We powered outside and moved southward a few hundred meters. The vessel was small. It had two airlocks—one on each side—and a powerful single engine and screw. The sonar and other systems were basic, but I did note that the deck vibrated with power when I pushed the throttle. It likely had a high top speed, but all amenities ended there.
It would have been nice to have a few torpedoes, but no matter. We only needed to find our people and get them on board.
The vessel descended to the sandy bottom at my touch. Our headlights illuminated the area and I signaled Sahar and Renée.
There was no answer.
“Shit. Security may have caught them.” I peered out the viewport. It was just too dark. The only thing we could do is wait to see if they could find us and board our airlock. They’d then have to decompress . . .
But we had to locate them first.
“Shit,” I said again.
“Can we track their PCD signal?” Cliff asked.
“Give it a try.”
“No luck,” he said after a minute. “I’m not getting anything.”
I felt helpless. There was nothing we could do for them. And if security had found them, they were not going to be considerate. Not after what Clarke had done, anyway.
We had disabled the towers to make sure they did not detect SC-1 when it returned. In the end, however, Clarke had totally derailed our plans.
And killed a lot of people.
It would devastate Sahar.
Our comm crackled to life. “Attention all personnel.” It was an all-call broadcast, from the same person who’d been on the PA earlier. “This is a base emergency. The intruders have killed numerous sailors in the facility. There are some outside still. The quake compromised the lower lab levels. There was pressure loss but hatches sealed the areas quickly. Stay in your safety zones. Don’t come out. We’ve called Diego Garcia for help and we’re waiting, but the displacement wave might hit us any minute. Be prepared for more base damage.”
I stared at Cliff. “They haven’t found them yet.” I pushed the throttle up and began to move. “We have to show Renée where we are, before security catches them.”
Cliff was peering out the viewports, squinting, trying to make something out, but it was still impossible. We were hovering just feet over the seafloor, moving slowly.
He was holding two PCDs on his lap, and I frowned. “What’s that?”
“It’s Richard’s. I took it from him.”
I stopped the seacar and thought furiously. When he’d cuffed Kat’s killer, he’d taken the communication device. A prickle worked its way down my scalp . . .
It might actually give us a chance.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Richard had hacked into Renée’s PCD. He’d somehow turned her comms off, then back on, and caused a loud sound to attract attention. To give their position away.”
It only took him a second to realize what I was suggesting. He started pushing keys on the device. “You want me to contact her?”
“If possible. Or, just send the same signal.”
He looked horrified. “It’ll give them away again.”
“Or, it’ll help us find them first.”
—••—
It was the only thing we could do.
The sonar was situated between the two pilot’s chairs, as was customary. I stared at the screen intently. There were a few blips in front of us, indicating some noise, but there was no way to tell who it was. I powered forward, edging toward the location.
I kept the power low. Renée and Sahar had disabled the sonar towers, so personnel in the facility’s control cabin didn’t know what we were doing.
“Careful,” Cliff muttered. “It might not be our people.”
Within minutes, a figure appeared from the darkness.
Then another.
They held needle guns in their hands, and they turned to stare at us.
“Sahar,” I hissed into the comm. “I don’t know if you can see or hear me, but the security team is right in front of the seacar. They’re armed.”
No response.
“I can go out and try to neutralize them,” Cliff rumbled.
There was scuba gear on board the small vessel. It was an option.
The floodlight swung across the area; I was searching for more divers. Sure enough, there were three more nearby. All held needle guns.
“There are five of them,” I said into the comm.
Cliff was still working at Richard’s PCD. He was trying to decipher how the man had hacked into Renée’s communication device.
There were no signs of them on the sonar. They were being absolutely quiet. The security team was still staring at us, trying to figure out who we were exactly. Then over the PA: “Security, that seacar is not BSFIF. Repeat, that’s not us, guys! Watch out!”
The response was instant. They turned toward us and began swimming.
I knew there wasn’t much they could do. They couldn’t board us, because they’d have to decompress. But they could damage us. Get on our hull, sabotage the thrusters perhaps. Or if they had an explosive, they could implode the seacar. I increased thrust and backed off a bit, but kept the divers in view.
“Got it,” Cliff said. “What should I—”
“Send the same signal as before.” I kept my eyes on the sonar, waiting . . .
And a white star flared on the sonar screen. It was to the starboard, about twenty meters away. They were close.
I hauled the ship around and pointed the stern toward the divers. “Hold on!” I snapped as I slammed the thrust to full. The screws turned instantly, cavitating and throwing bubbles upward. The water behind us grew instantly turbulent and a river churned away from the seacar. It picked the divers up and hurled them backward, away from us. There were a few angry snaps of noise as needles ricocheted off our hull, then the figures disappeared into the darkness behind us, twirling and spinning like rag dolls as our thrusters pushed them.
I’d kept my eyes on the white star flashing on the screen.
Renée’s PCD.
Soon we were over it, and I hissed, “It’s us, Renée. Get on board, now!”
Within minutes the airlock outer hatch opened.
I stared at the speaker, willing it alive. Within moments, pumps had purged water from the lock. A voice said from the comm, “Mac! It’s us, we’re in the airlock. We’re decompressing.”
I sat back in the chair and deflated, spent and exhausted. Renée and Sahar were alive.
—••—
They had a lengthy period of decompression ahead of them. Cliff and I brought the seacar to the outer airlock hatch at the labs—where inside, Johnny and Alyssna waited with the neutral beam.
I stared at the clock.
Time was ticking slowly.
So slowly.
Where the hell was SC-1?
Then my PCD came to life. “Mac?”
“Meg! Finally.”
“We’re a few minutes away. What’s happening there?”
“It’s gone to hell, unfortunately, but we got Components Three and Four.”
I told her where we were and directed her into the waters around The Vault. I wasn’t worried about security intercepting our transmission, because I was using my own PCD and not a common channel. She said, “We’re about ten minutes from you. Everything worked fine. Chalam and Max came through. The quake worked beautifully.”
“No displacement wave?”
“Just a tiny one. It was a large quake—Chalam thinks about 8.3—but the crust moved laterally, not vertically, which is what you wanted.”
“Any warsub movement out there?”
“Diego Garcia went into lockdown. We heard the alarms. They’ll figure out there’s no displacement wave very soon, if they haven’t already.”
Which meant they’d be coming, and likely very soon.
Then she said something that absolutely froze the blood in my veins.
“We transferred the last bomb to the Commodore. He’s got it now.”