“What have you got on the 150-hertz bucket?” he shot at the junior watchstander, a third-class sonarman named Phills.
“Couple of spikes at 154, but they’re fuzzy. Lot of noise.”
“Wait a minute,” Holt said, turning his seat toward the narrowband displays. More transients began pouring down the narrowband display, all from the north. The audio cursor was putting out a hum now, a faint hum that reminded him of the run on the Louisville. The hum and the rattles were growing louder. “Zero the freq bucket and narrow it to 153 to 155 hertz, max processing, short time integration,” he ordered Phills.
Holt’s suspicion was confirmed ninety seconds later.
“Conn, sonar,” he said calmly into his headset mike, “new contact bearing zero zero five on hull and spherical arrays, holding a one five four hertz tonal narrowband and several traces and transients broadband, suspect contact is submerged warship, Japanese construction. Destiny class.”
“Conn, aye,” Vale’s voice replied, just as calm. “Turning east for a TMA leg now. Designate contact Target One.”
On the conn, Lt. Comdr. Henry Vale, the officer of the deck, buzzed Pacino’s stateroom and called to the chief of the watch to man battle stations.
“Captain,” Pacino answered Vale.
“Time is 0355, sir. We have the Destiny.”
Chapter 31
Saturday, 4 January
“Norfolk Navcom, this is Echo Five November. Navcom, Navcom, Navcom, this is Echo Five November with a Navy Blue. Come in, over.”
Static and whistling.
“Navcom, this is Echo Five November, over.”
Nothing.
Kane looked at Binghamton, whose head was sweating furiously.
Binghamton adjusted the gain and told Kane to try again. No answer but static. Binghamton tried a new frequency, listening first to see if there were any voices, and hearing none, waved to Kane. Kane called again. Silence, no response.
“I guess there was something to the storm report I heard.”
“What report? What storm?”
“When the bigmouth dried out I cranked through a frequency and heard something about a massive blizzard over the Atlantic coast from the Carolinas to New York. Whole place socked in. It would explain the reception problem.”
“Maybe we should try for a relay. Get somebody local who can keep calling.”
“Somebody else couldn’t authenticate from the code book, plus I’m guessing this message is time-sensitive. Am I right, Skipper?”
“Yeah.” Kane clicked his microphone. “Conn, Captain, lower the bigmouth and take us deep.”
“Conn, aye,” rasped through the circuit. The deck plunged beneath them as the ship went down and accelerated to catch up with the Destiny.
“Any chance an hour will make a difference. Senior?”
“Who knows. Captain? We could try, but don’t count on anything.” “Dammit,” Kane said, already halfway to control.
“Off’sa’deck, we got Target One back?”
“Still looking, sir.”
“Find him fast. I don’t need another Nagasaki surprise.”
“We’re under three feet of snow already. General. How about you?”
The secure-voice line took a second to process and unscramble the incoming signal so that Barczynski’s voice came over after a short delay. To Donchez the incessant pausing always felt like he was talking to someone angry who had to count to ten before speaking, and in this case it was appropriate. Barczynski was not pleased about the situation in the Labrador Sea.
“I can’t even see as far as two feet of my back porch, but what I can see is drifting up to four feet. I barely made it home and I’m not going anywhere until this thing lifts. But, enough about the damn storm. What the hell’s going on with the Destiny and Sihoud? You’ve been promising me results for a week now.”
Donchez had briefed Barczynski earlier about the first message from the Phoenix, the first good news since Seawolf had left the dry dock. This call was to update him on the second message and that Seawolf should be intercepting the Destiny within the next six hours. When Donchez finished, the general started an interrogation.
“What chance does your Seawolf have against this Destiny? We know the UIF sub ran over two of your 688 class boats. And didn’t they have the same weapons as Seawolf has now?”
“You’re partly correct. General. I believe Seawolf will prevail. It’s invisible compared to a 688. And with the same weapons, the Phoenix was able to damage the Destiny badly enough that they could track it clear across an ocean without being detected, even though they themselves were badly hurt. The Mark 50 torpedo is a remarkable weapon. A salvo of three or four should put the Destiny on the bottom.”
“Will Seawolf get there in time?”
“Yes, sir.” He hoped.
“What if by some circumstance that Scorpion missile gets launched? Can we shoot it down? Should we have some of Clough’s interceptors standing by?”
“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 exposure 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.
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.”