"It
was
wire-guided. It sank when the
wire broke."
"You
sure?"
"No...
the motor
keeps running."
"Very
good. What
else?"
"Maybe
it's not a
torpedo."
"Real
good. So
what is it?"
"A
decoy?"
"Nope."
Fogarty
picked up
the recorder, carried it to
the bed, sat down and listened once more to the torpedo. The motor
churned out
a high-pitched whine that reminded him of the little electric motors he
used to
put in his model subs.
And
suddenly, he
understood. Or did he?
"You want me to believe that it's the sub? It never sank?" When
Sorensen didn't reply, he sat perfectly still for a minute. Finally he
said,
"I can't believe it."
"You
don't want
to believe it, but it's
true."
"You're
trying to
con me."
"Why
would I do
that?"
"I
don't know.
Something's not
right."
"You
bet
something's not right. That
torpedo's not right."
"But
it went down
to four thousand feet.
No sub can go that deep."
"This
one did."
"It's
impossible."
"God
damn,
Fogarty. Can't you
shake your mind loose? It used to be impossible, but it isn't anymore."
"It
just doesn't
make sense—"
"Then
tell me why
the Russians aren't
looking for their missing sub."
"How
do you know
that?"
"Netts
told me,"
Sorensen said
cheerfully. "He came all the way from Washington just to chat with the
Ace. You like that?"
"You
talked to
Admiral Netts?"
"Sure.
I'm a big
hero, remember?"
"Why
would the
Russians fake a sinking
of their own ship?"
"First,
to make
enough noise to cover
their exit. And if we thought she was sunk, we wouldn't look for her.
Come on,
Fogarty,
think
,
for
chrissake."
"Play
the tape
one more time."
Sorensen
did, and
Fogarty felt the first
twinges of anger.
"So
it was a
trick."
"Looks
like, kid."
"I
grieved for
those people—"
"I
know you did.
An honorable thing to
do. Hey, it's not
your
fault."
"Damn...
I'm
still not sure I believe
it."
"Oh,
you believe
it, Fogarty. You know
it's true."
"How
long have
you known?"
"Since
I played
what you just heard. The
skipper is going to tell the crew about the
Russian sub tonight.
And we're going after her, and we'll find her."
"How
can you be so sure?"
Sorensen
sucked on his beer and looked at Fogarty. "Because of the new system,
the
deep submergence sonars. The way they work is simple. They laid down
cables,
like ordinary undersea telephone cables, only as they laid it down,
every
twenty miles they spliced in a hydrophone. In four thousand miles of
cable,
there's two hundred sonars, but they're reliable because they send back
their
signals through the cable. We now have a grid of cables with a total of
thirty-six hundred hydrophones in the Atlantic. Some spots, like the
Caribbean
and the Iceland-Greenland-UK gap, are saturated with phones. Sooner or
later
the Russians will figure it out. When they do they'll pull their fleet
back
into the Norwegian Sea and expand their operations in the Pacific and
the
Mediterranean. For us right now, it means we ought to be able to track
this
sub, wherever she goes. The game is going to get very interesting. When
we go
back to sea tonight we have to be ready for anything. What I want to
know, Mr.
Fogarty, is if you're going to do your job. That's all I ask. Just do
your job
and cut the crap."
Fogarty
picked up the miniature tape recorder and hefted it. He was scared, but
he
figured that was only natural. He remembered hearing what he thought
was the
torpedo charging through the water directly at him... but what if—
"I
think I will have a beer," he said, opening a bottle. "Look, Ace,
explain to me how you wired this into your console."
"Sure,
kid."
"And
stop calling me 'kid.' "
"The
hell you say."
Lopez
was
standing with the Marine guards at
the foot of the submarine pier. "All right, you're the last ones. Let's
go."
The
pier was
crowded with sailors and
technicians preparing
Barracuda
and
Vallejo
for departure. As
they walked along Lopez said, "You ain't gonna bring no reefer on
board,
are you, Ace?"
"Why,
Lopez? You
want to get
loaded?"
