spar were pointing directly against the
Invader’s
hull plates opposite the vulnerable engine room.

The magnetic charge clunked against the hull, and the luxury sub quickly backed away. When they reached a safe zone, Giordino grinned. “Once more with feeling.” Then he pushed the detonator switch. Another dull boom raced through the water as the
Wanderer
shook off the pressure wave.

“There’s a mortal blow,” said Flett. “With that highly advanced explosive material you brought, she must have a hole bigger than any naval torpedo could have opened.”

Pitt entered the control cabin from below. “Jimmy, I assume you have a safety escape chamber.”

Flett nodded. “Of course. All commercial undersea craft are required by international maritime law to have them.”

“Do you have dive gear on board?”

“I do,” acknowledged Flett. “There are four sets of suits and gear for passengers who want to dive from the boat after she’s put into charter.”

Pitt looked at Giordino. “Al, what say you and I get wet?”

“I was about to suggest the same thing,” Giordino said, as though he looked forward to it. “Better we reload the spar underwater than risk a missile down our throats.”

They didn’t waste a moment putting on wet suits. They decided that every minute counted and they could suffer the cold water wearing only their shorts in the time it would take them to place the third charge on the end of the spar. Going through the airlock, which was large enough for two people, they attached the explosive charge and were back aboard in less than seven minutes, their bodies numb from the sixty-five-degree water.