Flight of the Condor

Chapter Three

One-hundred and eighty-eight nautical miles to the southeast of Vandenberg, the attack submarine U.S.S. Razorback cut beneath the cool waters of the Pacific. The last vessel of its class, the twenty-seven year-old sub obtained its power, not from a nuclear reactor, but from a trio of diesel-electric engines.

Though this propulsion method was the same as that which had run the subs of World Wars I and II, a reliance on fossil fuels was about the only thing that the Razorback had in common with those vessels of old.

One of the primary design innovations that made the Razorback unique was its “tear-drop” hull. Unlike past classes of submarines, which had sharp, knife-like bows, the Razorback’s hull was cylindrically rounded. This feature, combined with a more efficient power plant, allowed the sub to be more maneuverable than its predecessors, and to cruise faster and dive to greater depths. When a sophisticated electronics and weapons package had been added, the Razorback had embarked on her first deployment as a first-line man-of-war. Almost three decades later, in an age of digital electronics and reliable nuclear-propulsion systems, the Razorback still held its own. This was something its current skipper was most proud of.

Commander Philip Exeter had been assigned to the Razorback for over nine months. Though the forty one-year-old officer had originally desired service aboard a 688Class submarine, the Navy’s latest nuclear-powered attack vessel, he had been thrilled with the chance to have a command of his own. As it turned out, he hadn’t been the least bit disappointed.

Their present mission was certainly not disappointing.

Only recently returned from a month-long deployment in the northern Pacific, the Razorback was now over six hours out of Point Loma. It had been ordered from its tender berth at the tip of San Diego Harbor, in the dead of night. Though dawn had already arisen above the sub, the crew would never know it, for the sub had submerged soon after clearing the final buoy. Exeter knew it was very possible that they would remain beneath the seas for a good portion of the next three days, until the exercise they were currently involved in was due to be terminated.

He was preparing to explain this fact to the boat’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Patrick Benton, and its Navigator, Lieutenant Edward McClure.

Seated at his customary position at the head of the wardroom table, Exeter studied the charts that had been laid out before him. To his left sat the Navigator.

An eight-year Naval veteran. Lieutenant McClure had quickly pointed out the Razorback’s current position. Adjusting his wire-rim glasses, the soft spoken junior officer had related their coordinates in a most scholarly fashion.

The XO had watched this briefing in a rather detached fashion. Seated directly across from the Captain, Patrick Benton thoughtfully sipped his mug of strong, black coffee and munched on a hot cinnamon roll. Sporting close-cropped red hair, with a pair of inquisitive, clear blue eyes, Benton was well known for both his dry wit and his trusty corncob pipe, which he always kept close by.

It proved to be the XO who broke the contained silence that had possessed the wardroom during the past few minutes.

“We’re well on our way into the Outer Santa Barbara Passage by now, Captain. If we’re not heading into the open sea, then exactly where are we bound for?”

Exeter subconsciously twisted the end of his moustache.

“Actually, we won’t be traveling much further than this. Operation Mauler restricts the Razorback to a relatively tight triangular sector of water, roughly bounded by San Nicolas Island to the west, San Clemente to the south, and Catalina to the north.

Our goal is to remain undetected for seventy-two hours, while three as yet unknown surface platforms attempt to track us down.”

“This could be an interesting one,” reflected the XO, who sat back and returned his attention to his cinnamon roll.

“Every time we leave Point Loma it’s a new challenge,” said the Captain, as he circled the area on the chart that they were restricted to.

“This could very well be the Razorback’s most important test. The waters here are relatively shallow and the current’s extremely tricky. A trio of modern destroyers, complete with their combined helicopter forces, could easily tag us. It’s imperative that this not be our destiny!”

The emotional force of this last sentence caused the XO to immediately sit forward and take notice. It was most evident that the Captain was taking this exercise most seriously. Wiping the remaining cinnamon crumbs from his fingers, he fumbled for his pipe, which he had stored in his pocket. Only when its familiar scarred tip was between his teeth did he speak.

“We certainly showed them up in the Gulf of Alaska that the Razorback can outperform the best of them. Not even the Canadian airdales could tag us.

