“Do you hear it? It’s some sort of manmade pump!”
The chief’s brow narrowed as he vainly attempted to verify the seaman’s observation.
“I’m not so sure that I agree with you, Jackman. From this distance, it could be almost anything.”
“Maybe it’s the Marlin,” offered Seth Burke.
“No way,” countered Lefty.
“She’s smack in our baffles, and nearly half the distance closer. Besides, the Marlin’s signature is nothing like this one. My first hunch is that it’s coming from that Russkie nuke that thinks it can fool us by playing possum.”
Though he still didn’t agree, the chief looked up to determine the sound’s heading and relative rough range. With the XO’s spirited briefing still fresh in his mind, he knew this was an instance when it was much better to be safe than sorry. Since there was obviously no propeller whine audible, if it were another sub, it would have to be indeed hovering. Even this fairly silent process produced some sort of noise. This was particularly true of the nuclear-powered boats, with reactors that never stopped running. Deciding that there was the slightest of chances that this could indeed be the case, the Chief cautiously reached out to pick up the comm line. Watching the chief speak into the receiver, the two seamen looked on anxiously.
The Razorback’s maneuvering room was located on the vessel’s second deck, in the stern half of the boat, between the crew’s mess hall and the engines themselves.
Fondly known as Razorback Power and Light, the room controlled and monitored all aspects of the sub’s power capabilities. Usually staffed by a complement of a half-dozen men, the compartment was home to dozens of voltage meters, pressure indicators, levers, switches, and valves. These instruments measured not only the state of the boat’s three 1,500-horsepower diesel engines, but the condition of its pair of huge propulsion batteries and its trio of 940-kilowatt DC electric generators as well.
Because the Razorback was currently completely submerged, it was being propelled by battery power only. In this state, the vessel’s diesel engines had to remain idle, because of the lack of an adequate supply of fresh air. Presently standing before the bank of meters that indicated the amount of charge left in these batteries was Exeter, Benton, and the boat’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Ted Smith.
Over the nearby drone of the propulsion unit itself, the three officers were locked in conversation. They were only a few feet from the engine room but even so, the compartment was uncharacteristically hot. This temperature was high enough to cause wet rings of sweat to stain their uniforms. It was this abnormal environmental factor that was the subject of their present conversation.
“I still don’t want you taking any chances. Lieutenant Smith,” cautioned the Captain.
“If that main condenser goes, this entire boat will be like a hot house in a matter of minutes.”
“She’ll hold, Captain,” returned the Engineering Officer firmly.
“There’s no way that I’d needlessly jeopardize the safety of the Razorback if I knew differently.”
“I realize that,” said Exeter.
“But meanwhile, you guys back here are taking the brunt of the discomfort.”
“At least make certain that the men drink plenty of fluids, and some salt tablets wouldn’t hurt either,” interjected Benton.
Watching Exeter reach down and carefully rub his right knee. Lieutenant Smith replied, “Will do, Mr. Benton. It’s going to take more than a little heat to melt this tough bunch. By the way, Captain, how’s that injury of yours holding out?”
Shifting his weight onto his left leg, Exeter answered with a wink, “Don’t forget that I’m an ex engineering man myself. Lieutenant. No little bash on the knee is going to keep me down. I’ll manage all right.”
Punctuating these words was the harsh buzz of the comm line. An alert seaman answered the phone and called out, “Lieutenant Benton, it’s Chief Desiante, sir.”
Without wasting a second, the XO walked over and picked up the receiver. His eyes lit up with interest as he took in the report that the chief hastily conveyed.
Closely watching his expression change was Exeter.
The Captain found his hopes rising when the XO flashed him a victorious thumbs-up. Seconds later, Benton was off the phone and back at his side.
“Sonar’s got a contact, Captain. The bearing is one-two-five, at a rough range of thirty thousand yards. The chief still can’t say for sure, but he feels we could have caught a nuke hovering there.”
“Good work, Pat,” shot back Exeter.
“My instincts told me that something was out there. Now, if it’s just that Victor.”
Checking his watch, the Captain added, “Get into sonar and take a listen. Pat. I’m going to stop up in my stateroom for some aspirin, and then get over to the control room, where you can reach me. Let me know the second that you can get a positive on them.
“And, Lieutenant Smith, the next couple of hours could be critical. I’m counting on you to hold us together at least until noon.”
“No sweat, sir,” returned the confident Engineering Officer.
Following the lead of his XO, Exeter began his way toward the sealed, watertight doorway that led toward the boat’s bow. Doing his best not to hobble, the Captain ducked through the hatch that Patrick Benton efficiently opened for him. Halting before the ladder that would take him up to his stateroom, Exeter took a brief moment to address his XO.
“If it’s indeed the Soviets, Pat, you know what this might mean. Dr. Fuller’s prophecy could unfold right before our very eyes.”
“For some reason, I kind of hope that it does,” countered the XO, who reached into his breast pocket to exhume his pipe.
“It’s our turn to show those guys that Uncle Sam doesn’t take trespassers lightly.”
“Especially those who shoot down his missiles,” added Exeter, as he began the painful climb up toward his stateroom.
Watching his progress, Patrick Benton knew that any lesser man would have been laid up on his bunk hours ago, but not their Captain. Stubborn and pigheaded to the very end, Exeter would command the Razorback from his very deathbed if it were necessary. Praying that he would never have to see that day come to pass, the XO turned to continue on through the hatch that led into the crew’s mess hall.
The smell of bacon and coffee met his nostrils as he entered the galley. Approximately a dozen sailors sat in the various booths that lined this rather spacious compartment. They were either deep into their breakfasts or watching the movie that was playing from the mounted video screen, and a hushed silence prevailed.
Without taking the time to disturb them, Benton continued on past the kitchen area and into an adjoining passageway. It was at the end of this narrow corridor that his goal lay.
The sonar compartment was dark and cramped.
Stacks of electronic equipment lined its walls. Slowing his progress some to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dim light there, the XO entered the room cautiously. He soon picked out three figures seated in the compartment’s tar corner. It was towards the chief petty officer that he addressed himself.
“The Captain thought it would be best if I had a listen myself. Is it still out there. Chief?”
Turning to the unexpected visitor, Desiante responded, “It sure is, Mr. Benton. Have a seat while we get you a set of headphones.”
Scooting off the stool he had been seated on, the chief reached forward and plugged another headset into the console. While he did so, both Lefty Jackman and Seth Burke became aware of their new guest. Sitting up straight in their chairs, the seamen looked on as the XO positioned himself immediately behind them. With his customary corncob pipe protruding from the corner of his mouth, Benton slipped on the auxiliary headphones. He then closed his eyes, to more fully concentrate on the obscure noise emanating from the southeast at a distance of some 30,000 yards.