The dull white light from the reflection of the periscope spread across Jerome Zindell's face as he turned away from the eyepiece. "The skiff is being lowered," he said to the others in the conning tower of the U.S.S. Trout. "It should be in the water in a few minutes."
"How are the seas? Not too rough?" Edward McClure asked. He continued to lean casually against the rail of the ladder that led to the control room below, a toothpick stuck between his teeth.
Zindell leaned forward and peered into the scope again. "The chop is down significantly. He should have no problem."
"Good. Yang isn't much of a seaman." McClure stretched his arms above his head and yawned. He had been bored since the first minute he had stepped aboard the submarine, and he wondered for a moment how anyone — Zindell included — could stomach this sort of duty. It was high-technology combat, nothing more. The enemy was never more than an inane image on a radar tube, a spectrum of noise in an earpiece, an innocuous shape through a periscope. It was too vague to be exciting.
"We should begin to get to the surface, so we'll be ready for him."
Zindell shook his head and frowned. "Not yet. It's too early." He disliked having to explain his decisions to anyone on the boat, but felt a grudging obligation to be moderately tactful with McClure. He was too much of a madman to treat otherwise. "You don't seem to remember that we've already agreed to keep ourselves submerged as long as possible during daylight conditions. There's no sense in begging for a problem."
"Right." McClure shrugged to show that he didn't care to pursue the conversation. He stepped across the small conning tower, toward where Olga and Harrison stood. "Do you smell something?" he asked in mock seriousness as he approached them. He made an exaggerated gesture of sniffing the air.
"What sort of smell?" Olga had asked quickly, before Harrison could turn and join in on the conversation. She looked directly at McClure as she allowed a compliant smile to spread across her face. McClure was slightly shorter than Harrison, but far more compact and muscular. His eyes — which had a penetrating quality to them — somehow conveyed the message that he had seen it all, experienced just about everything. Olga felt a sudden impulse to lay her hands against his stomach muscles — they were flat, rigid — and press in. She expected to find them unyielding.
"There's no way I could describe this sort of smell to a lady." McClure laughed loudly. He reached up and brushed his fingers against Olga's face. "I think you've been on this sewer pipe too long. Everything on this tub is damp and foul. What you need is fresh air. Clean living."
"Fresh air, certainly." Olga joined in on his laughter. She stepped closer to McClure. She had not met this man before he had come aboard the submarine a few hours before, but the brief time they had spent together had confirmed his reputation. He seemed to be quite a man, in every way she could think of. "The odor is nothing to be offended by. Mildew. Brass polish. Coffee."
"Don't forget sweat. And one additional thing." McClure cast a sideways glance at Harrison, who remained occupied with his duties. "The smell of fear."
Harrison spun around. "What the hell did you say?"
"You heard me."
"Let's keep the chatter down." Zindell stared at the two men a few seconds to show that he wouldn't allow this to go any further. This was his boat, period. Finally, he turned back to the periscope. It was clear to him that McClure intended to push himself on Olga — and that she intended to respond too willingly. Actually, the Cuban whore was begging for it. McClure was also going to rub Harrison's nose in it. If it wasn't for Harrison, Zindell wouldn't have given a damn what Olga and McClure did. They could screw their brains out for all he cared — a job that obviously wouldn't take either of them very much time. But the last thing Zindell needed now was a lovers' triangle to add to his problems. "Let's stick to business. This could be a crucial time."
"Sure thing." McClure stepped back across the conning tower, spit the remnants of his chewed toothpick onto the steel decking, then reached into his pocket for another. He shoved the new toothpick between his teeth, then waited until Harrison turned back to his duties on the far side of the conning tower. "I'll lay you five to one odds," McClure finally continued, "that when we get those wallets there won't be a penny left in them. Yang comes from a long line of pickpockets."
"Just so he hasn't pocketed any of the gold," Zindell answered. He kept his attention focused on the view through the periscope.
"He won't do that, it's too risky. He's got guts, but no balls — if you know what I mean."
