“When you have 'em, get 'em aboard, and get 'em the hell up here.”
“Okay, Jack. We're on it.”
Ryan killed the line and picked up on Murray. “Fax the data you have to our Station Chief Mexico. I have two field officers on the scene, good ones, Clark and Chavez.”
“ Clark?” Murray asked, as he handed the fax information to Pat O'Day. “The same one who—”
“That's the man.”
“I wish him luck.”
The tactical problem was complex. Dubinin had an anti-submarine aircraft overhead and could not afford to make a single mistake. Somewhere ahead was an American missile submarine that he fully intended to destroy. He had ordered it to protect himself, the captain reasoned. He had been fired upon with a live weapon. That changed matters greatly. He really should radio fleet command for instructions, or at least to announce his intentions, but with an aircraft overhead that was suicide, and he'd brushed close enough to death for one day. The attack on Admiral Lunin could only mean that the Americans were planning an attack on his country. They'd violated their favorite international hobbyhorse — the seas were free for the passage of all. They'd attacked him in international waters before he was close enough to commit a hostile act. Someone, therefore, thought there was a state of war. Fine, Dubinin thought. So be it.
The submarine's towed-array sonar was drooping well below the level of the boat, and the sonar crewmen were now concentrating as they never had.
“Contact,” Lieutenant Rykov called. “Sonar contact, bearing one-one-three, single screw… noisy, sounds like a damaged submarine…”
“You're certain it's not a surface contact?”
“Positive… surface traffic is well south of this track because of the storms. The sound is definitely characteristic of a submarine power plant… noisy, as though from some damage… southerly drift… bearing one- one-five now.”
Valentin Borissovich turned to shout into the control room: “Estimated distance to target's reported position?”
“Seven thousand meters!”
“Long, long shot… southerly drift… speed?”
“Difficult to tell… less than six knots, certainly… there's a blade-rate there, but it's faint, and I can't read it.”
“We may not get more than one shot,” Dubinin whispered to himself. He went back to control. “Weapons! Set up a torpedo on a course of one-one-five, initial search depth seventy meters, activation point… four thousand meters.”
“Very well.” The lieutenant made the proper adjustment to his board. “Set for tube one… weapon is hot, ready! Outer door is closed, Captain.”
Dubinin turned to look at the executive officer. Ordinarily a very sober man — he scarcely drank even at ceremonial dinners — the Starpom nodded approval. The Captain didn't need it, but was grateful for it even so.
“Open outer door.”
“Outer door is open.” The weapons officer flipped the plastic cover off the firing switch.
“Fire.”
The lieutenant stabbed the button home. “Weapon is free.”
“ Conn, sonar! Transient, transient, bearing one-seven-five — torpedo in the water bearing one-nine- five!”
“All ahead full!” Ricks shouted to the helm.
“Captain!” Claggett screamed. “Belay that order!”
“What?” The youngster at the helm was all of nineteen, and had never heard a captain's order countermanded. “What do I do, sir?”
“Captain, if you goose the engines like that, we lose the shaft in about fifteen seconds!”
“Shit, you're right.” Ricks was pink beneath the red battle lights in the control room. “Tell the engine room, best safe speed, helm, right ten degrees rudder, come north, new course zero-zero-zero.”
“Right ten degrees rudder, aye.” The boy's voice quavered as he turned the wheel. Fear is as contagious as plague. “Sir, my rudder is right ten degrees, coming to new course zero-zero-zero.”
Ricks swallowed and nodded. “Very well.”
“ Conn, sonar, bearing to torpedo is now bearing one-nine-zero, torpedo going left to right, torpedo is not pinging at this time.”
“Thank you,” Claggett replied.
“Without our tail, we're going to lose track of it real quick.”
“That's true, sir. Captain, how about we let the Orion know what's going on?”
“Good idea, run up the antenna.”
“Sea Devil One-Three, this is Maine.”
“ Maine, this is One-Three, we are still evaluating that torpedo we dropped and—”
“One-Three, we have a torpedo in the water one-eight-zero. You missed the guy. Start another search pattern south of us. I think this bird is engaging our MOSS.”
“Roger, on the way.” The Tacco informed Kodiak that there was a for-real battle going on now.
“Mr. President,” Ryan said, “we may have some useful information here, sir.” Jack was sitting down in front of the speaker phone, his hands flat on the table and wet enough to leave marks on the Formica top, Goodley saw. For all that, he envied Ryan's ability to control himself.
“What might that be?” Fowler asked harshly.
Ryan's head dropped at the tone of the reply. “Sir, the FBI has just informed us that they have information on two, possibly three, confirmed terrorist suspects in Denver today. Two of them are believed to be on an airliner inbound to Mexico. I have people in the area, and we're going to try and pick them up, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” Fowler said. “We know that this wasn't a terrorist act.”
“Ryan, this is General Fremont. How was this information developed?”
“I don't know all the details, but they have information on an automobile — a truck, I think, a van, that was at the site. They've checked the tag number and the owner — the owner turned up dead, and we ran the other two down by their airline tickets and—”
“Hold it!” CINC-SAC cut Ryan off. “How the hell can anyone know that — a survivor from the bomb site? For Christ's sake, man, this was a hundred kiloton weapon—”
“Uh, General, the best number we have now — it came from the FBI — is fifty-KT, and—”
“The FBI?” Borstein said from NORAD. “What the hell do they know about this? Anyway, a fifty-kiloton weapon wouldn't leave any survivors for over a mile around. Mr. President, that cannot be good information.”
“Mr. President, this is the NMCC,” Ryan heard on the same line. “We just received a message from Kodiak. That Soviet submarine is attacking USS Maine. There is a torpedo in the water, Maine is attempting to evade.”
Jack heard something, he wasn't sure what, over the speakerphone.
“Sir,” Fremont said at once, “this is a very ominous development.”
“I understand that, General,” the President said just loudly enough to hear. “General — SNAPCOUNT.”
“What the hell's that?” Goodley asked quietly.
“Mr. President, that is a mistake. We have a solid piece of information here. You wanted information from us, and now we have it!” Ryan barked rapidly, almost losing it again. His hands went from flat to fists. Jack struggled with himself again, and regained control. “Sir, this is a real indicator.”
“Ryan, it looks to me like you've been lying and misleading me all day,” Fowler said, in a voice that hardly sounded human at all. The line went dead for the last time.
