“We’ve got war in the Middle East, a rogue Trident on the run, and now we’ve got China’s tightening the rope around Taiwan. Do you have any good news?”
“No, sir. Just be thankful the Colorado Incident is under control.”
Brody heard Schmidt’s voice over a speaker.
“Possible target zig, USS Colorado. Contact is speeding up. We’ve got excessive flow noise — probably water over damaged fairwater planes. We’ve got a ton of power plant transients.”
Brody acknowledged the report and felt his throat tighten. He stood to announce his reaction but Schmidt’s voice rang out again.
“Countermeasures! Compressed gas. We’re blinded in the Colorado’s sector.”
“Any sign of a weapon?” Brody asked.
“Negative, but we can’t hear very — shit! High-speed screws. Torpedo in the water!” Schmidt said.
“Give me a bearing!”
Schmidt announced the bearing to the high-speed screws, and the torpedo alarm, triggered by hydrophones on the Miami’s hull, chimed. Brody silenced the alarm and verified that it agreed with Schmidt’s assessment.
“Torpedo evasion!” he said.
Brody turned the Miami and ordered it to its fastest, flank speed. The ship shook, and the control room fell silent until Schmidt cut through the tension.
“Weapon is drawing aft,” Schmidt said. “We’re clear.”
“Secure from torpedo evasion. Get me a bearing to the Colorado,” Brody said.
“Still blinded in their sector,” Schmidt said.
“I’m going through.”
Brody turned the Miami toward the Colorado and punched through the wall of noise created by its countermeasures to listen for the fleeing Trident.
Although the sprinting Trident rattled a cacophony of noises, Brody saw only fuzzy lines on his sonar display. The Miami’s sonar system was deafened by its own high speed. Brody slowed his submarine.
A trace to the north appeared on the sonar screen, but chasing after that noise at top speed would cost the Miami’s ability to listen to it. Brody could either listen to the Colorado or chase it. He could not do both.
He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Brody sprinted after the Trident for hours. At the end of each sprint, he drifted and listened, but he never regained the Colorado.
He marched into his stateroom and slammed the door, leaned back in his chair, then grabbed a phone.
“This is the captain. Get me the executive officer,” he said.
“Parks here, sir.”
“Lieutenant Commander Parks, station yourself as the Command Duty Officer and assume my duties. With the exception of weapons release, you have full authority. Until I say otherwise, you’re running the show.”
CHAPTER 19
The thirty-thousand-ton cargo vessel Custom Venture had set sail from Santos, Brazil, stopping in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to exchange freight. Loaded with dry storage, the ship steamed along the transit lane to the Straits of Gibraltar en route to Marseille, France.
Steel cans filled all but three of the containers. Of the three, one was welded watertight and empty. Another was filled with sand and welded shut. The final vessel contained an anti-submarine depth charge.
Two Custom Venture crewmen, Taiwanese Army Captain Chu Hsin-min and Sergeant Ding Mou-shih, had infiltrated the Custom Venture under cover as longshoremen. Baggy coveralls concealing forty-five caliber pistols, lock picking tools, and a pair of high-powered binoculars, Chu and Ding climbed to the weather decks.
Leaning against the ship’s railing, Chu inhaled the salt air and raised binoculars to his eyes. He studied stars flickering against an indigo backdrop, traded the binoculars with Ding, and pointed at the sky in a feigned lesson of astronomy.
However, the heavens held less of Chu’s interest than the horizon where he expected to see a surfaced submarine.
Ryder entered the situation room and looked at a clock. It had been thirteen hours since the Miami had lost the Colorado.
“Admiral Mesher, what’s the status?” he asked.
“We still have the Colorado contained, Mister President. The submarines Boise and Philadelphia are holding fifty-mile perimeters on the northern and southern boundaries, and two P-3 Orions have established the western and eastern ends. Each platform is sweeping inward, closing down the perimeter. The Miami is conducting a spiraling search from the Colorado’s last known position.”
“Are we going to regain the Colorado?” Ryder asked. “Don’t candy coat this.”
“Sir, when the Colorado evaded, it lost its stealth-quieting advantage at twelve knots due to damage imposed by the F-16’s. That either restricts the Colorado’s speed or makes it easier to find.”
“Enough with this game,” the Air Force Chief of Staff said. “We need to sink this Trident!”
“We still maintain—” Mesher said.
“No, Admiral,” Ryder said. “You’ve had your chance. The Colorado knows we’re looking for it, and it’s proven its hostile intent. As soon as it’s found, sink it.”
“Did you figure out who it was?” Jake asked.
He felt anxious about having been trailed, and he wanted to know who hunted him.
“I believe so,” Renard said. “I compared the frequencies we recorded during the encounter with your database. I was afraid our pursuer might have been a Virginia Class or a Sea Wolf, but it was only a third-flight Los Angeles class submarine.”
“Which one?” Jake asked.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three. The frequencies from the port turbine generator and the starboard reactor coolant pump matched the sonic records of the Topeka, the Miami, and the Asheville—of those still in commission.”
Jake flipped through the pages of a copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships. His chest tightened.
“Topeka and Asheville are based in Hawaii,” he said.
“Then we were trailed by the Miami.”
“Oh shit,” Jake said.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s John Brody, the best skipper in the fleet. His ship was the one we passed on the way out of Kings Bay.”
Renard raised a Marlboro to his mouth and blew smoke.
“The best skipper in the fleet?” Renard asked. “Then I hope that the world will soon take us for dead.”
An hour later, Jake inched the Colorado forward at three knots. To fight the slow ascent, he ordered a seven-degree down angle. Tiger pushed the stern planes to a full dive and Cheetah strained his thin arms against the fairwater control wheel. His body tingling with the numbness of lost sleep, Jake stood by the ship’s control panel.
“How are we doing, Scott?” he asked.
“Every tank’s pumped dry,” McKenzie said. “It took a while without the trim pump.”
Jake sensed that, in protest against lack of maintenance, the Colorado was breaking down. Its trim pump’s motor controller had burned out.