Chapter Seventeen

Showered and wearing his blue jumpsuit, Jake stood by the port side periscope. He glanced at Renard, who sat in a dark corner of the control room at the electronic sensory measures suite.

“ESM is ready,” Renard said.

“Very well. Raising number two scope,” Jake said.

Jake sought a GPS fix of his location, but as he glued his eye to the rising steel cylinder, an alarm whined, and he lowered the scope.

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“Merde! An APS-137 radar at high signal strength. That’s a P-3 Orion submarine killer overhead.”

“Do you recommend altering course?” Jake asked.

He knew the answer but found comfort conferring with the ex-commander of the Amethyst.

“Yes, now may be a good time to head for the shipping lanes. Don’t change speed. Any faster, and the P-3 might hear us.”

 

*

In the Miami’s wardroom, Brody explained the mission.

“The CNO himself is behind this one,” he said. “It’s happening, it’s real, and it’s us.”

“Sir, do we have intelligence on the expected resistance from the Colorado?” Pete Parks, his executive officer, asked in a Texas drawl. “Can we assume it has torpedoes ready?”

“Weapons ready, yes. A crew to support a long-term engagement, no. But we’re not going to shoot unless provoked. This is an intelligence gathering mission. We won’t destroy the Colorado until we learn where it’s going and who’s waiting for it. It’ll be my judgment when we’ve reached that point.”

A knock on the wardroom door interrupted him. A young sailor entered.

“Sir, the Officer of the Deck reports that the ship has received bell ringer sonar contact from a P-3 and requests permission to ascend to periscope depth.”

Brody took the Miami shallow, received data on the Colorado’s new course, then returned deep. Slowing the Miami to listen for the Trident, he heard the gritty voice of Senior Chief Schmidt, his senior sonar technician, bellow over a loudspeaker.

“Control room, sonar room, we have a submerged contact, bearing zero-three-six. Trident Missile submarine! Designate sierra thirty-seven. We’ve got its distillate brine pump.”

Schmidt was the best Brody had seen. He had met him on the Florida and had made sure that Schmidt joined him when he took command of the Miami.

“Attention in the control room,” Brody said. “Make all torpedo tubes ready, enter firing solutions for sierra thirty-seven, the USS Colorado. Make tube one the primary firing weapon. Make tube two the backup.

“Weapons officer,” Brody said, “I don’t want to slow down to come to periscope depth now. Get a SLOT buoy ready stating we’re holding contact on the Colorado and launch it from the three-inch launcher.”

Minutes later, a submarine launched, one-way transmission buoy ascended from the Miami. As it reached the ocean’s surface, the SLOT buoy’s antenna jutted upward and linked to an orbiting satellite. The satellite recognized the top priority signature from the USS Miami and relayed the data.

 

*

Jake inched the Colorado toward the Gibraltar trans-Atlantic shipping lanes. Cautious, he again took the Colorado to periscope depth but found no radar systems. A GPS fix showed that the gyroscopic navigators were accurately tracking the ship’s position. Assuming his plan back on track, Jake joined the Frenchman by one of the fire control screens.

“McKenzie energized the basic sonar system,” he said. “So let’s get on with your lesson. See this screen?”

“It shows time versus direction?”

“Time-bearing plot.”

“Useful for surface ships and other loud contacts. Poor against quiet submarines. Can I solve course and speed automatically on this screen?” Renard asked.

“Yes. The system is automatic, but I’m going to hold you responsible for backing up the machine with your own mental target motion analysis.”

“I remember target motion analysis. These machines and the principles behind them are familiar enough that I do not need to be coddled through your lessons.”

“Okay, Einstein, I’ll go faster.”

“I’m merely trying to make good use of your time. You look fatigued. Maybe I could run things from the control room while you get some sleep. I’ve been awake all day, yet you’ve been up longer,” Renard said.

Jake felt drained.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going down. Wake me if you solve for a contact within eight miles or if they need help in the engine room.”

