Red Frost

CHAPTER SEVEN

Port Angeles, Washington,

7:23 a.m. PDT

As Commander Starkey backed down through the sail hatch, particulate matter howled up past him in a black torrent. He descended into swirling darkness, reversing down the ladder with forty pounds of fire extinguisher on his back. On the way down, he counted the ladder’s rungs, one by one. Relative to the ground, the ladder canted off to the right. The engine and prop vibration trembled through his hands and arms, as well as his feet. Inside the hollow shell of titanium, the warning klaxon was much louder, contributing to the sense of chaos.

Five rungs down and even with the high-intensity headlamp he couldn’t see the backs of his own gloved hands. The concentration of smoke was always thickest at the highest point of the hull—in other words, the sail. He had to be careful, but he also had to move quickly through it. He needed to get his people in and seal the sail hatch shut. An influx of oxygen from the outside could cause a catastrophic flare-up.

Somewhere in the darkness above, his number two, Chuck Howe, was starting down the ladder.

Starkey knew there were twelve rungs from the top of the sail to the control deck ceiling on Akula/Bars-class subs. And there were a dozen more rungs to the control deck floor. With a variant design like this, things below could be altogether different.

That thought gave the commander a sudden jittery-sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He squelched it.

Fifteen rungs down, Starkey stopped climbing and braced himself against the ladder. He switched on the NIFTI—his eyes in the dark—and aimed it below him. Even with the shaking screen, he could make out a distinct, bright fluorescent-green blob.

“Got one hotspot on the control deck,” he said into his mike. “Seems to be isolated.” He continued to swing the NIFTI around. “I’m picking up what looks like body heat in a big clump aft. Nothing’s moving down here.”

He lowered the thermal imager and descended another four rungs of the ladder. He still couldn’t see the deck between his boots, but with his naked eye he could just make out a faint red glow where the control deck ceiling should have been. It wasn’t from burning embers—it was the battle lanterns.