Flight of the Condor Page 8
Their crossing of the Kaiwi Channel was a rough one, for the Pelican’s throttles were kept wide open.
During this time, Blackmore’s nervousness was given an additional measure of misery as he succumbed to a full-fledged case of sea-sickness. Nauseous and dizzy, he pointed his “muzzle to the wind,” and all too soon had his stomach empty.
By the time he viewed the island of Oahu passing before him, Blackmore’s plight had eased considerably.
Not only had they reached calmer waters, but Louis Marvin had arrived at his side to console him.
As before, the skinny ensign displayed the remarkable ability to be able to determine precisely what was on Blackmore’s mind. A veteran of dozens of DSRV submergences, Marvin shrugged off the lieutenant’s relative inexperience. The commander would have not ordered the newcomer along as copilot unless he was absolutely certain that he could do the job. If anything else, Blackmore should be taking this invitation as a compliment. The lives of over 100 men were at stake and Will Pierce would never think of needlessly jeopardizing them. As long as Blackmore remembered the locations of the systems he was responsible for, and followed his instructions precisely, he would do just fine.
After reminding the Lieutenant that he would always be close by should he need assistance, Marvin recommended that they both go below deck. A shower, meal, and a nap would have Blackmore feeling like himself again. Because the day would prove to be a long one, he would be thankful for this rest later on. And there was even plenty of time for him to study the Marlin’s operational manual, should the desire arise. The Pelican’s flat bow was already biting into the waters of the Kauai Channel when the two junior officers disappeared into the tender’s interior.
Four and a half hours later, the mad grind of the Pelican’s diesel engines decreased markedly. Most aware of the new waters that they were entering, Commander Pierce studied the horizon. To their bow’s starboard side lay the cloud-enshrouded southern coastline of Kauai. Less than a half-dozen nautical miles to the north were the coordinates relayed to them from Barking Sands. The sun was already sinking to the west when he ordered his men topside.
A stiff easterly wind had stirred the waters of the Kaulakahi Channel with a moderate swell as the Pelican dropped its anchor. With an ease tempered by hundreds of hours of endless practice, the crew prepared the Marlin to descend.
The operation would be a relatively basic one. If the location of the downed sub indeed proved accurate, the Marlin merely needed to take on additional ballast and dive to the sea floor. There they would mate with the Providence and begin removing its crewmen, twenty-four at a time. The Marlin would then locate and mate with the Sturgeon-class vessel that had followed them up from Maui. The submarines would be discharged and the operation would again be repeated. A total of five trips would be needed to transfer the entire crew.
Even if this complicated process went smoothly, they would be forced to work well into the late hours of the night. Thus Pierce desired to get things under way with all possible haste. After making his final contact with the captain of the Sea Devil from the Pelican’s bridge, the grayhaired commander pulled on his overalls and made his way to the tender’s stern.
Last-minute instructions were passed to the support staff, and Pierce followed his two junior officers into the Marlin’s topside hatch.
Lance Blackmore was the first one inside. There it was cool, damp, and dark. Following the steel stairway down into the central pressure capsule, he entered a cramped world far removed from that topside.
The equipment-cluttered sphere in which he presently stood would be where the Providence’s crew was to be placed. Behind this sphere, in the Marlin’s stern, were the vessel’s main propulsion and hydraulic units.
It was in the opposite direction that he was drawn.
Contorting his solid six-foot figure so that he could fit through the narrow hatchway, Blackmore entered the command module feet first. Careful not to hit any of the dozens of valves and switches that surrounded him, he slid into the chair placed to the right. Barely twenty seconds later. Pierce slid into the chair next to him. With a minimum of conversation, the two began the task of bringing the Marlin to life.
Once the mercury-filled ballast tanks were trimmed and the hydraulics system checked, Pierce triggered the battery-driven motor. A slight whirl sounded behind them as the Marlin’s single screw began biting into the surrounding water. Blackmore was busy readying the communications gear when he noticed the angle of the DSRV’s bow begin to dip downward.
Even though it was pleasantly chilly inside the module, a thick band of sweat formed on his forehead. His heartbeat quickened when the angle of descent steepened further.
The familiar voice of Louis Marvin temporarily broke the tense atmosphere.
“Well, we’re off to the races. Pressure looks good in the main capsule, Skipper.
All other systems continue to be right on.”
“Good show, Ensign,” replied Pierce matter-of factly
“Are we all set for guests back there?”
“That we are. Skipper,” returned Marvin with a thumbs-up sign.
“Then let’s see about telephoning our guests to see if they can make the party,” continued Pierce, whose hands were gripped tightly around the steering column.
“Lieutenant Blackmore, you may do the honors.”
Spurred by this request, the lieutenant nervously picked up the underwater telephone unit. After turning up the volume gain, he spoke into the transmitter of what appeared to be a normal, everyday telephone handset.
“U.S.S. Providence, this is the Marlin. Do you copy us, over?”
