I looked over the side of the hull.

The dark water of the Thames River was beginning to bubble violently along the submarine’s flanks.

A plume of white foam hissed up from the vents near the bow.

“Hayes,” I said, my voice dropping.

“What is that?” he asked, walking back to my side.

“The ballast tanks,” I said, pointing to the frothing water.

“They’re venting.”

“Why would they vent ballast while we’re still moored to the pier?” Hayes asked.

I looked at the water level.

The black non-skid deck beneath our boots was already dropping.

The river was rising to meet us.

“He’s not trying to steal the boat,” I said, the realization freezing me faster than the wind.

“He’s sinking it.”

“Right here in the slip?” Hayes asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s flooding the tanks to drop her to the bottom of the channel.”

“If she goes down with the hatches locked, the pressure will crush the internal seals.”

“And the crew?” Hayes asked, his hand dropping to his holster.

“They’ll drown in the dark,” I said.

The water reached the soles of my boots.