“Will do, and bon voyage,” said Kram, who stood back and watched as the jocked-up SEALs lined up in front of the open trunk. One by one they climbed into the access way darkened recesses, with Kram issuing each of them a crisp salute along the way.
By the time he returned to the DDS operations console, the final deployment sequence was already in progress. As he settled in beside Doug Gilbert, he studied the trio of monitor screens. The top one continued to display a periscope view of the QE2’s fantail. Barely visible on the other two screens were the brightly glowing chemlite light sticks of the five-man dive team working on the Polk’s outer deck.
They would be responsible for actually deploying the SDV from its hangar.
“Flood trunk,” ordered the DOS dive supervisor.
“Two … three … four feet draft in the trunk,” revealed the shelter officer. “You have permission to open hangar door and engage track and cradle,” informed the dive sup.
“Hangar door is open,” replied a garbled voice over the intercom.
“Track and cradle are being rigged out.”
The Swimmer Delivery Vehicle was mounted inside the shelter on a cradle.
In order for it to be launched, a steel cable safety tether was attached to the SDV’s stubby nose, with the cradle pulled out of the shelter on a telescoping track.
The SDV wasn’t a mini sub but a free-flooding, windowless craft, with its pilot, navigator, and six passengers seated side by side in pairs.
Because the vessel was completely open to the elements, hypothermia was a constant concern, especially in the cold waters of the North Atlantic.
The SDV’s closed-circuit Mark 15 underwater breathing system had a six-hour capacity. Its masks had microphones built into them, with each one connected to the craft’s intercom. Communications with the Polk were via UHF radio. And since the SDV had no windows, it relied solely on instruments and a highfrequency active-sonar unit to provide navigation.
Kram hoped that in this instance, their voyage would be but a short one.
Once free from the Polk, the SDV only had to travel a bare 300 feet to be in a position directly behind the QE2. As long as the ocean liner remained dead in the water, it would take a few minutes at most to ascend to the surface, slide back the canopy, and board the ship.
They would do so with the assistance of air-compressed grappling hooks and caving ladders. The rough seas and high winds topside would make this part of the operation extremely hazardous, as the boarding of another surface ship on the high seas was difficult enough in perfect weather.
“Request permission to launch SDV,” said a voice from the intercom.
Before responding to this request, the DOS dive sup turned around and queried Gilbert. “Sir, request permission to launch.”
“Permission granted,” returned the grizzled SEAL firmly.
“Launch SDV!” ordered the dive sup into his chin microphone.
48
“What the hell is going on aboard this ship?” demanded a furious Dennis Liu as he stormed into the QE2’s Bridge. “I didn’t give anyone an all-stop order.”
The ship’s navigator was the senior watch officer present, and he answered from the navigation plot, a telephone nestled up to his ear.
“Believe me, sir, I had nothing to do with it. You can check the combinator yourself. It’s still set for eighteen and one-half knots.”
“Then how do you account for this loss of speed?” questioned Liu, his face reddened with frustrated rage.
“I’ve got the Engine Control Room on the line, and they’re doing their best to figure out what’s occurred,” explained the navigator. “Because their controls are also set for eighteen and one-half knots.”
“I don’t believe any of this crap!” cursed Liu, disgustedly scanning the dimly lit room before storming over to the helm.
A frightened Filipino bosun’s mate stood behind the ship’s wheel. Liu grabbed him from behind, put a pistol to the back of the young sailor’s skull, and violently jerked him around to face the navigator.
“I’m warning you, comrade. On the count of three I’ll blow this man’s head off unless you give me a satisfactory answer. So quit the bullshit and tell me why we’ve stopped like this!”
From the serious tone of this threat, the navigator could tell it wasn’t to be taken lightly. Yet, because in all honesty, he couldn’t answer the terrorist’s question, he could only stand there and listen as Liu began counting.
“One … two …”
“Hold it!” cried the navigator, who offered the only possible answer that made any sense. “You’ve got to believe me when I tell you that the slowdown wasn’t directed from either the Bridge or the Engine Control Room. That leaves the emergency pitch-control levers on Eight Deck, as the only other place where this process could have been effected.”
“Emergency pitch-control levers?” repeated Liu, as he lowered the pistol and relaxed his grip on the terrified Filipino.
“The QE2’s direction and speed are determined by influencing the pitch of the ship’s twin propellers,” the navigator explained. “For example, a ninety percent pitch roughly produces twenty-seven knots, while one of…”
“I don’t give a damn about the details,” interrupted Liu. “Just tell me who has access to these emergency pitch levers?”
“Almost anyone can reach them, at the extreme aft end of the Engine Room on Eight Deck,” revealed the navigator. “They’re clearly marked and located on each of the propeller shafts.”
“Somebody’s playing with me, and they’re going to be awfully sorry when I catch them,” threatened Liu, tossing the bosun’s mate aside and rushing out of the Bridge.
49
Ricky expected the worst when a sentry stormed into the Library and angrily shouted out his name. His limbs were trembling as he meekly stood to acknowledge this summons. Without explanation, he was led at gunpoint to the Radio Room.
Both Kristin and Monica were waiting for him there. It was the redheaded actress who ordered him to have a seat at the central transmitter, beside the ship’s radio officer. “You’re very fortunate that your little act of insubordination didn’t earn you a bullet,” she remarked while aiming her pistol at the back of Ricky’s head. “Help us with our transmission, and perhaps you and your father will be allowed to live.”
The radio officer explained the suspected atmospheric problems that had interrupted their transmission, and Kristin handed Ricky a dogeared notebook.
“It belonged to Max,” she revealed. “And contains the method he planned to utilize to filter the interference.”
Ricky glanced at the notebook’s hand-scrawled contents, and listened as the radio officer added, “It looks to me like it’s a formula of some sort. The only familiar portion are those numbers that appear to be individual frequency bands.”
“It’s a computer-programming code,” surmised Ricky after flipping through the first couple pages. “Law enforcement agencies use similar frequency-hopping programs to establish secure communications.”
Monica glanced at the digital wall clock and asked impatiently, “How long will it take to input the program and get it operational?”
Ricky glanced at the remaining pages. “I’ll need at least a quarter of an hour.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes,” returned Monica as she snapped a live round into the pistol’s chamber and signaled him to begin.
“What do you think, Tuff, have our SEALs arrived topside yet?” asked Thomas Kellogg from his perch beside the port propeller shaft.