The ROV wanted her to grasp the cable. She waited as the ROV pushed again. When the cable came into reach, she snatched it with the arm’s claw grip.
The ROV gave a quick flash of its lights, then rose and hovered over the approaching bulk cutter. As the big mining machine churned close, the ROV dropped along its side and bumped up against a stubby metal appendage that protruded at a forward angle.
It was a spud, or stabilizer leg, that could be lowered for extra leverage when the cutter was battering through hard rock. The ROV moved up and down along the spud’s flat metal foot and flashed its lights.
Summer understood. She retracted the manipulator arm clear of the bulk cutter’s path and waited.
The churning steel treads shook the seabed as the machine crept across the bottom. The operator held to his prior tracks, driving alongside the Starfish. As its forward treads inched past her viewport, Summer raised the manipulator and aimed it toward the bulk cutter.
When the stabilizer assembly drew within reach, she extended the manipulator and draped the firing cable around the spud’s foot. The bulk cutter moved so slowly, she had ample time to loop the cable a second time before releasing her grip. As the machine crept forward, the loop drew tight, snagging fast on the metal appendage.
The ROV appeared outside the viewport and nodded its approval. With a final flash, it whirred off to follow the bulk cutter. Summer waited a minute, then flicked on the Starfish’s external lights. She saw the detonator tube unraveling from the trench and sliding past her, tailing the cutter. She killed the lights and watched the glow of the assorted mining equipment again recede into the distance.
Summer checked her remaining battery power, then sat back in the cold, dark confines of the submersible, contemplating the mysterious ROV. It had saved her from dying in an explosion, but could it find a way to get her off the bottom?
72
Pitt was contemplating the same question when the rear door of the control room burst open. An armed soldier stepped in, supporting the woozy frame of the ROV operator. The dazed man regained his focus at the sight of Pitt at his workstation.
“That’s him!” He pointed a finger at Pitt. “That’s the man who attacked me. Shoot him!”
Pitt jumped to his feet but refrained from further movement when the soldier leveled his assault rifle on him at point-blank range. The two guards at the front of the room sprinted up a second later. Pitt was now surrounded.
“What’s going on here?” Díaz stepped over to see what the commotion was about. His jaw dropped when he saw Pitt standing by the ROV console.
“I believe you have a submersible of mine,” Pitt said calmly. “I’d like it back.”
The ROV operator stepped forward. “He attacked me and dragged me out of here so he could control the number two ROV.”
Díaz nodded, not taking his eyes off Pitt. “You may have cheated death once, but you won’t a second time. I will personally deliver you to Havana and take a front-row seat at your execution. But before that, you will join me up front… to watch your daughter die.”
He turned to the operator. “Quickly check on the submersible. We’re about to raise the equipment.”
Díaz strode to the front of the room, taking a seat in his command chair. The guards were more diligent this time, taking up positions on either side of Pitt.
Pitt looked up at the video screen and watched the feed from the number two ROV as it circled about the Starfish. For an instant, Pitt saw Summer peering out of the viewport as if expecting a message from the ROV. But this time, it just looked at her coldly.
Pitt remembered the detonator tube and held his breath that the ROV wouldn’t turn the other direction and find it missing. But the ROV operator didn’t think to survey the explosives. He hovered the ROV over the submersible a minute or two, then raised it off the bottom and thrust it toward the distant bulk cutter.
Díaz looked on in satisfaction. “I hope you said good-bye to her, Mr. Pitt,” he said, then addressed the entire room. “All equipment to the surface. Prepare for detonation.”
Four giant winches began turning around the main deck, spooling the cables attached to the bulk cutter, the utility platform, and the two ROVs. Inside the control room, the underwater video feeds turned to snowy images as the equipment was tugged up through the water.
When all four devices were thirty meters off the bottom, Díaz phoned the bridge. “Reposition the ship two hundred meters up-current. We are preparing to detonate.”
The Sea Raker’s propellers churned the sea as the big ship slowly moved off station. A few minutes later, the captain reported they were holding the new position as ordered. Díaz asked the chief mining engineer for an update on the deployed equipment.
“Both ROVs are aboard and the utility platform has just cleared the water. The bulk cutter is ascending slowly and is presently showing a depth of twenty meters.”
“We’re well clear of the shock zone. Let’s proceed with the detonation.” Díaz turned to Pitt. “Would you like the honors?”
Pitt gave him a hard stare. “No. I think the last act belongs to you.”
Díaz stepped to the utility platform’s control panel and placed his finger over the firing cable activator. He smiled at Pitt and pushed the button.
73
Dirk sunk to his knees, waiting for the slugs from Calzado’s assault rifle to tear into his chest as he made a desperate grab for his dropped weapon. Instead, an agonizing bolt of pain shot through his head. His ears felt like they were going to explode, while his skull seemed to vibrate with an intensity that rated a ten on the numeric pain scale.
He thought he had been shot in the head, but as he raised his hands to muffle his ears, he felt no blood. Looking up, he saw that Calzado and his commandos, as well as Giordino, had also fallen to their knees and were crushing their hands against their ears.
Compressing his ears did little to alleviate the pain, but it was an instinctive act of survival against the unseen force. Giordino dropped his hands and reached for the gun at his feet, but the painful auditory assault forced him to abandon the act and return his palms to his ears.
As he cringed from the pain, Dirk noticed a trio of figures emerge from the shadows of the aft deck and slowly approach. They were dressed in commando-style fatigues similar to the Cubans, only black. Curiously, they wore motorcycle-type helmets with thick, dark visors. Two carried assault rifles and were following a third man, who led with an octagonal paddle held in front of him that was wired to a bulky backpack.
The intruders were oblivious to the pain. Drawing closer, the two armed men kicked away the Cubans’ weapons, pulled out flex cuffs, and bound the commandos as they squirmed on the deck. The third intruder eased alongside Dirk and Giordino, keeping his electronic paddle aimed at the Cubans.
The pain eased from Dirk’s ears and he realized the paddle was somehow generating the auditory assault. When all the Cubans were subdued, the man clicked a button on the paddle and lowered it to his side.
Flipping open his visor, Rudi Gunn smiled at his two NUMA friends. “Sorry for the earache. Your little escape attempt forced us to engage sooner than we planned.”
“Rudi, you’re a sight for sore eyes, but that’s as far as it goes,” Giordino said, his ears ringing like the bells of Big Ben at high noon. “What is that torture contraption?”
“It’s called an MRAD, or medium range acoustic device. This is a portable version of a system built for the Navy, used to ward off small-boat attacks or Somali-type pirates. It’s a high-intensity directional acoustic array capable of emitting sound waves at an extremely high volume, which are in turn relatively focused.”