It took an hour until the conventional warhead was ready to be removed.
Colonel Ahmed screwed a lifting eye into the top of the warhead, his hands shaking from the cold. With another chainfall he cranked the warhead out, lifting it into a shadow left by one of the harsh incandescent temporary bulbs. The men moved aft to rig the old warhead back to the pressure hull so that it could be replaced with the new warhead. The transfer went slowly, with two chainfalls attached to the warhead, one pulling it aft while the forward chain was slackened, keeping the warhead level. The open part of the tank between the aft heads of the tubes and the forward bulkhead of the command module was a problem. The free flood was only five meters long, but those five meters had no supports except for a cross of steel tubular beams, one horizontal, one vertical. The warhead was rigged all the way down to the bottom of the hull, then aft to the frame at the command module, then hoisted vertically up to the hatchway in the centerline. The maneuver through the free-flood portion of the tank took over an hour. By the time the hatch was winched open to accept the obsolete warhead, the tank work was eight hours behind schedule — it had taken ten hours to get this far, and the work had been estimated by Ahmed to take two. The men tapped on the hatch, the signal to come shallow to depressurize the tank so that they could come back into the hull after an hour at lower pressure.
Quzwini was dismayed that there would be another ten-hour session in the tank to get the new warhead in, then another ten-hour entry to weld up the tube patch and the command-module hatch. With ten hours between entries, it would take forty hours to finish the work. And even then there was no guarantee the warhead switchout would work.
Once he was back in the hull, he stayed on the deck of the forward head, his frozen hands in his crotch, rocking the pain away, hating the thought of going into that ballast tank again.
The ten-hour rest period passed all too soon. Colonel Ahmed called the tank crew to help him pull the new Scorpion warhead from the lower level to the middle level, and from there into the ballast tank and to the forward tip of tube one, retracing the path that the old warhead had gone. The tank was much colder on this entry, the surrounding water becoming icy as the ship got farther north. Not that it mattered much, he thought, as his mind was growing as numb as his body.
“Norfolk Navcom Center, this is Whiskey Four Bravo, over.” Kane waited for twenty endless seconds before calling again. “Norfolk Navcom, this is Whiskey Four Bravo, over.
The Phoenix’s call sign for the third of January, W4B, was another meaningless and random collection of alphanumerics dictated by the code book, which seemed ridiculous to Kane, given that he was transmitting in the clear. He called again on the airwaves and waited again, feeling the deck rock gently beneath his feet as the ship rolled in the swells at periscope depth. Finally, after the fifteenth callup, the Navcom Center came back, much clearer this time.
“WHISKEY FOUR BRAVO, THIS IS NORFOLK NAVCOM, READING YOU FIVE BY FIVE, OVER.”
“Roger, Navcom,” Kane said slowly, “Navy Blue to follow, over.”
“ROGER NAVY BLUE, STANDING BY, OVER.”
“Navy Blue as follows: One, Lone Ranger position five nine degrees five eight minutes twelve seconds November, five four degrees ten minutes eight seconds whiskey. Two, Tonto is still with us and has just turned to the north on course three four five. Three, he has been making a great deal of noise, perhaps building something. Four, interrogative, when will cavalry arrive, break. Bravo tango. I say again. Navy Blue as follows …”
Kane repeated the message and listened as Navcom read it back, the message ungarbled. He was about to order the ship deep when Navcom came back. At first he expected them to ask him to authenticate another test signal as they had the first time, but that wasn’t it.
“WHISKEY FOUR BRAVO, THIS IS NORFOLK NAVCOM CENTER WITH A MESSAGE FROM THE GODFATHER. MESSAGE READS, DEPART VICINITY BY ZERO FIVE HUNDRED LOCAL TIME SATURDAY FOUR JANUARY, REPEAT, DEPART VICINITY BY ZERO FIVE HUNDRED LOCAL ON SATURDAY. COME HOME, BREAK, BRAVO TANGO, OVER.”
Binghamton crinkled his nose in disgust. “The Godfather? What the hell was that all about?”
“The cavalry,” Kane said. “This must be from Admiral Steinman or Donchez himself. We’re being relieved on station by somebody they figure will get this guy.”
“Navcom, this is Whiskey Four Bravo, copied your last. Will attempt a final report at zero four thirty local Saturday. Bravo tango. Whiskey Four Bravo, out.”
Kane looked at his watch. “Saturday morning is a long way away. No telling what this guy could do in that time.”
“Whoever’s coming. Captain,” Binghamton said, “is taking so long because they needed to hear from us before they could be sent. It was our message that started the cavalry up the hill. That ought to make our day.”
Kane could only think about bodies in yellow plastic bags stored in torpedo tubes.
Sharef sat at the head of his conference table, cradling his aching head in his hands, the flashing lights coming from his blind eye, the eye that was filled with glass shards. He heard the knock at the door, immediately straightening in his chair.
“Sir,” Tawkidi said from the doorway, “more problems with the tubes. I just came from the middle level. The tank crew has reentered the ballast tank, they are falling farther behind schedule. All they have managed to do so far is withdraw the old warhead. The Scorpion warhead is going into the tank with them now.”
“What’s our position?”
“We’ve turned north into the Labrador Basin, sir. The Davis Strait between Greenland and Labrador. In a few minutes we’ll be crossing the sixtieth parallel and entering the marginal ice zone. We can’t keep this up for too long or the ice cover will be total and impede our firing a missile.”
“We will do a north-to-south pace,” Sharef said. “The permanent ice pack won’t start until we are closer to the arctic circle. That is another twenty hours heading north before we will need to turn south again.”
“We’re losing time. Commodore.”
“We have time, why are you so impatient?”
Tawkidi sank into a chair. “I suppose it is Sihoud’s pressure.”
“You notice, Omar, that he is pressuring you and not me.”
“You have doubts about Sihoud?”
“Commander, I think he is leading us over a precipice. Moreover, he knows I think this.”
“This weapon. What are your thoughts about it?”
“I think it a monstrous invention.”
“But you will launch it?”
“If I refuse to shoot the missile, he will convince the crew … which is afraid of him and some even awed by him … to kill me. I may be in command of the ship but I will not be if I defy Sihoud. You will be my replacement, and if you refuse he will arrange the same for you. And then Quzwini, down to the most junior officer, if necessary. When we are gone the Second Captain will accept the order to launch.”