Blackmore repeated this message before flipping the receiver switch. When a response failed to materialize, he again repeated the message. This time, the quick hand of Ensign Marvin reached in beside him and triggered the transmit button. Because Blackmore had failed to depress this switch, his initial message had gone no further than the command module. This time, with his coworker’s help, a garbled response soon flowed through the telephone’s speaker.
“DSRV Marlin, this is the Providence. We read you loud and clear. What took you so long?”
Grinning at this response, Pierce took the transmitter and answered, “Better late than never, Providence.
Are you guys ready to get the party started?”
This time the signal from the disabled sub was substantially clearer.
“That’s affirmative, Marlin.
The line is already forming at the stern escape hatch, and we’re ready to start the dance whenever you are.”
“Well, hang in there just a little bit longer. Providence.
The band is coming on down.”
With this. Pierce handed the receiver back to the lieutenant, who secured it in its cradle. A check of the depth counter found them already passing the 100foot level. As the gauge continued spinning, Blackmore looked out of the column-mounted viewing port and took in a black wall of sea water, barely penetrated by their hull-mounted spotlights. How they ever hoped to spot another vessel in this muck was beyond his wildest imagination.
As if again reading his mind, Ensign Marvin offered his own observation.
“I sure hope Barking Sands gave us an accurate set of coordinates. Otherwise, this could be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
Before this comment could be returned, the Marlin was suddenly tossed on its side by a powerful current of water. Thrown backward by this concussion, Marvin tumbled from his precarious perch into the rear pressure capsule. Fortunately, both Pierce and Blackmore were held fast to their command chairs by their safety harnesses. A sickening heaviness formed in the lieutenant’s gut upon realizing that their angle of descent had drastically increased. His heartbeat quickened, the sweat rolling off his forehead, as he watched the commander struggle to regain control of the Marlin. All of this took on an entirely different perspective when the lights unexpectedly flickered and then failed altogether.
�
��Lieutenant, hit that circuit breaker!” ordered the stern voice of Pierce.
Struggling to control his panic, Blackmore knew this directive was aimed at him, yet his ponderously heavy right hand failed to move. He knew right where the breaker was located. Why couldn’t he trigger it?
The Marlin rolled hard to the right and their diving angle became even steeper. The pitch blackness that prevailed gave Lance the distinct impression that he was in a nightmare. His heart was practically pounding out of his chest when Pierce’s voice again sounded.
“For God’s sake, Lieutenant, hit that breaker!”
Summoning his every last ounce of self-control, Blackmore managed to release the iron-like grip his right hand had on his thigh. Trembling and icy cold, he fought to raise it overhead and reverse the overloaded circuit. An eternity seemed to pass, until his index finger finally found the breaker and pushed it forward. Instantaneously, the lights flickered on in response.
It took several seconds for Blackmore’s eyes to adjust to the alien brightness. When they did focus, he caught sight of Pierce, coolly sitting at the pilot’s station in complete control. Even without the benefit of light, the commander had managed to safely guide the Marlin out of the swift current. He had even been able to regain control of their angle of descent. Blackmore had just noticed that they were 500 feet below the water’s surface now when Pierce spoke again.
“Ensign Marvin, are you still with us?”
Several anxious seconds passed before a shaken voice sounded out from behind them.
“You didn’t lose me that easily, Skipper. What in the hell hit us?”
“Just a little underwater current,” returned Pierce.
“They can run something fierce in these channels.
Let’s just hope that’s the last we’ve seen of it. Shall we get on with active and see what we’ve got down there? Lieutenant Blackmore, begin that sonar search.”
Though his hand still trembled, Blackmore managed to get it to do the commander’s bidding. The sonar was activated and, as a result, a wavering pulse of intense sound energy surged from their bow. With hated breath, he awaited the characteristic metallic ping of a return that would indicate another solid object was close by.
By this time, the lieutenant’s heartbeat had calmed itself considerably. No longer did sweat pour from his forehead. Certain that Pierce had seen his panic, Blackmore wondered if this dive would be his last.
Even with this somber thought in mind, a greater priority took center stage. Somewhere down below them in the icy blackness over 100 of his fellow seamen depended upon him to save their lives. No matter what it took, he would not let them down.
And from the seat to Lieutenant Blackmore’s immediate left, the Marlin’s pilot deftly operated the DSRV’s controls. Still shaken by the sudden underwater current that had almost taken them to their graves, he too contemplated the goal that was guiding them downward. A quick glance to his right showed that the young lieutenant seemed in much better emotional control. Just before the lights had failed, he could have sworn that Blackmore was close to a full-fledged panic attack. Though to lose control in such a situation could have disastrous implications for all of them. Pierce had to give the kid another chance. He would never forget his first dive in a DSRV, when the vessel had inexplicably lost total hydraulic pressure. Spiraling into the ocean’s depths, Pierce had not only frozen up in fear, he had wet his pants as well. Saved by the masterly expertise of the pilot, who had passed to him his present command, Will had lived to dive once again. Of course, he had sworn to himself that he never would panic again.
