THE TENSION in the Pentagon’s Situation Room had grown as tight as a drum. The proverbial pin dropping would have sounded like a cannon shot.
One of the staffers, with a hand to the earphone of the headset he wore, relayed a message.
“We’re confirming a discharge from the Quadrangle site,” he said. “Continuous discharge… Duration at least sixty seconds.” No one moved. They all stared at the screen and waited for the inevitable. Unlike ballistic missiles with their seventeen-minute approach time, it should have taken only a blink.
Ten seconds later the lights were still on, the computers still running.
Everyone began to look around.
“Well?” Vice President Sandecker asked.
A female staffer spoke up. “The networks are still broadcasting live,” she said. “No sign of impact or damage.” Brinks’s face began to fill with color again. He turned to Dirk Pitt. “Your man did it,” he said hopefully.
“His name’s Austin,” Pitt said.
“Well, you give him my thanks along with the country’s,” Brinks said. “Along with my apology for being a bigmouthed idiot.” Pitt nodded, guessing that Kurt Austin would enjoy all three. He turned to the Navy brass in the room. “He’s going to need a way off that ship.” “Already on it,” one of them replied, smiling.
That pleased Pitt. But they weren’t out of the woods yet.
Up on the monitor the icons that represented the USS Memphis and the USS Providence were flashing. A new ship’s status was being reported. They were going into battle.
THE USS MEMPHIS had come up from the depths, just beyond the edge of the continental shelf. Holding station there, it had begun pinging away madly with the powerful sonar in its bow.
This was not normal operating procedure, as it gave away the ship’s position, but the plan was to draw Garand’s fleet of small subs out from its bay and allow the Trouts and Rapunzel to sneak in behind them.
A further effect of the violent sonar emissions would likely be confusion and even terror on the part of the enemy.
Inside the sub’s control room the sonar operator could see the plan working almost too well.
“Five targets approaching,” he called out. “Labeled bravo one through bravo five.” “Do we have firing solutions?” the sub’s skipper asked.
The fire control officer hesitated. His computer kept flashing green for yes and then red for no.
“The subs are so small, and continually changing direction, the computer can’t create a solution.” “Then fire on acoustic mode,” the captain ordered. “On my mark.” “Ready, sir.”
“Fire from all tubes.”
Over a period of five seconds compressed air launched six Mark 48 torpedoes from the Memphis’s midships tubes.
Seconds later the sonar man heard a different sound. “Incoming torpedoes,” he called out. “Bearing zero-four-three and three-five-five. At least four fish.” There were torpedoes approaching from the right front quadrant and the left. It took away their ability to maneuver.
“Hard to starboard,” the captain shouted. “Full revolutions, bow planes full up. Deploy countermeasures.” The ship turned, accelerated, and rose toward the surface. The countermeasures designed to draw off the approaching torpedoes were dumped in the water behind them.
Submarine battles were slow-motion versions of aerial dogfights. And the wait as a torpedo tracked inbound could be interminable.
Ten seconds passed and then twenty.
“Come on, go,” the skipper grunted.
The sub rose fast.
“One miss,” the sonar man reported. Then seconds later, “We’re clear.” They’d managed to avoid the incoming weapons. But the Memphis wasn’t as nimble as the small craft it was fighting. Like a bear tangling with a pack of wolves, she wouldn’t last long. As if to prove it, the sonar man called out again.
“New targets, bearing zero-nine-zero.” “Full down angle,” the captain ordered.
In the distance a series of explosions rocked the depths as two of the torpedoes from the Memphis found their marks in quick succession. But there was no celebration; their own troubles were too close.
“Bottom coming up fast, skipper,” the helmsman reported.