Phoenix Sub Zero mp-3 Page 9

  Chapter 5

  Thursday, 26 December

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  THE PENTAGON

  The snow had been falling since nightfall Wednesday and was now, in the early hours of a sleepy Thursday morning, piled almost a foot deep. Adm. Richard Donchez’s staff car rear door opened and the admiral burst out and took the icy steps to the V.I.P entrance two at a time. Captain Rummel met him just inside the door. Donchez barely acknowledged him, ignoring the V.I.P elevator and sprinting up the stairs to the fourth deck. As he hurried he doffed his heavy overcoat and unloaded it on Rummel, his hat next.

  Donchez scanned into Flag Plot and entered the room, his first Havana firing up as he joined Admirals Dee Watson and John Traeps at a chart table littered with messages, code publications, and intelligence briefs. At the far wall an enlarged electronic chart glowed dark green, a lighter shade marking the shores of the Mediterranean. Hieroglyphics denoting ships and aircraft and bases cluttered the chart, vectors drawn from some of the symbols, others moving visibly as the chart updated every thirty seconds.

  Donchez wasted no time. He stared through the cloud of cigar smoke at vice C.N.O Watson and commander Mediterranean forces Traeps.

  “What is it?” he asked curtly.

  “Firestar fighter, Admiral.” Watson’s jowls sagged almost all the way to his dirty collar, which was soaked with sweat despite the chill of the room. “Son of a bitch swatted away the escort F-14s like they were flies. Both crashed into the sea. We’ve got no idea why. One crew was recovered. The pilot reported he lost all power and thinks it was something the Firestar did. The SOB kept flying to the west. And that ain’t all. Show him, John.”

  Traeps pulled a satellite photograph off the table. His gray hair was in place, his uniform looking like it came from the photo in the Navy Uniform Regulations manual. Traeps’s appearance always annoyed Donchez, he looked like one of those absurdly handsome older men that graced the casts of women’s soap operas or vitamin-supplement commercials.

  “Sir, we got a sniff of something odd with the KH-17 spy platform making a Mediterranean pass at dawn over Cyprus.

  As soon as we had it the Air Force sent out an RF-4 recon jet to take a closer look.” Traeps laid a second photo on the table next to the first.

  Donchez puffed while studying the first photo. The high-altitude satellite shot was a grainy God’s-eye view of the sea taken shortly after sunrise, judging by the elongated shadow of the object shown in the center of the shot. That object was cigar-shaped, bulbous at one end, tapered on the other. The more telling information was the shadow, which formed the shape of a vertical surface. A fin. A submarine conning tower. Donchez dropped the satellite shot and picked up the second photo, a highly enlarged glossy. The black-and-white shot revealed much more detail than the first photo, this one clearly showing in a sidelooking view the shape in the water — the unmistakable shape of a submarine, every detail clear, including the window set into the conning tower, even the men standing in the cubbyhole at the top of the sloping fin. Donchez looked up, anger creasing his features.

  “This submarine. Is it the UIF’s acquisition from the Japanese?” “Yes sir,” Rummel said. “Destiny-class, type-two nuclear.”

  “Wasn’t this submarine on the target list a week ago? It should have been sunk next to its pier.”

  “That’s right, sir, but there was a spot of bad weather and some higher priority targets. The sub was rescheduled to be hit tomorrow. Bad timing, I’m afraid. She … she got underway yesterday.”

  “Nice catch for naval intelligence,” Donchez said bitterly.

  “I want a report why that little fact escaped our attention yesterday. So what’s this got to do with the Firestar?”

  Rummel answered. “The jet crashed into the sea about a mile from the submarine. We’re assuming a connection between the two events. The submarine was probably detailed to pick up the pilots of the Firestar.”

  Donchez stared at Rummel. “And who were the men flying in the Firestar?”

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “But you have a pretty good guess for me.”

  “Conjecture, Admiral.”

  “Let me in on it, if you would, Fred.”

  “Sihoud, sir.”

  “Where did the sub go?”