Zindell didn't reply. Instead, he stepped a few feet back from the scope and rubbed his eyes. Get rid of men that you can't control. Get rid of men who make you feel uncomfortable. His father's words flashed through his mind, and Zindell wished that he was back in the Navy again. That way, McClure would have been transferred off the Trout so fast he wouldn't have any recollection of ever having served aboard her. But this was not the U.S. Navy. Zindell had to act differently now. "Mr. Harrison," he said in a weary voice, "get me an update on the status of the torpedoes."
"Yessir." Clifton Harrison reached across for the interphone switch that connected his headset directly with the forward torpedo room. As he did, he allowed himself another peek at McClure. That arrogant bastard continued to gaze blankly ahead toward the wall crammed with pipes, valves and instruments on the starboard side of the conning tower. Harrison felt a sudden urge to take the fire ax out of the holder on the bulkhead and smash it into McClure's head. Olga's too, maybe. "Forward torpedo room," Harrison said sharply into the mouthpiece. "The Captain needs a status report." Harrison listened for several seconds before he turned back to Zindell. "Tubes number one through three are ready to fire. They've begun to load tube number four."
"Tell them to stand down. Have the men return to their maneuvering stations. I intend to surface the boat shortly."
"It's about time," McClure interrupted.
"For chrissake, pipe down," Zindell blurted out. He took half a step around the periscope and toward McClure. Zindell could see that the man had picked himself up and now stood rigidly alert, his every muscle tensed, his eyes darting from side to side in the small conning tower. He looked more like a wild animal preparing to go into a fierce battle to the death, rather than a human being about to be chastised. "Why the hell don't you butt out of things that aren't your business," Zindell found himself saying, even though his common sense told him that he shouldn't.
"This is my business. Every bit of it."
"Bullshit." But Zindell had managed to cool himself down enough to realize that if he didn't control this situation very soon, then it would collapse under its own weight. "Remember our deal, dammit. You're in charge of everything but the Trout. When you're here, you're under my command."
"But I'm not under your boot. Don't you forget it."
Zindell's face flushed red, but he somehow managed to hold his tongue. He exchanged a quick glance with Harrison, who was looking to him for a signal. Harrison had taken a step toward where McClure stood in the center of the conning tower, obviously prepared to join in if there was going to be a battle. Harrison is loyal. He'll take McClure from behind. I'll take out Olga. Zindell was mildly surprised that he had already decided on Olga's lack of loyalty simply from the way she had stood next to McClure. That seemed to be enough of a signal. "There's no need to get upset. We're nervous, that's all."
"Yes. We're just excited. Tired." Olga stepped nearer to the center of the room. She put her arm on McClure's shoulder, in what had been intended as a calming gesture.
"Speak for yourself. Both of you," McClure snarled. But something in his voice said that his tidal wave of temper had also ebbed.
"Excited. Tired. She's right. That's what we are." Zindell shot another quick glance at Harrison, who had edged even nearer to the fire ax, his hand lying inconspicuously on the bulkhead only inches away from it. Zindell knew that it would take only a brief nod from him to transform McClure into a dead man. "We've got to keep control of ourselves. We're too close now to blow this thing."
McClure stood his ground silently as he stared directly at Zindell. Finally he turned to Olga. Her hand continued to lie gently on his shoulder. "I think the Captain is right,” he finally said. “We're just tired."
"Yes." Olga sighed in relief, then backed away. As her hand slid away she became acutely aware that she had shown everyone — herself included — where her allegiance was. She avoided Zindell's stare and began to curse herself silently for being so malleable. But then she looked up at McClure, and within a few seconds her doubts were washed away by a new flood of passion and desire.
"Get an update from the radioman," Zindell said as if nothing had happened. "Verify that there are no conflicting targets on the sonar, that the area remains clear of ships. Tell Moss to prepare to operate the antiaircraft radar as soon as our mast is above the waterline."
"Yessir." Harrison looked disappointed, but he quickly stepped back to his console and passed the orders on.
"Come on. Let's get up already," McClure announced to break the silence. There was enough of an edge of nervousness in his voice to turn the remark into a request. I hate this fucking sardine can. McClure pointed to the ceiling of the gray-painted steel hull inches above his head. "I want to get some fresh air into this tub."
