Chapter 49
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Pacific Ocean
Two hours underwater. The submarine had glided through black Pacific depths in complete silence. Flint felt the subtle vibration of the electric motors through the deck plating beneath his boots. The quiet hum of machinery keeping them alive two hundred feet below the surface.
“Approaching target,” Captain Walsh announced. “Coming to periscope depth. Target bearing two-seven-zero. Range, four thousand yards.”
Flint moved to the periscope housing. The USS Monterey’s attack periscope was smaller than he’d expected. No wasted space or weight.
“Take a look,” Walsh said. “Tell me what you think.”
Flint pressed his eye to the scope and adjusted the focus. Pacific swells filled the eyepiece. Gray water under an overcast sky. He rotated the periscope slowly, scanning the horizon.
Then he saw it.
New Geneva rose from the Pacific like a steel mountain.
The massive structure dominated the seascape, dwarfing everything around it.
Seven levels above the waterline. Multiple towers and platforms connected by bridges and walkways.
Industrial cranes and communication arrays bristled from every surface.
It looked like an oil rig crossed with a small city.
“Wow,” Drake said quietly. He was watching over Flint’s shoulder through the secondary scope. “That thing’s huge.”
Flint studied the fortress methodically. The lower levels showed oil-rig architecture. Massive support columns. Steel grating. Industrial equipment. Functional and weathered by salt spray and Pacific storms.
The middle levels were different. Glass-walled sections. Modern corporate architecture. Clean lines and reflective surfaces that suggested executive offices and conference rooms.
The upper levels were pure luxury. Glass penthouse structures that caught and reflected the gray Pacific light. Multiple helicopter landing pads. Observation decks with panoramic views. Everything a billionaire would want in his floating palace.
“How many people you figure?” Flint asked.
“Satellite intel suggests two to three hundred,” Walsh replied. “Crew quarters on levels two and three. Security barracks on level four. Executive housing above that.”
Flint tracked the periscope down to study the waterline. The platform’s base disappeared into the dark Pacific. Massive. Semi-submersible. Built to survive anything the ocean could throw at it.
“Submarine access?”
“Lower level. Underwater docking bay.” Walsh pointed to his sonar display. “We can’t see it from here, but satellite imagery shows an opening on the north side. Pressurized airlock system. Large enough for our submarines.”
Drake studied the defensive positions. “Security?”
“Private contractors. Maybe two hundred personnel. Small arms, crew-served weapons, possibly surface-to-air missiles.” Walsh’s expression was grim. “This place is a fortress.”
Flint continued his visual reconnaissance. The platform bristled with communication equipment. Radar arrays. Satellite dishes. Electronic capabilities that could jam communications and disable guidance systems.
“Cole’s operating like a guy who calls all the shots,” Walsh observed.
“Which is exactly who he is. International waters,” Flint agreed. “No jurisdiction. No oversight. He can do whatever he wants out here.”
The structure looked impregnable. A billionaire’s kingdom floating three hundred miles from the nearest coastline. Protected by an army of contractors and the Pacific Ocean itself. Not quite as difficult as Cole’s space exploration company, but tough enough.
A lesser man with a lesser fortune and fewer political connections could never have pulled this off.
Walsh checked his navigation display. “Approach complete. We’re in position.”
Flint stepped back from the periscope considering entry points, defensive positions, and escape routes. It would take an armed assault to breach Cole’s floating empire. Even then, force would be met with deadly force.
Stealth was a better option.
Flint studied the structure through the periscope one more time. “Seven levels above water, three below.”
“We believe the service elevator runs from the submarine level straight up to level six,” Drake confirmed while watching through the secondary scope.
Walsh nodded. “Looks like your intel was solid.”
“We had several sources. One is a former employee,” Flint explained. “Worked there for eight months before Cole fired him. Disgruntled enough to talk, for the right price.”
“The intel could be outdated but given the difficulty of making structural adjustments out here, it should still be good.” Drake tracked the periscope across the patrol boats. “Security rotations every four hours. Guard change at the docking bay in eighteen minutes.”
“Same schedule the supply boat captain described,” Flint agreed. “Cole runs this place like a corporate operation. Everything’s documented, everything’s routine. He’s hosted politicians and business contacts here to show the place off. Those people talk too much.”
