Horvak lifted the phone on the desk and issued the orders.
“How about some breakfast?” Benson asked. “We won't be needed on the bridge for several hours.”
“Just coffee,” Ryland said. “I talked to the President.”
“How'd he sound?”
“Confused, but in control.”
Benson managed a slight grin. “That's something anyway.” He got serious. “I heard you lost some people at HQ.”
“Tony, that's the part I understand the least. I think that no matter what happens it's time for us to get out of Japan.”
“I hope it doesn't become a moot point, Al.”
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“Bridge, sonar, we have a positive contact,” the
Thorn
's chief sonar operator Ed Zwicka said. “Depth two hundred feet, bearing zero-eight-five. I have hull popping noises ⦠she's on the way up. Turning now inboard ⦠bearing changing to zero-eight-zero ⦠speed six knots.”
“Roger,” Hanrahan said. “CIC, bridge. Don, how's it look to the north?”
“The bogies are gone, but so is the Orion. Seventh advises us to stand by.”
“Is the admiral aboard the
George Washington?”
“Last word I got, he was en route.”
“Means we're on our own out here for the time being.” Hanrahan glanced over at his XO braced against the plotting board. They had a job to do, and he was going to do it. “Prepare to launch ASROC one and two on my signal.”
“Goddammit, Mike, are you sure about this?” Sattler demanded.
“Give me a firing solution, Don, or relieve yourself of duty.”
Ryder and the others on the bridge were looking at Hanrahan. The growler phone was silent. Sattler finally answered.
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Recommend we turn right to new course one-niner-zero.”
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“Kan-cho
, we have Target Motion Analysis on Zero-Nine,” the
Samisho'
s weapons control officer, Lieutenant Shuichiyo Takasaki, said.
A great serenity had come over Kiyoda. His crew could see it, and they were at ease. They understood.
“Open doors one and two.”
“Yo-so-ro
, opening doors one and two,” Minori answered.
“Check weapons visually.”
“Yo-so-ro.”
They would be firing on the way up from a depth of under thirty meters. Since the
Samisho
's mast-mounted sensors and periscopes were inoperative they would rely on the SQS-36 attack sonar for final range and bearing to target. The data would be entered automatically into the Japanese-designed GRX-2(2) torpedoes' guidance systems.
“Weapons in place and armed,” Minori reported.
“Very well. Ping once for range and bearing, and a
second time for verification, then launch. No further authority necessary,” Kiyoda said, his gut tightening despite his resolve.
The sonar went active for two pings.
“Target data entered,” Takasaki said. “Launch one. Launch two.”
The
Samisho
shuddered as the two torpedoes were launched.
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“Bridge, sonar, two torpedoes incoming,” Zwicka shouted. “GRX.”
“Give me a bearing,” Hanrahan replied.
“On our port bow, low, on the way up!”
“Helmsman, make your rudder amidships.”
“Aye, rudder amidships.”
“Ring for all ahead slow.”
The Japanese torpedo was very fast and accurate, but its warhead was small, less than one hundred fifty pounds of high explosive. With a hit on the
Thorn
's heavily plated bow they stood a good chance of surviving. The torp had one other weakness: it was guided by its own sonar.
“Launch sound-producing canisters aft,” Hanrahan ordered. “Bridge, sonar. Go active with the bow unit. Hit them with everything we've got.”
“Sonar, aye,” Zwicka responded. “Time to impact ten seconds.”
“Brace yourselves,” Hanrahan shouted. “Prepare to launch ASROC one and two on my order.”
“If we lose our bow sonar we'll be blind,” Sattler warned.
“Time to impact, seven seconds.”
“The
Barbey
and
Cook
can give us targeting data,” Hanrahan said.
“We're bow on,” Zwicka reported. “One of the torps is turning away ⦠it's definitely taking the bait! Now four seconds to impact on two.”
Hanrahan wedged himself against the radar console. The explosion hammered them, shoving their bows
fifteen feet to starboard and momentarily stopping them dead in the water
“Damage reports,” Hanrahan shouted.
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“Detonation on number two,” the
Samisho
's chief sonarman Tsutomu Nakayama reported unnecessarily. They'd all heard the explosion. “Number one is a definite miss!”
“Come right to two-seven-zero degrees,” Kiyoda ordered. “Crash dive the boat. Make your depth six hundred meters.”
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“The thermocline is at three hundred meters,
Kan-cho,”
Minori pointed out. “In our condition I do not think we can survive beyond that depth. Recommend we level off at three hundred fifty meters.”
Kiyoda walked back to sonar. “Was it a good hit?”
“On the bow,
Kan-cho,”
Nakayama said. “But I don't hear any breakup noises.”
“Are they searching for us?”
“Their sonar is silent, but Sierra-Zero-Four and -Five have us.”
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“We have target acquisition from
Barbey
,” Sattler reported. “
Cook
confirms. Skipper, she's diving fast.”
“Can we fire on their data?” Hanrahan asked.
“Aye.”
Ryder came across the bridge and pulled Hanrahan aside. “Mike, we've got a hole in our bow, and we've taken casualties. We need to break off and turn downwind, or we're in danger of sinking.”
“The sonofabitch attacked us.”