  “Continued heading east toward Kassab, then submerged. We have more photographs if you want to see—”

  Donchez shook his head. “What you’re telling me, gentlemen, is that for the last twenty-four hours I’ve been doing my level best to knock out General Sihoud, and the result of the fleet’s effort is his escape to a submarine that is now god-knows-where, and Sihoud is not only gone but we can’t find him. Is that your conclusion?”

  “Afraid that’s it. Admiral,” Watson said, “but we’ve got a plan—”

  “I’m sure you do. Dee. I’d just love to hear it.”

  Watson gestured to the wall chart.

  “We’ve got two well-positioned units in the Med to track this Destiny. The carrier air group Reagan off Tripoli is escorted by the Improved Los Angeles-class submarine Phoenix. We can use her to plug the gap at Gibraltar and make sure the Destiny doesn’t make a run for open ocean. Then we’ve got the Augusta off Cyprus in the east. She can scour the Med from east to west. Between the two units we’ll pick up the Destiny. I’m expecting her to make port in Kassab or somewhere in North Africa to unload Sihoud to a field command where he can get back to his ground campaign.”

  “Taking Phoenix away from the Reagan is risky,” Donchez said. “Leaves the whole battle group vulnerable in case the Destiny tries something. Let’s not forget, the Destiny may be a third-world export submarine, but it’s built by first-rate designers. Some folks think it’s as good or better than a Centurion. Besides, why the hell would Sihoud run for the Atlantic? That would do nothing for his war effort. He needs to get back into action. Let’s leave Phoenix where she is.”

  “Good point, sir,” Traeps said. Donchez glared at him, not liking the ass-kissing.

  The vice C.N.O for operations. Admiral Dee Watson, shook his jowls in disagreement. “Admiral, I’m only a skimmer puke,” he said, referring to his own operational days as a surface-warfare officer, the surface ships known derisively as “skimmers” by the submarine force. “But if we keep Phoenix with the battle group, Barczynski’s gonna have more evidence for his ten-billion-dollar-self-licking-ice-cream-cone allegation.”

  Donchez thought it over. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Rod Barczyinski, was a vigorous opponent of aircraft-carrier battle groups, noting how often carrier aircraft and carrier group ships seemingly had little purpose except to protect the carrier itself, hence the self-licking-ice-cream-cone epithet. It was a distortion, of course, but in the battle for defense dollars plenty of nasty tricks had been played by one service against another. Watson was on-target in bringing up the political result of a tactical decision, yet to hell with politics when there was a war to win. Except there was more here. Sihoud had escaped in a submarine that nobody knew anything about. Its capabilities were matters of conjecture. There was the priority of killing Sihoud, and the possibility of his escape was unacceptable. When weighing the idea of Sihoud’s escape against any danger to the aircraft-carrier battle group, it seemed clear that the risk was worth the insurance.

  Donchez changed his mind. Sihoud must be caught. “Dee, we’ll do it your way. Get Phoenix to patrol the far western basin at Gibraltar. Get every antisubmarine warfare aircraft in the Med in the air, the P-3s out of Sigonella and the Reagan’s Vikings.”

  “For now, sir, that leaves most of the Med in the hands of the Augusta. Augusta’s closest by far to the position of the Destiny class. If we catch it, Augusta will be the one to do it.” Watson looked unhappy, as if he wanted more firepower.

  “Who’s in command of Augusta?” Donchez asked.

  “Rocket Ron Daminski,” Watson said, a smirk making an appearance on his face.

  “Jesus, that Destiny
doesn’t stand a chance,” Donchez said. “Rocket Ron Daminski … is he still the terror of Squadron Seven?”

  “The same,” Traeps said.

  “He’s a blunt instrument.” Watson said. “I recommend we use him. Daminski’s orders should tell him to sink the Destiny submarine on initial contact.”

