“Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be a big problem,” Joe said. “I’d just drop another sub in the water, hook a line on them and tow them back to the surface. Failing that, I’d don a hard suit and hook a cable to them and winch them up. But since we don’t have either of those things, we’re going to have to improvise.”
“What about that submarine that almost ran them over?” Kamphausen said. “Judging by the rust on the hull and the general state of neglect, I’d say it was a Russian boat. Is it too much to assume they’re after whatever you’re after?”
“We’d be foolish to assume anything else,” Joe replied.
“Are we in any danger?”
“I doubt they’ll torpedo a surface ship like the Reunion,” Joe said. “That would be inviting war and their rapid destruction from our sub-hunting aircraft. But the depths of the sea are a different story.”
“How so?”
“To a large extent, what happens down below, stays down below,” Joe replied, co-opting the famous Las Vegas advertising slogan. “They could easily eliminate the Angler by ramming it, or hitting it with a torpedo, or by sitting on it and crushing it down into the silt. In all cases, no one up here would ever know what happened. And that, I cannot allow.”
Kamphausen scratched his head. “But how can we stop them?”
“By getting them off the bottom before anything else happens.”
Kamphausen nodded, looked around as if he was thinking deeply and then turned back to Joe. “I’ve got nothing.”
“Fortunately, I’ve got an idea,” Joe said. “But it’s going to take a little work. I assume you have a few generators on this ship.”
“Several.”
“Show me to the largest one you’ve got. And have your engineering team meet us there with a complete set of tools.”
Kamphausen looked at him suspiciously.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “I’ll put it all back together when I’m done.”
Nine hundred feet below, Kurt and Emma sat in darkness. The huge submarine had passed over the top of them and continued on into the dark. The turbulent ride had slammed them against a ledge of volcanic rock, tripped a few circuit breakers and lit up several warning lights on the panel before shutting off all the lights.
Using a flashlight, Kurt found the main panel, pushed the circuit breakers back in and brought the Angler back to life. “No real damage,” he determined.
“Listen,” Emma said.
The hydrophone was still picking up the sound of the propellers, but the intensity level had waned. Before long, it ceased altogether.
“They’ve come to a stop,” Kurt said.
“Better than having them double back.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Kurt replied. “But what are they doing down here in the first place? Considering the size and shape of that sub, I make it out as a Russian Typhoon, a ballistic missile submarine. Not exactly cut out for search-and-rescue work.”
“Maybe it was the nearest vessel they had with sonar capability,” Emma suggested.
Kurt wasn’t so sure. He straightened his headset and tried to reach Joe. “Joe, are you out there? I’m hoping you got the number of the truck that almost ran us down.”
There was no answer. Not even static. “I think the Typhoon cut our line as it passed overhead,” Kurt replied. “We’ve lost communications with the surface.”
“Maybe we should count ourselves lucky and head up,” she suggested. “See if Joe can identify this aircraft and let everyone know this is a dead end.”
Kurt considered that, but a curious mind and a sharpened sense of suspicion ran in his family just like the silver-gray hair he’d inherited at a young age. “That would be the smart thing to do,” he admitted. “But something doesn’t make any sense here. Did you report this location to anyone?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t told a soul.”
“Neither have I. So, there couldn’t be a leak.”
“What about our partners on the Reunion?”