The radio was alive again, with Charon prompting status confirmation from the Hawkbill and the Rushmore.
“Rushmore good to go and standing by,” Garner relayed to the others.
“Hawkbill good to go and standing by,” Krail confirmed. “Godspeed, Matt.”
“God has nothing to do with this,” Charon said.
“Detonation in fifteen seconds on my mark… Mark.”
At exactly 4:20 P.M.” Charon pressed the trigger aboard B-82. A single chirp indicated that the signal had been sent in sequence to each C-4 canister.
For the first few seconds, Charon could hear only the sound of his own breathing.
Aboard the Rushmore, each light on the status board switched from active to fired as each C-4 canister was detonated along the canyon. A moment later, the lights corresponding to the array of cratering charges showed that these, too, had fired completely and successfully.
Aboard the Hawkbill, Krail and the others could only listen to the proceedings outside. The sonar operators put the sound of the detonation on the sub’s intercom system. A muffled whump echoed through the ship as each charge was fired, gradually fading away as the detonations moved farther away from the submarine. It was far too soon to know if the detonations had done any good; for now, the awesome power they were listening to was enough to warrant celebration.
The Hawkbill’s officers shared a knowing wink, as did the geologists and sonar operators — it beat the hell out of listening to the advances of an amorous seal.
The officer of the boat shook Krail’s hand.
“Congratulations, sir,” he said. “The captain wants to know if you also do abandoned buildings and bar mitzvahs.”
Krail smiled but said nothing, his ear cocked to the small speaker in the ceiling. The C-4 explosions had all but ceased; now there came the sound of the landslides created by the collapsed fault — the implosion itself. The seafloor was stirring all along Thebes Deep, not in punctuated explosions, but a slow, grumbling release of energy that suggested something far more powerful than man could ever create.
For the briefest moment, Krail thought of the captain of the ill-fated Scorpion. Was this the same sound he and his men had heard before sinking to their deaths? Then his reverie was broken as Garner hailed him from the Rushmore.
“What the hell is going on, Scott? I thought we were going to take it in stages.”
“We are,” Krail said.
“Not from here, you’re not,” Garner replied. “I show all charges fired.”
Krail moved quickly forward and confirmed this information with the sonar crew.
All the canisters had been fired, leaving them nothing for a second attempt if the first failed.
“Dammit!” Krail yelled, slamming his fist against a bulkhead. “What the hell is going on out there?”
Confusion ricocheted between the various segments of the submarine’s crew, then Krail barked at them to be quiet. As the crew complied, the room was again filled with the sound of earthquakes, rippling along the length of the Devil’s Finger and into Thebes Deep.
“Can we get some kind of trajectory on these aftershocks?” he asked the sonar crew. “A vector on the seismic wave? Something? Anything?”
A moment later, the crew had acquired the data.
“Bearing one-zero three South-southeast, sir. Toward the B-82.”
Krail wheeled and ordered the boat brought to periscope depth.
“Where’s Charon? Get him on the line now!”
It was Garner’s voice that answered the call.
“Scott — the rig is blown!” Garner yelled. “One entire side of B-82 just went up in flames!”
Then came the sound of another muffled explosion, followed by the sound of shredding metal. Krail could only assume this was the collapse of the drilling platform.
“Where the hell is Charon? Did he clear the platform?”
“Negative. Christ, Scott — the whole thing just went up!”
Now Krail had a periscope view of the rig, blazing furiously in the middle of the fog-soaked blizzard.
“You’re closest,” Krail said. “Move! Do whatever it takes to get someone on that rig.”
“On my way,” Garner replied. Below his voice came the sound of pandemonium on the Rushmore before the connection went dead.
In the dive room of B-82, Charon knew he had accomplished his mission just as surely as he knew he was about to die. First the detonation, then the rumbling aftershocks, had shaken the entire structure on its footing. Then came the explosion of the GBS, tearing away at least a third of the structure and throwing the platform into a precarious tilt. Inside the topsides, the concussion from the blast was like a grenade inside a trash can; Charon was thrown to the deck and came up with his ears bleeding.
The communications van, where the trigger console and the bodies of the last three of Charon’s men were located, was showered with debris and flaming crude oil. Among the rig’s emergency systems was an automated forced-water supply designed to extinguish accidental flare-ups, but, left unattended, it would have little impact on a blaze of this size.
As more and more of the topsides was drawn into the inferno, Charon knew he would have to abandon the rig. It had been his plan to leave the rig before the first tremors could travel along the canyon, but he had grossly miscalculated the effect of the C-4. The charges had done their job exactly as planned; Charon had underestimated the recoil effect of the bedrock and the effect of the explosive release of gases trapped in the oil deposits below.
The metal of the disintegrating superstructure screamed and yawned open. Newly molten materials waged war with the blowing snow, releasing sizzling geysers of steam all around him. There was another explosion as he stepped out onto the topsides, and burning oil rained down onto his parka. Rather than beating down the flames, he stripped off his burning clothing and kept moving, down through the structure.
Now it seemed he lacked the luxury of waiting for Krail or the others to arrive.
Charon had never intended to use the JIM suit for an escape, but with the safety capsules instantly destroyed, it would serve adequately as a lifeboat. His revised plan was to contain himself inside the thick carbon-fiber carcass until help arrived. He could then claim ignorance of whatever had gone wrong on the rig and blame Stimson and the others, whose bodies would never be found.
It ordinarily took two men and a chain hoist to prepare and deploy a JIM diver. Out of water, the suit alone weighed nearly four hundred pounds. Charon climbed down into the dive room and wrestled the suit from its wall rack, letting it drop onto the deck, then swiveled the crane holding the helmet into position.