"Be patient. You'll be thankful that the Trout can stay underwater as long as it does when people start chasing us. Then you'll be glad as hell that we're down here."
"Maybe." McClure shifted his weight. There was nothing about this submarine that he liked, nothing about Zindell except that he knew how to operate this tub of shit. "Running from a fight isn't my style."
"I'll be happy to leave you on the surface, if you prefer." Zindell watched the quick change in McClure's expression again. Clearly, he had again said too much, made the comment sound too much like a threat. "You can take two rubber rafts — one for you, one for your share of the gold," Zindell quickly added.
"No." McClure paused. "Thanks anyway," he added in a conciliatory tone. I’ll get this son-of-a-bitch later. I'll make him sorry he was ever born.
"Your choice." Zindell forced a weak grin, to match the enigmatic smile that had developed on McClure's face. Zindell wondered for a moment what in God's name could be going on in the man's head. "Everyone relax. We've got a few more minutes."
"Okay."
Zindell turned away and, for lack of anything else to occupy himself with, began to carefully examine the periscope in front of him. The shiny shaft of stainless steel rose vertically from floor to ceiling, held in position by two black cables that dragged it up from out of the dark hole near his feet. Tiny rivulets of water trickled slowly through the periscope's seawater seal where it penetrated the roof of the hull. The water broke into a procession of drops, which flowed lazily across the brass body of the periscope, the section that housed the eyepiece and focus adjustments. The water drops then dripped off the bottom, one by one, and fell silently into the cavity below. As he had done so many times in the past, Zindell was mesmerized by the sight of each drop of water as it progressed from the top to the bottom of the periscope. He would have continued to watch them if McClure hadn't spoken out.
"Where's the boat now? Even Yang couldn't be this slow."
Zindell leaned on the periscope, his one arm draped around the focus control to steady himself, his face pressed against the eyepiece. He peered out. "The skiff's in the water, away from the carrier. Here it comes." Zindell stood back from the scope, hit the lever to lower it, and stood silently while the stainless-steel tube traveled by. When the periscope was completely retracted, he turned to the others. "Surface the boat."
"Yessir."
Harrison had no sooner spoken when the first noises began to float up from the control room below. Muffled voices were followed quickly by the clicking and clunking sounds of levers and valves being repositioned. A few seconds later the hissing of compressed air began. Like the building of a symphonic score, the noise from the air being forced into the submarine's ballast tanks grew louder, more patterned, more resonant with each passing moment.
"Here we go," Zindell said to no one in particular. He knew from his years of experience that the sounds meant that the boat had begun to pick itself out of the water. But as far as he could tell from the physical sensations, nothing had changed. Innuendo. That's what his father had called the job of maneuvering a submarine. There was never any direct evidence of anything, no reliable way to determine depth, course or speed, except by consulting the gauges. Without a reading from those essential instruments — scores of needles that pointed to countless stenciled numbers mounted inside glass-enclosed cases — there was no way to determine whether the submarine was near the surface or rapidly approaching its crush depth. For the one millionth time since he had heard the news about the Thresher, Zindell imagined for a moment what it must have been like for his father. Until the instant that the steel walls of that nuclear submarine crushed in like an eggshell, the only precursor to their inescapable fate came from those silent needles and the random popping of rivets which were propelled across the width of the boat's interior with lightning speed, taking with them any piece of arm, leg or head in their path. Zindell whispered, almost loud enough to be heard, the well-worn prayer that his father's death had been swift.
"Captain. We're on the surface," Harrison announced.
"Stand by." Zindell grabbed the periscope, put his eye up to it and walked around in a slow circle. "All clear." Satisfied that the area was still free of unknown ships and aircraft, he slapped the control handle back. The periscope lowered into its recess. "Open the hatch. Lookouts to their stations. Loading party to the aft torpedo room."
"Yessir." Harrison barked the orders into the communications microphone, then motioned for Olga to climb the short ladder that led to the hatch in the conning tower's roofline.