"Just
checking."
"What's
happening
in the real world.
Chief? Any traffic out there?" Sorensen waved his arm in the direction
of
the Atlantic.
"Seems
the whole
fuckin' ocean is full
of Russians. It's gonna be hot. The skipper wants to see you right
away. Go
change."
Sorensen
showered, changed into a jumpsuit
and knocked on Springfield's door.
"Come
in."
"Chief
Lopez said
you wanted to see me,
sir."
"Sit
down,
Sorensen."
"Thank
you, sir."
"Coffee?"
"Thank
you, sir.
Black."
Springfield
poured two cups of coffee and
handed one to Sorensen. "I understand you spoke with Admiral Netts."
"Yes,
sir."
"He
wants to give
you a
commission."
Sorensen
rattled
his coffeecup. "We've
been through this before. Captain."
"I
know. How many
times?"
"Six."
"And
you've
turned us down each
time."
"Yes,
sir. I like
it fine where I
am."
"I
told Netts you
would say that, but
there's a hitch. You can't stay where you are. None of us can.
Barracuda
is going back to Electric Boat for a major refit. She'll be up there in
Groton
for two years."
"That's
it?
They're going to disband the
crew?"
"Pretty
much.
We're sending you to Mare
Island and assigning you to
Guitarro
as chief of the
boat."
Sorensen
almost
dropped his coffee.
"Chief of the boat? You're putting me on, Skipper? No sonarman in the
navy
is chief of the boat."
Springfield
smiled. "Some navy
traditions are flexible. Netts is willing to make an exception in your
case.
You'll have to take a couple special rating exams but you'll have
plenty of
time for that."
"You
said
Guitarro?
I never heard
of her."
"She's
a new
attack sub still on the
ways. You'll have the most advanced electronics and sonars. Space on
the boat
has already been designated as Sorensen's Beach."
Sorensen
hadn't
expected this, and he wasn't
sure how he felt about it... a new ship, a new crew, a new captain and
chief
of the boat all at once. Too much...
"I
don't know
what to say, Captain.
Thank you. I'll have to think about it."
"That's
fine,
Sorensen. You think about
it as long as you like. Right now we have more immediate concerns.
Netts and
Pisaro tell me that in your opinion the Russian sub never sank, that it
was an
acoustic trick of some sort."
"Skipper,
what we
thought was the
torpedo was the sub itself. I think they fired some kind of decoy that
sank and
imploded."
Springfield
tapped a pencil on his desk.
"That means that sub went down to at least four thousand feet."
"Yes,
sir."
"A
Mark
thirty-seven won't go that deep.
We couldn't shoot her down there, except with a nuke, a Mark
forty-five..."
He shook his head at the prospect. "But what if you're wrong, Sorensen?
What if she did sink?"
"Then
I'm wrong.
If she's on the bottom,
we'll find her."
"Well,
I'm
betting you're right. It's
the safest thing to do. Admiral Netts has had the tape of the sinking
analyzed
and the sound engineers don't agree. Still, we have to assume that sub
is still
loose. We don't know where it is or what shape it's in but we do know
one
thing. That sub got into the Mediterranean undetected, and as far as we
know it
hasn't come out."
"If
it got in,
sir, I won't be surprised
if it can get out."
"Well...
we've
increased the number
of patrols through the Strait and beefed up the fixed arrays, but this
sub
isn't our only problem. Four days ago three more Soviet attack subs
passed
through the Iceland gap and headed south into the Atlantic. We're
tracking them
through the North Atlantic with SOSUS right now. One of them is riding
a picket
line about thirty miles out. Clearly the Russians believe they can
penetrate
the Med, and it seems as though they designed this new class of subs to
do just
that. You know, until now our missile subs have been able to operate
without
any trouble in the Ionian Sea. From there they can strike at targets as
far
away as Moscow. But if the Russians get attack submarines into the Med,
they
jeopardize our FBMs. This is a whole new ball game for the Soviet Navy.
