Category Five (35 page)

“Get strapped in tight!” Taylor yelled. “I'll give you sixty seconds, then you're gone!”

As Donovan lowered his frame through the narrow tube, he couldn't help but imagine that he was climbing into his own coffin. Graff climbed in after him and secured the hatch. The outside noise vanished and the interior of the sub became eerily quiet.

“Sit there,” Graff pointed. “And give me that before you kill someone!” Graff barked and pulled the razor sharp knife from Donovan's hand. The submarine pilot tossed him a life jacket.

Donovan slipped the vest on and quickly strapped himself into the hard metal seat. Inside, the sub was a maze of tubes and junction boxes. Graff sat behind a control panel not unlike an airplane's, but Donovan didn't recognize any of the instruments. The interior of the sub smelled of mildew and human sweat. Donovan had no idea what to expect as he braced himself with both hands. All he could picture were the giant waves below.

“Get ready!” Graff yelled as two clangs resonated through the hull. It was Taylor's signal they were going to drop. As Graff began to flip switches at his console, he grumbled under his breath. “I may be crazy, but at least I'm going to die a rich man.”

Without warning, the sub lurched. The wall of the C-17 flashed past and was replaced by nothingness. Donovan felt like he was tumbling. Assaulted by vertigo, his stomach tightened even further. Through a small porthole, Donovan caught the image of the C-17, far above. A crack echoed through the small interior of the
Atlantic Star
as the chute deployed. Donovan was
pressed hard into his seat as they decelerated. In silence, they were now drifting downward to the raging sea below.

“Holy shit!” Graff cried out as the main canopy swelled and opened. “It worked!”

Suspended from the Parasail, Donovan's disorientation passed. They twisted and turned as they floated closer to the ocean. In the tiny cockpit, Graff was busy powering up the
Atlantic Star
. Off to Donovan's side lay Buck's equipment. Three rifle-lines were carefully secured with elastic cords, as were his flippers. The only thing Donovan didn't have was the harness. A quick search revealed the rope Buck had intended to use to tie himself to the sub.

“We're almost there.” Graff turned in his seat. “I can see both rafts. You're going to have to work fast. Do you remember which lines to cut first?”

Donovan nodded. His fear was dulled by the mention of the rafts and he closed his eyes, focusing on saving the survivors. He told himself that no matter what happened, he had to save them. Then the sea could do whatever it wanted with him.

“Fifty feet,” Graff called out. “We're going to hit on top of a wave, so don't open the hatch until I tell you to.”

Out the small round porthole, the ocean drew closer. Donovan held his breath until his lungs protested. He couldn't swallow; his throat had closed off. Every muscle in his body was tense. The first impact rocked the sub; the second one heeled them over. The water buffeted them as they slammed into the sea. With unblinking eyes, Donovan watched in horror as they plunged beneath the surface of the water. Donovan couldn't have been anymore terrified than if he'd just parachuted directly into hell itself.

“We're back on top!” Graff yelled, and handed him Buck's knife. “Get those lines cut as fast as you can!”

Donovan bolted past Graff and spun the small wheel at the
top of the conning tower. He swung it open and stuck his head out into the fresh salt air.

Above and behind him, the huge parasail was losing its lift, folding up on itself as it crumpled into the water. Donovan climbed out, sickened by the sight of a mountain of water as it rose toward him. He turned his head and held on, terrified at the realization that he wasn't tied to the sub. As the monstrous wave approached, Donovan froze as the
Atlantic Star
rode up the side, balanced itself precariously at the top, then washed down the backside with dizzying speed.

“Cut the lines!” Graff screamed from below.

Donovan knew he had only seconds before another wave came. He forced his eyes from the deadly ocean and with two quick slices of the knife freed the submarine from its harness. First the webbing, then the parachute, was pulled down into the dark water. Keeping his eyes fixed on the white metal, Donovan lowered himself back into the submarine.

“Good job.” Graff had both hands on the controls. “Get yourself tied to the sub!”