We can surely hide once again, especially here in our home waters.”

With this, the Captain’s dark gaze directly linked with that of his XO.

“That had indeed better be the case, Mr. Benton. I don’t want any screw-ups with this one. Command has got to be assured that the Razorback can still take the best that they can throw at us, and then some.

“Now, I want the word spread throughout the boat that for the next seventy hours each and every crew member is to be alert to his every sound. Make certain that all unnecessary movement is curtailed.

When the men are not on duty, they’re to stay in their bunks. Silence is our most reliable ally. If it is properly maintained, it will never let us down.”

Still surprised with Exeter’s somberness, Benton nodded.

“I’ll pass the word. Captain. Do you want me to relieve the present OOD?”

Hastily checking his watch, Exeter responded.

“We’ve still got some time left until we penetrate the southern boundary of the exercise perimeter. Let’s allow Lieutenant Willingham to continue driving the boat until then. From what I’ve seen so far, that kid seems to be cut out of the right stuff for command, and I’m impressed.”

It was from the lips of the Navigator that the next question emanated.

“Excuse me, sir, but what strategy will we put into play once we cross the perimeter?”

The Captain managed a bare smile.

“I guess that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it, Lieutenant? I’d say that the best way to start things out is for you to find us a nice, deep hole somewhere between San Clemente and Catalina. If nature cooperates, perhaps we’ll also come up with a clearly defined thermal to further mask us. Then all we have to do is shut down all systems and wait for our pursuers to show themselves.

Once we know precisely who’s after us and where they’re coming from, determining a tactic to further evade them will be a hell of a lot easier.”

Pushing his chair back from the table, the Captain continued, “If there are no other questions, gentlemen, I’d say that it’s time for both of you to get down to some serious work.”

Taking this cue, the XO stood and allowed the Navigator room to slide out from the booth and stand beside him. Benton watched as Lieutenant McClure, noticeably taller and thinner than his own five-foot, nine-inch frame, efficiently gathered the charts that had been spread out before the Captain. Once this task was accomplished, both officers exited through the forward hatchway that led to the boat’s control room.

Alone now in the wardroom, Exeter gazed at the framed picture hung above the booth to his left. Here was drawn a full-colored representation of the fierce animal they were so aptly named for. With eyes bulging and showing no fear, the lean, long-bodied wild hog prepared to charge a full-grown bear. Oblivious to the fact that it was clearly outsized, the razorback was about to initiate its attack with stubborn determination and pointed tusks as its only apparent strong points.

How fitting it was that this beast should be their namesake, thought Exeter. Like the charging hog in the picture, his submarine faced a most formidable challenge. Designed in a technological era that had yet to put a man in space, their twenty-seven year-old vessel had been forced to prove its current worth time after time. Manned by sailors who weren’t even born when its hull was laid, the Razorback found itself in a totally new world of micro-chips and minicomputers.

Were they a mere anachronism as many in the Navy currently believed, or did they still have a valuable purpose to serve? In Philip Exeter’s mind, there was no doubt about the answer to this question. As long as he was the commanding officer, the sub would give its all and prove her critics wrong.

Distracted by the presence of another individual to his right, Exeter pivoted and set his glance on the doleful-eyed seaman presently responsible for upkeep of the officer’s galley.

“Excuse me. Captain, but can I fix you a platter of fresh scrambled eggs and sausage? Cooky’s just pulled a mess of hot biscuits out of the oven, and there’s still some cinnamon rolls left to boot.”

Though he had yet to eat a thing since the previous day’s late lunch with Carla, thoughts of food didn’t entice Exeter in the least.

“I’m afraid I’m going to pass on that, Simpson. I’d like you to fill my thermos with some fresh coffee, though. Please set it up in my quarters.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” replied the soft-spoken seaman, who immediately began carrying out the request.

Most aware of the work that still faced him, Exeter stood and stretched his cramped frame. Crossing the hallway, he took less than a half-dozen steps to reach the space reserved for his private domain. Seaman Simpson was just leaving as he shut the folding door behind him and took a seat before his compact, wallmounted desk.

