EndWar

The two operators in the back of the crew cabin were already hauling themselves outside, where they took near-instant machine gun fire from the helo as it swooped down again.

Vatz figured that on the next pass the pilot would launch rockets again. He and Beethoven had only seconds to get out of there.

Holding his breath, he forced open the door and climbed out onto the crew cabin door. He gave Beethoven a hand, hoisting the medic up and out. They jumped down to the sidewalk—

Just as the chopper finished its turn and began to descend directly toward them.

Vatz glanced over at Beethoven.

They both knew there was no time to run. The helo would launch rockets, and their lives would be over in a heartbeat.

Yet in that second, in that shared look, they knew what they had to do. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be running; it would be defying the enemy until the end.

So, without a word, they crouched down and began firing at the chopper, as did the rest of his team — if only to rage against the enemy.

And as his clip was about to empty, Vatz closed his eyes, thought of Zack back in that alley. Get ready to buy me a beer, my friend. I’m coming home.

Commander Jonathan Andreas drew in a long breath as tension mounted in the Florida’s control room.

The VA-111 Shkval racing toward them was a solid rocket torpedo that generated a gas cavity, which gave it great speed but precluded a guidance system. Its eight-mile short range classified it as a last-ditch weapon and earned it the title of revenge weapon. The torpedo was most often fired as a “snap shot” back down the bearing of an incoming enemy’s torpedo.

At the moment, Andreas assumed that the commander who had ordered its launch was as surprised to discover him as he was to discover the Shkval.

“Sonar, go active, single ping on bearing three-two-zero!” he ordered.

“Torpedo has rapid right-bearing drift, headed across our bow,” reported the sonar operator.

“Passing fifteen hundred feet, Captain,” said the chief of the watch, making direct eye contact with Andreas.

The sonar operator chimed in again. “Sonar contact, bearing three-two-four, range thirty-five thousand yards, designate contact Sierra One, sir.”

“Emergency blow main ballast—” cried the officer of the deck.

“Belay that!” barked Andreas. “Check the bubble. The bow’s coming up. The planesman has control. Ahead two thirds. Keep water moving across the control surfaces, make your depth eighteen hundred feet.”

“All ahead two thirds, make my depth eighteen hundred feet, aye, sir,” repeated the OOD. “What about that torpedo, sir?”

“He launched an out-of-range snap shot when he heard our emergency backdown. We were sinking like a rock with virtually no forward motion. A two-hundred-knot Shkval can’t be guided. If he cranked in any lead angle, he aimed where we aren’t.”

“Let’s hope his aim continues to be that poor, sir.”

“I think it will.” Andreas regarded the sonar operator. “Talk to me. Anything from Sierra One?”

“Nothing on broadband or narrowband, sir,” replied the operator.

“Engineering, get somebody on that hydraulic glitch. I want a healthy sub when we attack this guy.” Andreas silently scanned the control room, gauging the tension level once more as the hull groaned under the pressure. “All right, consider this a moment to regroup — and remember, if God didn’t want us down here at eighteen hundred feet she wouldn’t have given us HY-100 steel.”

He got one or two chuckles and observed some easing of posture among the men manning the various stations.

After a few more breaths, he added, “Now gentlemen, we might’ve found that missing Borei, the Romanov, and I have every intention of taking her out.” Andreas checked his display. “Flood tubes one and four, equalize the pressure, power up both units, and open muzzle doors.”

The Florida could still operate at virtually any depth with two Mark 48 ADCAP torpedoes powered up and two muzzle doors open.

“Come left to three-two-zero,” he ordered. “We’ll close on datum and see what sonar can sniff out.”

He had ordered them to the target’s last known location. Now they were on the hunt.

Vatz snapped open his eyes at the sound of a terrific boom, followed by a dozen other pops and cracks and groaning sounds, all rising above a tremendous rush of air that knocked him flat onto his back.

As the sky panned overhead and a wave of dizziness crashed over him like a twelve-foot breaker, he rolled onto his side, blinked hard, and looked up again.

The Ka-29 had burst apart and crashed into the street, long draperies of fire and smoke rising high.

Beyond it, engines booming, soared an A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as a Warthog or just Hog, a twin-engine jet designed to provide close air support for ground troops.