Walsh checked his tactical display. “What about internal security?”
“All the high-tech security you’d expect from Cole. Some of the low-tech stuff like motion sensors in the main stairwells and key cards for elevator access are easily bypassed,” Flint said. “The service areas use electronic locks. Maintenance staff wants quick access during emergencies.”
“Hostage location?” Walsh asked.
“Executive guest quarters, level five or six,” Drake replied. “The helicopter pilot who flew them out there confirmed they went to the luxury levels. Cole’s treating them like VIP prisoners. At least, for now.”
Flint stepped back from the periscope. “Extraction route’s up to the helicopter pad on level seven. Restrepo will be standing by for rooftop pick up.”
“Assuming everything goes according to plan,” Drake said.
“When does it ever?” Flint replied. “Cole will do everything he can to keep us from reaching the helipad. If we make it to the helo with the hostages and take off, he won’t shoot us down.
No way he’d kill Jason Fisher in front of all those government satellites watching his fortress twenty-four-seven. ”
Drake lowered the secondary periscope. His expression was thoughtful. “It’s a hard target. But not impossible.”
“How so?” Walsh asked.
“Size works against them. Too big to defend completely. They’ll have strong points and weak points. The underwater approach gives us the advantage of surprise.” Drake paused. “Question is, can we get in and get out before they know we’re there?”
Walsh checked his sonar display. “Current sets us up for a perfect approach. Weather’s holding. No surface traffic. We’ll launch you in the Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. We use them in naval operations regularly. Direct underwater approach to the docking bay.”
“I’m familiar with the SDV. We’ve used them before,” Flint said.
“SDV prepped and ready,” Walsh confirmed. “Two-person cockpit, battery power, silent running. You’ll stay dry and invisible all the way to the target.”
“Range?” Flint asked.
“More than enough. Launches from here, takes you directly to Cole’s submarine bay. No surface signature, no radar contact.”
Drake nodded approvingly. “A lot easier on the shoulder than swimming.”
“Should work,” Flint nodded. “We’ll be exposed and vulnerable once we reach the docking bay, but it’s our best option given Drake’s bum shoulder.”
Flint studied the tactical situation. Two men against a fortress. Cole’s private army against whatever weapons they could carry. Jason Fisher and Lizzy Pace somewhere inside that steel mountain, probably running out of time.
“How long to reach the docking bay?”
“Twenty minutes underwater in the SDV,” Walsh replied. “We’ll stay submerged until you’re clear and then we’ll head out. Your helo will handle extraction. Restrepo’s got enough fuel for the round trip?”
“Bell 412 can make it to California and back with fuel to spare,” Flint confirmed.
The submarine continued its final approach toward New Geneva. Above them, Cole’s fortress waited. Somewhere inside those steel walls, two hostages were praying for rescue that might never come.
Flint checked his gear one final time. Weapons. Explosives. Communication equipment. Would it be enough to assault an impossible target?
The periscope revealed New Geneva getting closer. More details became visible. Guard towers. Patrol boats. Armed security personnel moving along the upper platforms.
“Fifteen minutes to SDV launch,” Walsh announced.
Flint and Drake moved to the submarine’s deployment bay. The Swimmer Delivery Vehicle waited in its launch cradle. Sleek, torpedo-shaped, just large enough for two operators in the enclosed cockpit.
“Final equipment check,” Walsh said. They had already strapped their gear into waterproof compartments. Weapons. Explosives. Communication equipment.
“SDV systems are green,” the submarine’s engineer reported. “Battery at full charge, navigation programmed, silent running mode engaged.”
Flint climbed into the pilot position. Drake settled into the co-pilot seat despite his shoulder. The cockpit sealed with a soft hiss of pressurized air.
“Comms check,” Walsh’s voice came through their headsets.
“Copy,” Flint replied. “We’re ready.”
“Launching SDV in three... two... one...”
The cradle released. The mini-submarine dropped away from the USS Monterey into black Pacific water.
Flint engaged the electric motor. No sound. No vibration. Just silent forward motion through the depths.
Above them, Cole’s fortress waited. Somewhere inside, two hostages were running out of time.
The SDV’s navigation display showed their target bearing. Twenty minutes to the most dangerous infiltration of Flint’s career.