The view out the windshield had turned milk-bottle white when they had entered the clouds an hour before. Now the choppy air came more often and it caused the large stubby-winged Navy airplane to bounce and jolt through the sky. Lieutenant Commander Nelson Nesbit sat in the cockpit's left seat and surveyed the indications on the green command scope mounted in the flight panel in front of him. The tactical coordinator had programmed in the new data as soon as they had received it from the Pentagon, and the aircraft's autopilot had already locked them on a direct course toward the initial search area. "How's the radio patch coming?" Nesbit asked as he slid his finger onto the intercom switch and spoke to the communications officer back at his station in the interior of the aircraft. "Are we ready to go with it?"
"Another minute, we're resetting the scrambler now."
"Okay." Nesbit shot a quick glance at his copilot. The Lieutenant stared straight ahead into the opaque, vaporous sky that surrounded them, but Nesbit could tell that the young copilot was trying to figure out what would happen next. "We'll know more soon," Nesbit announced, just to show that he, too, had no real idea what this change in plans was all about.
The copilot turned in his flight chair and leaned a few inches closer to Nesbit. "It must be something big — they're sure as hell making a big enough deal over it."
Nesbit shrugged. "Maybe." But he knew from the way the communications were being handled that the copilot was probably right. They had been conducting a series of routine maneuvers less than thirty minutes earlier when the first top-secret teletype message had come through. It had instructed Nesbit to fly his antisubmarine aircraft toward a certain point several hundred miles off the Carolina coast. It also indicated that a follow-up message would be sent shortly. The second teletype signal — also top-secret — contained coordinates for conducting a patterned search, plus additional instructions on the codes for establishing a scrambled voice link direct with the Pentagon. It was highly unusual, to say the very least.
"I'm ready on the radio link, Commander," the voice in the aircraft's intercom announced.
"Okay." Nesbit reached into a pocket of his green flight suit and pulled out a pencil, then punched several switches on his control panel. Finally, he reached for the microphone and pulled it out of the holder on his side panel. "This is Navy four-zero-four," he announced as he put the black plastic mouthpiece up to his lips. "Go ahead."
"Roger, Navy four-zero-four. This is the Naval Command Center. Do you read me?"
"Five square. Ready to copy." Nesbit looked over to the copilot, who had also taken out his pad and pencil.
"This is Captain Martin at the NCC. Am I talking with Commander Nesbit?" the metallic voice said.
"Yessir." Nesbit was taken back by the exchange of names, and it caused a cold chill to rise up his spine. The brass only calls you by name when they've got bad news. He felt his copilot's eyes being focused on him, but Nesbit did not look up. Instead, he pressed the radio transmit button again. "Go ahead, Washington."
"For security reasons, I must request that you be the only listening party on your end of the transmission. I have already taken the same precaution on my end."
Nesbit shook his head in disbelief. Something was so much of a secret that none of the other twelve officers and men in his crew could be a part of it. That was unusual, because they routinely handled top-secret data. It might be something personal. Maybe Ginny's been in an accident. Nesbit quickly tried to push that thought aside. "Stand by." He punched the intercom button and instructed the communications officer to route the incoming voice signal strictly to his radio set. He then punched the button to get back on the line with Washington. God, please. Not Ginny. His stomach began to churn and he could feel the penetrating looks he was getting from the copilot, but he ignored both distractions. Calm down. Ginny is okay. This is something else. Strictly business. When the panel lights showed that all the other communications lines had been secured, Nesbit pressed his transmit button again. "I'm on the frequency alone, Washington. Go ahead."
"This is highly unusual," the tinny voice began, in a tone that seemed a blend of exasperation and disbelief. "Let me first give you a quick rundown."
Nesbit turned and faced his side window. The number-one propeller of their four-engine Lockheed P-3 spun contentedly out on the wing, and Nesbit watched as swirls of condensed moisture flew continuously off its tips. The wing itself tremored in irregular spasms as the aircraft continued to fly through the cobblestone air, the jolts of turbulence traveling visibly along its structure until they were absorbed by the aircraft's fuselage. As Nesbit listened to the incredible story being told to him by this unknown Captain in the Pentagon, he kept his eyes fixed on the blur caused by the rapid swirling of the red-painted propeller tips.
