Raise the Titanic! (Dirk Pitt 4)

Parotkin took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. "Have the crew ready the nuclear missile carrier and steer a course ten miles north of the Titanic for our firing position."

The first officer stared at Parotkin for a long moment, his face void of expression. Then he slowly wheeled and made for the radio telephone and ordered the helmsman to steer fifteen degrees to the north.

Thirty minutes later, all was in readiness. The Mikhail Kurkov dug her bow into the swells at the position laid for the missile launch as Parotkin stood behind the radar operator. "Any hard sightings?" he asked.

"Eight jet aircraft, a hundred and twenty miles west, closing rapidly."

"Surface vessels?"

"Two small ships bearing two-four-five, twenty-one miles southwest."

"That would be the tugs returning," the first officer said.

Parotkin nodded. "It's the aircraft that concern me. They will be over us in ten minutes. Is the nuclear warhead armed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then begin the countdown."

The first officer gave the order over the phone and then they moved outside and watched from the starboard bridge wing as the forward cargo hatch swung smoothly aside and a twenty-six-foot Stoski surface-to-surface missile slowly rose from its concealed tube into the gusty dawn air.

"One minute to firing," came a missile technician's voice over the bridge speaker.

Parotkin aimed his glasses at the Titanic in the distance. He could just make out her outline against the gray clouds that crawled along the horizon. A barely perceptible shiver gripped his body. His eyes reflected a distant sad look. He knew he would be forever cursed among sailors as the captain who sent the helpless and resurrected ocean liner back to her grave beneath the sea. He was standing braced and waiting for the roar of the missile's rocket engine and then the great explosion that would pulverize the Titanic into thousands of molten particles when he heard the sound of running footsteps from the wheelhouse, and the radio operator burst onto the bridge wing.

"Captain!" he blurted. "An urgent signal from an American submarine!"

"Thirty seconds to firing," the voice droned over the intercom.

There was unmistakable panic in the radio operator's eyes as he thrust the message into Parotkin's hands. It read:

USS DRAGONFISH TO USSR MIKHAIL KURKOV DERELICT VESSEL RMS TITANIC UNDER PROTECTION OF UNITED STATES NAVY ANY OVERT ACT OF AGGRESSION ON YOUR PART WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE REPEAT IMMEDIATE RETALIATORY ATTACK

----SIGNED CAPTAIN USS SUBMARINE DRAGONFISH

"Ten seconds and counting," came the disembodied voice of the missile technician over the speaker. "Seven . . . six..' .

Parotkin looked up with the clear, unworried expression of a man who has just received a million rubles through the mail.

". . . five . . . four . . . three . . ."

"Stop the countdown," he ordered in precise tones, so there could be no misunderstanding, no misinterpretation.

"Stop countdown," the first officer repeated into the bridge phone, his face beaded with sweat. "And secure the missile."

"Good," Parotkin said curtly. A smile

spread across his face. "Not exactly what I was told to do, but I think Soviet Naval authorities will see it my way. After all, the Mikhail Kurkov is the finest ship of her kind in the world. We wouldn't want to throw her away because of a senseless and foolish order from a man who is undoubtedly dead, now would we?"

"I am in complete accord." The first officer smiled-back. "Our superiors will also be interested to learn that in spite of all our sophisticated detection gear, we failed to discover the presence of an alien submarine practically on our doorstep. American undersea penetration methods must truly be highly advanced."

"I feel sure the Americans will be just as interested in learning that our oceanographic research vessels carry concealed missiles."

"Your orders, sir?"

Parotkin watched the Stoski missile as it sank back into its tube. "Set a course for home." He turned and peered across the sea in the direction of the Titanic. What had happened to Prevlov and his men? Were they alive or dead? Would he ever know the true facts?

Overhead the clouds began turning from gray to white and the wind dropped to a brisk breeze. A solitary sea gull emerged from the brightening sky and began circling the Soviet ship. Then, as if heeding a more urgent call to the south, it dipped its wings and flew off toward the Titanic.