It didn’t look or sound dangerous. In fact, it seemed kind of comical to Major Bryan. There was a muffled pop and then a big bubble rose from the side of the faded gray destroyer. It was the USS Bundy and it had a long if unusual history. In the fall of 1940, the year-old vessel had been sent to Great Britain as part of the Destroyers for Bases agreement, which allowed the United States to help arm England for the fight against Hitler. It was recommissioned the HMS Meadowood and it served in the North Atlantic for four years before being transferred to Russia as the Cherkassov. In 1946 it was converted to an antisubmarine-warfare vessel and remained a part of the Russian fleet until the man who had redesigned her defected to the West in 1956. The U.S. navy—which had assumed the vessel was sunk—asked for its return. The destroyer was given back, largely because the ASW components didn’t work well and the Soviets wanted the United States to think that was the best they had. Renamed the USS Bundy, it sat in a shed at Camp Pendleton in Southern California until the end of the Cold War. It was turned over to the NASCC, where it was going to become part of a museum display until funding was cut. Now it was going to be destroyed.
Well, it’s a fitting end for a warship, Bryan thought as one of the chopper crewmen kicked an aluminum ladder overboard. Like a Viking desiring to enter Valhalla, it needed to die with a sword in its hand.
The lead-weighted ladder hung straight and steady in the prop wash and high ocean winds. The chopper was twenty feet above the deck of the ship. Woody was the first one out. She wanted to enter the engine room in advance of the others to make sure that all the C-4 had exploded. Triggered by a detonator cap, the puttylike substance, composed primarily of RDX—cyclotrimethylenenetrinitra-mine, a relatively stable white crystalline—can be shaped to dictate the shape and direction of a blast. Sometimes, however, impurities in the oil and waxes used as an inert medium prevent some of the RDX from detonating. On rare occasions particles are blown away, unexploded. Sometimes they strike something else so hard they detonate; sometimes they do not. But even a pinhead-sized particle, blasted from the body of the C-4, could destroy a person’s foot if stepped on against a concussive surface. For that reason, Woody coated the exterior of her plastique with a red dye. She wore a colored gel over her visor that caused even the smallest stray pieces to stand out.
As Woody had planned, when the team reached the deck, it was tilted to the starboard between five and eight degrees. They would have the exact readings later, when digital video being shot from the Blackhawk was analyzed. The initial tilt was due to the influx of water on that side, just below the waterline. The destroyer would level out nearly flat again as the water started spilling toward the port side. That would take about five minutes. By that time, according to plan, the team would have reached the rear access stairwell. Within minutes, the aft-heavy vessel would then sink in that direction, where the engines were. Major Bryan wanted to be in the engine room by then.
Each of the eight soldiers on this mission was dressed in a yellow wet-suit with vulcanized-rubber slippers for traction. They wore helmets similar to the ones worn by bicycle riders in case anyone slipped or something fell. They had a single 240-liter oxygen tank buckled to their back with a plastic mouthpiece. If the destroyer shifted unexpectedly and they found themselves trapped underwater, they would have a half hour of air. Capt. Paul Gabriel carried a liquid-fuel cutting torch to slice through any metal that might get in their way. He was toting a heavier but safer liquid-fuel tank instead of compressed gas. It was less likely to explode under pressure or suffer fuel-line backflash, the accidental igniting of ambient fumes around the torch.
He looked anxious to use it, Bryan thought as they left the chopper. Ever since the chopper had been airborne and the major had informed the team their target was four dummies dressed as marines.
With Bryan at the head, and Woody at his left elbow, the rest of the team moved single file across the relatively dry deck. They had to pick their feet up fully rather than walk normally since the rubber “booties” tended to grab whatever they touched. The wind was a modest ten knots but seemed louder as it whistled through Bryan’s helmet, but not as loud as the groaning of the ship as it took on water. Bryan put a gloved hand on the poop rail as they made their way forward; he could feel it shivering with each small shift and tilt. It amazed the major how solidly these vintage boats were built. Despite the added weight from roughly two thousand gallons of seawater, none of the old rivets popped, nor did the old hull plates buckle or snap. They would have felt the jerk. The designers back then didn’t have computers to help design blueprints, but there was a lot to be said for the muscular construction of these old warships.
The group reached the hatch. Major Bryan stood aside while Sgt. Bernie Kowalski came forward. Kowalski was their structural man, seconded from the Coast Guard. He was like a doctor who could feel a patient’s abdomen for subcutaneous swelling; at times the Dallas-born engineer could literally feel trembling or temperature changes in a vehicle or building. If it didn’t seem right, no one went in. Sometimes Bryan could swear the thirty-year-old was actually channeling the spirit of a thing. It was eerie.
The pellet-shaped door was just under six feet high. Kowalski pulled the latch toward the right. The hatch opened after he put a strong shoulder to it.
“The doorframe is warped,” he said into his microphone.
“Woody, was it okay before?” Bryan asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
It wasn’t rust, then. The frame of the vessel was twisting due to the weight of the water collecting on one side of the vessel.
