"We'll keep sharp ears. Skipper."
"Very well. Get ready to take her out."
Sipping Alka-Seltzer, Sorensen was running circuit checks on the new sonars when Fogarty came into the sonar room and sat down. Fogarty switched on his screen and punched up the bottom scanners.
"How's your hangover, kid?"
"Awful."
Sorensen punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Relax, Fogarty, we're home. What's the depth under our keel?"
"Thirty-four feet."
"All right. Sharpen your spurs, cowboy. Here we go"
They heard Pisaro's voice come through the intercom. "Attention all hands, attention all hands. Maneuvering stations, maneuvering stations. Prepare for slow speed."
The reactor was hot, the steam lines were charged, the course was plotted, captain and lookouts were on the bridge. Overhead the night sky was cloudy, obscuring the heavens. Always obscure, the sea was calm.
On the pier opposite, the captain of Vallejo prepared to follow Barracuda into the bay. Springfield waved and ordered the bow and stern lines away.
"All ahead slow."
With a shudder the ship moved away from the pier, passed outside the breakwaters and slipped by the Russian trawler. Rolling in the swell, Springfield turned his ship into the moderate sea and headed for deep water.
"Strike the colors," he said. "Clear the bridge. Rig for dive."
No band played. No admiral made a speech. No crowd waved good-by. Barracuda steamed out of Rota in the dead of night and slipped furtively into the Atlantic.
21
Ten miles outside Rota, Springfield gave the order to dive.
"All hands prepare for steep angles and deep submergence. Flood forward ballast tanks."
"Flood forward ballast tanks, aye."
"Stern planes down six degrees."
"Stern planes down six degrees, aye."
"Radio to control. Intercepting Soviet transmission."
"Belay the dive. Belay the dive. Stern planes zero degrees."
"Stern planes zero degrees, aye."
"Control to radio. Where is the point of origin?"
"Radio to control. It's in a priority code from Cádiz."
"Control to radio. Did you get it all?"
"Radio to control. Message complete. Shall we decode?"
"Very well, radio, decode the message. A little practice never hurts. If it's anything more than a report of our position, let me know right away."
"Aye aye, skipper."
"Stern planes down six degrees."
In the torpedo room Lopez checked the serial numbers of the live torpedoes against the log and cheerfully dusted off the warheads. Once again fully armed, Barracuda carried twenty Mark 37 torpedoes with conventional high-explosive warheads, in both wire-guided and acoustic-homing modes, four Mark 45 torpedoes with quarter-kiloton tactical nuclear warheads and two chaff decoys designed to confound and mislead an enemy torpedo. Lopez hummed a happy tune.
The young torpedomen gathered around a plaque newly installed over the firing console.
ZAPATA M.I.A.
Johnson, the mate, was scrutinizing the new plating in the curved snout of the compartment. Patches of fresh gray paint still glistened in the bright light, but the welds were invisible.
"I dunno, Chief," Johnson said. "This was a damned fast job on these torpedo doors."
"Those tiger team boys know their stuff," Lopez replied. "Regular hotshots."
A thin wiry man, Johnson seemed to grow even thinner as his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was like two stones scraping together.
"Lopez, the scuttlebutt is that a Russian sub is riding a picket line thirty miles out."
"That's right. They do it all the time."
"Yeah, but this one's waiting for us."
Lopez watched the torpedomen rivet their eyes on the mate.
"No shit, Johnson. Why would they do that?"
"They want revenge because we sank their boat."
"Bullshit. They're waiting for the boomer, Vallejo."
"How do you know, Lopez? They want to even the score. Wouldn't you?"
"Johnson, you've got a big mouth. If I hear this from anybody else, I'll know where it came from. All of you, listen. The Russians are not interested in us. There's a shitload going on here that you people know nothing about because you don't need to know. Don't sweat it. When we get back to Norfolk, all of you will get thirty days' leave. Think about that and forget the Russians. After we chase these Ivans away, we're goin' home. This is my last cruise and I want it to be a good one."
The torpedomen appeared unconvinced, but none spoke. Lopez swore under his breath, cursing Springfield for not informing the crew that the Russian sub never sank. He was still muttering when the exchange between the captain and the radio operator came over the command intercom. As the torpedomen listened, they grew visibly concerned. Lopez lit a cigar.
"It's just routine," he said, "and you all know it. The trawler in the bay reports all ship movements to the picket. They're waiting for Vallejo, not for us."
A moment later the ship began to submerge. As the hull compressed, the torpedomen gasped at every creak and groan. Every eye was on the new torpedo doors. Every weld had been X-rayed twice, and the tiger team had taken the ship for a brief sea trial, including a dive to eight hundred feet, but Lopez had sealed the hatch and prepared for the worst. When Springfield adjusted the trim and leveled the ship, all systems were functioning normally. The torpedomen's cheer sounded like a sigh of relief.
"You happy, Johnson?"
"We ain't here to fight the ocean, Chief."
Lopez frowned and shook his head. "Open the hatch. It's stuffy in here. Johnson, I want circuit tests on all the on-board computers in the fish. I'm going up to have a word with the skipper."
The captain reduced speed to a crawl and began to circle. In the sonar room Sorensen closed his eyes and pressed his earphones tight against his ears, listening for the picket. When the circle closed, he spoke into his headset, "Sonar to control. Negative contact."
"Very well, sonar. If she's here, we'll have to wait until she tips her hand."
Slowly Barracuda swung back toward the bay where Vallejo was due to emerge in ninety minutes.
Sorensen took off his headset and turned on the speakers. Fogarty watched the blank screen, giving a little start each time the brief sound of a distant surface ship flashed a target across one sector of his screen.
"What's the matter, Fogarty? You jumpy?"
"God, Sorensen, we steamed out here like a battleship. If there's a Russian picket, she's locked onto us."
"I guess you are jumpy. Relax. This Russian isn't going to pull any dirty tricks. It's our turn."
Fogarty rubbed his eyes and stretched. "It's been a long day and I could use some sleep. Instead, I get more Russians."
Sorensen glanced at the chronometer in his console. "You'll have plenty of time to sleep when this cruise is over. Meanwhile, get Davic and Willie Joe in here. We have to try out the new down-searching passive array they installed in Rota. And get us some coffee. Let's stay awake."
In the galley Fogarty found Cakes sipping tea with Stanley. Fogarty asked, "What's shakin', Cakes?"
"Lopez just came through with a big mad on. Said he was goin' to shut down the rumor mill. You heard any good rumors lately, Fogarty?"
Stanley spoke up. "I hear the Russians put out a contract on Barracuda. They want us bad. No shit, just like the Mafia."
Cakes shook his head. "What, like the Mafia?"
"Sure, man. This Mafia is all KGB. Same in Japan, this Yakuza. they all KGB, too. The Italians are just fall guys, get all the bad rep."