Hotel Megalodon: A Deep Sea Thriller (25 page)

“The Americans are hailing us again,” the radioman announced.

He tensed. Answering them was his last chance at surviving. He could not. “Ignore them,” he snapped.

A few seconds later, a flash of light and an explosion a hundred meters off their starboard bow. A geyser of water rose into the air. The Americans were being serious.

“Continue on course,” he called out. Did the Americans want to start a war?

“Torpedoes!” rang out from the top look out.

Voshok swung his binoculars to port toward the American warship, expecting to see twin lances of death streaking toward him. He saw nothing.

“What bearing?” he yelled.

“Starboard.”

He quickly spotted the wake of a single torpedo six hundred meters away. He smiled as realization dawned on him. Rather than risk his cargo being intercepted, his own countrymen in the Velikovsky would assure his death. The ship shuddered and lurched as the torpedo struck the stern, lifting it into the air. The deck rose to smack him in the face. He felt his cheekbones shatter. He spit out a broken tooth with a mouthful of blood. His ears rang from the blow. The aft of the ship disappeared in a bright orange ball of flame. The heat and concussion washed over him, rendering him deaf and scorching his clothing and skin. He struggled to his feet and saw the American torpedoes pass by the bow. The American captain had been a good shot. If not for the Velikovsky, the American’s torpedoes would have done the job. The American had been robbed of his victory. Voshok forced a smile to his smashed face.

The second explosion shattered the ship’s spine. The aft section split apart with a screech of rending metal and fell away. He watched two crewmen, friends, swallowed by a large crack in the deck, engulfed in flames. Lifeboats broke free of their hoists and crashed into the ocean. His countrymen were taking no chances. There would be no time to abandon ship. His crew, which had become his family, would die with him. He regretted that their lives would be sacrificed to the ever-starving beast of politics, but no story of the Pokhomov’s deadly cargo could ever told by survivors. Her cargo would soon rest at the depths of the Cayman Trench, forgotten by time.

Voshok clung to the railing as the sea washed over him. The captain rode his ship to the bottom.

* * * *

The second explosion ripped the Pokhomov in half. Captain Crabtree watched both halves slide into the water. Men and equipment on her decks slid over the side. One burning crewman leaped over the side into the water and vanished. Flames spilled from portholes and rents in the ship’s hull. He had never witnessed a large ship sink. It left a dull ache in his stomach. His battle lust died quickly. Instead of elation, he felt as if he were trapped in her hold, water rising around him, filling his lungs with oily water.

He lowered his binoculars and wiped his brow, gasping for air. When he raised his glasses again, the freighter was gone, leaving only a cloud of steam, quickly dispersed by the wind, and scattered debris that would just as quickly be scattered by the waves. He was surprised that both fish had hit. He had fired two torpedoes from a range of two thousand yards. It wasn’t a perfect firing solution, but he couldn’t afford to let the Russian slip away in the squall. They had ignored his hail and his warning shot. He told himself had no choice, but was he fooling himself?

The dying ship emitted one last groan, a protest at the murder done to her. Or a promise of revenge. Of course, the Russians would deny the sinking; deny even that the ship existed. They could not admit to its deadly cargo. His report would quickly be lost amid the reams of paper amassed during the blockade. The world would never know how close to the brink of war it had come.

Captain Crabtree lowered his binoculars and stepped back into the wheelhouse out of the squall, trying to distance himself from his deed. It would soon be over, as would the blockade. The President was rumored to be considering removing American missiles from Turkey, and in return, the Russians would withdraw their missiles from Cuba. No one would know of the deal, but no one would care. The danger was over.

He fumbled a cigarette from a pack of Camels and lit it, trying to hide his shaking hand from the crew. Now I get the shakes. He took a puff and glanced at his watch. “Note the time of the sinking, Mr. Bisbee, 2440 hours.” He called out to the helmsman, “Take us back to the fleet, Mr. Lee.” Standing by the open door, shielding his cigarette from the rain, he thought he heard a long, loud scream rise from amid the debris of the dying ship, but marked it down to his imagination. Still, the sound raised goose bumps on his flesh, and he knew the dead ship would haunt his memory for a long, long time.

From The Depths is available from Amazon
here.