  “Tell him to give us a situation report before he puts her on the bottom, just in case. I guess that’s it, gentlemen. Get Augusta and Daminski in trail of the Destiny. If Rocket can find that sub, it’ll be on the bottom fifteen minutes later. Give him some help, John, and get those P-3s and Vikings up in the air looking for the Destiny. Let’s detach one of Reagan’s ASW frigates. I don’t care what it takes, but sink that submarine. Daminski’s authorized all force necessary. And have the watch officer call me at home the minute we’ve got something. You two should get some rest yourselves. You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”

  CENTRAL MEDITERRANEAN

  Commodore Sharef frowned down at the deck from the surface-control space on top of the fin, ten meters above the curving hull. Perhaps under different circumstances he would have been less agitated — it was shaping up into a beautiful morning, the sun rising higher in the winter sky, the deep blue water of the Mediterranean so clear that Sharef could see the hull shape underwater from the elliptical bow forward to the X-tail aft. And the air smelled so clean after being locked inside the Hegira for the last twenty-four hours. There was something invigorating about being on the surface, even though the surface was the submariner’s enemy.

  As if to remind him of the danger, the sound of distant aircraft engines came whining into his ears. He looked up and saw nothing. Even the binoculars were unable to locate the jet — it must have been a high-altitude transport … he hoped.

  Sharef shouted down to the deck, his voice unhurried but clipped.

  “On deck! Get those men below! Now!”

  The rescue team had just pulled the second man in from the raft. One of the men was younger and healthy, the second bent and weak, needing help just to stay on his feet on the curving deck. The deckhands and the survivors pushed into the hatch set into the port side of the fin and went down the ladder to the control room below. Sharer leaned over and saw that the last man had secured the hatch fairing in the side of the fin. The only men left in the surface-control space were deck officer Omar Tawkidi and Sharef. Sharef glanced at his watch and ordered Tawkidi below. Sharef lifted the panel doors, the cubbyhole at the top of the fin vanishing, the fin again streamlined and continuous. He checked for loose items, binoculars or flashlights, anything that could bounce or rattle around to cause noise, and finding nothing, lowered himself down into the hatchway and shut it. Twenty steps down at the joining of the fin to the outer hull there was a wide space in the vertical tunnel.

  Sharef checked the hatch set in the side of the fin and, satisfied it was secure, lowered himself into the command-module access-hatch. When his head was clear he pulled down the hatch to the fin tunnel and spun the hatch wheel, engaging the heavy dogs. He continued down the ladder all the way to the deckplates and operated a hydraulic control lever.

  The lower hatch, stowed in the overhead, rotated into position below the upper hatch, engaged its own dogs, and rotated into place. The ship was now rigged for submergence.

  Sharef stepped through the doorway into the control room and blinked in its dim light, looking for Tawkidi.

  “Deck, are you ready to submerge?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Take the ship down to 100 meters, heading east at dead-slow. Continue the heading for ten minutes, then do a computer self-delouse. I want a report on the status of the delouse.”

  “Yes sir. Ship control, dead slow ahead, ship’s depth 100 meters.”

  “Where are the survivors?”

  “Your stateroom, sir. Captain al-Kunis is with them.”

  “Any idea who they were?”

  Tawkidi took a deep breath.

  “You won’t believe it. Commodore. I think you’d better see for yourself.”

  Sharef hurried out of the control room, down a narrow passageway between the computer space to starboard and the radio room to port to the door to his stateroom. He opened the door and found himself looking into the face of the Sword of Islam, Gen. Mohammed al-Sihoud. A part of Sharef’s mind realized he should be snapping to attention, but he simply stood there, looking from Sihoud to his first officer al-Kunis, to the second survivor, Rakish Ahmed.

  EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN

  USS AUGUSTA

  The door opened slowly, the hinges groaning as it came open. The light from the passageway was bright enough to make the eyes ache even under sleep-swollen lids.

  “Captain, sir? Noon meal is being served, sir. The officer of the deck thought you might want to go down to the wardroom.”

  Commander Ron Daminski tossed aside the sweaty sheet and sat up in his narrow rack. The room seemed to swim around him. The chronometer showed it to be 1125 hours Greenwich mean time. As he ran his blunt fingers through his hair he tried to remember when he’d fallen asleep. Ten hours before. He should have felt refreshed, recharged, but instead felt heavy and tired and old. He squinted up at the mess cook.

