Authors: Philip Donlay
“Before you go,” Hays said, evenly. “How high up the chain of command did you have to go to get clearance for this mission?”
“The President,” Donovan replied, then swung himself through the door and left the pilots with dismayed expressions on their faces. He used both arms to suspend himself as he slid down the ladder from the cockpit to the main cargo deck. The beating of the Sikorsky's huge main rotor blades began to fill his ears. Donovan jumped to the tarmac and ran to the rear of the C-17. At least twenty men stood by and reacted as Taylor barked orders. A metal pallet had been positioned on the loader, which in turn had been wheeled out onto the open ramp away from the C-17. It only took Donovan a moment to understand what Taylor had in mind. He was going to have the
Atlantic Star
lowered directly on the loader, which could then easily slide inside the rear door of the C-17. The thumping of the blades resonated in his chest as the helicopter came to a hover directly over them. Heavy exhaust from the three powerful turbine engines filled his nose as the rotor wash buffeted him.
“YOU MUST BE NASH!” a man shouted.
Donovan turned and found a young man, arm outstretched. Almost as tall as Donovan was, the man's muscles pushed against his tee shirt as if threatening to rip the fabric. Donovan found an open yet chiseled face. The man looked at him with welcoming, friendly eyes. But Donovan immediately sensed something cold and dangerous behind them. The stranger seemed oblivious to the noise from overhead.
“I can't hear you!” Donovan yelled. He shook the offered hand as they both looked up at the hovering Sikorsky. Donovan studied the ungainly submarine. It was twenty-two feet long, one large white cylinder with two smaller tubes attached near the keel. A row of windows marked the side of the passenger compartment. The section of the hull that housed the main hatch
jutted up from the main superstructure. The
Atlantic Star
bristled with various small directional thrusters, as well as a battery of searchlights. In the rear was the single main thruster, larger than the others and shrouded in a metal casing. The entire vessel rested on sturdy iron skids.
Donovan held his breath as the helicopter crew expertly set the
Atlantic Star
down exactly where Taylor wanted. When the signal was given, the cable was released and the Sikorsky clawed upward and climbed away. Where was his sub pilot? Peggy had assured him that a man by the name of Billy Graff had been briefed; he'd volunteered for the mission, but Donovan didn't know him. Peggy had explained he wasn't an Eco-Watch employee, but was fully qualified to pilot the
Atlantic Star
. So engrossed with the process he'd witnessed, Donovan had forgotten about the man standing next to him.
“Mr. Nash. I'm Lieutenant Howard Buckley, U.S. Navy SEALs. Everyone calls me Buck. I understand you might need a little help?”
“Lieutenant BuckleyâBuck.” Donovan silently thanked General Porter. “You know what it is we're trying to do here?”
“Yes, sir. You're going to drop that piss-ant little sub out the back of this C-17 to try to save some people. Is that right?”
“Something like that. Though I'm not sure it's really a pissant little sub.”
“Sorry, sir,” Buck said. “Last submarine I was on was a Los Angeles class attack boat.”
Donovan couldn't help but be struck by the quiet air of confidence the man possessed. “You sure you're interested? I'm kind of making this up as I go.”
“It's why I volunteered, sir.”
“Why would you do that?” Donovan couldn't help but ask.
“Because General Porter and I are friends. He called personally and asked me if I could lend a hand. As a favor to the
President. You're going to need someone with ocean rescue training once the sub is in the water. I've taken the liberty of having some of our specialized equipment sent over. It should be here any second.”
“Glad to have you aboard. First order of business is to quit calling me sir. My name is Donovan. And right now we're at the mercy of Sergeant Taylor. He's the loadmaster on this thing. I'm also short one sub pilot.”
“Is that him?” Buck pointed toward the
Atlantic Star
.
Donovan turned and saw the top hatch of the sub open. A bearded man with a bald head lifted himself out of the
Atlantic Star
. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a tattered tank top. He wore flip-flops on his feet.
“That must be him.” Donovan set off in the direction of the sub.
“Mr. Graff.” Donovan waved at the bearded man. Buck stayed close to his side. “I'm Donovan Nash.”
