They entered a doorway marked “Wardroom,” and found themselves in the private confines of the pilots.
The room was currently empty and contained several comfortable-looking leather couches, a buffet snack bar, and a big-screen television.
“Would you like a sandwich or a cup of coffee?” asked the CO.
Shaking his head that he was fine, Mac followed the Admiral into an adjoining room. This one looked as if it belonged in a school. Several rows of desks faced a wall-length blackboard on which a detailed map of the northern part of the United Kingdom had been taped.
Standing beside this map, in the process of inserting a small, red, pennant-shaped stickpin into it, was a man in a green flight suit. He appeared to be a bit younger than Mac and sported a bruised face and a cast on his right arm.
“Commander Mackenzie, I’d like you to meet Captain Lawrence Stockton, the pilot of the B-52 that we lost the other night.”
Mac had trouble hiding his amazement as he politely nodded towards the airman.
“What’s the matter. Commander, haven’t you ever seen a ghost before?” asked the pilot bitterly.
Admiral Connors was quick to interject.
“Actually, four other members of Captain Stockton’s crew managed to escape from the Stratofortress. Unfortunately, the crew of the KC-135 tanker wasn’t so lucky.”
The two newcomers joined the pilot beside the map.
Mac could see in a glance that all the red stickpins were confined to the Irish Sea, at a point halfway between the eastern coast of Ireland and the Isle of Man.
Quick to note Mac’s interest in this map, the pilot voiced himself.
“Those red flags show the known extent of the debris field. As you can see, most of the wreckage seems to be confined to a single, rect angularly-shaped grid approximately forty-five miles long and twenty miles wide.”
“What’s the meaning of those two black stickpins and the one in yellow?” asked Mac.
Captain Stockton looked up to catch the Admiral’s glance. Only when the CO gave him his nod of approval did the pilot answer Mac.
“The two black pins show the original locations of the pair of bombs that have already been recovered.
The yellow pin indicates the finding of a floatation collar device only.”
“Floatation collar device?” questioned Mac.
The pilot’s previously aggressive tone softened.
“Each of the four weapons that we were carrying were fitted with a heavy plastic collar, designed to fill with compressed air in the event of a disaster like the one we were part of. Their purpose is to keep the bombs afloat long enough to get a rescue team to them.”
“Two of the devices worked just perfectly,” added Admiral Connors “The first SAR choppers on the scene tagged their homing beacons immediately, and secured them with a more permanent collar until the recovery ship arrived on the scene.”
“We’re still not certain what went wrong with the third device,” offered the pilot.
“All we do know is that its collar properly inflated, and when the SAR chopper got to it, the bomb was nowhere to be seen.”
“The consensus is that it somehow slipped out of its harness during impact,” explained the admiral.
“If that’s the case, we have a pretty good idea where we’ll find it. All we have to do is to take into consideration the going current and the speed and direction of the wind, and we can approximate the point where the bomb originally hit the water. Now as to the location of the fourth weapon, that’s still up for grabs.”
Mac’s attention was focused on the grid of stickpins.
“What kind of bathymetrics are we talking about down there?”
This time it was the admiral who provided the answer.
“The average depth in that part of the Irish Sea is about seven hundred and fifty feet. The terrain of the seafloor is for the most part a gently sloping gradient, though some canyons up to one-thousand feet could be encountered. I’ve got a hydrographic ship presently coming in from the Norwegian Sea. It will be at the site early tomorrow morning, and then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Mac seemed a bit uncomfortable with his next concern.
“Is there any possibility that either of those two missing bombs could have split apart on impact with the sea? And if we do manage to locate them, could they detonate on us?”
“The Air Force had already informed us that it’s highly unlikely that either device’s integrity has been compromised,” retorted the admiral firmly.
“The bombs are welded together in a casing of solid steel, and not even a collision with the sea could wrench them apart.
As to your second question, you can rest assured that when we do find the two bombs, you needn’t worry about an atomic explosion. There’s no way in hell that such a thing could happen.”
“I beg to differ, Admiral,” countered Captain Stockton.
“Though under normal circumstances we’d have absolutely nothing to worry about in that respect, I’m afraid that one of the missing bombs could be a problem.”
“Don’t start that doomsday crap with me again,” spat the redfaced admiral angrily.
“I’m warning you, Captain, I could have you thrown into the brig for this!”
Lawrence Stockton seemed to ignore this outburst as he looked Mac in the eye and calmly continued.
“You see, Commander Mackenzie, I was in the bomb bay at the time of the accident. We were experiencing difficulties in the arming circuitry of one our bombs. It happens from time to time, and the unofficial procedure to correct this condition is to open the trigger mechanism and bypass the permissive action links by shooting a full charge of electricity into the system. At this point the overload usually corrects itself and we can get on with our business. Yet it was just as my bombardier was about to fry the circuit that our whole world came apart. And that’s the last I saw of either my bombardier or that damned A-bomb.”
Without giving the pilot a second to regain his composure, Mac retorted.
“Exactly what are you trying to say, Captain?”
“As I’ve been trying to tell them from the moment that they pulled me out of the drink, one of those bombs is cocked and ready to go!”
Having heard enough of the pilot’s hysterical ranting, Admiral Connor’s interceded.
“The Pentagon assures me that it’s impossible to arm an atomic device without receiving the proper PAL code from the National Command Authority, which in most instances is the President. With that said, I’ll have no more of your outbursts, Captain Stockton! Our job is going to be difficult enough without you going and putting such nonsense into my people’s ears. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to talk to Commander Mackenzie alone.”
Lawrence Stockton took this cue, and as he turned to leave the briefing room, his gaze momentarily locked onto Mac. No words were spoken; he seemed to silently implore Mac to remain objective. The marine salvage expert expressed his open-mindedness with a slight nod of his head, as the pilot pivoted and slowly limped back into the wardroom.
“You can rest assured that Captain Stockton is talking hogwash, Commander. The Defense Department guarantees me that there’s not the slightest chance of either one of those missing A-bombs detonating. So that leaves us with one concern and one concern only, and that’s finding the cursed things before anyone else does.
“Now in that respect we have several things going for us, not the least of which is that the crash happened late at night, in an isolated quadrant of the sea, far from any major population centers. There’s been no mention in the Irish news media of any peculiar sightings on the night of the tragedy, so it appears that they still don’t realize what’s occurred off their coast.