When the Captain from the Pentagon finished, Nesbit picked up his microphone again. "What you're looking for from us is surveillance, nothing more?" Nesbit asked. "Once we locate the target, we are to remain outside a fifty-mile radius — is that correct?"
"That's correct." There was a pause from Washington's end of the line before the electronically scrambled voice began to speak again. "But there might be more after that. There's a possibility that we might need you to pursue the Trout. Engage it, perhaps. That decision has yet to be made."
"Roger. I understand."
"I also need to ask you a couple of questions," the radio voice from Washington began again. "I need straight answers, not textbook stuff."
"Go ahead." Nesbit didn't know what to expect next.
"I know that hunting submarines is a difficult job. I know that the success of the search often depends on a great many variables. What I want to know is how conditions are today — what the actual chances for a successful chase will be, if we elect to attempt one."
"Conditions meet our allowable search profiles," Nesbit answered automatically. "Probabilities should remain within the normal range."
"Cut the bullshit, Commander." There was a pause in the voice transmission, but the man's labored breathing could be heard on the open microphone. "Let me rephrase that," he began again, his voice now much softer than it had been a moment before. "Between you and me, I need to know what it really looks like out there. I need the straight word — no exaggerations, no gold-plated bullshit — if we're not going to have a repeat of the Iranian rescue fiasco."
"Stand by." Nesbit looked around the familiar cockpit of his aircraft. The gray-painted panels were crowded with levers and switches. The endless rows of gauges and lights added measurably to the overabundance of things to watch. It was a crowded place, with too many warnings and signals for anyone to take in at once, and for the first time in his flying career, Nesbit began to feel hemmed in by it all.
"Navy four-zero-four, are you still there?"
"Yessir. Stand by. Just a few more seconds as we readjust our radio equipment." Nesbit allowed his thumb to slide off his transmit button, but he made no other move. He took a deep breath, then glanced outside at the veil of white they continued to fly through. A Washington desk jockey. But he seems sharp. He deserves more. Nesbit hit his thumb switch again. "Okay, Washington, I'm back with you. In reference to your question, if the data you've given me so far is correct, the chance of successfully tracking that sub won't be very good."
"Why?"
"Because it's not a nuclear sub, it's an old diesel-electric boat. You know as well as I do that when he's submerged and running on his batteries he puts out almost no discernible noise pattern."
"Give me an estimate for a successful search. A guess."
"I can't."
"You sure as hell can, Commander, and we both know that."
"You're asking too much from me, Captain." Nesbit wondered how far this conversation would go before the man in Washington began to pull rank, to threaten him for the information — the justifications — that he wanted. Nesbit had seen that happen too many times before, and it was a tactic he was prepared to stonewall against. But this guy seemed different. He was appealing to him on a different level.
"I'm well aware that I'm asking too much from you, Commander. It's no different from what they're asking from me." The radio link fell silent for a moment before the scrambled electronic voice began to speak again. "I'll give you my word that I'll take the blame if it goes sour, I won't make you a scapegoat no matter what. But for chrissake, give it to me the way it really is. You're the only man at the scene — which means that you're the only man I can get a realistic guess from as to what our actual chances will be."
No scapegoats. He's being honest. "Okay, I'm with you." Nesbit squirmed in his flight chair — he had just accepted a verbal promise from a superior officer he had never met, a verbal promise that would be as insubstantial as the white vapor they flew through if everything went to hell and there was an inquiry over why he had made operational statements contrary to official policy. Nesbit swallowed hard, then put that distinct, unpleasant possibility out of his mind. "I'd say that successfully tracking that sub comes down to one chance out of ten, at the most."
"Shit."
"Finding a submarine is like looking for your keys in the dark," Nesbit volunteered. He had said so many negative things already that a few more wouldn't make any difference. "High technology isn't everything, although that's what most of the brass begins to think after they've spent too long at a desk. Crew experience means a lot, but just as important are the water conditions. They'll play one hell of a role. Our boy in that sub either lucked out or knew damn well what he was doing."
"Why?'
"Because he picked a transitional time of the year to pull it off. September is one of the worst months for conducting antisubmarine warfare."
"Because of the weather?"
"Not the weather, although it's crappy enough out here — low clouds, reduced visibility — to stack the odds a little more in his favor. Like I said before, the real problem will be water temperatures. Random currents of cold mingled in with the warm. It plays havoc with the sonar gear."
