The silence inside the rebreather helmets was distracting. From the dust motes floating past and the speed at which Brunhilde grew infront of the mini-subs, it was possible to tell they were moving quickly. Wells was silently cheering inside his helmet as he could peer over Hochbergs shoulder, spying the chief crank back on the throttle in anticipation for the interception. There should have been the sound of rushing wind or roaring engines, but the silence of the ocean made for what felt like an anti-climax as U-5918 grew close enough for Chief Royale to count the ridges on the swordfish bow art. The radio silence had been largely assumed as well, but at this point in the game Kessler assumed that any element of surprise was about to be compromised the moment they bashed into the Brunhilde’s hull with the boarding party.
“All teams, brace for impact and prepare individual locking tools. Make your shots count.” Royale concluded his words by being the first to reach back and produce the grappling gun, twisting the stock to charge the breach.
Kessler and Hochberg had to steer their crafts on a near collision course, bringing the mini-subs as close as possible to the tower without either ramming into it or missing the chance completely. A missed chance at the speeds both sides were moving would mean the disaster. The relics zeroed their sights on the tower and shifted off by one degree, it was going to be close. As the ships drew near Royale leaned out and called over the radio.
“Wait til you can count the rivets and then fire, if you miss head topside, the Penn‘ll getchya!”
In an instant all anyone from Strike Team could see was the deck of the ancient warship and its tower crushing towards them and two volleys of grappling hooks and cables launched through the water, some missing outright, others latching into the railing of the tower to tangling into the antenna. The divers who scored hits locked their launchers into their chest rigging and turned on thier face lamps, anyone near somebody with a glowing helmet knew to grab onto some part of the fellow. Kessler had scored his hit cleanly and latched the launcher into his gear, reaching back and swatting his helmet to activate the face lamp. In a fury two sets of hands grabbed onto him and moments later the cables pulled taut, everyone yanked out of the mini-subs as they drifted off into the wide open Atlantic of nothing. Royale looked back and called out for a report of those who didn’t make the snag. Two SEALs had failed to keep or obtain a grip and and headed topside, the remaining 22 began to pull their way along the cable towards the tower.
Hochberg had missed his shot. So had the SEAL behind Hochberg, but Wells had landed his hit and was suddenly leapt on by all around him as the cable pulled tight and he was plucked out of the mini-sub. Hochberg had made it out of luck and strength more than anything, his old shoulder socked aching for a moment with the sudden weight. Slowly and surely, every member of Strike Team clawed and crawled along the cables, gathering at the rim of the control tower, clutching at the rails as they continued to hold on to keep from being flung off Brunhilde as she sailed on. As the old chief hooked his foot into a rail and drew out his rifle with both hands he called out to the team, “Keep on a perimeter, ‘zay can open any hatch all around and get ‘za drop on ya!”
Dutifully, two of the seals on the bow side of the tower turned about, facing the oncoming rush of water. Both of them extended their rifles out, holding them right against their sides and straps. Kessler and Perry swirled up and over the railings, spying the top of the hatch. The broad arrow gleamed under Perry’s lit facemask and Kessler looked up to the diver for a moment with an obvious glare of confusion. A flood of harsh memories whirled up in Perry and he offered a shrug, saying “That was a gift from earlier when the good ol’ boys checked out some books from the library.” The old captain nodded once and kept one hand tight on the rails to keep from being flung out into the ocean while the other dug into his chest harness. Perry watched as Kessler produced the wad of underwater demolition putty and began shoving it under the lip of the hatch. The relic was having a bear of a time trying to accomplish the task one handed so Perry reached in, silently and adeptly adding his fingers into the mix like a team of veteran surgeons. Royale was suddenly in the top of the tower, clearly displeased with how long the breaching process was going. He hooked a hand into te railing to keep from behind dragged away by the water and added his putty to the wad Kessler had been placing.
Perry clicked on his flooding head lamp and the three divers admired the bit of arts and crafts they had generated. The rim of the entry hatch was thickly padded with explosive material and Royale has embedded the explosive charge and mini-fuse, holding the switch out one handed as the group began to slowly creep over the edge of the rails, careful not to get sucked away by the rushing water. The radio squawked to life and when Kessler had been expecting a “breach, CLEAR”, he was quite surprised instead to hear:
“Contact, bow hatch, twenty meters, armed with a spear.”
Every member of Strike Team craned around or twisted awkwardly to face up to the front of the ship. There at the bow in an opened hatch and fully engulfed in the headlamp of a SEAL was the entire upper body of an ancient diving suit. The brass helmet gleamed proudly, showing decades of careful maintainence and polish. His body was wrenched back with one arm reaching out in front for momentum, the other gripped the middle of a carefully made all metal spear. The two SEALs who had taken up security had spotted the defending old dive suit and lined up their shot. Four neat little rows of bubbles zipped out of their rifles in puffs of blue flashes, each line starting at their barrels and ending in the center of the heavy leather dive suits’ chest. Oily black erupted out and around the front of the brass laden creature and the spear tumbled off and away, his upper body flopping and sprawling over the deck as the clouds streaming away from the punctured suit wafted up toward the tower. Strike Team watched as the currents from Brunhilde surging forward pushed the limp body out from the opened hatch and the heavy corpse clanged off the deck, flapping end over end toward the tower.
“Get clear!” Somebody yelled and divers went scrambling for some sort of cover from the heavy debris. The ancient suit smashed into a group of four, everyone sprawling over one another, reaching and grasping to keep the team from being flung off and cast aside. Hands guided arms back up to the guardrails and Royale did a quick headcount looking for 22. The radio suddenly chirped to life and a voice cried out.
“The fuckers still got me!”
Pairs or headlamps turned on and scanned out to the stern of the tower where Wells clung with both hands to the guardrails. Further down the divers body, with both arms wrapped tightly around Wells’ thighs, the old diving suit arched it’s back to face the darkened window towards the oncoming light. Through the tinted glass Wells could faintly make out the shape of a near bare and snarling grin of a fleshless skull.