“Seth told me you’ve been trying to get some help, but have run into some brick walls.” Meisner talked as he continued to walk. There were no formalities between the two. No ceremony. They’d known each other for about ten years, and Bruce had investigated at least twenty cases for him. He fell in beside the older man.
“More like some paper walls, but considering the ticking clock, I don’t want to waste time. What can you tell me about them? Where can I find them?”
Meisner stopped a step away from his destination. “Let’s see. Whiting happened to be on USS Pittsburgh, the sub chasing Hartford. They’ve been testing two new systems. Which means the chance of contacting him is zilch.”
“How about Erensen?”
“The miserable son of a bitch had quadruple by-pass surgery on Friday.”
“Sorry about that,” Bruce said.
“I tell you it’s the damn retirement.” Meisner shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll be any good to us, at least not today. He’s still in intensive care.”
That explained why they hadn’t seen those two faces beside the president or on talk shows. “How about Captain Barnhardt?”
“Canada. On one of his back to nature survival jaunts up there. This time it’s bow hunting, or some other crap like that. He left last week. He won’t surface until Wednesday or so.”
Bruce had heard about Barnhardt’s fascination with hunting. He regularly led excursions to an island on Hudson Bay. A group of them would get dropped off on an island or in the woods in the middle of nowhere for so many days at a time.
“Can’t we send some Marines or park rangers after him?”
“The bastard would probably shoot them,” Meisner answered.
Bruce recollected that there was no love lost between Meisner and Barnhardt.
“Work with Erensen if you have to. His wife says he’s started talking. He’s at Johns Hopkins.”
Bruce nodded. “By the way, anything from Hartford?”
Meisner shook his head. “All the communication is shut down. Pittsburgh is getting ready to blast them into a million pieces.”
“That’s a shame.”
Meisner looked at him oddly. “You think so.”
“I sure as hell do. From what I can see, McCann deserved better than to go out like this.”
Chapter 46
“Torpedoes away.”
The second pair of torpedoes sped off into the dark waters of the Sound.
“Close outer doors three and four. Drain tubes and reload.”
The orders from the commander of Pittsburgh continued, and Captain Whiting, supervising the action, saw the effects of good training. It was a shame they were about to take out one of their own subs.
“Fire Control, I want a new solution on target.”
Whiting knew it was difficult for the skipper of the sub, too. He couldn’t bring himself to refer to Hartford by name. The deck officer approached the conn and handed the C.O. a message board.
The commander read it, looked at Captain Whiting, and handed the board to him.
Looking at the message, Whiting felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. One minute would have made all the difference. Now it was too late. It would take less than ten minutes for the fish to reach Hartford. If only this message had come in a minute earlier.
“It’s from Commander McCann, sir,” the young deck officer said, as if Whiting couldn’t read the damn thing himself.
“The authenticity code?” the commander barked.
“It matches, sir. It’s from Hartford. From McCann.”
Whiting read the short message again. McCann had regained control of the ship. The hijackers had left by way of what he suspected was a DSRV. The reactor plant was scrammed, and he was working on auxiliary to bring them to the surface. Three people were trying to run that goddamn sub — one of them a civilian.
They’d never make it.
The skipper was shouting orders. Radio was messaging the surface. Search for the DSRV would go to units in the air. Washington and Norfolk had to be immediately notified of the situation.
Whiting watched him turn to his combat. “Status of torpedoes?”
“At their cruising speed on the intercept course to the target,” the young petty officer told him.
“With his power shut down, he has no chance to outrun them,” Whiting commented. “He’s going to take the hit.”
One minute would have saved those three people’s lives. The commander had another communication sent, this time ordering the deep water rescue equipment.
“You might try the electronics, Skipper,” Whiting suggested.
“The fish are too far out,” the C.O. replied. “They’re out of range.”
Chapter 47
The battery charge was getting very low because of the life support systems and the sonar. Sonar by itself was a power hog. McCann had to keep it operating at full capacity, and the system’s seawater pumps, required to cool its computers, were an awful power drain.
He looked at the display that showed the power on the grid from the ship’s turbine generators.
“Come on, Amy. Fire that baby up.”
Another few minutes and they’d be dead in the water.
“Come on…”
The display started to come alive.
“You’re doing it, Amy,” he said into the mouthpiece.
She had the auxiliary engine running. McCann watched the battery charge gauge jump.
“Yeah, baby,” Brody shouted. “She’s real good, sir. We’ve got to get us one like her on board for the next patrol.”
“Where are you, Amy? Get up here,” McCann said into the mike.
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” she shot back. “Will you please stop being so bossy?”
“Conn? Sonar,” Brody shouted. “Multiple torpedoes in the water. Bearing on us. I read four fish, Skipper.”
“What’s the range gate?”
“Prolonged pinging, sir. Lead torpedo is maybe six thousand yards.”
He’d known it was just a matter of time. They hadn’t gotten their message off soon enough. McCann left the conn and ducked into Sonar, looking briefly over Brody’s shoulder and checking the speed and coordinates.
They had only minutes.
Amy burst into the control room as McCann stepped back onto the conn. She was greasy and dirty and had blood stains on her clothing, and McCann thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman. He watched her come to a halt and stare at the bodies of Cav and Dunbar, lying by the navigation panels where he’d dragged them.
Considering what was going on right now, McCann shouldn’t have felt so defensive. But he felt the urgent need to explain everything to her. An urge brought on by the stark uncertainty of whether or not they’d get out of here alive.
He went to her. “Here’s the ‘cleanup’ you heard about. They were dead when I got up here.”
Amy looked away, obviously accepting his words. “I’m reporting for duty, Skipper. What else do you want me to do?”
He smiled. “I’m going to put you at the helm.”
“Driving the sub?” she asked, her eyes rounding. “I can’t do that.”
“It’s not much different than driving a car. I’ll show you.” He took her by the arm and seated her, starting to show her some of the controls.
“Conn? Sonar. Range gate dropping,” Brody told him.
McCann knew he had no ability to fire off counter measures that would draw the fire of the torpedoes. There was no running away from these fish, either, not with the reactor shut down.