Whitehouse grinds his teeth. Just like the Americans, always late. “Slow to one-third. Prepare to launch ASDS.”
The Advanced SEAL Delivery System, or ASDS, is a fifty-five-ton minisub designed to transport a SEAL squadron from a surface ship or submarine to an objective area. Resembling a pygmy sperm whale, the blunt-nosed vessel is capable of descending to depths of 190 feet over a range of 125 miles.
Gunnar is strapped in at the pilot’s chair, General Jackson, Rocky, and David seated in the rear. Pulling back on the joystick, he eases the minisub up and away from the Vengeance, the ship’s turbulence rolling the smaller vessel as it continues its southeasterly course.
Gunnar focuses on his control panel, listening at sonar. The noise from the British sub grows quiet in the distance, replaced by the ambient sounds of the sea.
Beads of sweat break out along his brow. Like most subs, the ASDS has no viewports through which to see. Somewhere in this white noise of ocean are two killer vessels, one friend, the other foe.
He increases his speed to eight knots, listening and waiting.
The mammoth steel stingray glides slowly over the seafloor, the turbulence from its five pump-jet propulsors barely disturbing the sandy bottom. Rising majestically, it scatters a school of mackerel as it overtakes the minisub, its winged hull dwarfing the ASDS like a dog to a flea.
A forty-foot-long rectangular hatch suddenly opens along the belly of the mechanical beast, inhaling the sea and the SEAL minisub into its flooding compartment.
“What the hell—” Gunnar fights the controls as the minisub twists upward and sideways within a sudden, powerful torrent.
General Jackson smashes his shoulder against an equipment rack. “Gunnar—”
Sonar echoes off steel walls, alerting Gunnar to his new environment. Cursing under his breath, he shuts down the minisub’s engine as the mechanical sounds of a hatch closing reverberate beneath them.
The ASDS lands upright with a double whomp inside the water-filled compartment of the Colossus.
“What a ship,” says David, beaming. “Sneaked up on us and shanghaied the minisub before we ever knew she was there. Can I build a stealthy ship, or what?”
Rocky shoots him a look to kill.
Gunnar shares her sentiments. “Your captain’s got some set of balls, pulling a stunt like that.”
“Best in the business,” David brags, missing the point.
The sounds of heavy pumps from the draining compartment echo around them. Moments later, a metallic rap along the outer hull signals the all clear sign.
Gunnar opens the rear hatch, stepping out into the light.
Standing at rigid attention, waiting to greet them, is the ship’s CO, an African American in his early thirties carrying the physique of a track star. Next to him is a smaller man with sand-colored hair, the sub’s executive officer.
David steps forward to make the introductions. “General Jackson, this is Commander Anthony Lockhart, captain of the Colossus, and his XO, Christopher Terry.
The African American flashes a confident smile. “Welcome aboard the Colossus, sir. I trust you had a safe trip.”
“An interesting way to greet us, Commander. You should have warned us before swallowing us like that.”
Lockhart loses the smile. “She’s a quiet ship, sir. I don’t expect your pilot heard us coming. Thought it might be safer if we extracted you from the sea instead of alerting you and, potentially, the Goliath.”
“Agreed. This is Commander Jackson-Hatcher, and Captain Gunnar Wolfe.”
Lockhart shakes Rocky’s hand, then eyes Gunnar. “You played for Penn State, right?”
“About ten years ago. Wait a sec … Lockhart? Jackson State QB?”
Lockhart nods. “Quarterbacked two years before I blew out my knee. But you—the NFL had you slated to go in the third round.”
“Second.” Gunnar smiles. “But duty called.”
“I do know the feeling.” Lockhart turns to the general. “We’re shadowing the Vengeance, giving her six miles of sea to play with. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to detect the Goliath until she makes a move on the British sub, but then, she won’t know we’re in the area either. Captain Wolfe, Commander Terry will escort you to your minisub, I’m sure you’ll want to check her out.”
Gunnar nods.
“David, my computer people have been requesting your presence ever since we made weigh.”
“Is there a problem?”
Lockhart offers a tight grin. “Let’s just say we’ve experienced a few technical challenges.”
“That’s to be expected,” David says. “The Colossus shakedown cruise wasn’t even scheduled until April.”
“I’m sure any help you can render would be greatly appreciated.”
David grabs his satchel and hurries forward.
Lockhart looks to the general. “I’m needed in the conn. If you and Commander Jackson would like to join me?”
Rocky and her father follow him out.
“This way, Captain.” Commander Terry leads Gunnar around the minisub to the other end of the hangar.
Gunnar looks around, the chamber’s surroundings strangely familiar. He has seen all this before—in a virtual reality tour of the Goliath.
The hangar bay is a gymnasium-size compartment located at the very center of the sub. Dominating the room, mounted to the rubber-coated decking, are two imposing T-Rex-sized steel appendages. Gunnar is familiar with the design of these mechanical limbs. With advanced pistons for muscles, miles of hose, wiring, and cable for blood vessels, nanoreceptors for nerves, and hydraulic cranks serving as shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints, the cranelike arms are capable of the most intricate three-dimensional movements while lifting objects as large and as heavy as an ICBM.
Without Sorceress on board, it takes a trained robotics operator to manipulate each of Colossus’s monstrous appendages.
Set upon the deck in pairs are a dozen twenty-foot-high-by-eight-foot-wide hatches, which Gunnar knows are lockout berths containing Colossus Hammerhead minisubs. Each of the piloted craft are identical to the prototype he designed a lifetime ago.
Reading his mind, Commander Terry says, “The berths are empty. None of Colossus’s Hammerheads were ready. Your prototype is over here.”
Mounted on a skid atop berth 9’s raised platform is the Hammerhead.
Gunnar runs his palm along its smooth aluminum surface. Designed to be piloted by a Navy SEAL, the prototype is slightly larger than the computer-controlled versions. The midwing stabilizers, shaped like pectoral fins, are wider, the tail assembly, containing the single-engine, pump-jet propulsor unit, a bit longer.
Still, this is his sub, his design. His heart pounds with excitement at the thought of piloting her again.
Commander Terry kneels, pointing beneath the Hammerhead’s undercarriage to where a manhole cover-size device is held within the grasp of two robotic claspers. “Special Ops designed the mine to your specifications. The release mechanism for the claw is located on the right side of the cockpit floor.”
“Yes, Commander, I know. I designed it.”
The XO does little to hide his contempt. Climbing up on the sub, he reaches for the dorsal fin hatch, yanking it counterclockwise with both hands.
The hatch rotates open, revealing the two-seat cockpit inside. Commander Terry reaches inside and removes a machine gun-like rifle designed with two barrels and two magazines, one below the trigger, the other built into the butt of the weapon.