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Byrd pointed to four shadows near the top of the sonar monitor. They marked the pylons that keptTitan Station Upfloating on the surface. Only now those crisp outlines were blurry blobs.
“The bastards are trying to take the station down,” Byrd said.
As they watched, huge shapes tumbled through the water, marking sections of the massive complex falling toward them.
Byrd ignited the thrusters and got them moving. The engines fought the dead weight of their sub.
Kowalski watched a large piece—easily thirty or forty meters across—cleaving straight toward them. “Not going to clear it in time.”
Byrd pushed his yoke forward. “I don’t dare burn out our thrusters.”
“Better that than being sliced in half.”
The tier gained more speed.
Kowalski winced, expecting to be struck at any moment. Movement elsewhere on the sonar screen drew his eye. It rose from the right side. It sped toward them, angling downward. He had spent enough years in the Navy to recognize that signature.
He shouted it to Byrd. “Torpedo!”
25
January 24, 7:38A.M.NZDT
Pacific Ocean, six hundred miles NE of Auckland
Two hundred feetabovethe ocean, Monk struggled to hide from what lurkedbelow. He stood on the bridge of theTitan X. It was housed in an observation platform—a glass-walled wedge—that sat atop the lofty bow of the yacht. The windows offered a panoramic 360-degree view of the ship and ocean.
Behind him, the thirteen-story sphere of Science City sat like a black sun on the yacht’s aft end. It glowed from its interior lights, but a thick coating of ash shrouded its upper levels. Ahead of him, to the east, five fiery mountains glowed. They marked the chain of the volcanic Kermadec Islands. Fed by those smoking plumes, the skies had fallen lower, about to smother theTitan X. Lone bolts and long chains of lightning flashed up there in a code known only to the gods.
Otherwise, the ocean lay dark and menacing all around them. The rolling waves were dull and heavy with powder. Farther east, the sun had surely risen, but there was no sign of it. The world was stuck at an eternal midnight.
The captain of theTitan X—a squat Aussie in a beige jumpsuit—called over from bridge control. “We’re picking up something on radar. A big boat. Coming in bloody fast. Seventy knots.”
Monk winced. “How far off?”
“Fifteen kilometers and closing.”
Monk did some fast math.
It’ll reach us in six minutes.
He swore and leaned a palm on the communication station. His other hand—the prosthetic one—clutched a radio. He had to refrain from crushing it in his grip. He stared at the CCTV monitor. It showed a view out the stern hold. Men scrambled around and on top of theCormorant, looking like a NASCAR pit crew. The vehicle still hung in its A-frame over the water.
Monk lifted his radio. “Bryan, we have company coming. We need to launchnow. Do you copy?”
Monk swallowed, waiting for the pilot’s response. When it did come, it was preceded by a string of expletives that would make a Marine blush and ended with a firm declarative.
“I need at least another twenty minutes!”
“You havetwo. There’s an unknown craft speeding toward us. It’s not likely to be friendly. You want to be well gone by the time that boat gets here.”
Bryan’s next words were neither agreement nor dissent, just anger. “Fuck it then.”
On the screen, the activity around theCormorantsped up.
Monk turned to the bridge control. “Captain Stemm?”
“Twelve klicks out,” the Aussie reported. His face was as red as the shock of hair trapped under his cap. “I’m cutting engines.”
