“Maintain course and speed,” Forsythe said, staring at Cowlings. “Chief, get the doc to sonar.”
“Passing eight hundred feet,” the planesman announced.
“Very well.” Forsythe answered automatically, still staring aghast at Cowlings.
What did you mean to do once we got below the layer? Were you going to lay another knuckle in the water? Cut speed just before we went through the layer, change course below the layer — yes, that’s it. That’s what he would have done. I know that’s what he was going to do, it just seemed to make a lot more sense when it was him doing it, not me.
The doctor came running into Maneuvering, a black medical kit in his hands. He dropped down on his knees beside Cowlings and began making his assessment as he said, “What happened?”
“Passing one thousand feet,” the planesman said.
I know what you were going to do. Don’t I?
“I said, what happened?” the doctor snapped. “Come on, somebody. Anybody.”
“Passing one thousand one hundred feet.”
“Conn, Sonar. Layer is at one thousand five hundred feet.” Petty Officer Pencehaven’s voice was pointed. “Sir, what are your intentions?”
“Sir,” the chief said quietly, “priorities. You can’t help him if we’re all dead.”
The torpedo noise was now clearly audible inside the submarine. Forsythe saw the doctor turn his face up to stare at the overhead.
“Sir,” the chief said, his voice urgent.
“Continue to one thousand two hundred feet,” Forsythe said, his voice not nearly as confident as Cowlings’s had been. “Then, hard port rudder and steady up one hundred and eighty degrees off our former course.” He glanced over at the chief and saw him nod almost imperceptibly. “Navigator, deal with the doctor. Sonar, notify me if there’s any change in the layer depth and stand by for snap-shot firing-point procedures.” A snap shot would be blindly firing a torpedo down the bearing of the attacker without refined targeting to throw the other submarine on the defensive and buy time for a deliberate attack.
A chorus of acknowledgements, and Forsythe could feel the crew’s confidence return.
“Get him to sick bay,” the doctor ordered. “He’s not—”
“No,” Forsythe said. “Not until we’re clear of the torpedo. No unnecessary movements. And put that down,” he continued, indicating the sailor that was already unstrapping a transport frame from the bulkhead. “We’re at quiet ship.”
“I need him in sick bay,” the doctor said, his voice louder. He took a step toward Forsythe, who had turned his attention back to the sonar screen. The chief stepped forward and caught the doctor by his arm, a look of foreboding on his face. The doctor started to protest, then thought better of it.
Overhead, the noise of the torpedo gradually faded. There was one last hard ping from the Kilo’s sonar, then silence.
Pencehaven breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ve lost them, sir. Recommend we clear the area and then return for a deliberate attack. Better than playing tag around the layer. I don’t know if she can make this depth — I’m pretty sure we can go deeper — but there’s nothing to stop her from getting close and letting her tail drift below the layer. We’d never see her before another attack.”
“Concur.” Forsythe shut his eyes for a moment, considering course and speed.
“Sir, the navigator has a recommendation for evasive maneuvers.” The chief’s voice was quiet and polite. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re doing okay. We’ll walk you through this, Ensign. Just pay attention.”
Forsythe nodded. Chief, put the tent up. “Navigator, recommendations?”
Thirty minutes later, when they’d cleared the area with no further contact on the Kilo, Forsythe drew the chief aside into the passageway just outside of maneuvering. “Listen, Chief, I don’t know what else is going to come up, but — well — you know — I just want to say—”
The chief cut him off. “You’re welcome, sir.”
The duty staff at the Russian Embassy did not appear overly eager to connect Wexler with her counterpart. Whether it was from simple slovenliness or on direct order from the ambassador, she wasn’t certain. Whatever the reason, the Russian ambassador was not answering his cell phone nor was he returning her phone calls. Just when she was close to calling the president and reporting that the situation was far more serious than they’d thought, the Russian ambassador finally returned her call.
“Sir, I need to ask you about—”
“I know what this is about,” he said gruffly. “Bermuda, yes?”
“Of course. Is there an explanation for what appears to be a highly irregular deployment”—read invasion, my friend; you know what I’m saying—“of your troops? Of course, this is not U.S. soil, but an island nation so close off our eastern seaboard naturally has a rather special status in our view.”
There was a long silence broken only by electronic hum on the line. Wexler’s pulse was pounding, her breathing starting to quicken. Was this the start of another Cuban crisis?
Finally, the ambassador said, “As soon as we have an explanation, I will contact you.”
“What do you mean? What is your government’s position on all this? I must tell you, sir, that the president is prepared to increase the alert level of our military forces worldwide within the next hour. It was only with the greatest difficulty that I was able to persuade him to hold off long enough for me to contact you.” A small lie, but an expected one. “I’m afraid I can’t be responsible for what has been happening, given the delay in reaching you.”
“We have no position,” the ambassador said bluntly. “This is not a government operation.”
“What?”
“I thought my command of the English language was sufficient. This is not a government operation.”
“Then who—? Oh, dear God,” she said, her heart sinking. The ambassador and his country might be duplicitous idiots, but at least she could deal with them.
“It appears that Russian military assets are involved. They were, as you know, on peaceful operations”—spying on the carrier, she translated mentally—“in international waters. They have received no orders to approach Bermuda and no orders to disembark troops. The squadron of MiGs, as well as the three heavy transports, are similarly acting contrary to orders.”
“I see,” she said, her mind racing. “Are you in contact with any of the forces in Bermuda?”
“No. But we intend to be.” There was the slightest trace of embarrassment in the ambassador’s voice. “I will not tender an apology, since neither your government nor mine is directly involved. However, be assured that Russia solves her own internal problems. It will take some time to arrange, given the distance and logistics involved, but be absolutely assured that Russia will deal with this. We will notify you when direct action is contemplated in order to avoid any confusion or interference.”
The line went dead. She stared at the receiver for a moment, then dialed the number she knew by heart. When the president answered, she said, “We’ve got a problem.”
Half of sick bay was occupied by an examination table, but the compartment beyond that was for isolating contagious cases. The hatch between sick bay and the isolation chamber had a small thick window in it.
The doctor stood beside the examination table. The sheets on it were slightly rumpled and there were a few spots of blood on it. “There was nothing we could do. It will take a full autopsy to determine the cause, but I suspect an aneurysm. Based on his comment about his head, followed by his sudden collapse — yes, an aneurysm.”