Because the Razorback had been in San Diego a mere three days after returning from their month’s assignment up north, he found himself faced with a variety of memos and reports and a stack of unopened mail. Each of these documents would have to be carefully scrutinized. Before tackling this time consuming project, he decided that his attentions should be first turned to the sealed manila envelope his own wife had given him the previous afternoon.

Slitting open the flap with a letter opener, he pulled out the envelope’s contents, a single eight-by-eleven inch photograph.

The picture was of Carla and his two daughters, Connie and Carmen. It had to have been taken recently, for his wife was wearing that new kimono he had brought her from Seattle only four days before. Carla loved it when he bought her new clothes and, as always, she had been quick to, make a fuss over this newest outfit. In fact, she had been modeling it for him the previous afternoon when the messenger had arrived with the surprise order calling him back to the base. Just as shocked as she was, Philip had accepted her offer to drive him over to Point Loma to see what the order was all about.

One look at his CO’s face and he knew that they’d be going off to sea once again. Even though they had just returned from thirty days of joint U.S.-Canadian ASW exercises in the Gulf of Alaska, Command needed the Razorback for yet another mission. Ever mindful of his sworn duty, he had sent Carla homeward with her heart full of disappointment and her eyes full of tears. It was as she prepared to leave the base that she had handed him the sealed envelope and had made him promise he’d open it once they were out of port.

As he studied the glossy photograph, he became aware of his own rising emotions. His girls appeared before him, glowing with life and full of inner beauty. His Carla looked as gorgeous as the day he had first met her, over twenty-one years before. The pink kimono he had bought her fit her tiny figure perfectly. He knew her size well, for her waistline hadn’t changed for over two decades. Considering her cooking skills, this was quite an accomplishment.

Standing on Carla’s right was their oldest, Connie.

Appearing like a carbon copy of her mother, from her slim, compact figure to her pixie-like haircut, Connie seemed full of intense energy. Considering her busy schedule of late, Philip was surprised that Carla had been able to get her to take some time out for this photo. Why, even after being gone an entire month, he had only gotten to see Connie a single time, on the first evening he had returned home.

Far from taking it as a personal affront, Philip knew that she was at the age at which there just didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day. Lord knows she had never been the type of girl he had ever had to worry about. A straight-A student for as long as he could remember, Connie was the kind of kid a parent dreamed of. Level-headed and most aware of her responsibilities, she complimented her excellent schoolwork with both a weekend and full-time summer job.

For the last four years she had been working at Sea World. There she had become particularly fascinated with the dolphins. So intense was her interest that she even planned to make oceanography her major when she entered the University of California at San Diego as a freshman that fall.

Philip shook his head with wonder upon realizing that he’d soon have a girl in college. The years’ swift passage were even more apparent in the face and figure of the young woman standing at Carla’s left.

Even though she was three years her sister’s junior, Carmen was already the taller of the two, and still growing. Even her full figure seemed to be more developed. Philip knew this could be trouble in the months to come, because Carmen was having enough problems with the boys as it was. Drawn to her long, dark hair, baby-blue eyes, and warm, devilish smile, the boys at Loma High were already falling under her spell, just as he had.

Though Carmen was in many ways Connie’s opposite, Philip always had a soft spot in his heart for her.

Perpetually in disciplinary trouble, and struggling just to keep a C average. Carmen found it hard to keep her attention focused on a subject for any significant length of time. Particularly weak in science and mathematics, she was right at home in physical education. Tennis, swimming, and jogging were her favorites. A natural athlete, Carmen had a closet full of trophies and ribbons. Most of these awards had been won at the Navy country club.

Only two months before, she had turned sixteen.

The day of her birthday, Carla had taken her downtown for her driver’s-license test, which she had barely passed. Her latest crusade was to convince her parents to lend her the money to buy a car.

Philip’s first answer had been a definite no. Carla had enough trouble disciplining Carmen as it was. A car could make things considerably worse.

When she had offered to take a summer job at the country club as a junior tennis instructor, Philip had found himself wavering. His daughter had never shown an interest in working before. Perhaps a car would make her more responsible.

