When her own glance returned to the heavens, she found herself searching the skies in vain for any sign of the huge rocket. It was veiled by a bank of dark clouds, and she could only wonder what it was carrying and where it was ultimately bound.
The deep-throated, bass rumble noticeably abated, to be replaced by a single, explosive crack. This foreign sound was followed by a brief flash of intense light, visible even through the fog bank. Several seconds passed, and all was unnaturally quiet, when the area filled with the banshee-like wail of a warning siren.
Confused as to what this meant, Miriam looked to Joseph, who pointed straight into the air. Following the direction of his finger, she caught sight of a strangely shaped cloud of bright orange smoke drifting high overhead. Still not sure what this indicated, she turned to her left as a loud claxon began sounding.
She soon realized that this racket was coming from a single jeep that was rapidly approaching the parking lot. Miriam’s senses prickled alive when a man’s voice was heard emanating from this vehicle’s powerful public-address system.
“Attention all civilians, there has been a failure of the Titan launch. You must evacuate the area at once because of the danger of toxic gases. I repeat, you must evacuate the park confines at once. Seal yourselves in your vehicles and head immediately for the Coast Road access to Lompoc.”
Immediately Miriam snapped into action. Efficiently, she herded the team down the railroad trestle.
With a minimum of panic, they made it to their van in less than a minute. Thirty seconds later, they were well on their way down the gravel road leading from the park, with the vehicle holding the journalists close on their tail.
Chapter Three
One-hundred and eighty-eight nautical miles to the southeast of Vandenberg, the attack submarine U.S.S. Razorback cut beneath the cool waters of the Pacific. The last vessel of its class, the twenty-seven year-old sub obtained its power, not from a nuclear reactor, but from a trio of diesel-electric engines.
Though this propulsion method was the same as that which had run the subs of World Wars I and II, a reliance on fossil fuels was about the only thing that the Razorback had in common with those vessels of old.
One of the primary design innovations that made the Razorback unique was its “tear-drop” hull. Unlike past classes of submarines, which had sharp, knife-like bows, the Razorback’s hull was cylindrically rounded. This feature, combined with a more efficient power plant, allowed the sub to be more maneuverable than its predecessors, and to cruise faster and dive to greater depths. When a sophisticated electronics and weapons package had been added, the Razorback had embarked on her first deployment as a first-line man-of-war. Almost three decades later, in an age of digital electronics and reliable nuclear-propulsion systems, the Razorback still held its own. This was something its current skipper was most proud of.
Commander Philip Exeter had been assigned to the Razorback for over nine months. Though the forty one-year-old officer had originally desired service aboard a 688Class submarine, the Navy’s latest nuclear-powered attack vessel, he had been thrilled with the chance to have a command of his own. As it turned out, he hadn’t been the least bit disappointed.
Their present mission was certainly not disappointing.
Only recently returned from a month-long deployment in the northern Pacific, the Razorback was now over six hours out of Point Loma. It had been ordered from its tender berth at the tip of San Diego Harbor, in the dead of night. Though dawn had already arisen above the sub, the crew would never know it, for the sub had submerged soon after clearing the final buoy. Exeter knew it was very possible that they would remain beneath the seas for a good portion of the next three days, until the exercise they were currently involved in was due to be terminated.
He was preparing to explain this fact to the boat’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Patrick Benton, and its Navigator, Lieutenant Edward McClure.
Seated at his customary position at the head of the wardroom table, Exeter studied the charts that had been laid out before him. To his left sat the Navigator.
An eight-year Naval veteran. Lieutenant McClure had quickly pointed out the Razorback’s current position. Adjusting his wire-rim glasses, the soft spoken junior officer had related their coordinates in a most scholarly fashion.
The XO had watched this briefing in a rather detached fashion. Seated directly across from the Captain, Patrick Benton thoughtfully sipped his mug of strong, black coffee and munched on a hot cinnamon roll. Sporting close-cropped red hair, with a pair of inquisitive, clear blue eyes, Benton was well known for both his dry wit and his trusty corncob pipe, which he always kept close by.
It proved to be the XO who broke the contained silence that had possessed the wardroom during the past few minutes.
“We’re well on our way into the Outer Santa Barbara Passage by now, Captain. If we’re not heading into the open sea, then exactly where are we bound for?”
Exeter subconsciously twisted the end of his moustache.
“Actually, we won’t be traveling much further than this. Operation Mauler restricts the Razorback to a relatively tight triangular sector of water, roughly bounded by San Nicolas Island to the west, San Clemente to the south, and Catalina to the north.
Our goal is to remain undetected for seventy-two hours, while three as yet unknown surface platforms attempt to track us down.”
“This could be an interesting one,” reflected the XO, who sat back and returned his attention to his cinnamon roll.
“Every time we leave Point Loma it’s a new challenge,” said the Captain, as he circled the area on the chart that they were restricted to.
“This could very well be the Razorback’s most important test. The waters here are relatively shallow and the current’s extremely tricky. A trio of modern destroyers, complete with their combined helicopter forces, could easily tag us. It’s imperative that this not be our destiny!”
The emotional force of this last sentence caused the XO to immediately sit forward and take notice. It was most evident that the Captain was taking this exercise most seriously. Wiping the remaining cinnamon crumbs from his fingers, he fumbled for his pipe, which he had stored in his pocket. Only when its familiar scarred tip was between his teeth did he speak.
“We certainly showed them up in the Gulf of Alaska that the Razorback can outperform the best of them. Not even the Canadian airdales could tag us.
We can surely hide once again, especially here in our home waters.”
With this, the Captain’s dark gaze directly linked with that of his XO.
“That had indeed better be the case, Mr. Benton. I don’t want any screw-ups with this one. Command has got to be assured that the Razorback can still take the best that they can throw at us, and then some.
“Now, I want the word spread throughout the boat that for the next seventy hours each and every crew member is to be alert to his every sound. Make certain that all unnecessary movement is curtailed.
When the men are not on duty, they’re to stay in their bunks. Silence is our most reliable ally. If it is properly maintained, it will never let us down.”
Still surprised with Exeter’s somberness, Benton nodded.
“I’ll pass the word. Captain. Do you want me to relieve the present OOD?”
Hastily checking his watch, Exeter responded.
“We’ve still got some time left until we penetrate the southern boundary of the exercise perimeter. Let’s allow Lieutenant Willingham to continue driving the boat until then. From what I’ve seen so far, that kid seems to be cut out of the right stuff for command, and I’m impressed.”
It was from the lips of the Navigator that the next question emanated.