“If he shoots again we might not be so lucky!”
“We're a U.S. warship, and we will defend ourselves. That's from Seventh.”
“Goddammit ⦔
“Either you're with me or against me, X!” Hanrahan shouted angrily. “Which is it?”
Ryder backed off. “You're the boss.”
Hanrahan keyed the growler phone. “Fire ASROC one, fire ASROC two.”
The eight-tube anti-submarine rocket launcher was on the deck just forward of the bridge. The weapons launched one after the other on long trails of fire and smoke. At a pre-set distance from two thousand to eleven thousand yards out, the Mark 46 acoustic homing torpedo would detach itself from the rocket and splash down.
“Bridge, CIC. Estimate we'll lose the target in ninety seconds if she continues to dive.”
Too late, Hanrahan said to himself. They'd waited too long. “Follow it down,” he told Sattler. “Maybe we'll get lucky.”
“If we miss, he'll run,” Ryder said. “He's hurt. He won't come back against three-to-one odds.”
“Yes, he will,” Hanrahan replied. “And we'll be waiting for him.”
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“Two torpedoes in the water, eight thousand meters to starboard and fading,” Nakayama reported.
The
Samisho
was sharply down at the bow. Everyone in the conn was holding on to something for support.
“Have they found us?”
“Iie, Kan-cho.”
“We are passing beneath the thermocline,” the diving officer said.
Kiyoda looked across at Minori. “Level off at six hundred meters, then shut down all non-essential systems. Bring life support to forty percent.”
“We could make the run around Okinerabu and surface for repairs,” Minori suggested.
“No,” Kiyoda replied, and he turned and headed back to his compartment.
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The
Fair Winds
lay ahull. Stripped of sails, her tiller lashed hard to starboard, her bows were held forty-five degrees off the wind so that she slowly skidded down the waves, making a half knot to leeward.
Liskey steadied himself against the boom gallows as he scanned the horizon to the west through binoculars. He and Carol had been below to get some rest when they'd heard the explosion. They'd scrambled topside in time to see what looked like a pair of rockets taking off.
Now there was nothing but blackness to the west, although the eastern horizon was gray.
“What was it?” Carol shouted.
“I'm not sure. Maybe cruise missiles.”
“That was one of our ships. Are we fighting the Japanese?”
“Damned if I know, Carol. But it sure as hell isn't an exercise in this weather.”
Carol glanced at the apparent wind indicator. “The wind is dropping. Let's put up the trysail and storm jib and get out of here.”
“Not yet. I want to see what happens.”
“Downwind.”
“The islands are downwind,” Liskey said.
“A beam reach, then. Back to Okinawa.”
“We don't know what's out there. We're okay here for the time being.”
“Okay?” she cried.
“Easy,” Liskey said. “Whatever it was, the shooting has stopped, and we're drifting away from it. We'll be okay here, trust me.”
Carol looked into his eyes. “I do,” she said, shakily.
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It was late. John Whitman was alone in his office for the moment, watching CNN, one part of his mind tying to figure out what had gone wrong. The mistakes he'd made over the past couple of weeks were enough to fill a hard disk drive. Trouble was none of them had ever understood what they were facing. And the call from Gary Topper, the Guerin pilot, had done nothing but muddy the waters. Adkins was apparently no longer running operations at Langley, and Howard Ryan was unavailable, but Whitman left a message for him. Nothing made sense.
One of his clerks came in with a message from Dulles.
The Guerin TransStar had just touched down. Two of Whitman's people, Special Agents Mark Lusk and Don Harrington, were standing by with a half-dozen D.C. cops to take McGarvey into custody. “Even if you have to bring him in a body bag, do it,” he'd told them.
Whitman called upstairs to the assistant director's office. “They just touched down.”
“Did you call the FAA?” Wood asked.
“Yes, sir. The fleet is being grounded.”
“Call me when they get here,” Wood said.
“Will do.”
A call came in. “Mr. Whitman, this is Special Agent Newton, I'm in Hereford, Maryland. It's Mueller again. He offed a Maryland Highway Patrol cop a few miles from here.”
“Tell me you have him.”
“No, sir. Pennsylvania Highway Patrol thought it spotted him, but we just got word from New York that he's been seen north of Elmira. They're setting up roadblocks.”
“How'd he get that far?”
“Well that's the problem, Mr. Whitman. The shooting took place a little before six.”
“That was four hours ago, for Christ's sake,” Whitman swore.
“I just found out about it. Maryland H.P. wanted to handle this on their own, since it was one of their people who bought it. But I convinced them otherwise.”
Whitman patted his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He'd quit five years ago, but he still felt the urge when he was under stress. “You say New York Highway Patrol is setting up roadblocks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he got Reid and the Kilbourne woman with him?”
“Looks like it.”
“Don't try to force the issue, Newton. Make damned sure New York H.P. understands that they're dealing with a professional. You make damned sure you understand.”
“I hear you, sir. Nobody is going to take a chance.”
Whitman's other line rang. It was Special Agent Mark Lusk.
“We're just leaving the airport.”
“Any trouble?”
“McGarvey's cooperating for now.”
“What about the Japanese?” Whitman asked.