They certainly hadn’t ever presented this tactical problem at the Naval Academy or the various schools the captain had attended over the course of his career. He was reasonably confident his ship hadn’t been detected, as neither bogey had changed direction, and he was running silent and in place.
“At launch depth,” the targeting officer informed him. “Underwater bogeys, fifty-two miles.”
“Give me a surface scan,” the captain ordered.
“Multiple surface targets bearing one hundred degrees at eighty-seven miles. Two carriers at least. Course same as bogeys.”
The Alien Fleet. They hadn’t been fooled, the captain realized. Two problems. At least the advance subs were probably ahead of the shield.
“Forty-three miles,” his targeting officer announced. “I’ve plotted intercept vectors for the MK-48s but once they detect our launch—” He left the rest unsaid.
“We need to launch now,” the captain said. “Sir, they’re out of range.”
“Here’s the plan,” the captain began. As he rapidly issued his orders, his crew sprang to life, implementing them.
“Thirty-five miles,” the targeting officer announced, sliding his arming key into the slot at his position. “We’re green on torpedoes and missiles and at launch depth.”
The captain reached under his shirt and pulled out his own key and inserted it. “Arm,” he ordered. Both men turned at the same time. The other two launch safeguards had already been initiated when they went to combat alert and a red light flashed as all four were now set.
“Launch,” the captain ordered.
The submarine vibrated as torpedoes roared out of their tubes and a half dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles fired upward, one after another.
“Dive,” the captain ordered as the last missile left its launcher.
“Twenty-two miles,” the targeting officer reported.
“Let’s see how smart these alien machines are,” the captain muttered to himself as the floor of the control room sloped forward as the Seawolf headed into the depths. The sound of the Tomahawks should have covered up the noise the torpedoes made leaving the tube. The torpedoes were set for their slowest and quietest speed. As the Tomahawks arced upward into the sky, the torpedoes were headed out at right angles, not on a direct intercept course with the bogeys but in a direction to get to their projected paths before they arrived.
“Underwater, seventeen miles. Time to target on Tomahawks, two minutes.”
Just less than eighty-seven miles to the southeast of Seawolf, the Alien Fleet was steaming at flank speed. The two super-carriers flanked the Jahre Viking, which was in the process of spitting out two more Springfield clones. In the front was the resurrected Arizona, with Captain Lockhart on the bridge. She’d received the report from the two submarines running point for the fleet of the cruise missile launch and her crew was tracking the incoming missiles.
“Launch decoy,” the Seawolf’s captain ordered.
From the top deck, a small submersible was fired out of a tube. It went up to fifteen hundred feet and slowly began circling as it emitted the same signal a Los Angeles class submarine would.
“Level out,” the captain ordered as they reached three thousand feet depth.
“Eight-point-seven miles,” the targeting officer reported. “They’ve adjusted course, homing on decoy.”
“Our torpedoes?”
“In place, halted.” Despite all the sophisticated computers crammed into the operations center, the targeting officer was looking at an old-fashioned stopwatch, checking it against his computer display.
“Tomahawks, five seconds.”
Lockhart saw the explosions, one right after another as the six cruise missiles hit the shield and detonated, a half mile in front of her. The shield absorbed the blasts and then all was still.
Two modified Los Angeles class submarines slipped out of the Jahre Viking and the Alien Fleet continued toward Midway.
“Sonar reports torpedo doors opening,” the targeting officer reported. He checked his watch. “Five seconds.”
The captain nodded. He had assumed that the alien submarines would attack “by the book.” Now he would find out if he was correct.
“Three. Two. One.”
“Detonate!” the captain ordered.
Unshielded, both alien submarines took the full brunt of torpedoes detonating less than two hundred meters from each. The Seawolf’s guess as to their paths once they detected the Tomahawk launch had been correct. Metal crumpled, seawater flooded in.
“We’ve got two breaking up,” the targeting officer excitedly relayed from the sonarman. “Two bogeys down!”
A cheer rose in the operations center, to be immediately squelched by the captain’s shout. “At ease!” When the yelling subsided, he spoke. “Remember there were probably sailors on those subs. Men who used to be like us.” Sure that had sunk in, he ordered the submarine to surface-scan depth.
“Report.”
The targeting officers face was grim. “Surface contacts, seventy-eight miles. No change.”
The captain nodded. As expected. “Plot us a course back to Midway and the fleet. We’ve done what we can.”
Sherev looked out the window of the Osprey and saw the apparently abandoned oil rig to their left. The engine nacelles on the end of the wings slowly began rotating from forward into the upright position. He’d flown in an Israeli Air Force Learjet across the Mediterranean, refueling in the Azores and then across the Atlantic, before landing at the airfield Garlin had indicated for him to go to. A half dozen men clad in black fatigues and swaddled in body armor were seated along both sides of the craft. They were members of Unit 269, the most secret and elite unit in the Israeli army.
Five of the commandos carried Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns. While the venerable Uzi was homegrown, these men were more concerned with functionality and accuracy. The sixth man also had an H & K gun — the PSG-1 sniper rifle.
In the center of the cargo area, the Ark of the Covenant was packed inside a large plastic case. A second, smaller case held the priest’s garments that had been recovered from beneath the Great Sphinx in Egypt.
Sherev had not bothered to inform his government of his decision to bring the Ark to America. There was so much going on around the world, he had a strong feeling he wouldn’t be missed for a while. He’d defended Israel for decades against enemies in all directions, but recent events had caused him to reevaluate his focus, and he had been forced to admit that the threat to the planet was greater than the threat to Israel.
With a slight bounce, the Osprey landed. The door to the pilot’s compartment had been locked when it landed at the airfield and the cargo compartment empty when the back ramp came down. Sherev was irritated with this arrangement. If the Ark of the Covenant was so important, someone should have greeted them.
The back ramp slowly lowered and Sherev stood. Four of the commandos raced off the plane, taking up defensive positions around the landing pad. The other two picked up the case holding the Ark, while Sherev got the smaller case. He nodded and they walked off the plane. As soon as they were clear the ramp closed and the aircraft roared off into the sky.
A door slid open in an elevator housing directly in front of them. Sherev hesitated. He could smell the salt water of the Gulf. And as the Osprey dwindled into a small dot in the distance, silence reigned. There was no one about. Reluctantly Sherev nodded toward the open door. He pointed at the sniper and gave him a thumbs-up. The sniper went over to the abandoned tower and began climbing up to get an overwatch position. With the other five commandos and the two cases, Sherev entered the elevator. The door slid shut and the elevator began descending.