CHAPTER 22
The ship had been able to pull back from the ridge, but now there was no place to go but back. It was like finding a way through a cave, Phillips thought. When one path didn’t work he had to backtrack to a common branch and go another way. It could take forever. A claustrophobia seized him, a driving urge to get the hell out of the Arctic and back to open water.
He knew what he needed. He looked over at Katoris.
“Hover here and wait for me.”
He went to his stateroom. Deep in his locker he found the bag that he’d packed when he’d thought about this situation two weeks ago. Then, it was just brought along for good luck. Now he’d have to execute his wild scheme. He withdrew the bag and found the dirty jeans.
He pulled them on. They were loose over his butt. He took off his sleeved T-shirt and put on the dingy sleeveless one, stuffing his pillow underneath the generous cut of the material so it looked like he had a beer gut. Next came the work boots, the tool belt and the worn leather gloves. Philips looked at himself in the mirror. Not quite right yet. He took some soap and a razor and cut the soap into dust, smeared it over his face, took some dirt from behind the door hinges and smeared that on his face. Better. The week’s growth of beard helped too.
Finally he put on the old yellow hardhat, the outfit complete.
He opened the door to the control room and strutted in.
All eyes were on him as he walked up and stood on the conn. Even Whatney, who had lived with Phillips for the last two years and thought he’d grown used to his stunts, stared at him.
“Gentlemen,” Phillips said, “the Bruce Phillips construction company is here. Let me amend that. The Bruce Phillips demolition company. Did I ever tell you guys I worked during summer leave with a wrecking ball in center city Philly? No. Well, you know it now. XO, do you have any idea what I’m going to do now?”
“I’m afraid, sir, that I do.”
“Officer of the Deck, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“How about you. Dive?” Phillips asked the diving officer.
“Yes, Captain. You’re going to do some demolition work on the ridge ahead.”
“That’s exactly right. We’re here to do some demolition work. Since you got that answer right. Dive, how am I going to do it?”
“Torpedo, sir?”
“Dive, do I look like a wimp to you?” Phillips puffed out his fake beer gut.
“Sir, I’m not sure what you look like.”
“I look like a real man. And do real men use wimpy torpedoes?”
“No, sir,” Whatney said.
“That’s right.” Phillips reached for the microphone for the circuit-one. “ATTENTION ALL HANDS. THIS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE BRUCE PHILLIPS DEMOLITION COMPANY. WE’VE ENCOUNTERED A WALL DOWN HERE THAT WE’RE GOING TO BLOW THROUGH. WE’RE GOING TO USE A VORTEX MISSILE TO BLOW A PIRANHA-SIZED HOLE TO DRIVE THROUGH. WHEN WE’RE DONE YOU MAY ALL COME TO THE CONTROL ROOM ONE BY ONE TO THANK ME. UNTIL THEN, FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS.”
Phillips put the microphone in the holder and squinted at the crew. “Get the weapons officer in here — ah, here he is now. Weps, I didn’t think you would hold out long after that.”
The weapons officer, a lieutenant named Tom McKilley, worked for Scott Court. McKilley was a redhead, although his hair was trimmed too close to his round head to see that. The Irishman was fond of Ray Ban sunglasses, cigars and a new BMW sport coupe.
Just before Phillips had arrived, McKilley had married a beautiful blonde woman, a marketing executive who worked in D.C., the two commuting between D.C. and Norfolk, seeing each other when they could. As far as Phillips was concerned, McKilley was too shy, but any man who smoked cigars — and could prove he did it before Phillips arrived aboard — was okay with him.
“Weps, the show is all yours. I want you to put a Vortex right into that ice bank ahead.”
McKilley didn’t say a word, he just plopped down in the weapons-control console. The console powered up, the displays rotated through as McKilley powered up one of the forward Vortex missiles.
“Bow cap is opening, okay, the missile is clear forward. Aft breech door is jettisoned. The missile tube is clear.”
“Status of the missile?” Phillips asked, still wearing his hardhat and construction worker outfit.
“Power is go, missile is armed. Distance to ridge ahead?”
“Range is…” Phillips stepped to the SHARKTOOTH console. “Two hundred yards.”
“Too close, sir,” McKilley said. “I need at least a mile standoff, preferably two.”
“Come on, Weps, I can’t do that. It’ll take forever. And there’s no room to turn around, so I’d have to back up for a mile. Just override the interlock and shoot the bastard.”
McKilley turned in his control chair to face Phillips.
“You don’t understand. Captain. This thing is as powerful as a small nuke. If we fire from here we’ll go up with the ridge. And the last thing we want is to have a big hunk of the icepack fall down on us when that explosion goes up.”
“Okay, okay. Helm, lower the outboard and train it to one eight zero.”
The outboard, a thruster that could lower from the bottom of the hull at the lower level of the aft compartment, was used for maneuvering in close to piers.
Phillips intended to use it to drag the ship backward.
“Outboard’s down. Skipper.”
“Very well, start the outboard.”
In the video displays the ridge ahead grew smaller as the ship backed up.
“Sir, we have room to turn around now,” Katoris said from the SHARKTOOTH panel.
“Helm, stop the outboard, train to zero zero zero and raise the outboard.”
“Aye, sir, outboard coming up. Outboard is up.”
“Ahead one third, right twenty degrees rudder, steady course north.”
Phillips watched as he withdrew along the track he came in on. He looked up to see Roger Whatney’s face staring at him.
“What is it, XO?”
“Sir, could I have a word with you?”
“Sure, XO. Officer of the Deck, keep driving us back, I’ll be in my stateroom for a few minutes.” Phillips led Whatney to his cabin and shut the door behind him. “What’s going on, XO?”
“Sir, I was going to mention this when we were in open ocean so it wouldn’t distract you. But I just found a report about the Vortex missiles in the computer systems of the ship. Sir, this missile’s bad news. It blows up its launching tubes.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, sir, I’m not sure I’m all too enthusiastic about using a weapon that’s a suicide machine. The test submarine sank when they fired the test missile. I saw the video, sir. The tube blew right open and the missile vaporized the forward half of the ship.”
“Roger, listen to me. All that’s true, but that’s why we’ve got these tubes on the outside of the hull. The back tube cap comes off and the missile exhaust just blows astern. There’s no pressure boundary to rupture. Those things are more guidance cylinders than weapon tubes.”
“I thought of that. Captain, but it wasn’t just the pressure. The exhaust itself is white-hot. It could melt clear through our hull. These external tubes haven’t been tested.”
“Well, XO, they’re about to be. Now get back in that control room and put your god damned warface back on. I don’t want the men to know you’re nervous about this.”
“Yes sir.”
Phillips walked back into the control room, tried to reassure himself that Pacino had fixed the problems with the missile, or else they wouldn’t have been sent out with it. In any case, they’d soon know.
The ship had finally put several miles between itself and the ridge. Phillips turned the ship around and again faced the ridge.