Olga scurried up the ladder. "I'm opening the hatch." She spun the locking lever, then pushed upward.
The whiff of salt air blew down through the opened hatchway. "Officers to the bridge," Zindell said. He inhaled deeply, the fresh sea air a welcomed relief from the stale odors of the boat. Zindell waited while McClure followed Olga, then Harrison followed McClure. Satisfied that the three of them were at their stations above-decks and that everything onboard the Trout was in good order, Zindell edged himself upward slowly and carefully, his one arm maneuvering awkwardly from rung to rung on the metal ladder.
"Here comes the skiff."
Zindell followed Harrison's outstretched arm until he, too, saw the small boat as it bobbed up and down on the slightly choppy sea. Behind it, appearing even more of a behemoth than in reality it was, was the Yorktown. The aircraft carrier sat motionless, the slight movements of the ocean barely able to sway it. On its flight deck sat the damaged airliner, its red-painted sides reflecting incongruously against the gray warship it rode on, its nose perched precariously over the edge of the flight deck by several feet. "I hope that airliner doesn't fall overboard," Zindell commented aloud.
"What difference would it make?"
"None, I guess." Zindell turned from McClure and faced the skiff. The small boat had begun to approach the submarine from the starboard quarter. "Make ready with the lines."
Zindell watched as the men from the loading party climbed out through the aft torpedo room hatch and onto the submarine's deck. As the skiff approached, the lone man in the small boat uncoiled a rope and held it in his hands. "Prepare to grab that line," Zindell shouted. The men on the deck began to move toward the appropriate spot on the submarine's fantail before the Captain's words had died away in the brisk wind. "Thank God the sea is down. This would have been one hell of a job if it were still rough out here."
"Right." McClure edged toward the aft of the submarine's bridge and watched anxiously. If Yang screwed up, he could easily send the gold to the bottom of the ocean. Then all their efforts would have been for nothing. McClure vowed that any errors from that half-breed bastard would turn him into instant shark bait.
"He's coming in too fast."
"He's a fucking moron," McClure shouted. The skiff bobbed and heaved on the swells as it plowed toward the stern of the Trout. But just before it would have been too late to avoid a disaster, the man in the skiff maneuvered hard to starboard. The skiff rubbed noisily but harmlessly along the stern of the Trout as it came to a dead stop in the water.
"That was too close." Zindell had turned slightly pale.
"He's an asshole." McClure was glad that he had spent those long practice mooring sessions with Yang in Charleston the month before. "The line's secure." With the gold safely alongside, McClure managed a sigh of relief. "I hope that clown remembered to bring the wallets."
"He better have."
As the people on the bridge watched, Richard Yang picked out a small box from the stack inside the skiff. He began to maneuver himself carefully onto the submarine. Once he had stepped aboard, he hurried in the direction of the bridge.
"We're right on schedule," Yang shouted. He was slightly out of breath and he needed to pause for a moment before he began to climb the short ladder that led to where McClure and the others stood. Yang was surprised to see that one of the four people on the bridge was a woman — she was Spanish-looking, with frizzy hair and a big leather belt with a pearl-handled knife and an odd coil of leather hanging from it. He made no comment about her, one way or the other.
"Was all the gold there?" McClure pointed toward the skiff, where the loading party had already begun the task of removing the wooden crates and taking them below. "Did it seem to be the right amount?"
"Yes." Yang was now sorry that he hadn't squirreled away some gold for himself. It was too late for that now. "If anything, there seems to be a little more gold than we expected."
"My airline man was very thorough." McClure smiled out of satisfaction with himself, then glanced in the direction the Lear had gone down. He wondered for an instant if he might spot any fragments of the small jet, but he couldn't see any pieces of wreckage floating on the endless waves and swells.
Zindell cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. "Are these the identifications I asked for?" He pointed to the box that Yang held.
"Yes. I took wallets from the men, and whatever the women still had with them. I've got a couple dozen at least." Yang peered into the box, then back up at the one-armed man who stood in front of him. McClure had already cautioned him that the submarine Captain was not a man to be trifled with, so Yang had decided to be as accommodating as he could. "I can get more, if you like."
