At the moment, the torpedo tubes lay a foot above the surface of the inrushing water.
'Get into the tubes!' Schofield yelled into his mike. 'Into the sub!' Book and Clark did as they were told, and squirming and struggling against the rushing water, entered the submarine.
Sudden silence.
Schofield wriggled out of the torpedo tube last of all and found himself standing inside a Soviet Typhoon-class ballistic missile submarine.
It was a world of cold steel. Racks that had once contained torpedoes occupied the centre of the room. Rows of pipes lined the ceiling. The stench of body odour—the smell of fear, the smell of submariners—filled the air.
Two fat waterfalls of seawater now gushed in through the sub's open torpedo tubes, rapidly filling the cramped room.
It was largely dark in here: the only light, the grey daylight that crept in through the now-flooding torpedo tubes. Schofield and the others flicked on their barrel-mounted flashlights.
'This way,' Schofield said, charging out of the torpedo room, his legs sloshing through the rising water.
The three Marines bolted through the Typhoon's imposing silo hall next—a long high-ceilinged chamber that contained twenty gigantic missile silos; tall tubular structures that rose from floor to ceiling, dwarfing them.
As he ran past the silos, Schofield saw that the access hatches on some of them were open, revealing hollow emptiness inside. The hatches on at least six of the silos, however, remained closed— indicating that they still contained missiles.
'Where to now?' Book II called forward.
Schofield said, 'The control room! I need information on these assholes!'
He hit the nearest rung-ladder on the fly.
Thirty seconds later, Shane Schofield entered the control room of the Typhoon.
Dust lay everywhere. Mould grew in the corners of the room. Only the occasional glinting reflection from his men's flashlights betrayed the shiny metallic surfaces under the dust.
Schofield hurried over to the command platform, to the periscope located there. He yanked the scope up out of the floor, turned to Book II.
'See if you can get some power up. This sub would've been connected to the base's geothermal supply. There might still be some residual power. Fire up the Omnibus central control system. Then get the ESM and radio antennas online.'
'Got it,' Book II said, hurrying away.
The periscope reached its full height. Schofield put his eye to it. A basic optical periscope, it didn't need any electric power to work.
Through it, Schofield saw the dry-dock hall outside—saw the
swirling water filling the pit around the Typhoon—saw a half-dozen mercenaries standing at the edge of the pit, watching it fill with seawater.
Pivoting the periscope, Schofield lifted his view, casting his gaze over the balcony level that overlooked the dry-dock pit.
There he saw more mercenaries, saw one man in particular gesticulating wildly, sending another half-dozen men running toward the gangway that connected the Typhoon's conning tower to the balcony level.
'I see you . . .' Schofield said to the man. 'Book? How's that power coming!'
'Just a second, my Russian's a bit rusty—wait, here it is . . .'
Book flicked some switches and suddenly—vmmm—a small collection of green lights burst to life all around Schofield.
'Okay, try it now,' Book said.
Schofield snatched up a pair of dusty headphones and engaged the sub's Electronic Support Measures antenna—a feature on most modern submarines, an ESM antenna is little more than a roving scanner, it simply trawls over every available radio frequency, searching for activity.
Voices came through Schofield's headset instantly.
'—crazy bastard blew open the fucking sea gate!'
'—they went in through the torpedo tubes. They're inside the sub!''
Then a calmer voice.
As he gazed through the periscope, Schofield saw that it was the commander-type individual up on the balcony level who was speaking.
'—Blue Team, storm the sub via the conning tower. Green Team, find another gangway and use it as a bridge. Split up into two groups of two and enter the sub via the forward and rear escape hatches—'
Schofield listened to the voice intently.
Crisp accent. South African. Calm, too. No sign of pressure or anxiety.
That wasn't a good sign.
Usually a commander who has just seen a dozen of his men swept away by a tidal wave would be somewhat rattled. This guy, however, was completely calm.
'—Sir, this is radar. That first incoming aerial contact has been identified as a Yak-141 strike fighter. It's the Hungarian.'
'—ETA?' the commander asked.
'—Based on current speed, five minutes, sir.'
The commander seemed to ponder this news. Then he said, '—Captain Micheleaux. Send me every other man we've got. I'd like to finish this before our competitors arrive*
'—It will be done,' a French-accented voice replied.
Schofield's mind went into overdrive.
They were about to storm the Typhoon—through the conning tower and the forward and rear escape hatches.
And reinforcements were on their way . . . but from where?
All right, he caught himself. Rewind. Think!
Your enemy. Who are they?
They're a mercenary force of some kind.
Why are they here?
J don't know. The only clue is the missing heads. McCabe and Fan ell's heads . . .
What else?
That South African guy spoke of 'competitors' who were on their way. But it was a strange word to use . . . competitors.
What options do you have?
Not many. We have no contact with our home base; no immediate means of escape; at least not until the Rangers arrive, and that's a minimum of thirty minutes away . . .
Damn it, Schofield thought, a whole half-hour, at the very minimum. That was his enemies' biggest advantage.
Time.
Aside from the 'competitors' they had mentioned, they had all the time in the world to hunt Schofield and his men down.
Then that's the first thing we have to change, Schofield thought. We have to impose a time constraint on this situation.
He looked about himself, assessing the constellation of pilot lights that illuminated the control room.
He had power . . .
Which meant maybe he could—
He thought of the six missile silos down below that had been firmly sealed, while all the others had been opened.
There might still be missiles in them. Sure, the Russians would have removed the warheads, but maybe the missiles remained.
'Here,' Schofield invited Clark to the periscope. 'Keep an eye on the bad guys outside.'
Clark seized the periscope, while Schofield dashed to a nearby console. 'Book. Give me a hand here.'
'What are you thinking?' Book II asked.
'I want to know if the missiles on this sub still work.'
The console came alive when he hit the power switch. A code screen came up and he entered an ISS-obtained all-purpose Soviet code that he had been given at the start of this mission.
Called the 'Universal Disarm Code' it was kind of like an electronic skeleton key, the ultimate skeleton key, designed for use by only the most senior Soviet personnel. It was an eight-digit code that worked on all Soviet-era keypad locks. It had been given to Schofield to overcome any digital keypads at Krask-8. Apparently, there was an American equivalent—known only to the President and a few very senior military figures—but Schofield didn't know that one.