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need information on these assholes!’
    He hit the nearest rung-ladder on the fly.
    Thirty seconds later, Shane Schofield entered the control room of the Typhoon.
    Dust lay everywhere. Mould grew in the corners of the room. Only the occasional glinting reflection from his men’s flashlights betrayed the shiny metallic surfaces under the dust.
    Schofield hurried over to the command platform, to the periscope located there. He yanked the scope up out of the floor, turned to Book II.
    â€˜See if you can get some power up. This sub would’ve been connected to the base’s geothermal supply. There might still be some residual power. Fire up the Omnibus central control system. Then get the ESM and radio antennas online.’
    â€˜Got it,’ Book II said, hurrying away.
    The periscope reached its full height. Schofield put his eye to it. A basic optical periscope, it didn’t need any electric power to work.
    Through it, Schofield saw the dry-dock hall outside—saw the swirling water filling the pit around the Typhoon—saw a half-dozen mercenaries standing at the edge of the pit, watching it fill with seawater.
    Pivoting the periscope, Schofield lifted his view, casting his gaze over the balcony level that overlooked the dry-dock pit.
    There he saw more mercenaries, saw one man in particular gesticulating wildly, sending another half-dozen men running toward the gangway that connected the Typhoon’s conning tower to the balcony level.
    â€˜I see you . . .’ Schofield said to the man. ‘Book? How’s that power coming!’
    â€˜Just a second, my Russian’s a bit rusty—wait, here it is . . .’
    Book flicked some switches and suddenly— vmmm —a small collection of green lights burst to life all around Schofield.
    â€˜Okay, try it now,’ Book said.
    Schofield snatched up a pair of dusty headphones and engaged the sub’s Electronic Support Measures antenna—a feature on most modern submarines, an ESM antenna is little more than a roving scanner, it simply trawls over every available radio frequency, searching for activity.
    Voices came through Schofield’s headset instantly.
    â€˜â€” crazy bastard blew open the fucking sea gate! ’
    â€˜â€” they went in through the torpedo tubes. They’re inside the sub! ’
    Then a calmer voice.
    As he gazed through the periscope, Schofield saw that it was the commander-type individual up on the balcony level who was speaking.
    â€˜â€” Blue Team, storm the sub via the conning tower. Green Team, find another gangway and use it as a bridge. Split up into two groups of two and enter the sub via the forward and rear escape hatches —’
    Schofield listened to the voice intently.
    Crisp accent. South African. Calm, too. No sign of pressure or anxiety.
    That wasn’t a good sign.
    Usually a commander who has just seen a dozen of his men swept away by a tidal wave would be somewhat rattled. This guy, however, was completely calm.
    â€˜â€” Sir, this is radar. That first incoming aerial contact has been identified as a Yak-141 strike fighter. It’s the Hungarian.’
    â€˜â€” ETA? ’ the commander asked.
    â€˜â€” Based on current speed, five minutes, sir. ’
    The commander seemed to ponder this news. Then he said, ‘— Captain Micheleaux. Send me every other man we’ve got. I’d like to finish this before our competitors arrive .’
    â€˜â€” It will be done ,’ a French-accented voice replied.
    Schofield’s mind went into overdrive.
    They were about to storm the Typhoon—through the conning tower and the forward and rear escape hatches.
    And reinforcements were on their way . . . but from where?
    All right , he caught himself. Rewind. Think!
    Your enemy. Who are they?
    They’re a mercenary force of some kind.
    Why are they here?
    I don’t know. The only clue is the missing heads.