Clive Cussler: Devil's Gate

For a full minute it would spread across the American capital, panning back and forth and wreaking havoc and destruction.

He looked over at Cochrane. “Initiate and fire,” he said calmly.

IN THE THRUSTER ROOM of the Onyx , Kurt found what he needed: the thick high-voltage lines he’d seen in the reactor room. The blue lines, he thought, remembering the schematic. They were routed through the accelerator and then back to the Fulcrum.

That was his only shot. He stepped toward them, swinging the ax and releasing it at the last instant to avoid being electrocuted when it cut into the cables.

The blade hit, and released a massive shower of sparks. A blinding flash of electricity snapped across the gap like man-made lightning, and the entire ship was plunged into darkness.

Kurt was thrown to the deck by the blast. His face felt burnt. For several seconds the compartment was in absolute darkness. The motors of the bow thrusters rattled loudly and began winding down. Finally, the emergency lights came on, but, to Kurt’s great joy, nothing else seemed to have power.

He hoped it was enough. He hoped it had been done in time.

UP ON THE SHIP’S BRIDGE, Andras stared. The ship had gone black, and in the dark of the night it seemed as if the world had vanished. Seconds later the emergency lights had come on.

At first he feared the array had somehow overloaded the system. He reached forward, tapping at the Fulcrum’s controls and flicking the toggle switch on the side of the unit. He got no response, not even a standby light.

A second later some of the basic systems came back online, and Andras looked around hopefully.

“It’s just the one-twenty line,” one of the engineers said. “The high voltage is still down.” The man was flicking a few switches of his own to no effect. “I have no thrusters, no power to the array. No power to the accelerator.”

Andras leaned forward to check the Fulcrum array visually. It stood there, spread out like the canopy of a giant tree that had somehow sprouted from the center of the ship, but it was dead. Not even the blinking red warning lights were illuminated anymore.

He grabbed the joystick that had raised it into position and fiddled with it for a second, then flung the controller aside with great bitterness.

“Damn you, Austin!” he shouted.

After a moment to reflect he realized that power could be restored. He just needed to make sure Austin wasn’t around to cut it a second time. He grabbed his rifle and checked the safety.

“Get somebody down there to reroute the high-voltage lines,” he ordered. “We’ll try again, once it’s up and running.”

The engineer nodded.

Another man looked over at Andras from the far corner of the bridge. “What do we tell Garand if he calls?”

“Tell him… he missed.”

With that, Andras stormed out of the bridge, a single thought burning his mind: Austin must be destroyed.

THE TENSION in the Pentagon’s Situation Room had grown as tight as a drum. The proverbial pin dropping would have sounded like a cannon shot.

One of the staffers, with a hand to the earphone of the headset he wore, relayed a message.

“We’re confirming a discharge from the Quadrangle site,” he said. “Continuous discharge… Duration at least sixty seconds.” No one moved. They all stared at the screen and waited for the inevitable. Unlike ballistic missiles with their seventeen-minute approach time, it should have taken only a blink.

Ten seconds later the lights were still on, the computers still running.

Everyone began to look around.

“Well?” Vice President Sandecker asked.

A female staffer spoke up. “The networks are still broadcasting live,” she said. “No sign of impact or damage.” Brinks’s face began to fill with color again. He turned to Dirk Pitt. “Your man did it,” he said hopefully.

“His name’s Austin,” Pitt said.

“Well, you give him my thanks along with the country’s,” Brinks said. “Along with my apology for being a bigmouthed idiot.” Pitt nodded, guessing that Kurt Austin would enjoy all three. He turned to the Navy brass in the room. “He’s going to need a way off that ship.” “Already on it,” one of them replied, smiling.

That pleased Pitt. But they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Up on the monitor the icons that represented the USS Memphis and the USS Providence were flashing. A new ship’s status was being reported. They were going into battle.

THE USS MEMPHIS had come up from the depths, just beyond the edge of the continental shelf. Holding station there, it had begun pinging away madly with the powerful sonar in its bow.

This was not normal operating procedure, as it gave away the ship’s position, but the plan was to draw Garand’s fleet of small subs out from its bay and allow the Trouts and Rapunzel to sneak in behind them.

A further effect of the violent sonar emissions would likely be confusion and even terror on the part of the enemy.

Inside the sub’s control room the sonar operator could see the plan working almost too well.

“Five targets approaching,” he called out. “Labeled bravo one through bravo five.” “Do we have firing solutions?” the sub’s skipper asked.

The fire control officer hesitated. His computer kept flashing green for yes and then red for no.

“The subs are so small, and continually changing direction, the computer can’t create a solution.” “Then fire on acoustic mode,” the captain ordered. “On my mark.” “Ready, sir.”

“Fire from all tubes.”

Over a period of five seconds compressed air launched six Mark 48 torpedoes from the Memphis ’s midships tubes.

Seconds later the sonar man heard a different sound. “Incoming torpedoes,” he called out. “Bearing zero-four-three and three-five-five. At least four fish.” There were torpedoes approaching from the right front quadrant and the left. It took away their ability to maneuver.

“Hard to starboard,” the captain shouted. “Full revolutions, bow planes full up. Deploy countermeasures.” The ship turned, accelerated, and rose toward the surface. The countermeasures designed to draw off the approaching torpedoes were dumped in the water behind them.

Submarine battles were slow-motion versions of aerial dogfights. And the wait as a torpedo tracked inbound could be interminable.

Ten seconds passed and then twenty.

“Come on, go,” the skipper grunted.

The sub rose fast.

“One miss,” the sonar man reported. Then seconds later, “We’re clear.” They’d managed to avoid the incoming weapons. But the Memphis wasn’t as nimble as the small craft it was fighting. Like a bear tangling with a pack of wolves, she wouldn’t last long. As if to prove it, the sonar man called out again.

“New targets, bearing zero-nine-zero.” “Full down angle,” the captain ordered.

In the distance a series of explosions rocked the depths as two of the torpedoes from the Memphis found their marks in quick succession. But there was no celebration; their own troubles were too close.

“Bottom coming up fast, skipper,” the helmsman reported.

“Level off,” the captain said. “More countermeasures.” The bow angle eased. Another explosion rocked them from far off, but the sonar man looked stricken.

He turned to the captain, shaking his head. “No good.” An instant later the Memphis was hit. Anyone not seated and belted in was thrown to the floor. The main lights went down. The sound of alarms wailed throughout the ship.