The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,146

seas behind them. Their bronze fish jetted through the water, throwing them all back.

Gray fought to lean forward. The two bulbous eyes of the fish were made of glass or polished crystal. Through them, he spotted Scylla’s bronze legs as the beast waded into the maelstrom of Charybdis. He held his breath as the little sub sped through the pylons of the beast’s legs, darting and rolling, reminding Gray of what Bailey had just mentioned.

Self-guided.

Then they were in the tidal pull of the swirling current at the lake’s center. It caught them and spun their little sub around the bowl of the lake, faster and faster, tighter and tighter. As they flew, Gray caught a brief glimpse of one of Scylla’s fiery heads, aflame in the depths, reaching for them.

Kowalski yelled from the back, “I always wondered what it would feel like to be a goldfish flushed down a toilet.”

Don’t have to wonder any longer.

The fish tipped its nose straight down.

Gray braced himself against the walls to keep his seat, discovering a handgrip on one side. “Hold tight!”

The sub plummeted into the throat of the lake’s drain.

A Stygian darkness closed around them. It became impossible to judge up from down, especially as the fish rocked back and forth, sometimes rolling fully around in a stomach-churning spin.

“Lights ahead!” Bailey yelled above the rush of water.

Gray saw it, too, through one of the fish’s eyes. A murky brightness in the far distance. He sighed with relief. We’re going to make—

There was no warning.

An immense force struck the stern of the sub. It blasted the vessel forward, tossing it end over end, throwing them all around its bronze cabin. Worst of all, the sub crashed repeatedly into the rock walls with clangs of a rung bell.

Water burst into the sub as a seam cracked.

As he fought to hold his seat, Gray pictured what had happened behind them. That mother of all air-fuel bombs must have gone off, powerful enough to drive all the water out of the sea tunnel, like Zeus blowing soda out of a straw.

Then brightness burst in through the fish’s eyes. The tumbling roll of the sub evened out, becoming a smooth glide that headed upward. The spray of water through the broken seam slowed. Finally, the sub shot out of the waves. Watery sunlight streamed inside as the vessel rocked in the sea.

Gray sat back and let out a breath.

Their little fish had escaped Tartarus.

He said a silent prayer of thanks and stared back at the crew, all battered and bruised but alive.

“How about some fresh air?” Kowalski said. “I may still throw up.”

Gray slid out of his seat and shifted back. He boosted himself on the ladder, spun the lock to free the hatch, and tossed the finned door open. Fresh air and brighter sunlight filled the cabin.

Gray hopped down. “Let’s get bailing.” He retrieved his satellite phone. “I’ll see if I can raise some help.”

He climbed back up and sidled out of the way, straddling the fish like a wild bronco on the high seas. He speed-dialed Commander Pullman, the closest ally who could help them.

As it rang through encrypted channels, a wide-belled gray jet sped low overhead. He stared up, recognizing it. It was Pullman’s Poseidon, appearing as if summoned by thought alone.

The plane continued past them, gliding across the sea—then swept higher, jettisoning a long black tube attached to a red parachute. Gray recognized the weapon.

A Mark 54 torpedo.

Gray searched ahead. The intended target was evident. The only ship out there was a large hydrofoil speeding across the waves.

Then Pullman came on the line, sounding exasperated and rushed. “Commander Pierce?”

“What are you doing?” Gray asked.

“Sort of busy.”

“I can see that. But why?”

“Long story. But I was told to tell you Elena Cargill says hello, and Charlie Izem wanted to know if you have her monkey.”

Gray struggled to make sense of all of this.

“Maybe I got the last part wrong,” Pullman admitted. “The call was dispatched to me through Director Crowe, from a shipboard radio of a riverboat.”

Gray rushed to catch up. So, Charlie must have escaped, got word out, and somehow managed to rescue Elena. That was a story he wanted to hear—but later.

“What about the hydrofoil?” Gray asked.

“According to Dr. Cargill, bad guys. That’s all I need to know.”

As Gray watched, the torpedo hit the water and blasted off in the direction of the fleeing ship. It struck one of the yacht’s twin foils and blew it clean off. Running at full speed, nearly