again?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let's get the hell out of here.”
The pilot and co-pilot went forward. The two communications technicians sat at their consoles and drew the curtain between themselves and the main cabin.
Clark turned to see his two guests exchanging looks. That was no good. He removed Qati's tie and wrapped it around his eyes. Chavez did the same to his charge. Next both were gagged, and Clark went forward to find some earplugs. Finally, they set both men in seats as far apart as the airplane's cabin allowed. John let the plane take off before he did anything else. The fact was that he despised torture, but he needed information now, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.
“Torpedo in the water!”
“Christ, he's dead aft of us!” Ricks turned. “Best possible speed, come left to two-seven-zero. XO, take the return shot!”
“Aye! Snapshot,” Claggett said. “One-eight-zero, activation point three thousand, initial search depth two hundred.”
“Ready!”
“Match and shoot!”
“Three fired, sir.” It was a standard tactic. The torpedo fired on the reciprocal heading would at least force the other guy to cut the control wires to his weapon. Ricks was already in sonar.
“Missed the launch transient, sir, and didn't catch the fish very soon either. Surface noise…”
“Take her deep?” Ricks asked Claggett.
“This surface noise may be our best friend.”
“Okay, Dutch… you were right before, I should have dropped the outboard.”
“ELF message, sir — SNAPCOUNT is cancelled, sir.”
“Cancelled?” Ricks asked incredulously.
“Cancelled, yes, sir.”
“Well, isn't that good news,” Claggett said.
“Now what?” the Tacco asked himself. The message in his hand made no sense at all.
“Sir, we finally got the bastard.”
“Run your track.”
“Sir, he fired at Maine!”
“I know, but I can't engage.”
“That's crazy, sir.”
“Sure as hell is,” the tactical officer agreed.
“Speed?”
“Six knots, sir — maneuvering says the shaft bearings are pretty bad, sir.”
“If we try any more…” Ricks frowned.
Claggett nodded. “… the whole thing comes apart. I think it's about time for some counter-measures.”
“Do it.”
“Five-inch room, launch a spread.” Claggett turned back. “We're not going fast enough to make a turn very useful.”
“I figure it's about even money.”
“Could be worse. Why the hell do you think they cancelled SNAPCOUNT?” the XO asked, staring at the sonar scope.
“X, I guess the danger of war is over… I haven't handled this well, have I?”
“Shit, skipper, who would have known?”
Ricks turned. “Thanks, X.”
“The torpedo is now active, ping-and-listen mode, bearing one-six zero.”
“Torpedo, American Mark 48, bearing three-four-five, just went active!”
“Ahead full, maintain course,” Dubinin ordered.
“Countermeasures?” the Starpom asked.
The captain shook his head. “No, no — we're at the edge of its acquisition range… and that would just give it a reason to turn this way. The surface conditions will help. We're not supposed to have battles in heavy weather,” Dubinin pointed out. “It's hard on the instruments.”
“Captain, I have the satellite signal — it's an all-forces message, 'Disengage and withdraw from any hostile forces, take action only for self-defense.'”
“I'm going to be court-martialed,” Valentin Borissovich Dubinin observed quietly.
“You did nothing wrong, you reacted correctly at every—”
“Thank you. I hope you will testify to that effect.”
“Change in signal — change in aspect, torpedo just turned west away from us,” Lieutenant Rykov said. “The first programmed turn must have been to the right.”
“Thank God it wasn't to the left. I think we've survived. Now, if only our weapon can miss…”
“Sir, it's continuing to close. The torpedo is probably in acquisition — continuous pinging now.”
“Less than two thousand yards,” Ricks said.
“Yeah,” Claggett agreed.
“Try some more countermeasures — hell, go continuous on them.” The tactical situation was getting worse. Maine was not moving quickly enough to make an evasive course worthwhile. The countermeasures filled the sea with bubbles, and while they might draw the Russian torpedo into a turn — their only real hope — the sad fact of the matter was that as the fish penetrated the bubbles it would find Maine with its sonar again. Perhaps a continuous set of such false targets would saturate the seeker. That was their best shot right now.
“Let's keep her near the surface,” Ricks added. Claggett looked at him and nodded in understanding.
“Not working, sir. sir, I've lost the fish aft, in the baffles now.”
“Surface the ship,” Ricks called. “Emergency blow!”
“Surface capture?” 995
“And now I'm out of ideas, X.”
“Come left, parallel to the seas?”
“Okay, you do it.”
Claggett went into control. “Up 'scope!” He took a quick look, and checked the submarine's course. “Come right to new course zero-five-five!”
USS Maine surfaced for the last time into thirty-five foot seas and nearly total darkness. Her circular hull wallowed in the rolling waves, and she was slow to turn.
The countermeasures were a mistake. Though the Russian torpedo was pinging, it was mainly a wake- follower. Its seeker head tracked bubbles, and the string of countermeasures made for a perfect trail, which suddenly stopped. When Maine surfaced, the submarine left the bubble stream. Again, the factors involved were technical. The surface turbulence confused the wake-following software and the torpedo began its programmed circular search pattern, just under the surface. On its third circuit, it found an unusually hard echo amid the confusing shapes over its head. The torpedo turned to close, now activating its magnetic-influence fusing system. The Russian weapon was less sophisticated than the American Mark 5o. It could not go higher than twenty meters of depth and so was not drawn up to the surface. The active magnetic field it generated was cast out like an invisible spiderweb, and when that net was disturbed by the presence of a metallic mass—
The thousand-kilo warhead exploded fifty feet from Maine 's already crippled stern. The twenty-thousand-ton warship shook as though rammed.
An alarm sounded instantly: “Flooding flooding flooding in the engine room!”
Ricks lifted the phone. “How bad?”