The Silent Sea (2010) - Cussler Clive - Страница 61
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Who's going to win the race? Cabrillo asked.
Their fish is inside ours by a hundred and fifty yards and coming at us four knots faster. It'll hit us a full minute before ours hits him.
Juan considered and rejected option after option. There simply wasn't enough time to maneuver away, and the seas were too rough for the Oregon's unparalleled speed to be a factor.
Wepps, sound the collision alarm. Eric, I'm transferring helm to my station.
Over the electronic warble of the alarm came another mechanical sound.
Max, who knew the ship better than anyone, was the first to realize that Juan had opened the big moon-pool doors. He quickly grasped what the Chairman intended. Are you out of your mind?
Got a better idea? So long as that torpedo uses a contact fuse rather than a proximity signal, there's a chance we can pull it off.
And if he does detonate just under the keel?
Having the doors open or closed won't change a thing. Cabrillo turned to Linda. You're my eyes. Guide me into position.
What do you want me to do? She still didn't understand.
Thread the needle with that torpedo. I want it to come up directly below the moon pool. With a little, no, with a lot of luck, that thing will fly clear when it broaches. That should snap its guy wires. After that, it's nothing but a big paperweight.
You are nuts, she said, and looked at Max. He is.
Yes, but it actually might work.
She returned to her display. Depth is still three hundred. Range, one thousand yards.
The torpedo maintained its track, staying deep as it raced for the Oregon. Because of the guy wires running back to their sub, the Chinese couldn't take evasive maneuvers against the two torpedoes tracking them. Juan had to hand it to the Chinese captain. If the roles were reversed, he would have gotten out of there as soon as he heard he was under attack.
Range, four hundred yards. Depth, unchanged. Time to impact, about forty seconds.
The Chinese commander wouldn't alter the torpedo's depth until it was directly under the ship, and then he would send it straight up on its killing charge.
Range, one hundred yards. Depth, unchanged. Juan, it's about twenty feet to starboard of our center line.
Cabrillo kicked on the thrusters to push the Oregon laterally through the water. With the sea heaving so much, it was going to take more than the lot of luck he'd mentioned. It was like threading a needle, only the hand holding the needle was wracked with tremors.
That's good. Okay, she's coming up. Depth, two-fifty. Range, twenty yards.
The sonar dome on the underside of the hull was thirty feet back from the bow. Cabrillo had to keep that in mind. The torpedo was twenty yards from the sonar but ten from his ship. The moon pool was directly amidships of the five-hundred-and-sixty-foot freighter.
Depth, one-eighty feet. Horizontal range from the bow is five yards. A second later, she amended, and said, Depth, one-fifty. Range, three yards.
Juan ran the vectors in his head, calculating the torpedo's glide slope as it arrowed in on them, his ship's speed and position, and how the waves were affecting her. He had one shot or they were all going to die. There was no margin for error. And there was no hesitation. He slammed on full power for less than two seconds and then threw the impellers into reverse. The ship lurched forward, shouldered aside a big breaking wave, and slowed once again.
Depth, fifty feet. Range is zero.
Eric keyed on a fish-eye camera attached high up on a bulkhead, overlooking the moon pool. Water surged from the hole in the ship in black glossy mounds that spilled over onto the grated floor and sank to the bilge.
Depth zero, Linda said in an emotionless monotone.
Like Leviathan rising from the deep, the bulbous nose of the Chinese torpedo exploded out of the moon pool. Meeting no resistance, its motor thrust the weapon fully out of the water. Its quick last-second acceleration was enough to snap the two guy wires trailing miles back to the sub. It crashed back into the water, ringing like a bell when it hit the edge of the pool. And then it sank from sight. With no control inputs coming from the mother ship, the onboard computer shut the weapon down.
A victorious roar filled the op center and echoed throughout the ship, where other crew members had been watching video monitors. Max slapped Cabrillo on the back hard enough to leave a red handprint. Tamara hugged Juan briefly, and then Max much longer.
Cabrillo made to leave the room. Chairman, Linda called to stop him. What about the sub? Our torpedoes hit in forty-five seconds.
I'll be in the head if they need me.
He was in the restroom, sighing contentedly, when another cheer went up. The fish had done their job, and the route to Antarctica, and the end of this affair, was open.
The Silent Sea
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
A LIGHT TOUCH ON THE SHOULDER WOKE JORGE ESPINOZA. Like any good soldier, he was awake instantly. His aide, Corporal deRosas, stood over him, holding a mug of what he hoped was coffee.
Sorry to wake you, sir, but a large ship has appeared at the mouth of the bay.
A warship?
No, sir, a freighter. It's beached.
Espinoza threw off the thick sheaf of blankets and regretted it immediately. Though the overseer, Luis Laretta, had boasted that fuel wasn't a problem for the facility, the air in the building they used as a billet had a perpetual chill that seeped into everything. Espinoza pulled on two pairs of long johns before donning fatigue pants. On his feet went three pairs of socks.
Has anyone aboard tried to make contact?
The aide opened the metal blinds to let in what passed for sunlight in this godforsaken deep freeze. The room was barely big enough for the bed and a dresser. Its walls were painted plywood. The single window overlooked the back of another building just three feet away. No, sir. The ship appears abandoned. One of its life rafts is missing from the davits, and, judging by how beat-up it is, it looks like it was deserted some time ago. Sergeant Lugones scoped it with a thermal sight. Nothing. The ship's stone-cold.
Espinoza took a swig of the strong coffee. It didn't go well with the film in his mouth, and he made a face. What time is it?
Nine A.M.
Three hours of sleep. He'd survived on less. He and Jimenez and a couple of Sergeants had been out most of the night, scouting the hills behind the base for ambush sites. The fractured terrain was a natural fortification, with hundreds of places to position fire teams. The only problem was keeping them warm. Today was going to be dedicated to seeing how long the men could stay in position and still maintain combat efficiencies. The Sergeants guessed four hours. His estimation was closer to three.
He finished dressing and downed the rest of the coffee. His stomach rumbled, but he decided to investigate the mystery ship before breakfast. Wake Lieutenant Jimenez.
It took just fifteen minutes in one of the workboats to cross the bay. The effect of the warm air bubbler was amazing. Not only was the bay ice-free, the air directly over it was a warm fifty degrees, while at the base it had been a bone-chilling ten below. Beyond the bay, a crust of ice rose and fell with the waves as the first inkling of summer tried to melt it away. There was a clear path out to the open ocean, where an icebreaker continuously plied back and forth to maintain a vital link back home.
The workboat passed close enough to one of the oil platforms to see that its camouflage was thin sheets of riveted metal designed to make it look like an iceberg. From fifty yards away, the only way to know it wasn't the real thing was the massive steel support columns that peeked out from under its white skirt.
At the narrow entrance of the bay, they passed over an area of agitated water. This was the curtain of warm air rising up from the pipes that prevented ice from flowing into the harbor. For the few seconds it took to cross, Espinoza was warm for the first time since arriving in Antarctica.
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