She did as directed, and by the time she reached the Boat Deck, she was aware that the seas were becoming increasingly rough. It was a chore to walk in a straight line, and she fought back the first sensation of seasickness.
The Radio Room was located forward of the Queens Grill, its heavy steel door protected by a bank-vault-style lock. Kristin rang the buzzer and stood in front of the door’s security peephole. Her wait was a short one, and she was admitted by a very concerned Monica Chang.
Kristin spotted her father seated behind a bank of transmitters. A bald-headed ship’s officer in a white uniform was seated beside him, with both of them holding telephone handsets up to their ears.
Obviously the officer had been impressed into taking Ricky’s place.
“We made the initial uplink with Red Star with no problem at all,” informed Monica. “We were even able to broadcast the first half of the code sequence before static interrupted the remainder of the transmission.”
Kristin looked at the bulkhead clock. It was only a few minutes to midnight. “How much longer will the satellite be within range?” she asked.
“Another sixty minutes at best,” Monica answered. “Yet it makes no difference if this static prevails. If we only had the filter that Max was working on.”
Frustration weighed down her father’s movements, as he put down the handset and rose to join them. “It’s useless,” he muttered.
“We still have an hour to reestablish contact,” reminded Monica. “All we need is a couple more minutes of clear transmission time, and Admiral Liu will have the complete sequence.”
“Dear Monica, always the eternal optimist,” said Dennis Liu, who suddenly found himself fighting to keep his balance as the deck began pitching from side to side.
“I had a feeling that this was going to happen,” he added while reaching out to steady Kristin. “And I’m afraid that we have no alternative but to go to our secondary plan. It’s time to blow up this cursed ship and show the world that we mean business!”
“Patience, Dennis,” urged Monica. “I’m not about to give up, and I recommend remaining up here and giving it another try until Red Star is completely out of range.”
“I agree with Monica,” said Kristin. “And as it so happens, I’ve succeeded in tracking down Ricky Patton. He’s in the Library.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” said her father. “Monica, contact the Library watch and have them escort him up here at once.”
Liu’s train of thought was diverted as he looked up to the ceiling, a peculiar expression on his tired face. “The engines. Don’t you hear?
They’ve stopped. No wonder we’re wallowing.”
As he picked up the two-way radio to call the Bridge, Kristin indeed noticed that the constant low-level background roar of the engines could no longer be heard. The ceaseless pitching motion of the deck further intensified, and it took a supreme effort to remain standing.
“What?” questioned Dennis Liu into his two-way. “What do you mean the captain doesn’t know why we’ve stopped? … Don’t bother, comrade. I’m on my way up to the Bridge to find out for myself.”
47
“Hangar, conn,” said the Folk’s dry-deck shelter dive supervisor into his chin microphone from his central position at the DOS console.
“Check open Alpha Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, and Fifteen.”
Benjamin Kram listened as the trunk borne SEAL to whom these instructions were directed acknowledged them. Kram had just arrived in the SEAL operations compartment from the control room. He positioned himself beside Commander Gilbert, who was seated at the opposite console, beneath the three monitor screens.
“The Queen’s dead in the water, all right,” informed Kram. “I don’t know how, but Command pulled it off.”
A quick glance at the top monitor showed the view from the Folk’s periscope. Veiled by the slap of an occasional wave was the rounded aft portion of an immense surface vessel, with the name queen elizabeth 2 emblazoned in white letters on the stern.
“All I ask of you is to hold us right here, and I’ll have my laddies off in two shakes of a stick,” Gilbert whispered.
The Polk rolled in the grasp of a passing swell, the keelless submarine at the mercy of the pitching seas.
“We’ll keep you here as long as you need, Commander. Just don’t blame the Polk for this rough ride,” said Kram, who listened as the shelter officer spoke into his microphone.
“Hangar, conn. Open Oscar Three. Verify pressure on valve Alpha One.”
“Trunk, conn,” added the DOS dive supervisor. “Shut November One and verify.”
Kram looked on as SEAL Team Two’s medical officer joined them from the aft passageway. “Sir,” he said to Gilbert. “I’m reading high levels of carbon dioxide in the trunk.
Recommend that we take a couple of minutes to thoroughly vent the area before continuing.”
“There’s no time for that luxury,” replied Gilbert. “Get back and watch them closely, and when the first one drops, then we’ll ventilate.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned the medical officer, who dared not argue his point further.
“Let’s do it, laddies,” said Gilbert to his operations team. “Man DDS.”
“Trunk, conn,” directed the shelter officer. “You have permission to open access hatch.”
Kram listened as the intricate process of flooding the shelter to equalize the outside sea pressure began. Throughout this sequence, the 1MC continued to broadcast the latest reports from the Folk’s sonar room, with an occasional operational comment from the sub’s XO, who was the current OOD.
“Seven feet draft in hangar,” reported the voice of one of the divers over the intercom.
They would be able to pressurize the hangar shortly. Kram excused himself to head aft and say his goodbyes to the SEAL team. As he entered the missile compartment, he found the commandos in the last stages of preparation, or “jocking up,” as they called it. Each of the divers was in his own private space, putting the finishing touches to his gear. For the most part, the SEALs wore aviator-style flight suits over their rubber wet suits. A few were outfitted in camouflage fatigues, with all wearing combat boots.
The equipment they were carrying was as varied as their uniforms. This gear included an eclectic mix of diving paraphernalia: knives, pistols, handcuffs, flash grenades, cranial radio headsets, and laser-guided submachine guns.
A familiar blond-haired figure stood outside tube six, where the DOS access hatch was located. He had no outer garment over his wet suit.
Kram made his way over to him.
“Looks like it’s finally showtime, Lieutenant Colonel Laycob,” he greeted.
The British commando was making the final adjustments to the waterproof canister holding his two-way radio, and he matter-of-factly replied, “No offense, Captain, but I’m more than ready to get on a vessel where I can properly stretch these old legs and get a decent drink as well.”
“No offense taken,” replied Kram, who had to reach out to steady himself against the edge of the missile tube’s open hatch when the Polk rolled hard on its side.
“I suppose that you’re anxious to get us off and return to the calm depths,” reflected Laycob as he braced himself on an overhead hand hold.
“Mount ‘em up, gents!” instructed a gruff voice from inside the trunk.
“Ah, it looks like you won’t have to wait much longer,” added the Englishman as he checked the waterproof integrity of his holstered pistol.
“Good luck,” offered Kram:
Laycob accepted his handshake and casually replied, “Please be so good as to thank your crew for their hospitality. I suppose I shan’t be seeing them again to convey my regards personally.”