Survivalist - 19 - Final Rain (3 page)

The navy blue sundress was one of three outfits sent to her with a little note. “Sorry I have to run out on you, Annie. See you when I get back. Trust Doctor Rothstein. He’s the best.” Maybe he was, but she was scared to death. Then why had she asked to meet him as soon as possible?

She shook her head, putting down the sundress, sitting on the edge of the bed just in her slip. It was a full slip, so either Maggie Barrow had similar taste in clothing or was very perceptive. Perhaps both.

The women of Mid-Wake dressed like the women she saw in videotapes at the Retreat. Pretty dresses, high-heeled shoes, feminine looking, as if things had just become frozen in time five centuries ago when the then-few scientists and researchers and Naval and Marine personnel stationed there had been cut off from the rest of the world on the Night of the War.

Annie Rourke Rubenstein smiled. The women here probably watched the same videotape movies she had.

She stood up again.

Not the sundress. Even though it always looked more or less like daylight here, it was nighttime. She changed stockings, from the sheer ones to the black opaque ones— they held up on her thighs with elastic, just like the ones she’d seen that Natalia had-then dressed in a gray long-sleeved blouse with six covered buttons at each cuff and a collar that tied into a floppy bow. A black skirt, flared, below mid-calf length. The high-heeled shoes-black-felt somehow natural to her, although she wore such things so seldom.

Natalia.

She hurried, no jewelry to put on, telling herself that was understated elegance, arranging her hair over her shoulders but drawn back in a barrette at the crown of her head. “Knock ‘em dead,” she smiled, looking one last time at herself in the mirror.

Annie left the room, the two female Shore Patrolmen waiting just outside to escort her to her appointment. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn… .

“Mr. Tagachi, attack periscope,” Sebastian intoned, approaching the periscope array.

“Aye, Mr. Sebastian.” Seaman First Morris Tagachi sang back, working his control panel. The handles folded down, Sebastian peered through the device. “More computer enhancement, Mr. Tagachi.”

“Aye, sir.”

Lurking in the shadows beyond where he could say with any certainty that what he saw was really there, there had been movement. A school of large fish whisked suddenly upward. He could have sworn there was a black shadow and a wake.

“Down periscope, Mr. Tagachi,” Sebastian said, moving quickly across the deck, ascending the three steps, settling himself into the command chair. He activated the correct armrest control. “Computer. This is Commander Sebastian.”

There was a pause, then the familiarly annoying English butler voice came back, “Voice print identity confirmed. Proceed, Commander Sebastian.” He’d almost said ‘Lieutenant Commander,’ the orders for his promotion shoved into his hand after a ten minute debriefing with Admiral Rahn. But how did the computer know? An interesting question, but there was no time to probe for an answer.

“Analysis of Soviet progress in efforts toward achieving total sonar masking.”

“Processing.”

Sebastian’s eyes focused on the illuminated plotting board. It was out there, a fourth Island Class submarine, Jason Darkwood commanding one of them, the two already identified Soviet craft. And one more. He could feel it.

The voice came back through the armrest console speaker. “Soviet progress toward total sonar masking cannot be readily assessed. September 18, 2426, derelict Soviet sonar drag array discovered off the Aleutian Trench. Contained component elements unfamiliar when compared with previous Soviet sonar equipment. December 26, 2431, reference ‘Zheleznodorozhnyy Cypher,’ decrypted transmission between Soviet Marine Spetsnaz Headquarters and Soviet Island Class submarine Tobseda (sunk in action with United States submarine vessels Ronald Wilson Reagan and John Wayne November 11, 2439) referred to successful testing of Project Potemkin by Island Class Submarine Mikhaylova off the Yap Trench. USS George Herbert Walker Bush on routine patrol off Eauripik Atoll in the Caroline Islands detected no Island Class submarine present, although there were reports of numerous Scout Class submarines active in vicinity of the Bush. Mid-Wake Naval Scientific Research Institute Staff report submitted February 14, 2441, summary conclusion: ‘The Soviet Navy is implementing an intensive research and development program toward the goal of perfecting sonar invisible undersea craft which will be capable of evading conventional sensing devices employed and currently under development by United States Naval forces for the purposes of detecting and interdicting enemy activity.’ Summary ends.”

“Thank you, Computer. Request satisfied,” Sebastian said sonorously. “Navigator.”

“Aye, sir!” Lieutenant Junior Grade Lureen Bowman answered, turning toward him.

