America (5 page)

“Close the main hatch and report when it is accomplished,” Kolnikov ordered. “Have Steeckt ready the sail cockpit for diving.”

At the starboard ship-control console, Turchak examined the information displays. He pushed buttons, tentatively at first, then with more confidence as he recalled the long conversations he had preparing for this day. The joystick that controlled the boat was there before him, waiting for his hand. He caressed it, then ran his fingers along the power lever. The rudder, he knew, was tied in with the joystick, so the boat would always slide through the water with minimum resistance. However, in the unlikely event there was a control computer failure, they would shift to manual controls to move the hydraulic valves that controlled the rudders and planes.

Digital images of the undersea world constructed from sonar data could be displayed on any of the vertical screens in the room. These images presented a three-dimensional picture of the undersea space around the submarine. The images could be rotated to display the situation in any direction from the submarine, or indeed, put the sub in the middle of a three-dimensional world, but for now the displays showed only the sea ahead, below and on each flank.

The displays were divided into two halves, both of which were transparent, by a wriggling line. The line was the water's surface. Above the line, the images were derived from data from the photonics mast, below the line from the sonar.

The sonar was the top-secret black magic of which Kolnikov, Turchak, and the others had heard rumors but had little specific information. Revelation, the Americans called the gear—or multistatic passive sonar, MSPS—because it made the sea transparent, revealing all. Using only the noise present in the sea from every natural and man-made source, listening from acoustic arrays in the bow, chin, sail, flanks, and stern of the submarine, the computers processed the data into a three-dimensional presentation that was awe-inspiring. The acoustic sensors themselves produced data at the rate of about thirty million bytes per second, which was processed by a system capable of handling twenty-five gigabytes per second. The sonar-processing system had more capacity than the computer systems of all the other U.S. submarines combined.

Magic!

Kolnikov stood looking, dumbstruck. The sea appeared clear as glass. He could see hulls of other boats, buoys, the bottom of the sound, the shards of a sunken ship.… The ocean was a tough, nonlinear medium. Temperature and salinity variations led to speed of sound changes that refracted and reflected sound waves, causing ducting, “mirrors,” and other effects that required real-time modeling on board to predict what in- and outbound sound was going to do as a function of depth, direction, and distance. Submarines changed depth periodically to measure actual conditions, to provide input to the computer models.

The pictures that Revelation generated, Kolnikov realized, were going to be only as good as the computer model. If the model were wrong, the pictures would be dangerous fiction. He would have to keep that fact firmly in mind.

“Nine hundred yards, Captain, bearing zero nine zero relative, speed five knots,” reported Heinrich Eck, referring of course to the destroyer. “We are steady on course one two zero degrees, making two knots. The destroyer is flashing us with an Aldis lamp.” Of course none of them knew what the Aldis lamp message was about, but Kolnikov thought it was probably an order to heave to.

“When the hatches are closed, we will accelerate,” he said.

Kolnikov found a chair and settled in. Behind him four Russian and German technicians stood watching the horizontal tactical display and fidgeting nervously. Leon Rothberg sat at a terminal checking automated defaults. Heydrich stood together behind the tactical display.

With studied casualness, Kolnikov removed a pack of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes from a trouser pocket. He extracted one from the pack, tapped it gently on a thumbnail to seat the tobacco, then lit it. He inhaled deeply, then blew out the smoke with a sigh.

“Smoke will foul the air filters and trigger the smoke alarms,” Rothberg said irritably.

“Turn off the smoke alarms,” Kolnikov said and took another drag.

“What will the destroyer do?” asked Gordin, one of the Russians.

“I don't know,” Kolnikov replied curtly. Gordin was another former submariner, a veteran of the Arctic icepack—he should know to keep his mouth shut.

“Hatches shut, Captain,” Boldt reported. He was working feverishly on the computer displays and now had one up that showed every orifice in the hull. All were now sealed.

“Obtain verbal confirmation, please,” said Kolnikov, refusing to hurry.

