Noss approached the Officer of the Deck. “You cannot let the torpedo hit us in the stern! Do whatever you have to, but protect the screws and rudders!”
Beresford nodded his understanding, his eyes shifting back to the torpedo for a second. Then he called out, “Helm, hard right rudder. Starboard engines, back emergency!”
The Helm complied and the hundred-thousand-ton carrier tilted to port as the twin twenty-by-thirty-foot rudders dug into the ocean and the starboard screws quickly slowed, then began churning the water in reverse. Beresford was using the starboard engines to help twist the carrier around faster. But as a result, the carrier slowed down rapidly as it made the sharp turn, while the torpedo sped toward its target.
Whether Beresford’s bold maneuver would succeed depended on which of the torpedo’s homing algorithms was dominant. As modern torpedoes closed on their targets, they depended on the magnetic field of the large metal ship to determine when to detonate; heavyweight torpedoes didn’t run into a ship. They ran below the ship and detonated beneath the keel, with the explosion creating a huge bubble void, followed by a water jet that shot upward when the bubble collapsed. The weight of the unsupported ship in the bubble void, combined with the water jet cutting through the hull and compartment decks, was usually enough trauma to break a warship’s keel.
However, Theodore Roosevelt was not an ordinary warship, and the carrier could likely survive a single torpedo explosion without incurring fatal damage, as long as propulsion and the rudders were spared. The question in Noss’s mind was whether the torpedo would continue spiraling toward the carrier by following the ship’s wake, or, when it was close enough and sensed the ship’s magnetic signature, would it cut through the water directly toward it?
The torpedo reached the point where Beresford had begun the sharp turn, and Noss’s stomach tightened as the torpedo remained in the ship’s wake. Roosevelt kept turning, its rate rising rapidly now that the starboard engines had reached back emergency speed.
Suddenly, the torpedo veered sharply, speeding out of the wake, traveling directly toward Roosevelt’s starboard side.
It was an odd sensation — the relief spreading through Noss’s body — as he realized his ship was about to be torpedoed. But Theodore Roosevelt was going to take it in the side instead of the critical stern.
The torpedo trail disappeared as it ran beneath the carrier, and a second later, Noss felt and heard the explosion as a water plume shot a hundred and fifty feet above the carrier, dousing the tower and flight deck as it fell.
The Flooding Alarm sounded, followed by emergency announcements reporting flooding in several starboard compartments amidships. Noss listened tensely for any indication that the ship’s keel had been broken, but… there was no indication it had. Just flooding, plus the damaged equipment and injured personnel from the water jet slicing through the hull. A query to Engineering confirmed that the ship was ready to answer all bells; there had been no damage to the rudder, screws, or nuclear reactor plants.
“Your orders, sir?” Beresford asked.
Noss evaluated his options, which weren’t many. Actually, with four Russian submarines in pursuit, only one plan came to mind. Head east and coordinate with the ASW commander to have the P-8A squadrons lay down a sonobuoy field stretching across the Persian Gulf behind the aircraft carrier, just west of the strait.
“Head east,” Noss ordered, “at ahead flank.”
Soon, Roosevelt would be protected by mines to the east and sonobuoys to the west. Noss’s ship would be safe, as long as the Russian submarines didn’t penetrate the sonobuoy field.
67
WOODMORE, MARYLAND
Standing beside Khalila on the gravel driveway beside the farmhouse, Harrison sifted through the limited clues, attempting to determine what Mixell was planning. Local law enforcement and FBI agents had swarmed the property after Khalila had called the NCTC, and the initial search of the house had revealed nothing noteworthy. After assessing what little they knew, Harrison decided to focus on the C-4.
“Let’s take a closer look at the barn.”
Harrison and Khalila entered the barn, joining a team of four FBI agents scouring the area. Someone had found the light switch and the barn was now well illuminated. Harrison first inspected the three empty crates. As suspected, the markings on the third crate indicated that its contents were the wireless detonators that would be inserted into the C-4.
The table nearby contained an odd assortment of items. One side of the work area contained white C-4 shavings that had been swept into a small pile next to a carving knife, and on the other side of the table were several cans of spray paint: red, green, yellow, blue, pink, purple, and orange — a rainbow of colors. At the back of the table were several colored patches indicating that objects had indeed been spray painted. A small trash can beside the table was filled with the empty C-4 packages.
Harrison quickly surmised what Mixell had done, sharing his assessment with Khalila. “It looks like Mixell carved the C-4 into specific shapes, then painted them to blend into wherever the explosive was placed.”
“It seems that way,” Khalila agreed. “But why the different colors? Mixell placed the C-4 into different objects?”
Harrison folded his arms across his chest. Despite the clues they had gathered, they were no closer to determining the plot Mixell was about to hatch. He turned to the lead FBI agent, Ken Singleton.
“Have you found any additional evidence?”
“Nothing related to the explosives or that indicates the potential target — just the usual assortment of farm tools and equipment. But there is one rather unusual item.”
He led Harrison and Khalila to a large trash can with a lid. With a gloved hand, he lifted the lid, revealing a trash can half-filled with eggs, some whole and others broken. “Any idea why Mixell would buy and then discard enough eggs to feed a small army?”
No answer came to Harrison, but Khalila had a question. “Where are the egg cartons?”
Singleton scratched his head. “Good question. Not in this barn.”
Harrison examined the work table again, his eyes settling on the pile of C-4 shavings. Mixell had been shaping the C-4 into something.
“Eggs,” he said. “Mixell carved the C-4 into eggs and placed them in the egg cartons.”
“What would Mixell do with cartons of C-4 eggs?” Singleton asked.
“Return them to the stores,” Khalila postulated. “Walk into a store with an egg carton hidden in a reusable shopping bag, put the eggs back on the shelf when no one is watching, then leave. With wireless detonators, Mixell could simultaneously detonate the C-4 in several dozen stores. Or he could detonate them in sequence over a longer period of time, sowing mayhem and panic across the region.”
“It’s plausible,” Harrison replied, “but that’s not Mixell’s MO. What would he achieve by blowing up grocery stores?”
“Alright,” Khalila replied, “let’s set that theory aside for the moment. What else could he do?”
Harrison’s gaze returned to the work table, this time focusing on the cans of spray paint. “What horrific thing could Mixell do with several dozen brightly colored C-4 eggs?” He asked the question more to himself than to Khalila and Singleton.
As he stared at the brightly colored splotches where the eggs had been painted, things started falling into place.
“Mixell didn’t carve the C-4 into ordinary eggs. He painted them too. He made Easter eggs.”
After assessing Harrison’s claim, Khalila replied, “Assuming you’re correct, I’m not sure how that helps us. Instead of just grocery stores, Mixell could have placed them wherever there’s an Easter bunny or candy display.”