This had been a promise that he had somehow managed to keep through the years.
As to the emotional strength of the young officer who sat beside him, only time would tell. The lad certainly seemed bright enough. His grades in school were excellent, yet he was a bit too overly sensitive.
Perhaps if he’d learn to relax more and have a good time, this sensitivity would dissipate. Only then could he develop the right attitude for command.
Pierce ‘a ponderings were broken by the metallic ping of a solid sonar return. It was soon evident that this return belonged to none other than the U.S.S.
Providence. As the Marlin passed a depth of 820 feet, the position of the 688’s stern was determined. With the delicacy of a surgeon, Will Pierce then began the delicate task of linking the DSRV’s transfer skirt with the downed sub’s rescue hatch.
* * *
It was the sensitive transducer of a hydrophone that first relayed to the technicians at Barking Sands proof that the DSRV had mated with the Providence. A scratchy, scraping noise emanated from the deep as the Marlin’s transfer skirt attached itself onto the sub’s emergency trunk. Seconds later, the characteristic sucking whoosh of equalizing pressure was followed by the distant sounds of the submariners themselves as they began their short climb to safety.
The receipt of this signal caused a shout of relieved joy to spread throughout the engineering station.
Patting each other on the backs like new fathers, the white-smocked scientists celebrated for a full minute before returning to their consoles.
A bare sigh of relief passed Dr. Richard Fuller’s lips. If all continued well, the Marlin could have the Providence completely evacuated by midnight. Only then could he totally relax.
Of course, their real work would come in the days that followed. Hopefully, a repair team could be sent down to somehow patch up the hydraulic damage and get the Providence topside. Then they could better initiate the comprehensive examination that would be needed to find out just what had caused the explosion in the first place.
Though Richard had his own ideas as to what caused the cruise missile to blow up as it had, the way things looked he would not be an immediate part of the Nose investigation. Less than a quarter of an hour ago, a sealed envelope had arrived that was to drastically change the direction of his thoughts.
The orders were from the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. Fuller had met Admiral Carrington during a Submarine League symposium only the previous year, yet he had never dreamed of hearing from the white-haired senior officer officially again.
The directive was tersely written. Addressed to his eyes only, the orders instructed Fuller to join the crew of the Marlin immediately after the transfer of the Providence’s complement had been completed. At that time they were to proceed to the airfield at Barking Sands, where a C-5A transport plane would be waiting to fly them to Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. There they were to assist the base commander in coordinating the salvage of a Titan 34D rocket that had failed over the Pacific earlier that same morning.
Confused by these instructions, Fuller had to read them several more times before they finally sank in.
He had been exclusively involved with the submarine borne vertical-launch missile system for over a year now. Why they would want to abruptly change the direction of his study now was beyond him. The only thing that he could think of was that something awfully important must have been on top of that Titan when it went down. And now the military was desperately depending upon them to get it back.
He had worked with the Air Force on a single past occasion. As it turned out, this had also been the last time he had worked with a DSRV. The incident had involved the crash of one of the Air Force’s most sophisticated jet fighters. The F-15 Eagle had gone down in the ocean off the coast of southern California, near the beach town of Carlsbad. It must have been packed with top-secret hardware, for no sooner had the aircraft settled into the sand of the continental shelf than the orders asking for his assistance had arrived at Nose headquarters in San Diego. An hour later, he had been on his way to the crash site by helicopter.
It had apparently been his expertise in the field of ocean currents and seafloor topography that had attracted the Air Force to him in the first place. The F-15 had been subsequently recovered, and Fuller had soon been back in San Diego resuming his work in advanced naval weaponry.
But now the orders from the CNO would once again abruptly divert him. Somewhat disappointed that he wouldn’t be present to examine the initial evidence regarding the failure of the Tomahawk launch, Fuller knew that he was powerless to express his displeasure. His country needed his expertise elsewhere. As in the past, he would not let it down.
Even as his eyes strayed to the lucite chart of the channel of water between the islands of Kauai and Niihau, his mind was already searching for any information that he might have picked up regarding the ocean off Vandenberg. Most aware that those waters sported dangerous reefs and treacherous currents, he knew that he would need the special bathymetric chart book that sat in his library back in San Diego. He was already visualizing the main currents influencing central California’s coastline when word arrived that the first load of the Providence’s crew had safely made it back to the Sea Devil.
Chapter Five
General Vadim Sobolev’s day had started off splendidly. Not only was the Central Asian weather perfect, but the news from Moscow was equally as agreeable. In fact, at this very moment, the Premier’s personal aide, Valentin Radchenko, was already flying down from the capital to meet with him privately.
This was quite an accomplishment for Vadim, considering he had only asked for this audience late the previous afternoon. To properly prepare for this allimportant meeting of minds, he decided to awaken himself thoroughly with a long, brisk walk.
Though he had been brought up in the thick pine forests of northern Russia, the sixty-eight tear-old general was finally getting used to the rather bare plains of Turkestan. He supposed that, after two decades of service there, this had better be the case.