Sea of Greed

ON THE GROUND, still hiding in the old Russian helicopter, Priya heard the Monarch take off, noting its departure with mixed feelings. Tessa and her crew being gone meant she was less likely to be discovered, but the aircraft’s successful takeoff also meant Joe had failed. He might even have been captured or killed. And if the Monarch was departing on a mission to obliterate Kurt, Paul and Gamay, then Priya had run out of time to finish the shortwave transmitter.

She looked back at her contraption. She had no plans. No paper and pen to make notes with, she’d built everything from memory and theory. Working in the dark was impossible, so she’d ripped out and rigged up one of the Mercedes’s dome lights to help her see. But every minute she used it drained more power from the battery and that was power she’d need to transmit the signal.

She got back to work and rushed to finish the job.

An hour after the Monarch’s departure, tired and cold and fighting a throat that had grown as dry as the dust around them, she was ready to attempt her first transmission.

She added power carefully. With her ear next to the speaker, she searched for any sign of a signal. Finally, she heard something. More English, this time—British English.

“This is Edward Bannister with the day’s Premier League action…”

The BBC World Service coming in exactly where it was supposed to be! Never had she heard a more beautiful sound.

The next task was to change frequencies to one she could broadcast on, one NUMA was likely to hear her message on. She adjusted her frequency to 12.290 kHz. The marine shortwave emergency band. Most groups no longer used it. But NUMA still monitored it. That meant it would be free of other traffic and easier for her signal to stand out and be picked up.

Engaging her transmitter, she began to speak. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” she said. “This is Priya Kashmir transmitting on 12.290. This is an emergency message. Can anyone hear me?”

She released the transmitter and waited for a response. Thirty seconds went by. And then a full minute.

“Too far away,” she whispered to herself. Even with the antenna Joe had built and extended out above the cockpit of the helicopter.

Cautiously, she upped the power level. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! If anyone can hear me, please respond?”

Still, there was nothing.

She raised the power one more time.

The result was disastrous as one of the circuits flared and sizzled.

“No!” she said, cutting the power even as the compartment filled with the acrid smell of an electrical fire.

It was too late. The transmitter was dead.

Priya began to cough. The smoke brought it on, but the dryness and dust made it worse. After twenty-four hours without any real water, she’d become very dehydrated. Her lips had cracked, her eyes burned incessantly and her mind felt sluggish and slow. All she wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

She pushed the feeling aside and felt around for the power cord, disconnecting it from the transmitter and reconnecting it to the dome light. Even with that light, the damage was easy to see. Several of the circuits had burned. Other spots she soldered had melted. Hours of work had been destroyed.

She looked at the mess and then at the pile of spare parts on the floor. There was no other choice. She slid herself over, picked through what she had and began the painstaking process of rebuilding.

62

GULF OF SIDRA, SEVENTY MILES OFFSHORE

MORNING SPREAD across the Mediterranean, revealing pristine waters, a cloudless day and the Gryphon on station seventy miles off the coast of Libya.

Kurt and Rudi remained on the bridge, watching the video relay as the Trouts made the first dive.

The waters off the Libyan coast were shallow, warm and clear. Even here, seventy miles from the coast, the depth never exceeded two hundred feet. The bottom was sandy and flat, a combination that made for excellent diving.

“Wreck in site,” Paul said. “It’s definitely a submarine.”

Kurt and Rudi saw the wreck on the video screen. Even though the vessel was lying on its side, covered in marine life and partially buried in the sediment, its shape was unmistakable.

While Paul dropped toward the stern, where the sub’s rudder and one of its twin propellers could be easily seen, Gamay swam along the length of the hull.

“I’m not seeing any damage,” she said. “In fact, I’m not seeing anything to indicate a traumatic impact. More like it settled gently into the silt and then rolled over on its side.”

“That’s good,” Paul suggested. “Should make it easier to search.”

“Assuming this is the right submarine,” Kurt said. “Let’s make sure it is what we think it is. Head around to the bow.”

The Minerve had a distinctive bell-shaped housing jutting upward near the bow. It allowed a powerful sonar system to be installed without forcing the relocation of the torpedo tubes, of which the Minerve had twelve, eight in the front and four in the stern.