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lit up the sea gate. Smoke rushed up the length of the pit, filling the alleyways between the giant concrete blocks as it roared forward, consuming the nearest group of assassins, enveloping everything in its path, including Schofield’s team.
    There was a moment of eerie silence . . .
    And then came the crack—an almighty, ear-splitting craaaack —as the wounded sea gate broke under the weight of the water pressing against it, and 100 million litres of water rushed into the pit, bursting through the smoke.
    A wall of water.
    The immense body of liquid created an incredible sound—it roared down the length of the dry-dock pit: foaming, roiling, bounding forward.
    The nearest group of mercenaries were simply blasted off their feet by the wall of water, and hurled westward.
    Schofield, Book II and Clark were next in line.
    The wall of water just collected them where they stood—one second they were there, the next they were gone. It lifted them instantly off their feet, flinging them like rag dolls toward the bow-end of the Typhoon, bouncing them along the side of its hull.
    The other team of mercenaries was also taken by the rushing wall of water. They were smashed into the solid concrete wall at the far end of the dry-dock, many of them going under as the waves of roiling water crashed against the edge of the 200-metre-long pit.
    Schofield and his men, however, didn’t hit the end of the pit.
    As the roaring body of water had collected them, they’d held grimly onto their Maghook launchers as the ropes connected to their magnetic hooks unspooled at a phenomenal rate.
    When they came alongside the bow of the Typhoon, Schofield had yelled, ‘Clamp now!’
    He had then jammed his finger down on a button on his Maghook’s grip, initiating a clamping mechanism inside it that stopped the unspooling of its rope.
    Book II and Clark did the same . . . and the three of them jolted to simultaneous halts right next to the bow of the Typhoon, the rushing water kicking up blast-sprays all around their bodies.
    Next to them, exactly where Schofield had seen it before, was the yawning opening of the Typhoon’s port-side torpedo tubes—the tubes which had evidently been undergoing repairs when Krask-8 had been abandoned.
    At the moment, the torpedo tubes lay a foot above the surface of the inrushing water.
    â€˜Get into the tubes!’ Schofield yelled into his mike. ‘Into the sub!’
    Book and Clark did as they were told, and squirming and struggling against the rushing water, entered the submarine.
    Sudden silence.
    Schofield wriggled out of the torpedo tube last of all and found himself standing inside a Soviet Typhoon-class ballistic missile submarine.
    It was a world of cold steel. Racks that had once contained torpedoes occupied the centre of the room. Rows of pipes lined the ceiling. The stench of body odour—the smell of fear, the smell of submariners—filled the air.
    Two fat waterfalls of seawater now gushed in through the sub’s open torpedo tubes, rapidly filling the cramped room.
    It was largely dark in here: the only light, the grey daylight that crept in through the now-flooding torpedo tubes. Schofield and the others flicked on their barrel-mounted flashlights.
    â€˜This way,’ Schofield said, charging out of the torpedo room, his legs sloshing through the rising water.
    The three Marines bolted through the Typhoon’s imposing silo hall next—a long high-ceilinged chamber that contained twenty gigantic missile silos; tall tubular structures that rose from floor to ceiling, dwarfing them.
    As he ran past the silos, Schofield saw that the access hatches on some of them were open, revealing hollow emptiness inside. The hatches on at least six of the silos, however, remained closed—indicating that they still contained missiles.
    â€˜Where to now?’ Book II called forward.
    Schofield said, ‘The control room! I