“Mr. Nash.” Billy Graff let himself down from the sub and dropped to the ground. “Glad we could finally meet. I've heard a lot about you.”
Despite his aging beachcomber appearance, Donovan was struck by Graff's intelligent eyes and earnest handshake.
“Is the
Atlantic Star
ready?” Donovan stepped back as the loader began to slowly inch its way toward the ramp that lead up into the C-17.
Graff nodded, “Everything's good to go. You're lucky I was around. Another fifteen minutes and I'd have been down at the harbor bar having a beer.”
Donovan caught sight of Graff's earring and stopped in his tracks. “I don't want to sound ungrateful for your help, but exactly who are you, Mr. Graff?”
“I work for Submersible Technologies, the company that builds these. I was called out by Eco-Watch to help oversee some
modifications. And yes, Peggy, your most efficient assistant, explained what we're doing. I have to tell you I was a little hesitant to volunteer at first.”
“Mr. Graff. I'm Howard Buckley. How fast can this thing dive?”
“A maximum performance dive is somewhere close to seventy-five feet per minute,” Graff explained. “To a maximum depth of 1,000 feet. On a good day we can make it in less than fifteen minutes.”
“How many pounds per square inch can the hull withstand?” Buck probed further.
“If you're asking about the shock wave from a nuclear detonation, we're fine. It's the acoustic shock I'm concerned about,” Graff explained. “As you know, sound travels very well underwater, and there's going to be one very loud bang when the thing goes off. I'm a little worried about the acrylic windows and forward observation dome. Sound waves can do funny things.”
“How do we avoid that problem?” Buck scratched his chin as he pondered the information.
“If we can get below 600 feet I think the thermocline will deflect much of the acoustic wave. At least in theory.”
Donovan pictured the stratified layers of the ocean, knowing the thermocline was a naturally occurring temperature inversion. What Graff explained made sense.
“That'll have to do.” Buck nodded as a Navy truck pulled up and stopped next to the C-17. “Excuse me gentlemen. My equipment has arrived.”
“Mr. Graff. What changed your mindâ¦about volunteering?” Donovan kept one eye on the sub pilot, another on the truck that Buck and several other men were starting to unload.
Graff looked both ways, then lowered his voice. “At first I thought the idea was insane. But, if we manage to pull this off, it'll be the best marketing tool I could have ever hoped for. That, and
a man named William VanGelder was very persuasive. He offered me two million dollars.”
“You help Sergeant Taylor get this thing secured properly in the next ten minutes and I'll add another million.”
“Ten minutes it is. But you have to understand one thing. When it's time to dive this sub, the hatch closes. No arguments.”
“Fair enough,” Donovan nodded in agreement.
“Good. Just so you and I are on the same page.” Graff turned and scurried up the ramp to oversee the attention being lavished on the
Atlantic Star
.
Donovan's head was swimming. He'd been on the ground for less than half an hour, and each tick of the clock added another twist to the knot in his stomach. An officer came running up to Donovan.
“The C-17 commander says he's fueled and ready to go. We're just waiting for the word from the loadmaster.”
“Thanks.” Donovan turned and jogged toward the side of the C-17. Buck had just brought Taylor out from the rear of the plane to look at something. As Donovan approached he could hear Taylor's astonishment.
“You're kidding me!” He gave Buck a look of amazement. “You have these in your inventory?” Taylor knelt down to inspect the crate.
“How much longer?” Donovan called out. His tension had started to build even higher as he began to understand how much was left to do. He couldn't imagine why Taylor was smiling from ear to ear.
“I think our friend here solved our biggest problem.” Taylor turned and shouted an order to a group of men standing close. “Uncrate this and carefully move it into the plane. Let's look sharp, men. I'll be right in to help get it positioned.”
Donovan watched as the men descended on the wooden box. “What is it?”
“It's called GPADS,” Taylor said with enthusiasm. “It stands for Guided Parafoil Delivery System. It's a single parafoil, over 7,000 square feet of silk. Forget about the cluster of eight G-11s, one of these will do nicely.”