"And the fact that he's got a diesel boat will make it even worse?"
"Exactly. If you've got any doubt about how tough finding a diesel can be, think back to what happened in Sweden in the fall of ‘81, and again in ‘82."
"The Russian submarines that snuck into Karlskrona Harbor?"
"Right. The first one was a whiskey-class diesel boat — approximately the same size and capabilities of the Trout. That's why the Kremlin picked that boat over one of their nuclear ships to penetrate the Swedish coastal defense line. If that moron of a Soviet Captain hadn't gotten his ass hung up on a sandbar, no one would've ever known that he had managed to slip in and out of the most heavily guarded military zone on the Baltic. As far as the second incident went, no one ever got close enough to find out what kind of sub it was."
"I remember the incidents very well. I see what you mean."
"If the Russians could pull that off in those close, shallow quarters, what kind of chance do you think I've got out here in the open ocean?"
The man on the radio sighed audibly. "I get your point, Commander. I appreciate the straight word."
"Fine. Just remember that I'm the messenger, not the message. It's not my fault that it's bad news. We'll do our best out here, but it's an odds-on bet that we won't be able to follow the Trout once he begins to leave the area."
"If he doesn't actually sink the Yorktown, will tracking the Trout become any easier?"
"Not much. Without the conflicting noises from a sinking ship, our odds go up slightly. Maybe two chances out of ten."
"Roger. Understand." The radio link from the Pentagon stayed open while the man on the other end mulled over his options. "We'll update your orders via teletype. Send the target data to me as soon as you get it. Be certain to remain at least fifty miles from the vessels."
"Will do." Nesbit glanced up at his copilot. The young Lieutenant was turned slightly away in his flight chair as he worked hard at making himself appear disinterested in what he was officially not allowed to be a part of. Nesbit shook his head in disgust — the situation, the secrecy, their own lack of ability to guarantee positive results — then pressed the microphone button again. "Should I prepare our torpedoes for possible use against the Trout?" he finally asked. "Do you think we'll be attempting a search-and-destroy mission?"
"You should get ready," Washington answered. Some static had begun to fill the line, and it covered the deadpan voice being transmitted to the aircraft. Even with that interference on the frequency, the meaning of the next transmission came across loud and clear. "But from what you've told me so far, Commander, most anything we do is a waste of time. It sounds like the people aboard the Trout have already got us beat hands-down."
<>
"He's the one," Attorney James Westcott said in a low, threatening voice as he pointed across the hangar bay. "Our pilot could do away with this insanity by giving one order. Sit tight, that's all he's got to say. But the way it's going now, when the shit hits the fan it'll be his fault."
"Maybe... I'm not so sure." Roy Bishop shook his head in an agitated, perplexed motion, then ran his fingers through the loose strands of hair that framed his taut, angular face. He glanced one more time at the exhibit aircraft a dozen feet to his left, where he could nearly see his own reflection in the highly polished deep-blue paint of the fuselage. Bishop looked below the old warplane's wing, toward the landing gear, where three of the teenage boys continued to examine the tires and struts with great interest. Enough of their conversation floated across the short distance to make it obvious to Bishop that they were trying to figure out some way to make those components into makeshift weapons. "Everyone seems to be a part of this idea."
"It's a mass hallucination, nothing more. That pilot has managed to parlay our fears into senseless bravado and irrational acts."
Bishop glanced around the hangar bay. From what he could see, everyone — the young and the old, the men, women and children — were involved in this attempt to turn their meager resources into weapons of defense. Bishop pointed to where several of them stood. "What about that Japanese man over there — the one who spoke to you earlier. What he said made sense. Everyone agreed."
"Don't be ridiculous." Westcott frowned, then wrinkled his nose. "Nobody in this group has the right to jeopardize our well-being by potentially angering these terrorists. That old Jap is living in the past — he's admitted as much himself."
"I guess."
"Legally, we're simply victims. We are supposed to be afforded maximum protection by our de facto grantors — which remains the airline."
"Oh." Bishop had understood Westcott's words, but had no idea about their meaning or substance. He decided that the man must be on the right track because he was, after all, an educated attorney.