“Alter the already laid-in evasive action course to include a third enemy vessel, approximately six hundred yards off the portside bow and proceeding toward interception of the Arkhangelsk.”

“Three, Mr. Sebastian?”

“Your aural acuity has not failed you, Navigator. We see two vessels, but there are, in fact, three.”

He was gambling, not something he was wont to do. But if he were going to gamble, he would indulge in the time-honored tradition of hedging his bet.

“Lieutenant Walenski,” Sebastian began, his weapons officer turning toward him to respond. But he didn’t wait for her response. “Confirm status on all torpedo tubes as well as port and starboard cluster charges.” He dismissed his words as accomplished until she told him otherwise. “Engineering.”

“Aye, Mr. Sebastian.”

“Mr. Hartnett. Satisfy me that port and starboard reactors are ready for full power into maximum. Prepare for overdrive on demand.”

“Aye, Mr. Sebastian,” Hartnett nodded, pushing his splayed fingers back through his thick, dark hair.

Jason might, indeed, attempt the maneuver his father had accomplished so successfully some forty years before during the almost legendary battle of Miner’s Reef, and which Jason himself had updated only a short while ago in the battle which had succeeded in accomplishing the rescue of Captain Aldridge and the other prisoners escaping the Soviet underwater complex, among these Doctor John Thomas Rourke. What had worked against Admiral Suvorov and later against a hastily assembled pursuit wolf-pack might not work in a well laid trap. And, if Jason Darkwood, aboard the Arkhangelsk, were unaware of the significant likelihood that a third submarine waited for him, he would either sail right into its torpedoes or, perhaps worse, collide with it while the Arkhangelsk’s engines were reaching overdrive status. Jason had never attempted the maneuver with a craft so much bulkier and more sluggish in response. The Island Classers were not so fast to the helm as their American counterparts. How could Jason Darkwood calculate for the difference in such a maneuver?

Sebastian shook his head, realizing that he was second guessing his captain’s abilities on the assumption that, without his —Sebastian’s—counsel they might somehow be lacking. He was ashamed of the thought, despite its sincere motivations.

“Commander, torpedo tubes fore and aft are fully armed with HEIS. Cluster charges armed.”

‘Thank you, Lieutenant.” There was no need to tell Louise Walenski to be ready for battle. She lived for it, Sebastian sometimes thought.

He, on the other hand, did not. Battle was an unfortunate consequence of his profession. That human beings had no recourse but to hunt one another like wild creatures of the sea was inexcusable, insane. To be a party to the insanity was necessary to the survival of his country.

Sebastian’s eyes moved to the plotting board. He could see the Arkhangelsk, just about to be cut off from retreat.

His fists balled over the armrests of his borrowed chair. He wished Jason Darkwood sat in it now.

“Communications. Broadcast to the Arkhangelsk in the most recent code we’re certain our adversaries have definitely broken, that the United States Submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan is coming to her aid in anticipated battle with two enemy vessels.”

“Two, sir? But I thought-“

“Transmit as given, Lieutenant Mott. Continue to broadcast this message until answered or we are engaged.” “Aye, sir.”

The next move was Jason Darkwood’s, unless the enemy pre-empted. It was unnecessary to direct Lieutenant Mott that should the Arkhangelsk give a reply—and if there were time, Jason Darkwood would—to pay particular at

tendon to the accuracy with which the message was copied. It would be computer copied at any event and Mott’s accuracy was unimpeachable.

“Seaman Tagachi?”

“Aye, sir?”

“Raise the attack periscope, in case we’re being watched.” “Sir?”

“Do it.” Sebastian descended the three steps, standing before the plotting board. “Computer.” He wasn’t speaking to a disembodied entity within the ship’s electronic circuitry. He was speaking to computer station chief Lieutenant Junior Grade Rodriguiz.

“Aye, sir?”

“Mr. Rodriguiz, consult with the ship’s computer banks and calculate as precisely as possible the maximum acceleration factor for an Island Class submarine traveling at one third flank speed shifting into reverse maneuvering speed, taking into account such variables as the response time of inexperienced con personnel, to the best of your ability, also considering the factor that the man at the helm of said Island Classer is Captain Darkwood.”

“Aye, sir.”

He studied the converging lines. They were nearly met. Within moments, Jason Darkwood would be forced to act.

“Commander!”

“Yes, Mr. Mott?” Sebastian turned toward the communications station.