“Gabe, hang back and give it a quick weld,” the major ordered. “The rest of you, in.”
Captain Gabriel dropped from the lineup. While he fired up the torch, the other team members quickly followed Bryan into the stairwell. The major wanted to make certain that if the hatch slammed shut as the boat settled, and the frame shifted farther, they weren’t stuck on the other side. This meant Gabriel would not be following them. Once Major Bryan broke an individual out of the team, he stayed out, barring orders to the contrary. Bryan did not want to have to go looking for his own people in the event someone got lost. In this instance, Bryan felt they could afford to be one man down when they went below.
Two of the team members lit high-powered xenon flashlights. The units were thin and encased in rubber with a thin layer of air and water-resistant O-rings. If the lights were dropped, they would float. The team’s lights each punched a pure white hole in the darkness, about four feet in diameter. The personnel with the lights stayed to the rear of the line, one man shining to the left, the other to the right, as the others descended.
The rubber-soled shoes kept them secure on the sloped metal stairs. The team moved rapidly, following a course they did not know well. They had reviewed the blueprints during a single briefing, which might be all the advantage they would have in a real disaster.
The two levels of steps were each two-tiered. Each tier ran fore, then aft. When the team reached the bottom, they ran along a straight but narrow corridor that followed the starboard side of the ship. Bryan gripped the cable coiled around his shoulder. The line would be hooked to the horseshoe grips inside the door so they could move in the flooded, angled interior. Each L.A.S.E.R. member carried something, whether it was a rolled ladder, mallets and crowbars, a pouch of signal flares, a fire extinguisher, or a stretcher for the wounded.
Bryan tasted the salt water in the air, mixed with the grease of the drowning engine. He could not read the Russian labels on the doors but he knew where the engine room was. Another fifty meters or so, then a sharp left. He could hear the dull thunder of the rushing water. It bothered Bryan to see Cyrillic letters on the door. Yeah, it had been a Russian ship for a while but—
The destroyer lurched forward, throwing the team the way they’d come. Their shoes held them where they were, though they reached out to brace themselves against the walls to keep from falling on each other. A moment later the tail end seemed to cough. Then it dipped dramatically, spilling them aft. Once again they managed to stay on their feet. The destroyer stabilized but a loud squealing came from the port side.
“Major, are you all right?”
“Yeah, Gabe,” Bryan replied. “Can you see what happened?”
“Negative.”
“Puckett?”
“Sir, your tail went down about twenty-five degrees,” the chopper pilot told Bryan. “I didn’t see an explosion.”
The rush of water was louder. Obviously, something had popped in the engine room, but he didn’t smell smoke, which meant there wasn’t a fire. And the escape route was still clear. Figuring out what and why was not why they were here. L.A.S.E.R. had one job to do.
“Let’s get those marines,” Bryan said.
He started ahead and the team followed. Suddenly, there were two more coughs and the ship rolled to the starboard pitching them against a wall. Then it nosed up, causing them to skid down the corridor toward the engine room. They had to extend one leg like a brake and crouch in the opposite direction, toward the forward section of the destroyer, to stop themselves from being dashed against the dead-end corridor.
“Sir, I’m seeing clean hull plates!” Puckett shouted. “They popped up from the stern.”
“Abort!” Bryan shouted.
The team turned to go as the vessel rolled completely onto its starboard side. They were slammed against the outside hull wall as, simultaneously, the engine-room door crumpled toward them, folding outward along the hinges, and the Gulf poured in and upward. Major Bryan turned but did not move as the men with the flashlights took point. In a rapid-retreat situation, those two were the team leaders. Their only job was to find and secure the exit.
The group was scuttling along the hull as the water rose. It pulled the ship down, angling it higher and making the new floor steeper by the second.
“Abandon gear!” Bryan yelled.
Everyone lay aside whatever they were carrying, making certain it didn’t strike whoever was behind them. Now they were able to crawl ahead, making egress quicker on the sloping surface. Bryan continued to hold the cable.
“Gabe, what’s your situation?”
“I secured the door and tossed the torch,” the big man said. “I’m ready to do some pulling.”
“Received.”
The team was about twenty-five meters from the stairwell. The water was now a steady roar, amplified by the helmet but strong nonetheless. Bryan did not have to look to see that it was gaining on them. But he did, so that General Scott could see it. If anything happened to them, the video image would help the general do a postmortem on the operation. The water was tossing angrily in the dark, slopping against the sides of the upended corridor. Bryan turned around again. As he crawled, he slid the 1/0 gauge cable from his shoulder. He hooked one end of the 8.2 millimeter steel line to the plastic loop of his equipment belt. He grabbed the other end and passed it back.
“Woody, take the end and feed it ahead!” he said into the microphone.
