The Trigger walked to the chart and observed the captain’s pencil pointing to dots.
“I don’t see anything but dots and numbers,” he said.
“Let me be so bold as to connect these in order.”
The Captain drew lines that zigzagged inside the lines of an invisible slanted rectangle.
“I see,” the Trigger said. “The Bainbridge steamed to the northern end of its patrol boundary near the entrance to the Gulf of Maine, and then it has been cutting east to west on its way to the southern boundary.”
“Correct. We don’t know where that southern boundary is, but we have all the information we need, assuming the double-checking of these fixes proves them accurate.”
“Meaning, we will drive to the vacated northern edge of their patrol boundary to launch our missiles?”
“Precisely. We know that’s a weak point in the American missile shield by the presence of the Bainbridge filling that weakness, and we know the Bainbridge is now steaming away from that point. It’s our perfect launch point.”
“And what of the Leviathan?” the Trigger asked.
“They are in a strong position to help us. We’ll send them an estimate of the Bainbridge’s course and speed, and let them do what they will. The Bainbridge is within their reach.”
“Then the board is set,” the Trigger said, “and the pieces are moving.”
“I’ve deviated from our track to Halifax and have set course for the Bainbridge’s northern patrol boundary. We’ll need the helicopter’s radar if we are to find the Bainbridge. Shall I launch it now?”
“Yes, but keep it at low altitude until we’ve made contact with the Leviathan,” the Trigger said. “When that’s done, have your pilot fly high with his radar at maximum energy directed at our best estimate of the Bainbridge.”
“We are arousing suspicion,” the captain said. “There is no turning back. The missiles must fly.”
The Trigger felt a stab of sadness and swallowed.
“I’m sure my missiles will fly as planned,” he said. “They always have, and I guarantee them.”
Renard found the SEAL minisub to be spacious and his shipmates elite company.
Four SEALs joined Gomez and Smith in the vessel, and two sailors from the Georgia operated the craft. Also present was a naval officer, fluent in Farsi and Arabic, who would serve as a translator, and an Israeli man of average build who Renard understood to be the premier expert on the Leviathan’s systems.
Introductions were curt as the SEALs demanded silence while seeking the Leviathan. Renard strapped himself to a seat against the hull and watched Gomez and Smith slide a bulky mass along weight-bearing railings in the overhead.
Smith’s muscles bulged as he slowed the device above the vessel’s lower hatch. The two SEALs lowered the mass as it extended from a hydraulic arm. They flipped switches to activate it in a brief diagnostic check and then they lifted it again. Its size and movement reminded Renard of an X-ray machine.
“I can hardly wait to see what it does,” he said.
“You’ll want to look away so that you don’t,” Gomez said. “You’ll see the effect soon enough.”
“How long will it take?”
“We’ve programmed it for a two-foot diameter cut,” Gomez said. “Forty seconds.”
“And then?”
“And then we pull the cut piece away and rain down hell on whatever’s waiting on the other side.”
The vessel’s pilot called out to Gomez, who crouched and walked forward. Gomez returned to Renard.
“We just got word from the Georgia,” he said. “The Zafar cut the Leviathan loose. The Leviathan turned to the northwest and is now making ten knots. I don’t see this changing our plans at all, and neither does the skipper of the Georgia. Does this mean anything to you?”
“It means that the Leviathan is now capable of its top speed, which is probably twenty-two knots.”
“Twenty-three,” the Israeli expert said.
“Who are you?” Renard asked. “I’m afraid in our haste that we were improperly introduced.”
“Doctor Gabi Marom,” Marom said. “I was responsible for delivering the Dolphin-class submarine to our fleet.”
“A man after my own heart,” Renard said. “I did the same for Pakistan and the Agosta-class.”
“Gentlemen,” Gomez said, “the Leviathan is free under its own power.”
“Of course,” Renard said, “it can sustain its sprint speed for only about forty minutes.”
He glanced at Marom.
“Forty-two minutes,” Marom said, “by design. They pushed it to forty-five minutes in sea trials but damaged a quarter of the battery cells.”
“You are quite a useful man,” Renard said.
“I can advise about the ship, but I am no operational commander. This is why you will be commanding the Leviathan to bring it home where it belongs.”
“But it’s not going to sprint and snorkel, is it?” Gomez asked.
“No,” Renard said. “If its intent is to launch Popeye missiles against New York City at the maximum weapons range, then its optimum navigation to drive into range submerged for the entire trip would be twelve knots for approximately twenty hours.”
“That’s correct,” Marom said.
“And it would have to travel almost due west,” Renard said. “Its present course of northwest seems odd, unless Boston is its target.”
“I’ll let the Georgia know your opinions,” Gomez said, “but this change in direction and decrease in speed means two things for us.”
“Yes?” Renard asked.
“Our closing speed to catch the Leviathan is twice as fast as planned, but now we have a tougher job in finding them. It throws a monkey wrench into our timing, and you need to get ready in case we find them sooner rather than later.”
“How do I get ready?”
“Put this on.”
Gomez handed him a camouflage vest with a Kevlar chest protector while Smith handed a similar garment to Marom. Renard wiggled into the protective top and let Gomez assist him with harnessing it around his torso. He considered Marom and himself to be rag dolls as the SEALs dressed them.
“Take this, too,” Gomez said.
He handed Renard a standard nine-millimeter pistol.
“What do I do with this?”
“Stick it in your pocket here.”
Gomez slid the barrel into a vest pocket and sealed the handle into a snug fit with a Velcro tie.
“There’s a pocket on the other side for your clips,” Gomez said. “But you don’t get those until we’re inside the Leviathan. There’s a greater chance of you shooting one of our own team than shooting a bad guy if you run around with loaded weapons. So you only lock and load in an emergency. Got it?”
“Got it,” Marom said.
“Well, no,” Renard said. “I loathe firearms. What constitutes an emergency?”
The content smile appeared on Gomez’ face that hinted at a hidden energy.
“If one of my guys tells you to shoot something, that’s an emergency,” he said. “And you also have permission to start shooting in the unlikely event that you happen to see me or one of my guys dead.”
CHAPTER 20
Lieutenant Commander Robert Stephenson handed Pastor a copy of the latest patrol orders while summarizing them, but his commanding officer stood motionless.