When the submarine reached its apex, it dropped forward sending up a sheet of spray that reached higher than the top of the bridge where Sampson stood. The wave slammed him against the steel wall forcing what felt like gallons of choking salt water down his throat.
Sampson fell to the deck, his big body trembled. As he pulled himself back to the railing, he witnessed the slippery, eel-like skin of the submarine reveal its full length. Just as soon as it had settled into the water, it lunged forward past him. He could not believe its speed and maneuverability when it pushed through the swells cutting across his path and missing his ship by a few scant yards.
The sea frothed with the swirling brass blades of the sub’s twin screws as they cleared his bow. Sampson felt a sigh of relief escape his throat when he realized that as close as the sub had come, it had somehow managed to miss his ship. He gave a nervous laugh at how two enormous vessels could find each other in the middle of an empty ocean, come so close to disaster, and get away without a scratch.
All laughter died with his next breath, and his guts wrenched as the stern of the Carupano lifted out of the water several feet and then dropped back onto the ocean with a crippling concussion. Sampson watched a huge fireball form over the aft deck with a force that peeled the deck back like a sardine can.
The ship shuddered, its modest forward motion dying almost immediately. Black smoke rose up in a thick column with an acid stench assaulting the captain’s nostrils. The heat singed his hair and he covered his eyes as the blast enveloped half his ship.
Sampson found himself on his back, the smell of burnt flesh causing bile to rise in his throat. He pulled himself to a sitting position, looking at the mass of wreckage that used to be his ship.
The captain reached for the railing trying to stand when the second Mark 48 plowed its warhead into the hapless side of the ship. It struck just below the waterline only thirty feet from where he stood. In the next instant the paint on the bridge boiled, the steel deck turned to liquid, and Captain Sampson ceased to exist.
THE RIM
The city plunged into darkness as the air raid sirens wailed. Lights from government buildings and apartments, streetlights, businesses, and automobile headlights were extinguished during the weekly, ten-minute drill. The General Secretary watched from his office window as giant monolithic structures across the sprawling capital disappeared into a black landscape of non-descript shapes.
“What a waste of time,” he said while closing the thick drapes. He turned to face General Cho. “Anyone who watches CNN knows the enemy needs no city lights to target their smart bombs and cruise missiles.”
“A true observation, Beloved Leader.” Cho stood stiffly waiting for the General Secretary to return to his desk. “But it gives our comrade citizens a feeling of security to know we are concerned enough for their safety to conduct such exercises.”
“All it accomplishes is to justify the existence of some of the military dinosaurs that still populate the leadership of the Peoples Army.” The General Secretary sat and rubbed his face with a sense of frustration. “This whole thing has dragged on too long. Mistakes and dependency on pirates and outlaws is all we seem to be able to accomplish. Can the schedule be pushed up?”
“The timing must be precise, Beloved Leader. Taking over the lab too soon may cost us delays later if the Candles are not completed. Moving too late will mean we are at a disadvantage in dealing with Escandoza. I must bring our troops in at just the right moment.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” The General Secretary leaned back and gazed into space. “All preparations are complete in Panama?”
“The freighter Sunan has made the Canal passage many times — it is a legitimate grain hauler. There will be no inspections, no search. Its papers have been cleared in advance. I have made a number of people very wealthy to guarantee it.”
“The Americans did us a favor giving the Canal back to the greedy Panamanians.” He chuckled at the thought. Then he stood and walked around the desk. “You have done well, General. Once we bring our enemies to their knees and unite our two countries into one great nation, I have special plans for you as a reward for your loyal service.”
Chol bowed. “I am unworthy of your praise, Beloved Leader.”
“Go and command our troops to the first of many glorious victories. I only wish I could be there to see you lead our elite commandos when they descend upon the Colombians.”
“We’re losing light,” Candice Stevens said. “Another five minutes and we call it quits.” She planted her hiking boots firmly in the dirt — her khaki shorts and bushman shirt were a few shades darker than the surrounding terrain. To her side, the bank of strobes flashed a dozen times in rapid succession as she aimed the Nikon.
The Navajo model, a seventeen-year-old girl with midnight black hair, moved with grace against the backdrop of the setting Arizona sun. She posed a few yards from the rim of Meteor Crater — a mile-wide, bowl-shaped hole that formed twenty-two thousand years before when a giant nickel-iron ball crashed into the earth. The bleak landscape formed by the collision contrasted to the vibrant colors of the traditional Indian costume the girl wore for the American West photo shoot.
“That’s a rap,” Candice announced. She handed her camera to her assistant, a tall, black man named Carl. He removed the digital memory card as Candice walked over to the girl. “You were excellent.”
“You really think so?” She beamed.
“Absolutely.” Candice gave her a business card. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to have my agent get in touch with you. I can’t guarantee anything, but a mix of natural talent and beauty like yours are hard to find. I feel certain she’ll be able to get you additional shoots. You have a portfolio and up-to-date head shots?”
The young Navajo nodded.
“Have them ready for her.” Candice gave her a smile and thank-you hug. Then she walked over to the grip, a burly man in his late forties with a heavy red beard. “Nice job as always, Mike.”
“Thanks, Candy.” He was busy loosening the brackets holding the strobes and reflectors to the lighting tripods.
Candice went to her silver Grand Cherokee and opened a backpack resting on the front passenger’s seat. Pulling out a cloth, she wiped the dust from her forehead. Then she took a long drink from a bottle of spring water. It was the fourth bottle today — the desert dried her out like an autumn leaf, she thought, while she searched for hand lotion. She took one last look at a clipboard listing the shoot schedule to make sure she had not missed a shot. The magazine was on a shoestring budget — they could not even afford a makeup artist. Candice had performed that task in addition to taking the pictures. Placing the clipboard down, she turned to enjoy the last of the blazing sunset, reminiscent of a Joseph Turner masterpiece she and Matt had enjoyed in London’s Tate Gallery. There was a formation of boulders about fifty yards to the north. She strolled over and sat on one near the crater rim while the crew packed up.
Candice thought of Skyler. She had not heard from him in over a week. There had been the call from the Phoenix right after Matt had arrived in Greenland, and the one short message telling her they had found the cargo plane under the ice. Then nothing. But this was not unusual. After all, Matt was an explorer of the first order — his job took him to the farthest corners of the globe. She was used to not hearing from him for extended periods of time. But he had promised to let her know just as soon as he left Greenland. At that point, the job should be over, he had told her. They planned to meet in Key West and get away for a few days, maybe to some secluded cay in the Bahamas. She should have heard something by now. She would give him hell for not calling, she thought — just before she took him to heaven.