John Avery - Black Cobra

“Shift to battery,” Pankov ordered. "Close fin hatch and open motor room doors and air locks. Port and starboard motors slow reverse.”

Jason engaged the electric motors and Pankov slowly backed Cobra out from under the white tarpaulin.

Aaron felt the sub lurch backward and he glanced around the Forward Torpedo Room. “I think we’re moving ,” he said, keeping his voice low. The girls looked at each other in agreement.

Aaron’s throat went dry as suddenly his escape plan was thrown out the window.

Just then Ashley jerked awake, looking around. “W-what happened?” she said groggily. Aaron looked at her hopefully, but she still didn’t know him from Adam.

“Prepare to dive,” Pankov ordered. “Close snorkel… close diesel exhaust valve. Sound dive alarm and dive to one-and-a-half meters; 5 degree trim on bow, course 180 degrees. Up periscope.”

Jason and Uri scrambled to keep up with Pankov’s rapid fire orders.

I knew we couldn’t do this with three crewmen, Uri thought bitterly.

“Port and Starboard motors slow forward,” Pankov said. “Open Kingston Valve Bow and Stern Group Ballast Tanks. Open Ventilation Valve Bow and Stern Group Ballast Tanks. Open Kingston Valve Middle Group Ballast Tanks. Open Ventilation Valve Middle Group Ballast Tanks. Extend Forward Dive Planes.”

“Depth one and a half meters, sir,” Jason said.

“Close Ventilation Valves,” Pankov said. “Maintain present depth. Down all masts.”

Navigating by periscope, Pankov sailed Cobra slowly away from the docks, arcing around the Midway Aircraft Carrier and out into the main channel of San Diego Bay.

“Depth below keel?” Pankov said.

Jason was relieved to finally see some water under them. “Nine meters, Captain.”

“Open Ventilation Valves,” Pankov said. “Dive to seven meters, 5 degree trim on bow, come left 15 degrees.”

His skeleton crew did as ordered and Cobra submerged for the first time in twenty years.

“I hope she holds up, Captain,” Uri Ruden said as they dropped below the surface. The creaking of corroded steel and the appearance of numerous small leaks made him wonder.

Pankov rested his hand fondly on one of Cobra's steel bulkheads. “She may be old, Uri, but she’s sturdy,” he assured him. “Jason, what is the sounding?"

“Five meters below keel, Captain."

"Increase speed to one-third. Come left 30 degrees and level off at periscope depth. Adjust fore-and-aft trim."

Pankov steered Cobra southeast toward the Coronado Bridge, where he instructed his crew to turn the sub 180 degrees, facing them north, toward the cruise ship Neau Islander .

“All stop!” he ordered.

“ Aaron? " Katya asked, startled. "Am I imagining things, or is there more water in here than there used to be?”

Aaron saw that she was right. There was a sizable crack somewhere in the pressure hull, and seawater was flooding in. They had to get the hell out of the Forward Torpedo Room, and soon.

Captain Zaane stood in Neau Islander’s wheelhouse checking his watch. 8:09 p.m.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said to his officers. “Let’s be underway.”

The First Officer gave the order.

PHOOOOOOOOOOT!

Even at that distance, and at periscope depth, Pankov could hear that Captain Zaane was preparing to sail. He checked his watch. 8:10 p.m.

Within a few minutes he heard the ship’s horn sound again.

PHOOOOOT! PHOOOOOT! PHOOOOOT!

The triple blast indicated that the huge cruise ship was backing away from the dock. Pankov put his eye to the periscope and waited until he spotted Neau Islander heading slowly out past the Midway Aircraft Carrier.

He checked his watch. 8:25 on the nose. Very impressive, Captain Zaane , he thought, smiling to himself.

A rush of adrenaline surged through him, a rush he hadn’t felt since the Cuban Missile Crisis back in 1962. This was where he was happiest, here surrounded by skilled officers, working together to achieve a common goal. This was where Captain Vtorak Borisovich Pankov of the Soviet Navy belonged.

“All ahead one-third,” he ordered.

Pankov skillfully maneuvered Cobra beneath Neau Islander’s tremendous prop-wash. The turbulence shook the old submarine like a rubber duck in a Jacuzzi, as new leaks popped up all around him.

“Steady at periscope depth,” Pankov said as they followed Captain Zaane west toward the nuclear submarine base near the mouth of the harbor.

“There are shoaling waters to starboard, Captain,” Jason cautioned. “Be especially careful when nearing the southern tip of Shelter Island. Stay directly behind the cruise ship and keep us off the bottom.”

As they neared Ballast Point, Pankov spotted the bait barges through the scope, followed by the large security floats surrounding the nuclear submarine base.

He gave the order to slow, and the turbulence stopped as Zaane and his Neau Islander continued on out of the harbor and into the Pacific Ocean.

Maintaining periscope depth, and constant visual contact with the submarine base, Pankov slid Cobra under the long row of bait barges.

He checked his watch. 8:55 p.m.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Prepare to fire.”

Uri Ruden ran to the Forward Torpedo Room to prepare tube 5 for firing. He ducked through the watertight hatch and was alarmed when his feet splashed into a foot of rising water. He froze for a moment, knowing he should inform Pankov immediately.

Aaron saw his chance and leaped out from behind the torpedo rack, sinking the 3-inch blade of his pocket survival knife deep into Uri’s back. Uri lurched forward, blood spewing from his mouth, reaching desperately behind his back trying to identify the offending object.

The girls recoiled in horror and struggled against their bindings.

Aaron had hoped to pierce Uri’s heart but had hit a lung instead. He pulled the knife out with a stiff jerk and drove it deep again. This time blood gushed over the knife handle and Aaron knew the blade had hit home. He braced himself and gripped hard, pulling his knife free, as Uri splashed lifeless into the rising seawater.

Breathing hard and soaked to the skin, Aaron stepped back and wiped the blade on his thigh. The girls stared at him in disbelief.

He quickly folded the knife into his pocket and then scrabbled around underwater for Uri’s gun, whacking it on his thigh several times to remove any excess water.

“I’m taking us to the Captain's Cabin,” he said to the others. “We’ll be as safe there as anywhere until I figure out what the hell to do.”

Then, at last, to their infinite relief, he cut the girls loose.

Commander Adam Byrd stood on the bridge of the nuclear submarine, USS Hampton. He checked his wristwatch. 8:50 p.m.

He waited as the massive cruise ship Neau Islander slowly cleared Ballast Point, and then, at precisely 9:00 p.m., he maneuvered his billion-dollar vessel, along with its priceless cargo, the President of the United States, carefully out into San Diego Bay.

Suddenly the boat’s chief sonar operator’s eyes went wide as something unexpected came into his headphones. For a second he thought it was a submarine .

“Sir, I think you need to hear this,” he said.