Phoenix Sub Zero

“If the missile works as advertised, sir, it will have a radar-cloaking mechanism that will make it undetectable. It’s a stealth missile, it flies at 60,000 feet at Mach three. The only thing that could possibly give it away is the sonic boom, and coming in from Canada as it is, the terrain is unoccupied. We wouldn’t know until it crossed over populated areas that it was inbound, and even then it would be too late because it’s too hard to pinpoint. The only chance would be an interceptor that could shoot it down in the first six seconds of flight, while it’s on the solid rocket-fuel booster, and that’s only possible if you know exactly where the Destiny is. Only Seawolf or Phoenix knows that.”

“That’s damned bad news, Dick. Why don’t your subs give us a clue where the Destiny is?”

“They have orders to, General, but Phoenix can only talk on HF radio, which is frankly crappy—her normal comms were knocked out earlier—and Seawolf is probably still engaging.”

“I hate to even think this, Dick, but do you think we ought to recommend city evacuations?”

“No, General. You’d never get anyone out in time with this storm, and we’d kill a hell of a lot of folks from expo sure and panic. We can hope that the blizzard will make the bomb ineffective if it gets launched…”

“Dick, make sure your guys get that sub. I’m not banking on any damn snowstorm. Stay on the line while I get President Dawson.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Donchez waited, knowing that either Pacino did his job or … He cut off the thought.

USS SEAWOLF

Executive officer “Lube Oil” Vaughn stood inboard of the attack-center consoles, his headphones on, a clipboard with a sketchpad in his hands. He nodded at Pacino, announcing that battle stations were manned. The control room was shrouded in red light, its beam-to-beam width made crowded and small by the two dozen watchstanders, the plots manned, the attack-center-console seats filled, phone talkers dotting the room. The high whining sound of the console screens was augmented by the whispers of conversation, the three-word communications that made the battlestations crew a single organism, at one with the machinery of the ship. The ventilation ducts boomed through the space, their bass note creating the tense atmosphere of expectation of the unknown. The brass analog chronometer read 0402. “Target One bears 351, range 24,000 yards. Own-ship speed twenty knots pointing the contact at course north, depth 500 feet.” Vaughn leaned over the pos two console of the BSY-2.

“Contact course approximate at 180, speed ten to twelve knots.” “Very well, XO,” Pacino said, taking it in while climbing the conn platform and putting on his headset. “XO, call up Hobart aft and tell him to load the slot buoy number one into the aft signal ejector. Weps, status of the tubes?”

“Port bank tubes dryloaded with Mark 50s,” Scott Court reported from the far aft console, the weapons-control panel.

“Spin up two, four, six, and eight, flood and open outer doors. Set

submerged target presets, high-to-medium passive snake pattern.”

“Aye, sir. Torpedo power coming on, one through four.” “Attention in the firecontrol team,” Pacino said to the room. The quiet conversations stopped. Those watchstanders who weren’t at visual displays turned to look at Pacino. “As soon as the torpedoes warm up we will be launching a horizontal salvo at Target One. We’ll reload immediately and fire off another salvo. We’ll continue until Target One is on the bottom or counterfires. In the event of a counterfire I will run but I’ll keep shooting. Carry on.”

In the sonar room Jesse Holt frowned at the narrowband frequency buckets and keyed his mike. “Conn, sonar, new contact, partially masked by Target One, bears 354, range distant. Contact is a submerged warships, possible American 688 class.”

Confusion clouded Jeff Joseph’s face as he acknowledged into his boom microphone, “Conn, aye.”

“A 688 class at the same bearing as the Destiny,” Vaughn said in frustration. “The Phoenix, the ship who trailed the Destiny all the way here.” “We’re early,” Pacino said, angry at the interruption to the firing-routine. “Phoenix was supposed to be out of the area when we got here, but we’re an hour early.”

Pacino looked at the navigation chart. The strait was a narrow corridor of seaway going north and south. At the south, Seawolfs position was marked as a black dot. Farther north, an orange mark denoted the Destiny, the target. Somewhere north of the Destiny, the Phoenix sailed, unaware that they were in the line of fire. If Pacino went ahead with the torpedo shot, he risked hitting the friendly, the Phoenix. If he waited, the Destiny might launch the adhesive plutonium bomb at D.C. He felt like a policeman ready to shoot at a bad guy, suddenly finding out the villain had a hostage.