 

*

President Ryder returned from a White House lunch with a visiting dignitary. He hoped the public appearance would curtail speculation as the Colorado Incident hit the national news.

Journalists caught him on camera returning from the affair, but none were permitted close enough to ask questions. Ryder swallowed bile, smiled, and waved at the cameras. He felt the discomfort of indigestion as he returned to the situation room.

President Ryder noticed that the lines of stress on Admiral Mesher’s face were diminishing.

“Mister President,” Mesher said, “the USS Miami is in a trail position on the Colorado. The lead P-3 Orion is breaking contact. We have another P-3 on station, and two more submarines will be there in eight hours to set a battle-space perimeter around the Colorado and Miami.”

“Finally, some good news,” Ryder said.

“We have some insight into what might have motivated Lieutenant Slate,” Rankin, the NSA said. “According to one of his colleagues, he claims to have been infected with HIV from Commander Henry, the Colorado’s commanding officer. He also claims there was a cover up.”

“How did this happen? Is this confirmed?”

“It was an accident at sea followed by Henry donating blood to Slate. The accident is confirmed. The HIV issue and a supposed cover up are dubious. We questioned Henry. He’s shaken by the circumstances, and when we mentioned Slate’s HIV accusation he refused to talk.”

“Damn!” Ryder said. “There might be something to this.”

“Henry is locked down tight with the rest of the crew, so he’s not going anywhere. It appears that Slate thought he had a score to settle.”

“A mission of vengeance?” Ryder asked.

“Perhaps, sir, but it’s doubtful he’s doing this without help. The commandos involved in this behaved like well trained professionals. They are likely sponsored, and Slate’s personal financial history didn’t show that he moved enough money to fund mercenaries.”

“Then this news of Slate’s HIV doesn’t get us any closer to knowing who’s supporting him,” Ryder said.

“It suggests his motivation,” Rankin said.

“But we still need to trail the submarine to put the pieces together.”

“I challenge that, Mister President,” Rankin said. “We can project the Colorado’s destination. The ship’s course places it en route to Gibraltar. Cross-referencing the DCI’s list leads to Libya and Algeria. We have this narrowed down enough to finger our culprits through other means.”

“There’s something wrong with your Mediterranean theory,” Mesher said. “Transit through the Straits of Gibraltar doesn’t make sense. Four countries operate underwater fixed hydrophone arrays at the Straits. Combine this with a multitude of anti-submarine warfare assets operating in the region, and the Straits of Gibraltar is an impenetrable choke point.”

“The admiral’s making sense,” Ryder said. “It’s too soon to implicate the Mediterranean states. I’m not ready to deviate from our plan.”

“The heat from the media will only grow,” Rankin said. “It’s already been leaked to the national news. You’ll need to address this publicly soon.”

“My White House spokesman can buy us time.”

“He can handle initial press conferences, Mister President, but he can only say nothing for a limited time, maybe two days,” Rankin said. “But you’ll need to stand at the podium in no later than seventy-two hours.”

“If we do our jobs and get lucky,” Ryder said, “this will be over by then.”

 

*

Almost two days had elapsed since the Colorado had left port. Sounds from transiting cargo ships and freighters filled its bow-mounted spherical sonar as the Trident crawled at eight knots below the Gibraltar transit lanes.

The Colorado’s eleven-man skeleton crew had split into sections of five and six, the second having Jaguar as a spare body. One section ran the ship from noon to midnight, and then the other took over.

Jake led one section’s affairs in the control room with Cheetah handling the rudder and planes. At the ship’s control panel, Kao memorized the location of buttons and switches but relied upon Jake’s instructions for operations. The rest of the section consisted of Gant controlling the engine room in maneuvering and Leopard patrolling the plant’s vast spaces.

Renard ran the other section using Scott McKenzie to handle the ship’s control panel and answer questions about shipboard systems. David Bass ran the engine room, paired with Panther.