"It's also obvious that this pilot," Westcott continued, his voice laced with the same manufactured anger his many years in the courtroom had honed to a fine cutting edge, "is interested only in his own self-glorification."
Bishop appeared bewildered for a moment, but then began to slowly shake his head in disagreement. "The pilot doesn't seem that way to me. I thought he was..."
Westcott cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I'll agree that the pilot — what's his name again?"
"O'Brien."
"Right. Well, he thinks that he's doing the proper thing by getting us worked up, by getting everyone carried away with delusions of grandeur." Westcott allowed his voice to mellow in order to keep himself from frightening away his intended accomplice by saying too much too soon. If his plan to keep his legal case intact were to work — there was no sense in not taking advantage of this unfortunate situation as best he could — then Roy Bishop would be the man to carry out the actual legwork. "This situation is the ultimate example of decipimur specie recti."
"What?"
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions." Westcott paused long enough to allow his words to sink in. "Unfortunately — both for us and for him — Captain O'Brien is dead wrong."
"You think so?" Bishop looked across to where O'Brien and a few of the others stood in the center of the sealed-off hangar bay. He then turned back to the attorney who stood beside him. "But so many of them seem to agree. The man with the beard does. So does the lady pilot."
"The hell with what she thinks," Westcott answered flippantly. He had allowed himself to point directly toward her, but he stopped himself in time and put his hand down before anyone in the hangar bay had noticed. The last thing he wanted now was a direct confrontation. "Just because she sat in the cockpit, that doesn't give her any extra authority."
"I only meant that what she had said made sense."
"Only on the surface." As far as Westcott was concerned, that smart-ass lady pilot had been too snippy to him once too often — and that made her the last person in this group that he intended to deal with from this point on. "You can't trust her opinion. She's doing back flips over the pilot."
"Really?"
"Look for yourself." She stood near O'Brien, the two of them in an animated conversation about some point or another. The way she stood, the way she looked at him was prima facie evidence that she was acting out some fantasy of love. Westcott had learned many years before that fear, love and hate were all the same — different names for the same bubbling fountain of emotions that sent otherwise rational adults into spasms of nonsensical behavior. They were useless burdens to carry.
"I see what you mean," Bishop agreed as he watched the woman pilot. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that the attorney had pointed it out it was obvious that she — Janet Holbrook was her name, as he recalled — was in awe of O'Brien. She stood very close to him and seemed to hang on his every word.
"We can't trust her. She's a rubber stamp for him." Westcott made a gesture of dismissal with his hand. "As far as the guy with the beard is concerned, he's nothing but a backwoods bimbo who thinks he's on a deer-hunting expedition in the mountains. He'll get one hell of a surprise when he finds out that today's prey has the ability to shoot back."
"Then what do you think will happen?"
Westcott sidled up closer to Bishop. "That's an interesting question." He knew that working with this dumb rube of a real estate salesman from Chicago would be no different than steering another blue-collar jury into seeing a touchy case his way. "If I had to guess, I'd say that we are apt to put ourselves in great peril."
"How?"
"If the terrorists figure out that O'Brien and his amateur army are attempting to find some way to overthrow them, our status will change from being a benign problem to an overt one."
"I don't follow you."
Westcott smiled. Of course you don't. You're an asshole. "Listen, my friend," he said as he laid his arm on Bishop's shoulder, "at the moment we're just bargaining chips, like so many gold nuggets. It'll stay that way as long as we don't try anything stupid. They have no reason to harm us — in fact, just the opposite. But once we show these people that we might strike back, no matter how ineffectual that strike might be, we then become the enemy."
"I see." Bishop shifted his weight nervously. "But if there's no chance, why is this O'Brien trying so hard? He seems like a smart enough guy. He sure did a great job landing the airplane."
"He's a high-paid bus driver," Westcott snarled, although as soon as the words had come out he instantly regretted them. Remember the code of behavior. "No, that's not what I meant." Westcott chided himself for forgetting to follow one of the oldest adages of trial law — that first and foremost a good lawyer never insults a sacred cow. Airline pilots were held too highly in the public's opinion for him to allow a derogatory comment to slip out. "What I meant is that perhaps he sees the bigger picture even more clearly than we do. It's possible that O'Brien's actual concern is strictly for his company's welfare."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"You'll have to trust me on this point of law, my friend, but it's the absolute truth." Westcott wondered for a moment if what he was about to say had any real basis in law. Probably not. He took half a step forward, then paused to make certain that Bishop was following. He was. "If O'Brien can get us to do something overt against these people — people who have us as prisoners — then our actions will make us responsible for our own fate. In other words, if we get hurt trying to overpower these terrorists, it'll be our fault and not the airline's."