“Sir. I just received a message from Captain Darkwood aboard the Arkhangelsk.”

“Share it with me, Mr. Mott.

“Aye, sir.” Mott cleared his throat. “Compliments to Admiral Rahn, commanding USS Ronald Reagan. Advise protect your flagship at all costs. Project Damocles device installed and operational. Just watch and enjoy. Two enemy vessels about to be destroyed. Signed Darkwood, Captain, USN, USS Roy Rogers (formerly Soviet submarine vessel Arkhangelsk) commanding.”

T.J. Sebastian smiled.

“Sir? What’s Project Damocles?”

Sebastian kept the smile. He remembered seeing old videotapes of the man known as “The King of The Cowboys.” Sebastian’s left eyebrow raised as he spoke, “I believe, Mr. Mott, Captain Darkwood is wishing us ‘Happy Trails’. Let us endeavor to see to it that his wish comes true.”

His eyes returned to the plotting display. In the next instant, Jason Darkwood would have to make his move.

“Communications. Convey Admiral Rahn’s compliments to the USS Roy Rogers—using the same code, of course-and inform Captain Darkwood that the fleet is in readiness.” Jason knew about the third Island Class submarine. …

Jason Darkwood stood over the unfamiliar plotting table. “Seaman Eubanks. Confirm with engineering spaces that reactors are full on line and ready.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Sam. Be ready with port and starboard cluster charges on my signal.” “Aye, sir.”

“Corporal Lannigan. Signal the Reagan that the USS Roy Rogers is ready to deploy on Admiral Rahn’s command.”

“Yes, sir!”

Darkwood moved to the navigation station, telling the Marine sergeant there, “Stand by, Sergeant.” “Yes, sir!”

Darkwood laid his hands over the instruments. Island Classers were unresponsive beasts, but this one had to respond. “Engineering. Ready?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Excellent. On my mark, full power. I don’t care if we fry the damned reactors, because if we don’t get full power, we’re dead. Right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very good, Seaman Eubanks.” Darkwood didn’t take his eyes from his instruments, his left hand poised over speed controls. “Sam. Look at that plotting board real quick. Where are they?”

There was a moment’s silence, then, “Maybe one hundred yards off our stern, Jason.”

“Resume your station, Sam. Be ready on those cluster charges. Fire on my mark to engineering. Then be ready to follow up with tubes one and three forward. Be sure of your targets. We don’t want to hit the Reagan —or, for that matter, any of Admiral Rahn’s invisible fleet,” Darkwood grinned. “Got all that?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Darkwood laughed, “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet, Sam.”

“Begging the captain’s pardon, but like hell.” Darkwood closed his left hand over the speed control. He was counting it out in his head, calculating speed versus time.

Fifty yards to either side of him. If the cluster charges went off too quickly, the Roy Rogers would be squashed flatter than a piece of paper. On the plus side, Darkwood reassured himself, he’d be dead so quickly he’d never be aware of it.

Darkwood flexed the fingers of his left hand, his head nodding, his eyes closed. “Forty yards—da da, da da, da da. Thirty yards—da da, da da, da da. Twenty yards — boom! Mark, gentlemen! Engineering and weapons stations!” Darkwood’s left hand wrenched back, hauling the speed control from all ahead one-third to reverse. If he didn’t break something, maybe there was a chance. “Fire the damned cluster charges, Sam!”

“Fired, Jason!”

“More power, engineering. Fry those reactors!” The deck beneath him seemed to vibrate, and for a moment, just a split second, he had the impression of something akin to a loss of gravity, the Island Classer suddenly moving. Darkwood’s instruments were redlining, but they were showing reverse.

And the cluster charges detonated then, erratically like Soviet cluster charges sometimes did, too soon, the Arkhangelsk swept off trim, Darkwood shouting to Seaman Eubanks. “Engineering! More power or we’re dead! Tell the reactor crew I need everything we’ve got and I need it right now! Move!” Darkwood rammed the controls to all back, over the banging sounds of the cluster charges exploding around them a steadily rising hum from the screws. “Sam! Read that plotting board quick!”

“We’re dead even with their prows, Jason!”

“Be ready with those torpedoes. Don’t fire until I give the word!” If they made it clear of the two Island Classers without being ripped open like a can of fish or squashed, he’d fire two of the forward torpedo tubes and maneuver out of the way. If. He blew ballast in the starboard tanks to get trim back.