In the end it had been Carla who had definitely put her foot down. Not influenced at all by Carmen’s baby-blue eyes or heart-warming smile, Carla had put off even considering getting another car, at least until the first report card of the fall was received. Then, if Carmen’s grades showed a substantial improvement, she could once again bring the subject up for consideration.

Though his youngest had pouted for an entire evening after he had agreed to this, she was soon her old self over breakfast. After polishing off half a cant elope a bowl of cereal, three pieces of trench toast, six slices of bacon, and two glasses of milk, she had been off to the tennis courts with her racket in tow and her new beau to charm. Though this had only occurred the previous morning, for some reason it felt like a lifetime ago.

Shaking his head and smiling, Philip felt closer to his wife than he had ever felt before. Twenty years was a long time to spend with one person, and he knew that he was very fortunate to have her as his wife. They had met during college. Both had attended the University of Kansas. He had known from the first date that she was the one for him. The way Carla told it, he had never had a chance of escaping even if he had wanted to.

They had been married soon after graduation, and she had been with him on that proud day he was commissioned an ensign in the United States Navy.

Because his area of special study had been nuclear physics, he had been invited to attend submarine school in New London, Connecticut. He had immediately accepted and had not been sorry since.

Raising a pair of rambunctious girls out of a suitcase wasn’t the easiest of jobs, but like all military parents, they had managed. Now, all too soon, both girls would be on their own, and he and Carla would have the house all to themselves. Perhaps now Carla could at long last complete her Master’s and get that college-level teaching position she had always dreamed of. And of course there was his own desire to some day get his Doctorate.

Thus lost in thought at the picture of his beloved family, Philip Exeter found his concentration abruptly broken by the harsh ring of the comm line.

With practiced ease his hand shot out to pick up the black handset mounted on the wall before him.

“Captain here.”

The voice on the other end was smooth and sure of itself.

“Captain, it’s the XO. I thought you’d like to know that we’re just about to cross Mauler’s southern perimeter.”

“Very good, Lieutenant Benton,” returned Exeter, who was still a bit shaken by this sudden call to duty, “I’m on my way up to the control room.”

Hanging up the receiver, he stood and, well aware of the pile of unread correspondence that still awaited his examination, left the confines of his cabin. As he entered the hallway, he noticed a single figure seated at the wardroom table. Completely captivated by the plateful of sausage and eggs that he was hungrily wolfing down, the Razorback’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Theodore “Smitty” Smith, was startled by Exeter’s sudden appearance.

“Well, good morning. Captain. I thought I was all alone back here.”

“You soon will be, Smitty. How’s our ventilation system looking?”

Putting down his knife and fork, the lieutenant was quick to answer.

“We’ve just about got it one hundred percent. Captain. Of course, that main condenser still has to be replaced, but with a little luck she should get us through this cruise without too much sweat.”

“Good job, Lieutenant. Keep me informed if she gives you the slightest hint of trouble.”

“Will do. Captain,” snapped the junior officer, who waited for Exeter to completely disappear through the hatch before returning to his breakfast.

Not giving this encounter a second thought, Exeter continued on toward the Razorback’s control room.

The passageway he was presently crossing was narrow and cramped. On his left was the sealed door to the radio room. The massive vault-type combination lock on its door was an aftereffect of the Walker spy case.

Whereas the room used to be open to the entire crew, entry was now strictly limited.

The staccato noise of a typewriter broke from the right side of the corridor. Hastily Exeter poked his head into the sub’s general office. Inside this elongated cubicle was a copier machine, various file and storage drawers, and just enough space for the boat’s Supply Officer to do his thing in. Currently pecking on the typewriter was the most junior officer on the staff, Ensign Oliver Tollbridge. Without drawing his attention, the Captain peered over the ensign’s skinny shoulders, and saw that he was typing up a revised list of the Razorback’s current video library. Not desiring to interrupt this allimportant task, Exeter silently backed out of the office and continued on towards the boat’s bow.

Swiftly now he passed through a corridor lined with a myriad of pipes, cable, and copper fittings.