Donovan gasped an acknowledgment. He grabbed the rope. Quickly, he tied one end around the waist of his flight suit. The other he wrapped around the welded base of the chair. His next move was toward the mask. He pulled it around his head, tested the seal, then slid it up on his forehead. Caught in his own worst nightmare, Donovan felt them rise and fall with the next wave. Water poured in from the open hatch. With sheer determination, he yanked the first rifle line from the wall.

“I'm turning us around.” Graff leaned to his left as he used the thruster controls to maneuver the submarine. “Both rafts should be to our left now.”

Donovan nodded. He pulled the mask over his face and lifted himself up out of the sub once more. His stomach lurched as they reached the top of another wave. From his position atop the giant
swell, he spotted the rafts. Graff was wrong. One was a hundred yards to the left, the other, half that distance to his right. They were going to pass directly between the two. Behind him an explosion of thunder ripped through the air. Donovan ducked and turned. For the first time he was aware of the eye wall. It roared and rumbled as it grew closer, angry clouds spiraling and twisting upward. High above him, the C-17 was a tiny speck as it climbed out of the storm.

Donovan braced himself and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He adjusted the angle as best he could and pulled the trigger. The gun lurched in his hand; the spool beneath the barrel whistled as the charge snaked the line out from the sub in a high graceful arc.

“Tie that line off and give me another gun!” Donovan yelled inside the hatch as he shoved the spent rifle inside. Moments later, he felt Graff push the second gun into his hand. He checked the safety and twisted around to fire it the other direction. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, the sub crashed into the valley between waves—the gun was flung from Donovan's hand. It clattered against the hull as he stretched to catch it. His fingertips brushed the metal just as it bounced and vanished in the ocean.

Terrified and on the edge of panic, Donovan lurched forward, clenched his fists, and fought for control. Memories of a fourteen year-old Robert Huntington flooded his mind.

“I need the last gun!” Donovan yelled. This time he gripped it tightly and fired it into the sky. The sub rose as the line shot out away from him. It was perfect, floating over the water and settling just in front of the raft. Michael reached out and grabbed the line.

As Michael kept pulling, Donovan knew that the other raft—the one he prayed Lauren was in—should be approaching the line. He waited until they crested a wave and turned. To his immense relief they had found the line and were drawing themselves closer. Donovan's relief was short lived. Someone was
pulling the raft toward the sub—but he was the only person visible.

“I need help! I have an injured man.” Michael called out as he neared the submarine.

Donovan spun and pulled Michael the last ten feet. Randy was lying in the bottom of the boat, the water mixed with blood. He tied off the line and reached down to help. Wearing a mask and vest, Donovan knew Michael hadn't recognized him.

“I'll take his legs!” Michael jumped into position. “Lift!”

Donovan and Michael both strained. They managed to maneuver the dead weight up on top of the sub, then held Randy tightly as they raced down the back of a wave. Graff pulled Randy's legs inside as Donovan lowered the injured pilot into the sub.

“Oh Christ.” Michael lay exhausted on the cold metal of the sub.

Donovan removed his diving mask; it had become partially fogged from the exertion. He looked into the battered face of his longtime friend, then grabbed the remaining line.

“Donovan?” Michael struggled to his feet, wiping the water from his eyes.

“I'll explain later.”

“How in the hell?” Michael shook his head in dismay and together they began to pull the others closer.

Donovan formed the words he was almost too afraid to ask. “Did Lauren make it out of the plane?”

“Yes,” Michael answered. “She made it…We all did.”

Graff stuck his head out of the sub. “I just got a final transmission from the C-17. The B-1 is nineteen minutes out. We've got to hurry! In nine minutes—I'm shutting this hatch and diving. I don't care which side you're on!”

“We'll make it. They're close!” Donovan shouted. He turned and could finally see two men in the raft. Simmons had raised his bulk, and without warning, lunged at the smaller man. In an
instant the raft was swept upside down. A sick feeling came over Donovan. Lauren nowhere to be seen.

“Where is she?” Donovan cried out.

When another wall of water separated them, Donovan and Michael felt the line tighten as tons of ocean pressed on the rope, threatening to rip it from their hands. As they held on and waited, Donovan strained to once again catch sight of them. The sub lifted and they were swept up and over the top. Donovan watched as the two men tried to cling to the overturned raft.

