doctor. “I think the Navy lawyers might want to take a look at this.
“You’re just as bad as he is,” the doctor said, a note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve got no business being out here, not like this.” He gestured toward the rest of the group. “How could you do this to them? They can’t fight, not with him in charge.”
From his belt, the chief produced a set of handcuffs. He moved swiftly, like a cat, and before the doctor could voice a protest, he snapped one cuff around the doctor’s wrist, lifted it to a chill water pipe, and snapped the other cuff on. He stepped back and looked at his work with satisfaction. “That will hold you. He took the coffee pot that the doctor had brought in and set it safely aside. “Nobody touches that,” he ordered, then he turned back to Forsythe. “Sir — how are you?”
Forsythe smiled wanly. “I’ve been better.”
Black waves swarmed over him, threatening to swallow his consciousness. He fought them off, tried to stay focused on his anger, but the darkness crept ever closer, settling down on him in layers, blanking off the edges of his mind. He couldn’t succumb, not now. Not with the Yankees on their tail.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” the chief said softly, glaring at the doctor. “You may have killed us all.”
Think, think. He had to pay attention — he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Something warm pressed itself against his hand and he opened his eyes, surprised to find that they’d been closed. Another cup of coffee. He pulled back immediately.
“I made this one myself, sir,” the chief said. “Go on — this one’s okay.”
The same dark, earthy smell, the same sense of anticipation, but this time tinged with wariness. He glanced over the chief, then realized he had to trust someone. The chief had done nothing so far to warrant suspicion, nothing at all.
Forsythe took a large gulp, and another. It seared the delicate lining of his mouth, his throat, and the caffeine immediately seemed to insinuate itself into his body. He almost choked on the bitterness — it was at least twice as strong as any coffee he’d ever had on board the submarine, and that was saying a lot.
Nevertheless, the effects were almost immediate. He felt the sudden rush of energy, felt the pressure in his head and chest increase as the caffeine constricted his blood vessels and raised his blood pressure. No, the effects of the drug weren’t gone, but he felt capable of fighting them off now. He pushed himself away from the navigator’s table, figuring that having to stand up would help keep him alert. “Situation?”
“You were only out a couple of minutes, sir. We’re continuing north, still below the layer. We should turn again in about five minutes, according to the original plan.”
Forsythe paced back and forth, aware that the jitters were sweeping over him. It wasn’t comfortable, but he welcomed it. Better nerves than sleeping. “Run me through the contacts again,” he ordered.
Jacob’s screen showed five contacts of interest. “Here’s the battle group,” he said, pointing to the west. “I imagine they’re going to stay a safe distance out from shore, especially after that last torpedo attack. In here,” he continued, tapping an area just off the coast of Bermuda, “I think is a couple of large Russian ships. They’re at anchorage, not moving, so I’m not holding a lot off them, but they’re still there.”
“How far off the coast?”
“About a mile. Well within their landing capabilities for small craft, or for an easy dash in to the beach if they want to offload heavy equipment. And, finally, our playmate,” he said, indicating the last position that they held on the Yankee. “Of course, all of this is ten minutes out of date,” he said in an apologetic way. “As long as we’re below the layer, I’m not holding them.”
“Okay, I got it.” Forsythe turned to the chief. “Continue on our original plan. Then surface at the indicated time — real quietly, if you catch her napping. Keep in mind that this is a whole new game. The Yankee may be old, but she’s probably been backfitted with a lot of acoustics gear. And some of those crews have spent a lot of time in this part of the ocean. But, if we can get to her before she knows we’re here, we can take her.”
The chief nodded. “Time now, sir.”
“Very well. Take us up, Chief.”
Forsythe kept his gaze locked on the sonar screen as the ship crept slowly up. Every sonarman was in the compartment, listening, waiting, trying to catch the first sniff of the Yankee. They came up slowly, bare steerageway, so that the noise of their propeller did not give them away.
“Eleven hundred,” Jacobs murmured. “Any second now, sir.”
A hard blast of noise echoed through the submarine.
“Shit!” Jacob said. He ripped off the headphones, an expression of pain on his face. “She’s got us!”
“Snapshot,” Forsythe ordered. “Two torpedoes, bearing-only launch.”
Jacob’s fingers were flying over the fire control panel, dialing in the bearings and launching the torpedoes even while another hard blast of acoustic energy buffeted them.
The Yankee’s sonar drowned out the noise of the torpedoes’ launching, but the acoustic gear quickly picked it up. They saw their torpedo start up, head down the bearing, and turn toward the Yankee.
“How did they get us?” Forsythe demanded.
“Probably dragging her tail, sir,” Jacobs said. “Stayed above the layer herself so we couldn’t hear her, but going slow enough to drop her towed array down below the layer. It takes some fancy footwork, but we could do it. I guess they can, too, because there’s no way she was below the layer. No way at all, sir.”
“Torpedo inbound!” Renny shouted. “Recommend evasive maneuvers, Captain!”
“Chief, take us down to two thousand feet,” Forsythe ordered. Then a hard turn, wait one minute, then an emergency blow to get us back up above the layer. With any luck, she’ll try to follow us down.”
“Two — no, four torpedoes inbound, sir. Same bearing.” Renny said.
“Captain, the water here is only three thousand feet deep,” the chief said.
“Plenty of room,” Forsythe assured him.
But it wasn’t, not really. Not for what he wanted to accomplish.
Forsythe grabbed onto the chill water line as the submarine tipped nose down and headed for the depths. They could hear the noise of the torpedo on the speaker faintly now, growing louder. The beat of its propeller mixed with the two the
Just as the submarine passed 2,000 feet, the chief jerked the sub into a hard left turn. Just as she steadied up, Forsythe ordered, “Emergency blow!” The chief turned to stare at him, incredulous. Forsythe just nodded.
“Emergency blow, aye, sir.” The chief turned a valve.
Compressed air flooded the ballast tanks, first reversing the submarine’s speed and momentum, then thrusting her toward the surface. The effect was almost immediate.
There was a distant sound of an explosion, and Forsythe shot a questioning look at Jacob.
“Theirs,” the sonarman assured him. “One down, three to go.” Forsythe wasn’t so sure he would ever be able to tell the difference between torpedoes by audio alone, but he took Jacob’s word for it.
“And ours?”
“Still heading for her,” Jacobs assured him. “Another ninety seconds.”
“Passing five hundred feet and ascending,” the planesman sang out. “Passing four hundred.
“Hold on, everybody. This is going to be rough,” the chief warned.
All at once, the water around the submarine seemed to disappear, her momentum changed, and Forsythe knew what was happening. She was hanging bow up in the air, trying to fly, but not built for it. The odd sensation lasted just a moment, and then she slammed back down in the water, entering the water with a force that she hadn’t experienced since her original sea trials.
The shock from the impact ran through Forsythe like an electrical charge. “No,” Forsythe moaned, as a new wave of blackness threatened to overwhelm him. “Not now.”
“We can’t keep this up forever, Ensign” the chief warned.
“Zero eight four, ten thousand yards,” the chief said without even having to look at the plot. “But, sir…”
“Come left, steer course zero eight four — flank speed, Chief.” Forsythe could feel the certainty coursing through him.
