Several hours later, the Cavalla had left Holy Loch and proceeded down the River Clyde into the choppy Firth.
One hundred miles northwest, a Redfleet submarine was cutting through the North Atlantic’s cold depths. The titanium-hulled Alpha routinely tracked U.S. submarines emerging from the Firth of Clyde into North Channel, the turbulent body of water between Scotland’s southwest shores and Northern Ireland.
Captain First Rank Aleksandr Solomatin was her skipper. He was thumbing a fresh bowl of tobacco into his meerschaum when sonar notified him they had picked up the Cavalla’s signal.
“All ahead full,” he ordered, lighting his pipe.
The starpom echoed the command.
A blast of steam surged against the turbine blades and the sleek Soviet boat sprinted forward. The blazing 45-knot speed was achieved by its sleek profile and the use of a highly automated liquid-metal — cooled nuclear reactor.
An hour later the Cavalla was entering North Channel from the Firth. Duryea stood on the bridge scanning the horizon. “Depth under keel?”
“One eight five, sir,” McBride responded smartly.
“Take her down,” Duryea said. He took a deep breath of the crisp, salty air and exhaled slowly, savoring it.
“Clear the bridge,” he ordered. “Rig for dive.”
The whomping claxon joined the hiss of air rushing from ballast tanks. Plumes of water arched gracefully over the sea from the main vents. The bow tilted down sharply, sending water over the submarine’s deck in graceful swirls.
“Conn? Sonar,” came the voice over the bridge phone.
“Talk to me, Cooperman,” Duryea responded.
“Contact bearing one seven three,” the Cavalla’s sonarman reported, his left hand dancing over the entry panel keyboard, his right rolling the target designation ball, his ears tuned to the syncopated beat in his headphones that came from the twin screws common to all Soviet submarines. “Redfleet boat for sure, skipper.”
“Anybody we know?” Duryea wondered.
“She’s coated, sir. Squooshes instead of pongs.” The unusual echo was produced by the anechoic tiles on the Alpha’s hull, which absorbed sonar transmissions.
“That cuts it to Alpha, Mike, Sierra, or Viktor,” Duryea replied, knowing all had the new Clusterguard coating. “Can we narrow that?”
Cooperman pushed several buttons on his console, as he studied the patterns tracing across a monitor in the panel in front of him. A high-speed computer printer, built into the surface of the control console above the keyboard, was recording the images on a continuous printout.
Stocky and slow-moving, Marv Cooperman defied the classic profile of a sonar technician. He loathed electronics and wasn’t into music or video games, but had infinite patience and an exceptional memory for sounds.
“She’s cutting a big hole in the water, sir,” he reported. “Forty-four knots. Has to be an Alpha.”
“Good going,” Duryea enthused. Knowing he was up against the much faster boat would affect the evasive strategy he selected.
In the Alpha’s attack center, Captain Solomatin stood in a cloud of pipe smoke, smoothing the coarse beard that concealed his smile. No other submarine in the world could have gotten there in time.
“Keep him on a tight leash,” the Russian ordered. Whatever the Cavalla’s mission, it would have to get past him to carry it out.
12
A golden, late morning sun streamed through the curtained windows of Stephanie Shepherd’s kitchen.
She was loading the dishwasher when the phone rang.
“Stephanie?” the congressman said in his gregarious rumble. “Jim Gutherie. Glad I got you. Why don’t we have lunch and finish that interview?”
“I’m up against a deadline on a story,” she fibbed, “but I can drop by your office this afternoon.”
“My afternoon’s jammed. I’d sure like to knock this off today.”
She paused, her lips tightening as she wrestled with the decision. She’d be less than truthful if she denied she was flattered by the congressman’s attention; less than truthful if she denied she didn’t sometimes feel left out of her husband’s life. Oh, she was still madly in love with him; but over the years she’d come to realize that Walt loved his country, the air force, his F-111, and his wife in that order. She didn’t really mind, she just longed to be a part of it; to share it; to better understand it and him. Writing for the base newspaper was a less than satisfying attempt to do so. Funny, she thought, the things that made Walt so special to her were the things that got in the way. “Why not, Jim?” she finally replied.
“Good,” Gutherie enthused. “Twelve-thirty, Cafe Promenade at the Hay Adams.”
Stephanie showered and was wrapping herself in a bath towel when she caught sight of her naked torso in the mirror and poked an accusing fingertip into a ripple of flesh. The first time someone said she and her daughter, Laura, looked like sisters, she was flattered. But down deep, she knew it was because they dressed alike. Stephanie had been living in jeans, sweatshirts, and running shoes, and rarely dressed up anymore. She hated middle age. A harmless lunch would ease the pain of it.
She had just finished dressing and was evaluating the effect when the phone rang again. It was the gymnastics coach at Camp Springs Junior High.
“I’m afraid Laura took a little fall during practice this morning,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oh my… Is she all right?”
“She’s fine; twisted her wrist when she landed. I think it’d be a good idea to have it X-rayed.”
“Of course. Thanks. I’m on my way.”
Stephanie called Gutherie’s secretary and canceled the luncheon; then, she left Jeffrey at the base day care center, and headed for Camp Springs Junior High.
It had never been any different, she thought. As soon as Walt left, the catastrophes began. It was the children’s way of letting him know he was needed. The syndrome was all too common among military families.
A half hour later, Stephanie had picked up Laura and returned to Andrews, driving directly to Malcom Grow Medical Center on Perimeter Road.
The emergency room doctor looked young, she thought. Too young, like a high school debater. He snapped Laura’s X-rays in front of a light panel and indicated a gray line on a bone just above her wrist, pronouncing it a hairline fracture of the lower radius.
It wasn’t a serious injury, but to a budding gymnast who had been training hard, it was terribly upsetting not to be able to compete.
At home, Laura settled gloomily in the kitchen with a tin of chocolate chip cookies.
“Builds strong bones,” Stephanie chided, pouring her a glass of milk.
“I really miss Dad,” Laura said wistfully, making circles in the crumbs on the counter.
“Me too. What do you say we call him?”
The teenager’s eyes brightened. “Mean it?”
“Of course. The number’s in the—” Stephanie cut off the sentence as Laura bolted from the kitchen. “Easy! You’ll have a cast on the other wrist,” she cautioned, hurrying after her.
Laura quickly found the package of transfer data and read the digits aloud as her mother dialed.
“Forty-eighth TAC,” a woman’s voice answered.
“May I speak with Major Shepherd, please?”
“Major Shepherd,” the woman said, encoding at a keyboard filling her computer screen with names. “I’m sorry but I don’t list an extension for him.”
“Are you sure? I talked to him last week.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, scrolling through the names again. “Let me transfer you to Personnel.”