We
think they're going after
Vallejo
, so the
first thing we're going to do is help her shake her tail. We're going
to have
to deal with this picket first. When
Vallejo
is clear, we're going on station outside
the Strait. If
we're lucky, we'll catch the mystery boat coming out. Any questions?"
"Yes,
sir. Is
there a designation for
the new sub?"
"Alpha."
"It
s one hell of
a sub, sir."
"It
is. No
question about that."
"We'll
keep sharp
ears. Skipper."
"Very
well. Get
ready to take her
out."
Sipping
Alka-Seltzer, Sorensen was running
circuit checks on the new sonars when Fogarty came into the sonar room
and sat
down. Fogarty switched on his screen and punched up the bottom scanners.
"How's
your
hangover, kid?"
"Awful."
Sorensen
punched
him lightly on the shoulder.
"Relax, Fogarty, we're home. What's the depth under our keel?"
"Thirty-four
feet."
"All
right.
Sharpen your spurs, cowboy.
Here we go"
They
heard
Pisaro's voice come through the
intercom. "Attention all hands, attention all hands. Maneuvering
stations,
maneuvering stations. Prepare for slow speed."
The
reactor was
hot, the steam lines were
charged, the course was plotted, captain and lookouts were on the
bridge.
Overhead the night sky was cloudy, obscuring the heavens. Always
obscure, the
sea was calm.
On
the pier
opposite, the captain of
Vallejo
prepared to follow
Barracuda
into
the bay. Springfield waved
and ordered the bow and stern lines away.
"All
ahead slow."
With
a shudder
the ship moved away from the
pier, passed outside the breakwaters and slipped by the Russian
trawler.
Rolling in the swell, Springfield turned his ship into the moderate sea
and headed for deep
water.
"Strike
the colors," he said. "Clear the bridge. Rig for
dive."
No
band played. No admiral made a speech. No crowd waved good-by.
Barracuda
steamed out of Rota in the dead of night and
slipped furtively
into the Atlantic.
Ten
miles outside Rota, Springfield gave the
order to dive.
"All
hands prepare for steep angles and
deep submergence. Flood forward ballast tanks."
"Flood
forward ballast tanks, aye."
"Stern
planes down six degrees."
"Stern
planes down six degrees,
aye."
"Radio
to control. Intercepting Soviet
transmission."
"Belay
the dive. Belay the dive. Stern
planes zero degrees."
"Stern
planes zero degrees, aye."
"Control
to radio. Where is the point of
origin?"
"Radio
to control. It's in a priority
code from Cádiz."
"Control
to radio. Did you get it
all?"
"Radio
to control. Message complete.
Shall we decode?"
"Very
well, radio, decode the message. A
little practice never hurts. If it's anything more than a report of our
position, let me know right away."
"Aye
aye, skipper."
"Stern
planes
down six degrees."
In
the torpedo
room Lopez checked the serial
numbers of the live torpedoes against the log and cheerfully dusted off
the
warheads. Once again fully armed,
Barracuda
carried
twenty Mark 37
torpedoes with conventional high-explosive warheads, in both
wire-guided and
acoustic-homing modes, four Mark 45 torpedoes with quarter-kiloton
tactical
nuclear warheads and two chaff decoys designed to confound and mislead
an enemy
torpedo. Lopez hummed a happy tune.
The
young
torpedomen gathered around a plaque
newly installed over the firing console.
ZAPATA
M.I.A.
Johnson,
the
mate, was scrutinizing the new
plating in the curved snout of the compartment. Patches of fresh gray
paint
still glistened in the bright light, but the welds were invisible.
"I
dunno, Chief,"
Johnson said.
"This was a damned fast job on these torpedo doors."
"Those
tiger team
boys know their
stuff," Lopez replied. "Regular hotshots."
A
thin wiry man,
Johnson seemed to grow even
thinner as his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was like two
stones
scraping together.
"Lopez,
the
scuttlebutt is that a
Russian sub is riding a picket line thirty miles out."
"That's
right.
They do it all the
time."