By Dawn's Early Light (22 page)

0427 LOCAL
SEAWOLF

The
Seawolf
hovered at sixty feet.

On the periscope platform Dillon waited for word from sonar that they were in the clear before raising the small attack scope for another snapshot of what was happening on the surface.

Sierra five and nine, both fast patrol boats, were excellent ASW platforms. They carried the British Mk 24 Tigerfish Mod 2 antisub torpedoes. So far they had come the nearest in the past forty minutes. Twice Ski had thought the
Seawolf
had been detected, but each time the Pakistani warships had turned away at the last possible moment.

The Tigerfish was loaded with only two hundred pounds of high explosives with a maximum top speed of only thirty-five knots. But she was one of the stealthiest torpedoes in anybody's arsenal. Once she was in the water and running, she was extremely hard to detect and therefore avoid.

“Conn, sonar. We're in the clear, skipper,” Zimenski reported.

Dillon glanced at the multifunction display as he raised the Type 3 attack periscope. They were in 175 feet of water under two thousand yards from the beach. The much larger search scope would have given him a better picture, but its radar signature was huge compared to the Type 3.

He did not want to get caught this close to shore. They had absolutely no maneuvering room. If they were detected here they would have a rough time of it. But so were the SEALs having a bad time of it topsides. The nearer to the shore the
Seawolf
could be positioned, the easier it would make the recovery operation.

He stopped the scope's rise when the head was only three feet above the surface. The control room was lit red for action stations, surface, to help preserve their night vision.

“Conn, sonar. Skipper, I'm picking up faint underwater noises less than fifty yards out, bearing three-four-niner. Nonmechanical. Could be our swimmers.”

There was a lot of activity on the beach, but nothing in the water yet.

Dillon lowered the attack scope and raised the Type 20 search scope so that its head was still five feet beneath the surface. He dialed in the low-light feature and looked through the eyepieces.

At first he could make out little more than the dark gray of the water, but then he spotted what looked like a slow-moving shark. He increased the magnification, and suddenly he was seeing three, perhaps four, human figures heading in their general direction.

It was their SEAL team.

He sent three red flashes, followed by one, and then three more.

The figures immediately angled directly toward the
Seawolf
's fairweather.

Dillon looked up at his XO. “Take the medic and four men aft to the escape trunk, Jackson and his people will be knocking on our door momentarily.”

“All right,” Bateman said, and he left the control room.

“Conn, sonar. They've got us,” Zimenski reported. He was excited.

“I need a few minutes, Ski. Our SEALs are on the back porch.”

“We're not going to have much leeway, skipper. Sierra nine has us for sure. She turned inboard a half-minute ago, and sierra three and five are doing the same. Sierra nine is now at three-five-zero-zero yards, bearing one-seven-eight degrees at twenty-seven knots.”

“Are we clear either to port or starboard?”

“Negative, the other two are bracketing sierra nine.”

Dillon worked out the scenario in his head. Because of her jet drive
Seawolf
turned equally well either left or right. But coming in, he'd studied the chart. To starboard the water got deeper much quicker than to port.

“Which one is starboard of nine?”

“Sierra five.”

“Okay, stand by, Ski,” Dillon said. He glanced through the scope. The swimmers were below his angle of view. “Marc, I want you to target sierra nine and five,” he told his weapons control officer.

“Aye, skipper,” Jablonski replied crisply. He was in his element now.

“Chief of Boat, prepare to come to all-ahead flank with a sharp turn to starboard. New course one-eight-zero.”

“Aye, skipper,” Young repeated the order.

“Teflon, I want a best possible course out of here, considering the elimination of sierra nine and five. I want to hug the bottom all the way until we reach fifteen hundred feet.”

“Roger that, Cap'n,” Alvarez said. “I concur with an initial course of one-eight-zero.”

Dillon got on the growler. “Charlie, how's it coming back there? We've got company.”

“The outer hatch is open,” Bateman reported.

“Tell me the minute they're aboard and the hatch is secured,” Dillon ordered.

“Aye, Cap'n.”

“I have a weapons solution on both targets. The A cables are connected, both weapons are warm.”

“Firing point procedures,” Dillon ordered.

All the relevant data was loaded into the Mark 48 ADCAPs memory systems, the torpedoes were targeted, the tubes were ready in all respects, and they could be launched at any time on the captain's order.

“Sierra nine's speed and bearing are unchanged. Range, two-eight-zero-zero yards,” Zimenski reported.

“Conn, this is Bateman. They're aboard, the outer hatch is sealed.”

“Hang on, Charlie,” Dillon warned. He turned to his crew. “Fire one, fire two.”

It was an act of war against a sovereign nation. A sovereign
nuclear
nation. Supposedly an ally.

“Acknowledge,” Jablonski responded without hesitation. “Tube one is fired. Tube two is fired.”

“Master Chief, get us out of here now,” Dillon said.

“Both fish have cleared the outer doors and are running hot and true,” Jablonski reported.

“Cut the wires,” Dillon said.

Under normal circumstances each torpedo would stay connected to the submarine via a thin, tough data wire. Guidance data could be sent back and forth to the weapon while it was en route to its target.

If the wire had to be cut because the submarine had to make a rapid change in position, the torpedoes automatically switched to internal guidance and targeting systems that at this range couldn't miss.

