57
PAUL TROUT SAT in the
command seat of the new submersible, cramped like a basketball
player in a compact car. Even though this sub was smaller than the
Grouper, it was designed with a taller
profile, one that at least allowed him to sit up. There was also
enough space for Gamay to do her virtual reality thing without
having to lie down.
Currently she sat in
her getup, unmoving and staring out the small portholes in front of
them. The view was surreal. They were speeding along at 140 knots a
mere ten feet above the surface, suspended beneath the SH-60
Seahawk on a swaying group of cables.
Though it was night,
the whitecaps were visible as they raced by.
The plan was for them
to be air-dropped to the south, as close to the Event Horizon line
as possible. From there they would dive into the canyon and work
their way up, carrying their little robotic bomber with
them.
In twenty minutes the
first wave of air attacks would commence. While no one expected it
to go well, the hope was that waves of missiles and feints by the
Lincoln’s fighter squadrons would
distract Djemma Garand’s forces and allow Paul and Gamay’s
insertions to go unnoticed.
“One minute to drop
point,” the helicopter’s pilot told them.
“Roger,” Paul said.
There was nothing for him to do. The sub was all buttoned up and
ready to go. When the pilot decided to drop them, they’d drop. He
hoped it wouldn’t be at a hundred miles an hour.
“I brought along some
supplies,” he said to Gamay.
“Like what?” she
asked. “This isn’t a picnic.”
He pointed behind
them. Diving gear secured with bungee cords. “In case we have to
repeat our miraculous escape. This time, we can do it a little more
leisurely.”
She smiled, just
enough to let him know he’d reached her. Then her eyes grew
suspicious. “Do you remember?”
“Climbing into this
thing brought it all back,” he said.
She looked sad. “Too
bad.”
“Why?” he
replied.
“It was horrible,”
she said.
“It was scary, but we
survived. I like to think it was one of our shining
moments.”
He hoped they
wouldn’t have to do anything like it again, but the tanks, masks,
and fins would help if they did.
“Thirty seconds to
drop,” the pilot’s voice said.
“Let’s do this,” she
said bravely. “Many will die if we fail.”
“Ten seconds,” the
pilot said.
He saw Gamay take a
deep breath.
The sub swayed back
and forth as they slowed almost to a complete stop. And then a
sudden feeling of weightlessness hit, followed a second later by a
sharp deceleration and the sloshing feeling of the sub in water.
They were already configured for a dive, and in seconds the waves
had closed over them.
Paul gunned the
throttle, kicked the right rudder, and brought the sub onto course.
“We’ll be in that canyon in five minutes,” he said. “From there,
it’s a Sunday drive. Fifteen minutes to the top and then it’s all
Rapunzel.”
Twenty minutes total.
It didn’t seem bad at all, but somehow Paul knew they would be the
longest twenty minutes of his life.