Jake’s memory of the attacking jets had blurred. He remembered being scared and feeling lucky to be alive. Stuck in a ship with a squad of commandos and a mysterious Frenchman, he felt alone. He distracted himself with tactics and thought about the jagged metallic edges on his damaged sail creating babbling broadband flow noise. He grabbed a microphone.
“Maneuvering, control room, make turns for eight knots.”
“Jake,” Renard said, “I bit my tongue as you drove us into the sea floor. You must make calls in a crisis, and I’m betting my life that you’re capable. But I prefer that you confer with me on tactical decisions.”
“You’re the one who wanted to slow last time we talked about it.”
“That was hours ago,” Renard said.
“Look, Renard,” Jake said, “It’s my ship and my call.”
“But I’m an authority figure for the Taiwanese. We cannot afford to have them see you and me divided. I should be involved with decisions. And please, in private, call me Pierre.”
“Okay, Pierre. I’ll confer with you when I can, but at the end of the day it’s my ship, and I make the decisions.”
“But you must agree that when you’re sleeping and I’m on watch, you will have to deal with my decisions. And I mean more than just with tactics. I have influence with the Taiwanese aboard this vessel. You must appreciate that.”
“You may know these commando killers, but even you can’t keep the reactor running long term,” Jake said. “Only I understand this pig completely. If you or any of these commando goons mess with me, you’ll find yourselves floating in a coffin you don’t understand.”
To his chagrin, Jake realized just how much his French companion enjoyed arguing.
“I agree that you have knowledge of this ship that I will never have, but I’m capable of learning the reactor plant. I’ve learned several before. It might take me time to understand its basic operations, but I can do it.”
“Enough to go under the ice?” Jake asked.
“No, but I could deviate from our plan and go the long way around South Africa. I merely wish to point out that your power over me is not absolute.”
Renard inhaled from his Marlboro.
“I only recruit people whom I can respect and trust,” Renard said. “I wish that you could trust me. By ignoring my counsel and suspecting my every move, you place this entire ship at risk.”
While Mike Gant roamed the engine room and shifted machinery to slower, quieter modes of operation, Jake entered maneuvering and addressed David Bass.
“I know you could do this yourself, but I thought I’d give you some moral support. You’ve been kicking butt back here, by the way,” Jake said.
“Thanks,” Bass said. “Are we crazy?”
“We’re crazy to the tune of millions. Just do what I tell you and we’ll get through this. Shift the reactor to natural circulation.”
Bass’ belly jiggled as he pulled handles upward. Pumps shut off within the reactor, extinguishing the Colorado’s power-driven reactor coolant flow. Pressurized water in the core heated up, rose via convection to steam generators, released energy, and fell back into the core. The natural, heat-driven convection drove cooling water through the core with a whisper.
“I’m going back up front,” Jake said. “You’ll have to keep things cool back here. Remember to watch the xenon build up. I don’t want this plant shutting itself down.”
The P-3 Orion that had been scrambled from Jacksonville ascertained the Colorado’s course of one-four-zero, to the southeast, moving between seven and nine knots. It dropped its last sonobuoy and turned for shore as its fuel gauge dipped into its reserves.
A P-3 Orion from Puerto Rico fully loaded with fuel, sonobuoys, and torpedoes reached the Colorado. The P-3’s hot-swapped data, and track on the Trident stayed solid during the exchange. At sunrise, a sonar technician became alarmed as he sipped from his cup of coffee. The crisp, baritone whine of the Colorado’s reactor coolant pumps had disappeared.
President Ryder heard the CNO’s gritty voice.
“The Colorado has slowed and secured her reactor coolant pumps,” Mesher said. “Our P-3 Orion has lost contact but is trying to regain it.”
“How does this affect our ability to track the Colorado?” Ryder asked
“The silent operations confirm that the hijackers don’t want us to find them, but the reduced speed works to our advantage in letting the Miami reach the Colorado sooner.”
“What if we can’t regain control?” Ryder asked.
The Air Force Chief of Staff lashed out.
“We need to sink that ship! This is already an unacceptable risk. That submarine could be minutes away from launching missiles.”
“Impossible!” Mesher said. “A team of experts couldn’t bypass the safeguards, and the Miami is on station and will take control of the situation. We were caught off guard but have responded flawlessly. I’m sending capable people to deal with this. Let them do their jobs.”
CHAPTER 17
Showered and wearing his blue jumpsuit, Jake stood by the port side periscope. He glanced at Renard, who sat in a dark corner of the control room at the electronic sensory measures suite.
“ESM is ready,” Renard said.
“Very well. Raising number two scope,” Jake said.
Jake sought a GPS fix of his location, but as he glued his eye to the rising steel cylinder, an alarm whined, and he lowered the scope.
“What is it?” Jake asked.
“Merde! An APS-137 radar at high signal strength. That’s a P-3 Orion submarine killer overhead.”
“Do you recommend altering course?” Jake asked.
He knew the answer but found comfort conferring with the ex-commander of the Amethyst.
“Yes, now may be a good time to head for the shipping lanes. Don’t change speed. Any faster, and the P-3 might hear us.”
In the Miami’s wardroom, Brody explained the mission.
“The CNO himself is behind this one,” he said. “It’s happening, it’s real, and it’s us.”
“Sir, do we have intelligence on the expected resistance from the Colorado?” Pete Parks, his executive officer, asked in a Texas drawl. “Can we assume it has torpedoes ready?”
“Weapons ready, yes. A crew to support a long-term engagement, no. But we’re not going to shoot unless provoked. This is an intelligence gathering mission. We won’t destroy the Colorado until we learn where it’s going and who’s waiting for it. It’ll be my judgment when we’ve reached that point.”
A knock on the wardroom door interrupted him. A young sailor entered.
“Sir, the Officer of the Deck reports that the ship has received bell ringer sonar contact from a P-3 and requests permission to ascend to periscope depth.”
Brody took the Miami shallow, received data on the Colorado’s new course, then returned deep. Slowing the Miami to listen for the Trident, he heard the gritty voice of Senior Chief Schmidt, his senior sonar technician, bellow over a loudspeaker.
“Control room, sonar room, we have a submerged contact, bearing zero-three-six. Trident Missile submarine! Designate sierra thirty-seven. We’ve got its distillate brine pump.”