The
Seawolf
suddenly dug her right shoulder into the sea, her decks canted sharply down and to starboard, and she accelerated like a shell fired from a cannon. Everyone not strapped into a seat or bunk reached out for something to hold on to.

“Conn, sonar. Skipper, sierra nine and five are turning port and starboard. They know that they are under attack.”

“How about the other surface targets?”

“They're starting to scatter now, Cap'n. I don't think that they counted on us shooting. It's got to be a mess up there—” Zimenski cut it off. “Stand by. We have one, no, two contacts in the water. Inbound now at twenty-eight knots and accelerating. Bearing one-seven-eight.” Jablonski paused for a moment. “The sounds are very faint, but contacts are evaluated as torpedoes. Mark twenty-fours.”

Since
Seawolf
was accelerating away from the shore, away from shallow water, they were leaving behind a lot of disturbed water because of echo bounce off the bottom. “Release a bubble maker now,” Dillon ordered.

The torpedo-confusing device, which looked like a long, thin artillery shell without a pointed end, was ejected from the three-inch signal launcher forward from what was actually the boat's pharmacy.

“Recommend that we stop our turn on a new course of one-zero-zero degrees,” Alvarez suggested.

It would maneuver
Seawolf
into presenting her starboard flank to the incoming torpedoes, but it would leave most of the disturbed water and the bubbles from the decoy well aft.

“Make it so,” Dillon ordered.

Seawolf
immediately slowed her rate of turn, stopping precisely on the new course while still accelerating like a scalded cat, and diving to follow the bottom contour.

They all heard the distant explosion as the first Mark 48 found sierra nine. No one said anything. Seconds later they heard the second explosion as sierra five was struck.

“That'll get their attention,” Jablonski said dryly.

“Talk to me, Ski,” Dillon said.

“Both fish are going for the bait.”

“Any other threats in the water?”

“Negative, Cap'n. We're clear on one-eight-zero now.”

Dillon glanced over at Alvarez who was working out the angles and speeds in his head. “Recommend we remain on course for five seconds longer, then turn to new course one-seven-five.”

“Very well,” Dillon concurred. He keyed the growler phone. “Sonar, conn. What's happening with sierra nine and five?”

“Both are good hits, Cap'n,” Zimenski came back. He was pleased. “Both targets are dead in the water. Sierra nine is sinking rapidly. I'm hearing hull compression and bulkhead failure noises. Sierra five is flooding, but not as fast.”

“Does five constitute a further threat?”

“Negative, skipper,” Zimenski said.

“Keep a sharp eye, Ski. We're on our way out, I don't want someone coming after us without me knowing about it.”

“Suggest we deploy the 'twenty-nine.”

The TB29 was a passive tactical sonar system that was towed behind the
Seawolf
. It was very sensitive, especially to long-range targets and to threats coming from their rear.

“Do it,” Dillon ordered.

“Skipper, they're heading every which way
except
toward us,” Zimenski said. “They're born-again believers.”

DAWN
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER

“T-minus ten seconds,” the voice of KSC blared almost everywhere throughout the space launch complex.

For Thoreau it was the same each time he got to this point in a countdown. There was very little for anyone aboard to do in the last few seconds except pray. And that he did. Silently to himself, thinking about the
Columbia
accident.

“T-minus nine seconds…”

As mission commander, Thoreau rode the right seat, while Susan Wright, the STS 140 pilot, rode left. Wirtanen, Conners, and Ellis rode in the seats behind them; at this moment actually below them.

“T-minus eight seconds…”

Thoreau glanced across at Susan and grinned. She gave him the thumbs-up, but he could see that she was just as unsettled as he was. It had taken eighteen months for the shuttle fleet to come off its post-accident grounding.

“T-minus seven seconds…”

Some missions started out as smooth as glass. Everything from conception to construction and from liftoff to touchdown went without so much as a popped circuit breaker. Others were nothing but trouble from the get-go: computer problems, mechanical and electrical problems and crew problems. It seemed never to end, so that by the time they got to this point on the launchpad everyone aboard was damned glad to finally be getting out of Dodge.

“T-minus six seconds…”

A few rare missions, though, were like this one.
Challenger
's and
Columbia
's last came to Thoreau's mind, and he shivered. STS 140 had an odd feel to it. Starting with the change in mission orders, to the president's call, to the parameters showing up on the Web, to the almost surly attitude among the crew, Thoreau had the willies.

“T-minus five seconds…”

The latest hitch was the six-day launch delay for no apparent reason. Scott Buzby, STS 140 mission director, had finally admitted that nothing was wrong with
Discovery
. The delay had been ordered from Washington.

“T-minus four seconds…”

Three times in the last three days Thoreau had almost pulled the plug and quit. But he wasn't built that way. He'd already been told that if he or any of his crew stepped down, someone would take their place. But if one dropped out,
all
of them would be replaced.

“T-minus three seconds,” the KSC announcer said. “We have ignition.”

Thoreau felt the deep-throated vibration inside his body; from the seat of his pants up into his chest cavity.

“T-minus two seconds, main engines are a go.”

Whatever was going to happen, it
was
good to get out of Dodge, Thoreau thought.

“T-minus one second…and liftoff on a mission to broaden man's knowledge of medicine in space in which another new frontier of science will be addressed on the international space station for the benefit of all mankind.”