“To guarantee that they’ll take a moment’s pause and listen to our argument, XO, I’m going to accompany SEAL Team Two myself!”
“It’s true, all right,” said Brad Bodzin to the members of his sonar watch team, after hanging up the intercom and shaking his head in wonder.
“I just heard it from Mallott, who got the word from COB, who spoke directly with one of the SEALs — the Skipper’s in that mini-sub even as we speak, and the XO’s got the Jimmy K until Captain Kram returns from his visit to the Rhode Island.”
“Speaking of the mini-sub,” said Jaffers, headphones covering his ears, eyes glued to the BQ-7 waterfall display, “Sierra Three is purring away like a kitten, its course straight and true. ETA Rhode Island in twelve and a half minutes.”
“Did Mallott say why the Captain’s hanging with the SEALs?” asked Seaman Wilford from the BQ-21 broadband display.
“If I know our hands-on Skipper, he probably wants to be part of the first routine underwater transfer of personnel from an attack sub to a boomer,” offered Bodzin, his practiced glance scanning the glowing CRT screens.
“And then there’s always the possibility that he’s going along just to make certain that Gilbert and his gang behave themselves.”
“I’ve got a contact. Sup,” reported Wilford, in reference to the thick white line that had suddenly popped up on the left side of his sonar display.
“Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”
Bodzin checked this screen himself, and isolated the frequency that the screen was displaying on his headphones. The familiar crackling sound of shrimp met his ears, and he picked up the intercom handset that hung from the ceiling.
“Conn, Sonar. We have a new contact, bearing zero-six-one.
Designate Sierra Six, biologic.”
“Sonar, Conn. Designate Sierra Six, biologic. Aye, Sonar,” returned a voice from the overhead speaker.
“What’s the latest on Sierra One, Jaffers?” Bodzin questioned.
The broad-shouldered black man addressed the joystick that was situated on his console, and studied the pattern of vertical lines that filled the BQ-7’s waterfall display.
“Still not a peep out of them. Sup. They haven’t stirred off the bottom, meaning that the big lady is still completing repairs to their dome.”
“At least we’re around to provide their ears, and their launch ability wasn’t compromised during the collision,” said Bodzin.
“Sup, I think you’d better take a look at this,” interrupted Seaman Wilford, a definite edge to his tone.
Bodzin anxiously peered over his shoulder, quickly spotting the peculiar flutter in the BQ-21 display. It wasn’t another biologic, a fact that Jaffers confirmed with an excited discovery of his own.
“I have a narrowband contact, bearing one-four-zero. Sounds like it just popped out of the thermocline, and it could be another submarine. Sup!”
Bodzin hurriedly fitted on his headphones. He utilized the auxiliary console to isolate the narrowband processor, and a deafening blast of static caused him to wince in pain. He turned down the volume feed, engaged the graphic equalizer, and the static faded, to be replaced by a barely audible throbbing sound that caused him to gasp in instant recognition.
“Conn, Sonar!” he shouted into the intercom.
“We have a submerged contact, bearing one-four-zero. Designate Sierra Seven, possible hostile submarine!”
Dan Calhoun was in the narrow, elongated compartment just aft of the control room, talking with the SEALs who were responsible for launching their mini-sub, when the frantic warning from Sonar arrived. The XO dashed into Control, which was dimly lit in red to protect the men’s night vision, and joined COB behind the two seated helmsmen.
“I had a bad feeling we hadn’t seen the last of that damned bogey,” whispered COB as his eyes scanned the various digital indicators showing that the Polk was currently traveling on a northwesterly heading, at a depth of four hundred and seventeen feet, with a forward speed of five knots.
“The Skipper knew the risks, and now it’s up to us to keep Sierra Seven off our mini-sub’s back,” said the XO, suddenly aware of the heavy burden of his new command.
“How soon until they reach the Rhode Island?”
COB glanced up at the bulkhead-mounted clock and answered, “Another ten minutes and eighteen seconds, sir.”
The XO reached overhead for the nearest intercom handset.
“Sonar, Conn. Do you have anything else on Sierra Seven?”
“Conn, Sonar,” answered Bodzin’s amplified voice.
“I’m afraid not, sir. We’re barely picking up a signature, though from all initial indications, there’s a high-percentage probability that it’s another submarine.”
“Sonar, Conn. As soon as it’s available, get me Sierra Seven’s exact bearing and range. I’ve got to know if it’s headed toward Sierra Three.”
“Conn, Sonar. Aye, sir. We’ll do our best.”
The XO lowered the handset and solemnly addressed COB.
“Something bad is going on out there, COB. I can feel it in my gut, and we’ve got to be prepared for the worst.”
“We can always determine Sierra Seven’s intentions by going active,” suggested COB.
“Before we let them know that we’re aware of their presence, we’d better be ready to rock and roll,” said the XO, who raised the handset to his lips and addressed the entire crew over the 1MC.
“Man battle stations torpedo! This is not a drill!”
Chapter 48
Brittany found the access shaft behind the SHF SATCOM transponder, just like Red had said. Once the rumor had begun circulating that Red had been incapacitated by the same intestinal ailment that had stricken Coach, Brittany knew in an instant the real reason for her abrupt disappearance. With both of her allies in detention, she had a choice of attempting this daring rescue or trying to stop the Chairman on her own. Now that the EAM had been sent, and Yankee Hotel was one step closer to being implemented, time was of the essence, and Brittany knew that whatever she did, it would have to be done quickly.
What Red had neglected to pass on was that a screwdriver was needed to remove the cover panel. Brittany found one in the flight avionics bay, an equipment-packed compartment that adjoined the forward lower equipment area. Brittany wasn’t comfortable with tools, and it took a bit of doing to remove the screws and pry off the panel.
The narrow shaft inside was pitch-black, and she had to return to the avionics bay to get a flashlight. This would hopefully be the last item she would need to initiate the dangerous task at hand, and she knelt before the now-open shaft and prepared to enter it.
It was at this inopportune moment that an airman entered the compartment. She had no choice but to duck inside the shaft, and her pulse was madly throbbing as she reached out and did her best to cover the open portal with the cover panel. From the black confines of the shaft, she cautiously peeked outside and watched the airman begin working on the VLF transmitter, which was positioned at the aft end of the room. He seemed to take forever to complete his work, yet Brittany didn’t dare continue until he had finished.
When he finally completed the job and left, Brittany moved forward. The shaft was just wide enough to fit her shoulders, with thick cables running along the walls. The iron rungs were hard to grip, her progress further slowed by the constantly vibrating fuselage. She supposed that most of the maintenance work performed in this portion of the airplane would occur when Nightwatch was on the ground, and she continued the difficult climb as quickly as possible.
The sound of muffled voices signaled her arrival at the deck above. She halted to catch her breath, and was able to hear the distinctive chatter of people talking. One of these voices was female and could belong to Red, and Brittany prayed that the Admiral’s stateroom was nearby, though there was no sign of any vent opening.