“Over there!” Michael pointed, “What's that?”

Donovan turned to look at what Michael had seen. Twenty yards from the raft, arms thrashed in the water. He caught sight of auburn hair…it was Lauren. In the same horrible instant, Donovan saw she wasn't wearing a life jacket.

“She's in the water!” Donovan cried out to Michael. He heard the panic in his own voice.

“I'm going after her.” Donovan pulled his mask down over his face. “Pull me in when I reach her.”

Donovan hovered over the water. The reality of diving into the treacherous ocean felt far more terrifying than being on the submarine. The turbid water seemed to reach up for him…almost daring him. His knees threatened to lock. Donovan thought of Buck, and gathered strength from the SEAL's quiet determination. With every fiber of his being screaming in protest, Donovan thrust himself headfirst into the foaming water.

His body stiffened as his life jacket propelled him back to the surface. He put one arm over the other and began to kick. Each time he was swept in the upsurge, he stopped and tried to spot Lauren. Flung downward, he swam harder, needing desperately to make it to the pinnacle of the next wave.

Donovan hesitated; he'd lost his bearings. A wave spun him sideways, but he managed to right himself. To his left, a faint cry for help penetrated the storm. He ripped his mask away from his
face. He heard it again and twisted around in the water. He saw Lauren just as she disappeared behind a mountain of water. He waited. If he judged this right, she'd be within his grasp as the next wave passed.

Donovan turned quickly and tried to spot the sub, but it was too low in the water. He spun around, kicking to keep himself in position. He treaded water, not knowing which way he was going to have to swim to reach her. The pressure grew behind his temples as he rode through the next swell. His terror grew as he scanned the empty ocean.

“Lauren!” he screamed.

“Here. I'm here!”

Donovan turned in the water at the fading sound of her voice. Ten feet away he saw a hand as it floundered. Without hesitating, Donovan swam to where he'd last seen her. In one swift motion he shed his life jacket and dove beneath the waves. In the silent murky world beneath the surface he saw her struggling, trying in vain to reach the surface. In seconds he had his arms around her. He kicked as hard as he could for the surface. They broke free and Donovan held her tightly.

Donovan's life jacket had floated out of reach. He rolled over on his back, making sure Lauren was face up on his chest. After several seconds of furious kicking, Donovan reached out and grabbed the precious orange vest. He put his arm through it and relished the floatation it provided.

“You're safe,” he whispered into Lauren's ear. He raised an arm and waited for Michael to start pulling them toward the sub. His internal clock told him they still had enough time.

Lauren choked and flailed her arms weakly.

“Lauren. Can you hear me?” Donovan rolled her over to get at least one of her arms into the vest. He looked into her exhausted face. Her eyes were still closed. He pulled her close and kissed her lips lightly. He pulled back as she wearily opened
her eyes and looked at him. No words were needed as she wrapped her arms fiercely around him.

They were still locked in a silent embrace when Donovan felt the tug of the rope around his waist.

“Can you kick?” Donovan asked as they moved slowly through the water.

“I'll try,” Lauren said breathlessly, then her eyes flew open, and she turned to face Donovan. “How can you be here…in the water?”

“Because you're here.” Donovan continued to kick. He caught a glimpse of the sub. They were still a long way away.

“He pushed me,” Lauren blurted as if suddenly remembering. “Carl went crazy. He shoved me out of the boat!”

“I'll deal with him later,” Donovan vowed. “Kick harder!”

Lauren nodded and tried to do what Donovan asked.

Assured that Lauren had a good grip on him, Donovan reached out and began to pull on the rope with both hands. With he and Lauren both kicking, he put one hand over the other in a painful process to go faster.

“How much farther?” Lauren gasped.

“Don't give up…keep going.” Donovan knew he was reaching his limit. He swallowed a mouthful of water, the salty froth burning in his throat. He felt for the rope and discovered some slack. He pulled harder and the line slipped easily through the water. He turned to Lauren, his face a mixture of shock and fear.