Another minute passed. Gordin looked as if he were going to pee his pants when Steeckt finally came into the control room, out of breath. “All hatches secure, Captain.”

“It's all yours,” Kolnikov said to Turchak. “All ahead one-third.” He took another drag on his smoke.

With his eyes on the reactor display and the steam pressures, Turchak slowly advanced the power lever, careful not to cavitate the prop or stir up the mud on the bottom of the sound. The power lever was merely a computer input device: The computer pulled rods from the reactor and opened valves in the engine room to route steam to the turbines. Here in the control room, Turchak could feel the submarine respond to his power command. The sonar picture began changing as the sub surged forward. The effect was mesmerizing.

Kolnikov leaned over and studied the touch-screen reactor information. The temperatures and cooling flow rates seemed smack in the middle of the normal ranges.

“Magic,” Eck whispered as he stared at the sonar display, unintentionally voicing the thought all of them were thinking. “Pure magic.”

Kolnikov shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There was so much to be done. “Gordin, you and Müller check the emergency gear. Extinguishers, hoses, nozzles, flashlights, tools, emergency breathing apparatus—all of it. Ensure that every man knows where everything is stowed.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

*   *   *

“Admiral, it looks like somebody just hijacked your new submarine,” Harvey Warfield boomed into the telephone. The people in the
Jones
's radio room had the commander of the Submarine Group on the other end of the hookup. Apparently the admiral had been on the pier watching
America
get under way and had only now arrived in his communications center.

“Are you sure?” the admiral demanded.

Try as he might, Warfield couldn't remember the flag officer's name. “We received a radio transmission that I interpreted that way, sir. A lot of people from the tugboat boarded the sub, and the sub sent a Mayday, which wasn't repeated. The mike seemed to get stuck open, and it sounded as if the intruders were hijacking the boat. There are people in the water right now, and we're closing on them.”

“Who is in the water?”

“Sir, I don't know.”

“Well, goddamn it, Captain, I think we had better find out just who is in the water and what the hell is going on aboard that submarine before we go off half-cocked.”

“Admiral, in my considered judgment, a bunch of pirates are stealing that submarine.”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Sir, the decision to disable or sink an American submarine needs to be made way above my pay grade.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! You expect me to authorize that based on some unverified crap you heard over the radio?”

“No, sir. I'm just advising you. People are falling in the ocean off that sub, the tug is sinking, we've been signaling the sub, ordering it to stop. Whoever is running that show is ignoring our signals. They refuse to answer our radio calls. Something is terribly wrong! It looks to me like the goddamn sub has been hijacked.”

The admiral mulled that comment for about two seconds. “Well, before we stick our dicks in the meat grinder, Captain, we need verification of this tale. I assume you've notified national command authority in Washington. Have you sent a flash message?”

“Yes, sir. I think we're drafting our third now. You should have received copies.”

On that note, the admiral terminated the conversation.

“Asshole,” roared Harvey Warfield as he slammed the telephone receiver down onto its cradle. He jabbed the squawk box. “Radio, get me the goddamn Pentagon. If I'm gonna sit here like a wart on a dog's ass watching that pigboat sail off over the horizon, I want a four-star on the hook with me.”

He released the button and shouted to the OOD, “That sub is accelerating. Stay with it. Close to parallel at its four-thirty position at a range of a hundred yards. And give me some reports. I want to know when the gun and torpedo tubes are manned and ready. Tell me about the people in the water.”

“The Coast Guard cutter will pick up the men overboard, Captain.”

Hijacked!

Yes, he was sure of it, though Harvey Warfield had to admit to himself that the evidence was sketchy. Although it sounded compelling, the radio show they had listened to could have been produced anywhere. The exploits of Orson Welles came immediately to mind.

Do this right, Warfield! There won't be any second chances.

He trained his binoculars on the white Coast Guard boat, which was now dead in the water. He could see the sailors rigging nets over the side and lowering a small boat.