There was little time for sleep during the twelve hours off duty as the men brought the ship’s systems online. With torpedoes electronically mated to the fire control system, the hijackers had firepower. After deploying a towed array sonar hydrophone system, they could hear all around them from a line of hydrophones streaming behind the Colorado.

 

*

 

Renard stared at a screen full of sonar data. Jake sat beside him.

“So, your rest served you well?” Renard asked.

“I was wiped out,” Jake said.

“I look forward to my turn to sleep.”

“Soon,” Jake said. “First I want to show you our towed array sonar display. Mister Lion and I just rolled the hydrophones out. Are you familiar with it?”

Renard followed Jake’s finger to the display of squiggly lines he thought he remembered how to decipher.

“If I interpret this correctly, that’s the array’s nose, the direction in which we’re pulling it. The middle of the display represents the beam, or the perpendicular bisection of the array, correct?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “You see these three fuzzy lines trickling down the screen? Do they correlate with what you’ve been tracking on the spherical sonar?”

Standing, Renard felt light headed and numb. He needed sleep.

“Yes, precisely. I have three merchant vessels on the sphere,” Renard said, “and I’m tracking them in the fire control system. I entered the sonar room and listened to verify that they sounded like merchants. There are no warships in our vicinity.”

“Yeah, the merchant traces look fuzzy like they’re made by poorly machined screws,” Jake said. “It looks like we’re undetected. I relieve you. Get some sleep.”

Renard crept down the staircase. As befitting his role on the Colorado, he entered the executive officer’s quarters. Lying in his rack, he assessed Jake Slate.

Although possibly lucky, the American had shown good judgment. He had risked bottoming the ship to submerge as soon as possible, and that decision had minimized damage by the jet fighter attack. Also, Renard thought that by slowing to eight knots, Jake might have already saved the Colorado from a P-3 Orion attack.

He complimented himself for identifying Jake’s potential but reflected upon the mission off the Russian coast and wondered if deceit could victimize him twice. He made a note in his tired mind to remain wary of Jake. He also pondered the threats outside of the Colorado’s hull. Countless submarines, surface combatants, and aircraft surely hunted them, but for the moment, he comforted himself with the thought that the Colorado appeared to be alone.

As sleep overcame him, he thought of the only person whom he knew still meant anything to him, Marie Broyer. She filled his dreams.

 

In his dream, a strong gust carried the sweet scent of lilac across Renard’s face. His hands felt warm stone as he sat on a slab of sunbathed granite.

Examining the view below a clear sky, he recognized a summit he had climbed often during his boyhood in France’s Provincial region. Atop Mont Saint Victoire, the peak gracing Paul Cezanne’s impressionist paintings, Renard looked around.

To his left, fertile valleys of green and sunflowers. To his right, the rocky mountaintop. Below him, the dirt and underbrush that blanketed the eastern slope. Renard felt peace in this image of his past.

He spied a figure seated next to him out of the corner of his eye. He recognized a loving voice.

“Pierre?”

“Marie?” he asked, but the figure was gone.

Storm clouds invaded the dream and turned the sky dark. A gust felt cold on his face as a second voice startled him.

“Pierre!”

Standing over him, blocking the scant sunlight that pushed through approaching storm clouds, loomed the figure of an American naval officer wearing a deep blue cotton jump suit. Flame had charred the embroidered nametag that displayed Jake Slate’s name. A blood-caked tear at the shoulder appeared to have been carved by animal claws.

The Jake-image pointed a pistol up the mountain. Renard looked to the summit, but the peak had disappeared into black clouds. Covered in sweat and grime, Jake’s face looked agonized. His eyes were filled with rage.

“Pierre, come with me. I need you!”

“Me? Why? I thought you did not trust me.”

“Come with me. I need you!” Jake said.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“You know where we’re going.”

Lightning crashed. Jake tucked his pistol in his belt and started up the mountain.

“We’re going to die,” Jake said.

Lightning cracked again, and Renard awoke.