This area of the sub also held the gyroscope, various ECM gear, and their unmanned Mark 101A firecontrol system. The stairwell on his left led downward, to the boat’s second level. There was stationed the sonar and torpedo rooms, the crew’s quarters and galley, and, toward the stern, the Razorback’s engine compartment. Continuing on past this stairway, Exeter emerged into the control room.

As always, this section of the boat buzzed with activity. Bisecting the room was the periscope station.

It was here the captain and the current Officer of the Deck usually positioned themselves.

An alert seaman noticed Exeter’s arrival and spoke out clearly for all present to hear.

“Captain’s in the control room.”

With familiar ease, Philip Exeter scanned the compartment to determine the boat’s exact status. Before him, he identified the lean figure of the current OOD, Lieutenant Scott Willingham. In the process of scanning the horizon with their forward periscope, the blond-haired khaki-clad officer quickly circled the metal-mesh platform, his shoulders bent, his eyes snuggled firmly into the periscope’s sights.

To this station’s left was the boat’s nerve center.

Here Chief of the Boat Lester Brawnley parked his hefty figure before the diving station. Ever alert to any change in their depth status, the chief sat before the board responsible for adjusting their trim and determining their buoyancy. By merely triggering the opening or closing of a variety of valves, he could vent air into their ballast tanks or add heavier sea water.

The actual up, down, or sideways movement of the boat was regulated by the two planes men seated in the forward portion of the room, to the chief’s right.

Two seamen first class presently sat in the upholstered “drivers’ ” chairs, their hands carefully gripping the aircraft-type steering wheels that guided the Razorback’s wanderings. Before them was mounted the ever-important depth gauge, which read a steady sixty-five feet.

Exeter took in the calm chatter of the control room’s personnel and, satisfied with what he heard, crossed over to the compartment’s rear.

Here was placed the navigation station. Perched before its compact metal table, both the XO and Lieutenant McClure scrutinized a detailed bathymetric chart of the Gulf of Santa Catalina. The Captain was just taking in their current position, in the waters between San Clemente and Catalina islands, when the firm voice of the OOD spoke out excitedly.

“I have a surface contact, bearing three-two-zero, relative rough range five thousand eight hundred yards!”

Instantly, Exeter’s attention snapped back to the periscope station. His ensuing orders were delivered crisp and clear for all to hear.

“Down scope! Take us down to two hundred and fifty feet, at one-third speed. Has sonar got anything on this contact?”

The seaman responsible for manning the direct comm line to sonar responded a few seconds later.

“Sonar’s got them on passive, sir. They apologize for not picking it up earlier, but the ship was apparently just lying there, dead in the water. She’s a major combatant, all right. Captain, and she’s coming towards us with a bone in her teeth.”

“Change our course to two-six-zero,” ordered Exeter firmly. He was aware of the sudden tilt of the deck as the Razorback’s sail-mounted planes bit into the Pacific and the 2,800-ton vessel plunged downwards.

The Captain’s eyes were locked on the depth gauge as they dropped beneath the one-hundred fifty-foot level when the comm line from sonar again activated.

“Sir, sonar has another pair of surface contacts, bearings two-eight-five and two-two-zero respectively.

Relative rough range for both contacts is five thousand yards and rapidly closing.”

Genuinely shocked by this revelation, Philip Exeter silently cursed. Here he was less than an hour into the exercise and already they were boxed in and about to be tagged. To escape this rapidly tightening net the Razorback would have to play its alternatives most carefully.

“All stop!” he ordered.

“Level us out at twofive- zero feet.”

While these directives were being relayed, the boat’s senior officers gathered around the navigation table. Fresh from his own recently concluded conversation on the comm line, the XO briefed them of his find.

“Sonar had time to do a preliminary signature ID on those contacts, Captain. The first one that we picked up was a dual-shaft gas turbine. Lefty bets his pension that she’s a Spruance. The other two are single-shaft geared turbines, most probably belonging to a pair of Knox-class frigates.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll bet they’re the Roark and the Joseph L. Hawes,” added the OOD.

