Plague Ship - Cussler Clive - Страница 23

The rendezvous was to take place far from conventional shipping lanes to avoid detection from freighters and tankers, and, in an area devoid of much sea life, that would attract commercial fishing vessels. The timing of their operation coincided with a gap in satellite coverage, just in case anyone was looking down from above.

Fifteen minutes trickled by before Linda called out, “Contact. I’ve got machinery noises almost directly below us, four hundred feet down. Ballast tanks are being purged.” She washed the noise picked up by the passive sonar through the computer to cross-check the sound with a loop of tape provided by Overholt. “Confirmed. It’s the USS Tallahassee, making for the surface.”

“Very good,” Juan said. “Helm, keep sharp. You dent that sub, you bought it.” Another few minutes passed as the Los Angeles Class fast-attack submarine climbed up from the depths, rising so slowly that she was dead silent from more than a couple miles away. Eric Stone had split his computer display so he could watch the sonar returns as well as the Oregon’s GPS coordinates, to make certain the sub wouldn’t crash into the underside of the hull. It was the responsibility of the crew aboard the Tallahassee to hold their position stable relative to the freighter. Any corrections would come from Eric’s controls.

“One hundred feet and fifty,” Linda said. “Her ascent is slowing. Slowing. Leveling off at one hundred.”

“She’s holding about two hundred yards off the port beam,” Eric said.

“Slide us over so she’ll surface within fifty yards, please, Mr. Stone.” Eric punched up the bow and stern thrusters to shove the eleven-thousand-ton ship laterally through the water, placing her exactly on her mark, and reactivated the dynamic positioning system so the computer would hold them steady.

“She’s coming up again. Ten feet per minute.”

“Very good, Sonar. You have the conn.”

“I have the conn,” Linda repeated. Juan got up and went to the elevator in the back of the Op Center, joined a second later by Max. Together, they rode up to the Oregon’s bridge. As soon as the floor hatch opened, they could feel the sultry night air.

The ramshackle bridge was pitch-black, but both men were so familiar with their ship they didn’t need light to make their way aft to a set of stairs that would take them to the main deck. Outside, the stars shone with particular brilliance because the sliver of moon had yet to rise.

Over the port rail, the inky water began to grow agitated as the three-hundred-and-fifty-foot submarine neared the surface. Her conning tower appeared first, and then the vessel seemed to grow as she shed water, fore deck and long aft deck emerging, as well as her stiletto rudder. She came up on an even keel so slowly that there were hardly any waves. She rode low in the water, menacing in her silence, like a sea monster basking on the surface.

Juan had a handheld walkie-talkie and brought it to his lips. “Mr. Stone, ballast us down about fifteen feet. I want our decks to be lined up a little closer.” Eric acknowledged, and a moment later the pumps that filled the tanks spooled up and the Oregon began to settle deeper in the water.

“Deck crew, get those fenders over the sides.” Juan’s order was met with a frenzy of activity, as men lowered thick rubber bumpers down to just above the waterline. Unlike the old truck tires they used in port partly as disguise, these were modern cushions, and could take a tremendous amount of pressure before failing.

Over on the Tallahassee, part of her deck just fore of her sail began to articulate upward, emitting the faint red glow of battle lights. This was the loading port for the twenty-four Mk 48 ADCAP torpedoes the boat could carry. For this mission, she was carrying less than a full complement of the Advanced Capability weapons in order to accept the Iranian rocket torpedo, which was sitting on the Oregon’s deck on a wheeled trolley. The cases of captured computer information were secured to the torpedo.

Cabrillo keyed his walkie-talkie again. “Okay, Helm, shove us over using the thrusters, twenty-five percent power.”

“Twenty-five, aye.”

The Oregon began to move toward the waiting submarine, creeping slowly enough to let the water she was pushing dissipate rather than rock the Tallahassee. Several officers watched from the sub’s conning tower, using night vision binoculars.

“Ease off, Mr. Stone,” Juan ordered, judging distance and speed with an expert eye. The ships were less than twenty feet apart. “Very good, now, ten percent opposite side.” Water frothed at the thruster ports as Eric used them to stop the ship with only ten feet separating them from the submarine.

“Hold us here, if you please,” Juan said over the scrambled channel.

“Nice piece of ship handling,” a voice boomed from the Tallahassee’s conning tower.

“Thank you,” Juan called back. “Are you ready to receive the package?”

“I was led to believe there were two packages,” the sub’s captain shouted.

“Slight change of plans, following a dustup this morning in the Sea of Oman.”

“How’d it work?”

“Believe it or not, flawlessly.”

“Very well. We’re ready. Our satellite window closes in four minutes forty seconds.” Juan turned to the technician waiting next to the derrick controls. Though the crane looked like it was ready to topple at any moment, it was rated to lift seventy tons. Slack was taken up, and the sling cradling the rocket torpedo rose off the deck. Other men were standing by with guide ropes to prevent the weapon from spinning as it was lifted clear of the railing. The long boom rotated on its axis to swing out over the waiting submarine, where sailors stood by to receive the torpedo.

One of the sailors guided the lift using universal hand gestures, rotating his finger downward to call for more cable as the weapon came down into their waiting hands. They locked it into the boat’s autoloader and unstrapped it from the cradle. The lead sailor spun his hand over his head to indicate the torpedo was free and they could recover the crane. No sooner had it vanished into the hull than the large door began to close.

“Stow the derrick,” Juan ordered, before calling down to Eric Stone: “Helm, edge us away, twenty percent power, and pump us dry. Make ship ready for a high-speed run, and steer us best possible course for Karachi.”

“I thought we were going to Monaco.” This from Mark Murphy. It was clear in his voice he was looking forward to a few weeks at the opulent principality abutting the Riviera. Maurice had told Juan that Murph had even requisitioned a tuxedo from the Magic Shop so he could play James Bond in Monaco’s fabled casino.

“Don’t worry,” Juan assured him, “you are. Max and I have other plans.” Hali Kasim’s voice cut through the line. “Radar contact, Chairman. Just came on the scope at a hundred miles out, bearing due east.”

“Track it, and keep me posted.” Juan cupped his hands to his mouth to shout over to the Tallahassee’s captain, as the Oregon put more and more distance between the two vessels. “We just got a blip on radar. Its east of us, and the range is pretty extreme, but you guys might want to do your Houdini act and vanish.”

“Roger that, and thank you.” The captain waved. “We saw her on our approach. The read from the passive sonar sounds as if she’s derelict, and we caught nothing on any of our sensors, no radar emissions or radio. Not even an automatic distress signal. Obviously, we couldn’t investigate, but you all might want to. If she’s abandoned, it could mean a pretty hefty salvage fee.”

“We might just do that,” Juan said, intrigued. He could leave a prize crew on her to sail to Karachi while the Oregon went ahead. “Any idea how big she is?”

“By the sound of waves lapping against her hull, my chief sonar man estimates about the same size as your ship, five hundred and fifty feet or so.”