"No. This is fine. We'll take them below." Zindell motioned to Harrison. Harrison stepped forward and took the box. Zindell noticed that Harrison's eyes had darted back and forth between Olga and McClure, as if he were about to say something to both of them. Zindell prayed that he wouldn't. After a few seconds Harrison turned abruptly and strode toward the hatch that led below, the box of wallets and identifications in his arms.
"Here's the pilot's wallet." Yang produced a black leather wallet and handed it to Zindell. "I figured I should carry it separately."
"Fine." Zindell took the wallet and put it into his pocket. "I intend to transmit the identification data from the pilot's wallet first," he announced to everyone on the bridge, "then five or six of the others. I probably won't need any more. That should convince the Pentagon that we really have these people in custody."
"What about the explosives?" McClure leaned against the bridge rail in an exaggerated gesture of casualness. "Did you remember to take the explosives out of the box of gold?"
"Sure." Yang could see that the submarine Captain was visibly relieved by his answer. "It took me awhile, but I found it. It was nearly the last box I opened."
"Naturally." Zindell nodded in sympathy, then looked toward the stern. He had emphatically told McClure that under no circumstances would he allow the crate with the radio-controlled explosives onboard the Trout. Zindell was glad to see that McClure had instructed Yang to comply. If things kept going this well, by dawn the operation would be history.
"I hid the explosives real well, just like you said." Yang was eager to show his cooperative attitude in whatever way he could. "It would take an army a week to find it." Yang gestured toward the Yorktown. The four of them on the bridge turned and looked at the giant ship for a few seconds.
"What about the man who helped take the ship out of Charleston — the man who isn't part of your group?" Having an outsider onboard was one part of the operation Zindell hadn't liked, but McClure had said that he could work it out. Apparently, he had.
"No problem." McClure glanced at Yang, then back at Zindell. "I've already given the orders. He'll be terminated."
"Terminated?"
"That's right. Once we put the gold on the boat, I sent my two best men to the Yorktown's bridge." Yang reached up and readjusted the fit of his wire-rimmed glasses. "I expect that they've already disposed of the problem of Talbot."
Zindell stared at Yang for several seconds, then glanced around the bridge. Idle talk about cold-blooded murder wasn't the same as discussing casualties inflicted during the course of a battle, and he didn't want to be a participant in it. Zindell turned toward the stern of the Trout. "Your boat is unloaded."
"Okay." Yang turned around, stepped carefully down the ladder, then onto the main deck. He took a few more steps toward his boat before he turned around again. "I'll use the portable transmitter to stay in touch. I'm planning on getting my men off the Yorktown at 4:00 A.M. That gives us enough time to get here and into the sub before first light."
Zindell nodded. "Very well." He had raised his voice measurably so it would carry against the steady wind that blew toward him. "I've decided that 5:30 is the time we'll submerge. I don't want to be on the surface later than that."
"No problem." Yang turned and trotted down the submarine's deck, then climbed aboard his small boat. He waited until one of the men from the loading party tossed off the securing lines from the bow and stern. The skiff drifted away quickly in the current.
Zindell watched silently as Yang started the skiff's engine. The man then turned the tiller hard to port and the boat began to plow forward through the diminishing waves. Zindell turned back to McClure. "Since our diesel engines are still running, I'm going to reposition ourselves in reference to the carrier." Zindell pointed toward the warship, which had drifted to an unacceptable angle in reference to them. "I don't want to use our batteries to maneuver unless I absolutely need to."
McClure shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Zindell didn't reply. Instead, he reached for the communications headset that Harrison had left on the bridge. He put it on. "You two can go below," he said to Olga and McClure. "I'll take care of things from here."
"I've got one question," McClure said. He pointed to the Yorktown. "What time do you intend to shoot the torpedoes?"
"At 5:30 tomorrow morning."
"Before we submerge?" McClure looked puzzled.
"Yes. This isn't Hollywood. We're going to do it the easy way — which also happens to be the best way."