Of course the admiral didn't want to take responsibility for sinking a brand-spanking-new two-billion-dollar submarine and killing a bunch of American sailors. Who would?

But if he, Harvey Warfield, didn't ring the fire alarm, the sub was as good as gone.

Hijacked!

The thought occurred to Harvey Warfield that there might be other submarines about, submarines that did not belong to the United States. He jabbed a squawk box button: “Combat, bridge, are there any subs on our plot?”

“No, sir. None.”

“Unidentified aircraft?” Even as he said it, he knew the answer.

“A couple dozen, Captain. Five non-transponder-equipped targets; the rest, I believe, are light civilian planes not under positive radar control. But I have no way to verify that.”

A feminine voice in his ear: “Captain, one of the lookouts reports that a television news chopper is hovering over our fantail. It appears to have bullet holes in the Plexiglas. We think the pilot wants to land on the fantail, sir.”

“Let him land. See if he has any videotape of that sub. If he does, get it and put it on the ship's system. I want to see it here on the bridge. And transmit it to Washington. And I want a report on those people in the water. Get that Coast Guard skipper on the horn and get a report.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“The Pentagon war room is on the line, Captain,” said another voice.

Harvey Warfield picked up the telephone and identified himself. He tried to succinctly sum up the situation by citing only hard, verifiable facts.

The war room duty officer was a two-star. “Are any Americans still aboard
America?
”

“I don't know,” Warfield replied bitterly. He could almost hear the other man thinking in the silence that followed.

“What is his course and speed?” the admiral in Washington asked.

“Up to ten knots now, sir, still heading one two zero for the open sea.”

“Depth of water?”

“Two hundred feet at the most.”

“Captain, you are the officer on the spot. I am not going to grant you permission to do anything. Anything you choose to do is your responsibility.”

“Yeah,” said Harvey Warfield, who didn't join this man's navy yesterday. He hung up the headset.

“Is the gun manned?” he called to the OOD.

“Yes, sir. Manned and ready.”

“Have the gunnery officer fire a warning shot. Have him telephone me before he shoots.”

“Yes, sir.”

In seconds the telephone rang. “Captain, gunnery officer.”

“A warning shot across their bow, Mr. Turner. Do not hit the submarine or any of those goddamn little boats running around out there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whenever you are ready, Mr. Turner.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Twenty seconds later the gun banged. The shell hit the water a hundred yards ahead of the sub, made a nice splash.

And the sub kept right on going. It was up to thirteen knots now.

Warfield jabbed the button on the squawk box labeled Radio.

“Tell everyone in the world, flash immediate: We have fired a warning shot across
America
's bow and it was ignored.”

When Warfield looked up, his XO was standing there, the finest naval officer he had ever been privileged to serve with, Lorna Dunnigan. He felt better just having her there. As usual, she got right to it.

“What do you intend to do, Captain?”

“I don't want the responsibility for killing a bunch of Americans either,” Warfield admitted. “I want more facts before I pull any triggers.”

*   *   *

Vladimir Kolnikov was on his second cigarette when the splash of the warning shot showed on the integrated tactical display and on the sonar. He glanced at the photonics image—yep, there too.

“How deep is the water here?” he asked Eisenberg, his navigator.

“One hundred eighty feet below the keel, Captain.”

“How long to the hundred-fathom curve?”

“Three hours at this speed.”

“Fifty fathoms?”

“An hour.”

Kolnikov leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the console in front of him. “I need an ashtray,” he remarked to no one in particular.

“Aren't you going to sink this destroyer?” Heydrich asked. He was seated in an empty sonar operator's chair, watching.

“With what? It will take all night for us to figure out how to aim and fire a torpedo.”

“So he can kill us at his leisure?”

“That's about the size of it. But he won't. The captain of that destroyer does not know what happened aboard this boat. He certainly suspects, but he doesn't know. None of the Americans know, and we are not going to help them find out. I wouldn't shoot at that destroyer even if I could.”