The officer reached back and took the other end. She slid it under her belt then handed it to the next team member. Bryan’s thinking was not to save himself. The water was already wrapping itself around his shoes and making its way up his legs. What he wanted was to get the other end to Gabe. If the big marine could secure the line and pull them out—
The ship lurched again toward the stern, angling farther, and the team slid back. Bryan dug his toes into the floor and put his hands against the wall. If nothing else, he wanted to be able to brace anyone who fell back. No one did. They were good people, alert and strong.
“Gabe?” Bryan said.
“I’m still here. I see your lights.”
The team was unable to see straight up while crawling. That Captain Gabriel could see them appeared to give the members an extra kick. They pressed ahead more rapidly even as the destroyer began to roll again, this time toward the port side. Bryan’s booties enabled him to crab-walk with the ship as it turned, even as water washed up along his ankles and shins. He glanced up and saw the flashlights swaying wildly as the point men tried to keep their balance using just one hand each. The team prepared for a lot of contingencies, but he really should have thought about top- or side-mounted lights for their helmets on this mission. Those lanterns didn’t have the flexibility and pinpoint focus of handhelds, but the guys would have had both hands free right now. Maybe the team needed both.
It never occurred to Bryan that they would not get out of there. Not until the ship continued to roll and then, in a sickening moment of abandon, decided to slide under the surface. He felt the wall he was on, the light he was beginning to see from the forward hatch, the slack in the line—everything went away at the same time. He dropped into the water, butt first, Woodstock falling back on him. The major instinctively grabbed her as he tumbled aft. He was effectively lying on his back with just his head, neck, and forearms above the water. A moment later the water rose around Bryan’s cheeks and poured into his helmet. He tried to keep his earphones above water and at the same time attempted to push Woodstock up and off, to keep her afloat. His legs were churning wildly, uncoordinated, as he looked for a place to put his feet and brace himself. He was pissed that this had gotten so badly out of control, and that he was probably going to drown on a goddamn drill.
Just before his face went under the surprisingly warm water, Bryan felt a hard, gut-bruising tug at his waist. His neck snapped down.
“I’ve got the cable!” Gabe shouted.
Bryan heard nothing after that, save for the bellowing of the Gulf spilling in around his ears. The distant light of the open hatch wiggled and faded to brown as the water level rose. But the tightness around his waist remained. Major Bryan shut his eyes since they weren’t doing any good. He grabbed a breath and held it as he simultaneously found a place to put his left foot. It was a nook of some kind and something came free—a fire extinguisher, it felt like. A moment later Woodstock was above him but no longer on top of him. The major reached out on both sides, feeling for anything to hold on to. A door handle was on the left and he grasped it hard. With foot and hand steady, he turned sideways to try to climb up what was now the left side of the corridor. He reached up, found nothing to grab, and continued to feel around as his lungs began to tell him he hadn’t breathed quite deeply enough.
He swore in his head. A training mission. A fucking training mission .
Perishing here would have been like getting red dye blown up his ass. Yeah, the guy was wearing his country’s uniform, but—a training mission? Not even test-pilot stuff, but boot camp for heroes crap.
As his head began to pound all around whatever the skull case seam was called, and his thought process crashed, Bryan felt himself rise. Quickly. His arms and legs flailed as he ascended, looking for another foot- or handhold. The first thought in his oxygen-starved mind was that the ship was being spit up again before going down, which was rare but not unknown if it had burped out an air pocket. His second thought, as he broke the surface and sucked down air, was the right one. Gabe and one of the point men were hauling him up while the other point man pulled Woodstock through the now inverted hatch.
The breath revived Bryan sufficiently so that he was able to grab the sides of the hatch as he reached it. Gabe grabbed the front of Bryan’s wet suit, along with a devilishly painful fistful of the flesh and hair beneath it, and pulled him up. Bryan hacked out seawater, which he had apparently swallowed without realizing it. His mouth tasted metallic. Gabe threw a big arm around the major while he unhooked the cable with his free hand. Winking away the Gulf water, Bryan saw the chopper hovering overhead. The prop backwash was muscle-chilling cold. Woody climbed the aluminum ladder with the help of the copilot, who had descended halfway to help extricate the team.
Now that he had a second to get his bearings, Bryan noticed that the sea was rising around them—or rather, that the vessel was sinking fast. The chopper was moving to keep on top of them. The major’s mind tapped him on the shoulder, wanted to ask what the hell had gone wrong, but his mouth stayed shut as Gabe hoisted him toward the lowest rung of the ladder. Feeling that he had to overachieve just so he didn’t feel like a pussy, Bryan grabbed the second-to-lowest rung.
That’ll show ’em, he thought with anemic pride.
He began to climb and motioned the copilot back into the chopper. Bryan knew that Gabriel would be following him and didn’t want to have a logjam near the hatch. His own arms were tired, and he could imagine how weary Gabe’s would feel after hauling them all out.
As he neared the top of the ladder, Major Bryan turned back to make sure that Gabe didn’t need help—and to record, for the camera, the last surface-side moments of the USS Bundy Meadowood Cherkassov Titanic .
Looking down at the sea, Bryan saw one of the most disturbing things he had seen since he had joined L.A.S.E.R.