"Really?"
"No question about it." Westcott watched Bishop's eyes. At first he appeared genuinely surprised, but slowly the idea began to make more sense to him. "By cooperating with our captors," Westcott began again as he moved in with his closing statements, "we keep ourselves neutral. That way, the airline will be liable for our pain and suffering — mental, as well as physical — when we eventually get back. If we participate in some foolhardy attempt to free ourselves, our entire case for damages against the airline will be thrown into a muddle."
"Okay ... I see... right." Bishop nodded his enthusiastic approval several times before he spoke again. "But what should we do? How can we stop O'Brien? How can we stop the others?"
"Simple." Westcott leaned close to Bishop. "You and I can mingle. Watch and listen. We should be able to figure out what sort of harebrained scheme these clowns have come up with." Westcott gestured toward a knot of passengers at the far wall. Several of them were huddled over the display of exhibit torpedoes. "When we figure their plan out, we can then act on their behalf."
"On their behalf?"
"Certainly. They'll thank us later — once we've been released and they see that we've done nothing to complicate our case against the obvious negligence of the airline."
"What do we do?"
Westcott took a deep breath, wrinkled his nose and leaned even closer. He knew that the next line he spoke was important, but he could tell from his years of persuasive arguments in the courtroom that Bishop would be completely in his corner on this issue. The matter was as good as closed, now that Westcott had found the man who would do the actual legwork for him. "Once we know what their plan is, we can save everyone's life. All we have to do is tip the terrorists off."
<>
It was contrary to his normal cautious judgment, but Paul Talbot had maneuvered himself slowly and carefully from the bow section of the Yorktown to the forward part of the hangar bay. His footsteps fell silently as he walked across the shadowy deck, but in his own mind those same footsteps sounded like loud and patterned drumbeats. Talbot's face was soaked with perspiration, and it trickled down his neck and transformed the front of his white shirt into splotchy patterns of dampness. After several more steps across the deserted forward end of the hangar bay, Talbot stopped dead in his tracks to listen again.
His own heart was pounding loud enough to make it seem as if it could mask any other noise, but after a short while Talbot decided that there was no one around. From where he stood, he could barely make out the top of the steel firewall that had been pulled across the aft portion of the hangar. Another hundred feet. That would be, he imagined, where Yang and his men had imprisoned the people from the airliner. Go slowly. Be careful. If they spot me, I'm a dead man. Talbot stood his ground for a few more seconds, to allow his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light that worked itself across the unlit end of the hangar bay where he stood.
A dozen feet in front of him were the wing tips of two of the Yorktown's display aircraft. The white wing tip of a Korean-vintage Navy jet sat a few feet below the dark-brown paint of the World War II B-25 bomber. Talbot took a step toward the B-25's fuselage, to remain well in the shadows in case Yang or his men suddenly walked across the hangar deck from the other side. Work your way toward the prisoners. See what their situation is. See if you can help.
Suddenly, Talbot heard a noise from ahead. He froze in position and held his breath. Another noise — a creaking followed by a loud bang — filled the cavernous hangar bay. There was no question that a hatch had been opened. Before he could get his thoughts focused, Talbot heard the sounds of several footsteps moving in his direction. Then he heard voices.
"You two stay along the starboard side of the ship. The three of us will stay to port."
"What if we see him?"
"Call out to him. Try to sound friendly. Don't take a shot at him until you're sure of a kill."
"Right."
The footsteps and voices continued to grow louder as Talbot stood as silently as he could in the darkness beneath the wing of the B-25. Yang's voice — cold, abrupt, abrasive — was the measuring gauge that showed Talbot that the group was approaching rapidly. Talbot knew he couldn't stay where he was, but there was also no place else to go. If he attempted to make a dash for any of the hatchways that led from the hangar deck, they would spot him long before he got out. You stupid bastard, they've got you now.