  “Tell the officers to go ahead without me.” Daminski knew he was breaking with tradition, but somehow it seemed dishonest for him to be joking and talking with the officers at a meal and then reprimanding them for their inattention to duty a half-hour later. For his entire tour aboard, he had rarely eaten in the wardroom although protocol still demanded that he be invited, in case he changed his mind.

  He knew inattendance at the meals was taken as a sign of aloofness, perhaps of arrogance, by the junior officers, but that was his style and he was unable and unwilling to change.

  “Aye, sir. Would you like me to bring your meal up here for you?”

  Daminski yawned, wondering if he looked as bad as he felt. What would Myra think of how he looked, he wondered.

  God, Myra’s letter — where was it? He found it on the scrunched bedclothes and tucked it into the waistband of his gray boxers.

  “Huh? Oh, no. I’m not hungry. Seaman March.” Just go away, he thought. Let an old man wake up.

  The door shut slowly. Daminski stood, his knees popping.

  At the thought that a shower would help him wake up, he tossed the boxers in the laundry bag and stepped into the cramped head between his stateroom and the XO’s. There was a small stall, a phone-booth-sized shower and a tiny sink. The whole affair was covered with sheet stainless steel except for the deck. Daminski walked into the shining shower and turned the water on full cold, convulsing as the spray hit him. He turned it back off and lathered up without water— — there were no running water showers on Daminski’s ship, not when each drop had to be distilled from seawater and most of it made for the reactor and steam plants, not for hotel usage. Once soapy, he turned on the water again, mixing in the hot, and rinsed off, the force of the water a vigorous massage. He cut the water, now feeling cold in the steel vertical coffin. He wiped the walls down with a squeegee and toweled off.

  In the mirror above the sink was the pale sun-deprived face of a man too far past his prime, the wrinkles now deep in his forehead, a forehead that gained more real estate each year as the hair vanished. His graying hair was too long, almost shaggy. He dried it and brushed it straight back. He considered growing his beard back; in the three weeks left in the patrol he could have a well-filled-in beard that would mask his chin’s growing jowls. He shook his head. Captains should be clean shaven, he’d always maintained. He dragged the razor across his face, brushed his teeth with the baking soda in the tube. Back in his stateroom he put on fresh boxers and T-shirt and a new poopysuit, a black coverall with American flag patches sewn on the shoulders, his name over the left pocket, an embroidered gold dolphin emblem above his name. Then his black Reeboks and he was ready for an other day at sea.

  But he’d been wrong that he’d be cheered up by the shower, he thought as he unz
ipped the poopysuit and slid Myra’s letter against the skin of his chest. The heaviness was still with him, just cleaned of its surface scum but as solid and substantial as ever. There was always one man who could cheer him up — —Terry Betts, the torpedoman chief.

  Betts should have finished lunch by then. Daminski left his stateroom and padded down the steps to the torpedo room two levels below, down in the belly of the forward compartment.

  He walked into the aft end of The Room— — the crew’s name for the space that was cavernous and open when empty of torpedoes and cramped and tight when the ship was loaded out. On this run, Augusta was carrying a full load.

  Daminski walked down the narrow aisle between the weapon racks, running his crooked fingers along the flanks of a Mark 50 torpedo. The weapon was cool and shining in the bright lights of the room, her Astroturf green paint gleaming. Stencilled black letters near the tip read mk 50 mod alpha warshot ser 1178. Back over his shoulder Daminski could hear the sound of a man grunting with exertion as he lifted weights. The torpedo room was one of few spaces available for exercise, though the crew spent much of their spare time in their coffin-sized racks sleeping away the patrol. The more they slept, the shorter the run would seem.

  Senior Chief Terry Betts sat on a cushioned bench at the forward bulkhead of the room at the torpedo local-control console. A two-liter bottle of Classic Coke was set in a special holder on the console; Betts sipped the soda from an Augusta coffee mug. He was a huge bear of a man, his gut protruding almost half the way to his knees. His thick fore arms stuck out of the rolled-up sleeves of his poopysuit, a custom-tailored one made to hold his tremendous frame.

  Daminski smiled as he approached the grizzled chief.