Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“Weapons Control, prep torpedo one,” he said.

Haasis remained glued to the periscope as a Mark 48 torpedo was loaded into the number one torpedo tube and the tube flooded. The captain looked at the merchant ship for another minute before calmly calling out, “Fire number one.”

A faint swoosh sounded from the sub’s bow, and Haasis counted the seconds for the torpedo to reach its target. The Liberian-registered ship shuddered and a small plume of black smoke arose amidships. With relief, Haasis saw two lifeboats quickly lowered with a full complement of crew. Its keel shattered by the blast, the heavily loaded ore carrier broke into two pieces, which sank simultaneously ten minutes later.

“Nice shooting, gentlemen,” Haasis said. “We’ll show the video in the mess at dinner tonight.”

He turned to the officer of the deck. “Parker, alert the Oregon to the sinking vessel. They’ll be able to pick up the survivors.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.

He returned to the captain’s side a short time later. “Message sent and confirmed, sir. The Oregon is on her way.”

“Very good.”

“Sir, if I may ask? I recall seeing the Oregon when we were in Osaka a few months ago. She’s a run-down, dilapidated old freighter. How is it this ship is the only one in the area?”

Haasis shook his head. “I don’t have all the answers, son. I just take my orders and follow them to the best of my ability.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yet the order to sink the ore carrier was one that didn’t sit well with Haasis. The captain had been given no explanation, only the required outcome. For the remainder of the Asheville’s cruise, the act gnawed at his conscience and kept him turning in his bunk at night. Not until a month later, after the Asheville returned to Point Loma Submarine Base, was he told the full nature of the mission. The Algonquin was carrying a cargo of high-grade uranium oxide to North Korea, enough to arm dozens of nuclear warheads. After hearing the truth—and accepting a unit commendation on behalf of his boat—the veteran captain never lost a night’s sleep again.

81

It appears someone is guarding the nest,” Gunn said.

He passed a pair of binoculars to Pitt, who stood beside him on the bridge of the Sargasso Sea. The NUMA ship was a dozen miles off the eastern tip of Cuba, sailing through a light sea.

Pitt focused the lenses on a modern survey vessel standing at station a half mile ahead. “We know that Díaz, after stealing Perlmutter’s research documents, sent his mining facility manager to locate the San Antonio,” Pitt said. “That must be him.”

“He’s the last one to be accounted for,” Gunn said. “I hear Perlmutter’s Cuban burglar didn’t fare too well. He was in the country illegally—and being watched by the FBI for industrial spying. They picked him up shortly after Perlmutter’s incident, and he will be sent away for a long while.”

Giordino stepped over as the NUMA ship converged on the other vessel. “Perhaps we should tell those boys thanks for pointing out the wreck site. Saved us a couple of days’ searching.”

Gunn smiled. “I don’t suspect they’d consider it too kindly.”

The bridge radio crackled with a gruff, accented voice. “Calling the American vessel. You are in protected waters. Leave the vicinity at once or you will be fired upon.”

“I told you they’d be touchy,” Gunn said.

“Reason enough to call in our backup friends,” Pitt said. He switched frequencies and made a call to shore, then dialed back to the survey boat. “This is the research vessel Sargasso Sea. You have twenty minutes to vacate the site and make for Baracoa or we will fire on you.”

Pitt’s message was met with a flurry of Spanish invectives.

“More than touchy,” Giordino said, “they’re downright grouchy.”

“Then we better dance a bit until the mosquitoes show up.”

Pitt had the NUMA ship turn away and sail slowly toward the Cuban coastline. Twenty minutes later, the ship reversed course, crawling back within a hundred yards of the survey vessel. Blistering threats again emanated from the ship’s radio, but Pitt ignored them.

Gunn pointed out the bridge window. “They’re showing their firepower,” he said with a nervous twitch.

A half-dozen men in military garb took up position along the survey ship’s rail, pointing assault rifles. One appeared to be wielding a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

“All crew members off the deck,” Pitt called over the Sargasso Sea’s PA system.

The radio blared again. This time, Pitt recognized the voice of Molina.