"How's that?" McClure leaned forward attentively. Battle plans and tactics always fascinated him, even if they involved a weapon as uninteresting as a submarine. "I thought that torpedoes were always shot while submerged. I thought you had to use the periscope to aim them."
"No." Zindell laughed. "That's John Wayne stuff. In reality, it's easier to point the boat directly at the target, then set the torpedoes to run straight. I'm planning to submerge again in a few minutes. Then we'll stay below the surface until nightfall, just in case the Navy decides to try a surprise airplane attack against us."
"Evening twilight will end at 8:39 tonight," Olga volunteered.
"Thank you." Zindell peeked at his wristwatch. "That's a little less than six hours from now. After dark, we'll come to the surface again to charge our batteries. Being on the surface will also make it a great deal easier to remain in the proper relative position to the target."
"I see."
"At the first hint of dawn — 5:20 — we'll fire our torpedoes from our surfaced position."
"Regardless of whether or not the ransom money has been dropped, is that correct?" McClure had phrased it as a question, but there was little doubt from his tone that he intended it to be a statement of fact. That was one part of the plan he had been quite emphatic about.
"Correct." Zindell was not pleased with it — he would have preferred to leave the Yorktown alone if the ransom was paid in good faith — but he had to reluctantly admit that there were operational benefits to doing it McClure's way. "After the Yorktown begins to sink, we'll submerge and get the hell out of here."
"Very good." McClure nodded his approval.
"Another advantage with this plan, beyond what we've already discussed, is that the noise generated by the sinking of the Yorktown will effectively mask the noise we'll make in leaving the area. If the Navy does look for us, they'll have one hell of a job acquiring our sonar trail with the Yorktown going down."
"Great." Sonar trails meant nothing to McClure; watching the sinking of the Yorktown did. "What about the number of torpedoes?" McClure glanced at the huge gray hull a thousand yards in the distance. The thought of sending a tin fish crammed with explosives into its side caused a shiver of excitement to pass through him.
"Four torpedoes, at ten-second intervals. That should be more than enough to sink the Yorktown."
"Excellent." McClure rubbed his hands together, then turned and smiled at Olga. "Let's get below, so the Captain can get on with his work."
"Certainly." Olga gave a half-salute to Zindell, then stepped toward the hatch. As she moved past McClure, she rubbed her body against his as she descended the steps of the ladder. A few seconds later she disappeared below. McClure followed her.
Jerome Zindell stood alone on the bridge. He fumbled with the communications headset to adjust it. "This is the Captain," he finally announced into the boom microphone that hung in front of his mouth, his voice mingled with the incessant hum caused by the constant wind that blew across the open deck. "Engines ahead one-third. Steer twenty degrees to port." A tinny, disinterested voice acknowledged the order. A few moments later the boat tremored slightly from the increased pulses of engine power.
Zindell watched as the submarine began to inch forward. Curls of foaming white water began to roll across the rounded bow of the Trout, the water visibly churned for several yards on either side of the hull. But the agitated sea flattened itself quickly and was soon transformed into no more than a broad array of bubbles as it mixed in with the heaving dark swells of the ocean currents.
Zindell sighed, then turned to face aft. He rubbed the stump where his left arm used to be. He cursed the Naval accident that killed his father. He cursed the Navy lieutenant who seduced and ran off with his wife, Joan. But mostly he cursed the U.S. Navy for their treatment of him after he gave his arm in service to his country. You bastards. My father and my wife weren't enough for you. You had to take my goddamn arm. You're all going to pay now. The boat's twin screws continued to rapidly propel the submarine ahead, and they created another spray of white water to trail behind them. That white swath on the face of the dark sea quickly settled itself to a light green, then a dark green, then finally into the ink-blue color of the open ocean.
Jerome Zindell looked farther astern of their position. At a distance of no more than a few hundred yards behind his submarine, there was no visible evidence that the U.S.S. Trout had ever traveled across that section of the sea. Even at that short a distance behind them, the white wake they had created had been completely erased by the vastness and indifference of the treacherous ocean.