“What's the maximum payload?”
“It's been tested up to 35,000 pounds,” Buck recited.
“Minimum drop altitude?”
“2,000 feet,” Buck stated, evenly.
“Beautiful.” Taylor rubbed his hands together as the canister was lifted from the crate. “Okay, men, this way, and be careful!”
“Your doing?” Donovan looked at Buck.
“A little something we've been tinkering with.” Buck reached down and gathered up his wetsuit and harness, mask, and flippers. I'm ready when you are.”
“Sergeant Taylor, how much longer till we can roll?” Donovan asked as the heavy GPADS was carried off toward the waiting C-17.
“Give me five minutes to make sure I have everything I need. Once the sub is secured in the cargo compartment we can go. I'll rig the chute and harness when we're airborne. How we doing on time?”
“If we can be in the air in ten minutes.” Donovan looked at his watch and did the calculations. “We'll be at the drop zone with about forty minutes to play with.”
“That's cutting it pretty close,” Buck said, as he envisioned the task at hand.
Donovan's head was beginning to pound from the stress. He knew once they were in motion he'd be fine. But all this organized chaos just added to his stress level.
“She with you?” Buck glanced at Donovan, then motioned behind him.
Donovan turned and found Erin running at full speed across the ramp toward them. He'd told Frank and Nicolas to keep her on the plane. She must have slipped out on her own. In his mind,
she was now nothing but a liability.
“Donovan!” Erin gasped as she came to a stop. “General Porter is on the phone. He says it's urgent!”
“Go!” Buck urged. “We can plan the rest of this once we're airborne.”
“When I see the main cargo door close, I'll run over and jump on,” Donovan yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the
da Vinci
.
“Sorry,” Frank confessed as Donovan pounded up the stairs, taking them three at a time. “She bolted out of here before we could stop her.”
“Don't worry about it. Which phone?” Donovan replied, winded from running.
“In the back.”
Donovan covered the distance quickly. He threw himself into the chair and snatched the receiver while keeping one eye on the C-17.
“Nash here.”
“Captain Nash. I understand you're a go at that end. How close are you to leaving?”
“In a matter of minutes, I hope.”
“Two things. First, the eye is starting to shrink even further. It's now less than eight miles across. As you know, our primary targeting information was going to come from the
Galileo
. Our experts at this end think the device should be detonated at 25,000 feet, but there is some debate on this. I'd sure like to hear Dr. McKenna's opinion. She is, after all, at the scene.”
“I think we could relay that information once we're out there.” Donovan hated the thought of Lauren directing the bomb on top of herself and the others.
“Good. Is Lieutenant Buckley with you?”
“He's in the C-17. We've just loaded the
Atlantic Star
.”
“Very well. Could you please inform him that one of the
scientists on your airplane is a suspected spy. It's Dr. Carl Simmons. It's information he should be made aware of.”
“I'll brief him, sir. I've met Dr. Simmons.” Across the busy ramp the rear doors of the C-17 begin to close. “I have to go, General. Thanks for all your help.”
“Godspeed, Captain Nash.”
Donovan dropped the phone and headed toward the door of the Gulfstream. He slowed at the expectant faces of Nicolas and Frank.
“Go bring them home.” Frank reached out and grasped Donovan's hand. Volumes of unspoken words passed between the two men.
Donovan nodded, deeply touched by the loyalty and friendship of his crew.
“They're moving!” Nicolas pointed out the door as the giant C-17 began to slowly wheel around.
“See you guys later!” Donovan hoped he could keep his promise as he leaped to the ground and ran toward the slowly taxiing cargo plane. As he neared the C-17, a side door opened and Buck stood in the entrance.
Donovan timed his jump perfectly, gripping Buck's waiting hand. He was pulled into the stark interior of the C-17. The instant the door was shut, the C-17 began to taxi faster. Donovan followed Buck's lead and pulled a retractable seat from a bulkhead. The two men quickly strapped themselves in.
“Mind if I ask what General Porter wanted?” Buck casually crossed his legs.
“He wanted to tell me the eye is getting smaller, and so is our window of opportunity.”