Talbot looked at the B-25 to his right. That was his only chance. He took the remaining steps toward it as quickly and quietly as he could. When he reached the airplane he kneeled down beneath its fuselage. With sweat-soaked hands he began to turn the lever on the aircraft's belly hatch while he prayed that the mounting hinges had been greased recently enough that they wouldn't make noise.
They had been. Talbot swung the short metal hatchway down. No false moves. No noise. He reached in and grabbed the B-25's interior ledge with both his hands, then began to swing himself forward and upward as if he were a trapeze artist mounting a high ledge. Within a few seconds his entire body had been pulled up and into the old World War II bomber.
"Where do you think he can be?"
"Somewhere forward, as far away from us as possible."
"How much time we gonna spend looking for him?"
"You in some sort of rush? Got a heavy date?"
"It's a waste of time, that's all. He'll go down with the ship, just like the rest of them."
"Maybe, but I hate loose ends. If he isn't locked in the hangar bay with them, then there's still a chance that he'd survive."
"I doubt it."
"Me, too. But there's no sense taking chances. That's why I want to find him."
"Okay. Sounds like a good idea."
"Your vote of confidence in my methods of operation have become a real inspiration to me."
"What?"
"Never mind."
Stay quiet. They'll kill me if they find me. Talbot allowed himself to breathe again, but only in shallow, irregular gulps. His hand nearly slipped off the perspiration-drenched aluminum rail once, but he somehow managed to get his nails dug into the metal facing well enough to hold on. He had reached down and grabbed hold of the hatchway door, and he had slowly pulled it toward him until it was positioned nearly flush with the bottom of the fuselage again. From outside, everything about the B-25 would appear normal — or at least Talbot hoped so. Even through the aluminum skin of the airplane Talbot could clearly make out the individual sounds — the conversations, the banter, the multiple sets of footsteps — of Yang and his men.
Talbot lay awkwardly against one of the sets of rib work that made up the lower section of the interior of the aircraft's fuselage. A cross-member had begun to press uncomfortably hard against his lower back and it caused him great pain. He ignored the pain as best he could.
"When we gonna weld that hangar bay hatchway shut? It makes me nervous having those people still able to get out."
"We'll weld the hatch closed soon, when we get the word from the submarine that there's no chance they'll need anything else from those people. If we weld it shut too soon and we have to get back to them, we'd have one hell of a job."
To Talbot, Yang's voice had reached its peak volume and had already begun to fade. All he had to do was wait it out until they had left the hangar deck, then get out of the airplane and work his way aft. Talbot took a deep breath to relax himself. The air in the old airplane was musty and foul. Talbot's eyes wandered around the interior of the old B-25 as he waited for the last sound of Yang and his search party to fade in the distance.
Talbot saw that he was in a small area in the midsection of the aircraft, an area approximately six feet square. He remembered now that he had once stuck his head into this area when the B-25 had first been donated to the Yorktown two years before. There were a few foldable jump seats extended from the sidewalls, and they were all covered with a visible layer of dirt and dust. Several feet above Talbot's head was a Plexiglas bubble, no longer transparent because of the accumulated grime, that had once been used for navigational purposes.
The cockpit itself was accessible by going forward through a three-foot opening, and Talbot could make out the silhouette of the cockpit windshield by leaning slightly forward. Likewise, there was a narrow exit to the rear that led to the bomb bay. Talbot was thankful that this particular B-25 had been an operational aircraft just before its donation to the Yorktown as an exhibit, because that meant that its interior was cleaner than a great many of the relics onboard the historic ship. Talbot knew damn well that if the dust had been any heavier, it might have caused him to sneeze or cough — and that would've been the end of it for him.
Talbot took one more deep breath to steady himself, his hand over his nose and mouth to keep out the dust. He then opened the hatchway of the B-25. After waiting a few more seconds, he lowered himself slowly out the opening. When he attempted to stand on the hangar deck, Talbot was momentarily amazed at how rubbery his legs felt — until he looked down and saw that they had begun to shake quite visibly.
I've got to calm down. I'm the only chance those people have. Talbot braced himself against the side of the fuselage and allowed himself a brief moment of rest. But he knew now that his options from this point on would be measured in minutes. Maybe less. Weld the hatch closed soon. They'll all go down with the ship. Whatever he was about to do, Paul Talbot realized that he had to begin to act right now.