“I personally saw those two frigates trying to sneak out of Loma two nights ago. And here they’ve been just waiting for us all this time.”

Aware that the angled tilt of the deck was decreasing, Exeter sighed.

“Whoever they are, you can be certain that all three ships have got choppers and variable depth sonar. That means that we’ve got to make our move quickly or forever hold our peace.”

With his glance locked on the bathymetric charts of the waters they were presently plying beneath, the Captain’s eyes momentarily brightened.

“Lieutenant McClure, do you think you could find us a nice, sandy portion of sea floor nearby for the Razorback to settle into?”

Already taking into account their new course, the sub’s Navigator bent over the chart and responded.

“I believe I can find us a good spot approximately seven nautical miles from our current position, Captain. The only trouble is that we’re going to have to go down to six hundred and twenty-five feet to reach it.”

“We can handle that,” retorted Exeter, who briefly met his XO’s concerned glance.

“Chart us the quickest course and let’s get going. Mr. Willingham, rig us for a deep dive. Then I want the boat to be buttoned up as quiet as a church. Spread the word that a state of ultra-quiet will prevail until further ordered. The only way we’re going to evade these guys is by convincing them that we’re no longer here, so let’s get moving! The U.S.S. Razorback isn’t about to’ get licked so easily.”

One floor beneath the control room, Seaman First Class Todd “Lefty” Jackman sat in the narrow compartment reserved for the sonar monitors. The light here was veiled in red, the atmosphere hushed, as Lefty concentrated on the myriad of sounds being channeled into his headphones. He had been exclusively monitoring the Razorback’s passive-detection system for over two hours. During this time, the noises created by their own vessel had been at a minimum, for they had been lying on the ocean’s bottom, hushed in a state of ultra-quiet. This condition was fine with the senior sonar technician, for it gave his hull-mounted microphones a clearer sweep of the surrounding waters.

The sounds that he had continued to pick up these last one hundred and twenty minutes were far from reassuring. Above them, it was most obvious that the trio of destroyers had yet to be convinced that their target had moved on. He clearly heard the characteristic chugging of their turbines as they circled and probed. Thirty minutes before, the largest of these vessels had even sailed right over them. Lefty had been able to pick out the oscillating hum of its towed VDS unit, being pulled in the destroyer’s wake, seeking any sign of the sub. In this case, fortune had been with the Razorback, for the Spruance-class ship had merely kept moving on. Currently, their pursuers were still in the area, though none were closer than 20,000 yards.

Lefty sat back in his chair and tried to stretch his cramped, muscular limbs. His hands were cold, and his feet practically numb. What he needed was a good thirty-minute workout in the gym. That would get the blood pumping through his body once again. He had heard that the larger subs, such as the 688’s and Tridents, had such facilities right on board. This was not the case with the Razorback. In fact, he was fortunate just to have a bunk of his own. When he had been first assigned to the sub seven months before. Lefty had been forced to hot-bunk with a torpedo man, and he hadn’t had many kind thoughts as to his draw of assignments. It wasn’t until a month before, when he had finally passed his sonar qualification, that the XO had assigned him a space of his own. Though he couldn’t even turn over without getting out of the bunk first, he wasn’t about to complain. The torpedo man had stunk of cordite and machine oil, two scents that Lefty could certainly live without.

The exercise that they had just completed in the North Pacific was his first as a seaman first class.

Comfortable with his specialty. Lefty was beginning to enjoy the Razorback and its crew. Being the last of her kind meant that the boat deserved extra-special attention. He was proud of this fact, and never wanted to be the one who let the tradition down.

Temporarily lifting the headphones from his sore ears, Lefty turned to see what his coworker was up to. Seaman Second Class Seth Burke, who sat to his left, was also taking a breather, and the two conversed in a whisper.

“Well, what do you think. Lefty, will our playin’ possum fool them?”

Lefty shrugged.

“We’d better hope so. Otherwise the Captain is going to have our heads for sure. We should have heard that destroyer long before they saw it on the periscope.”

“It sure is getting nippy down here,” added the seaman second class as he zipped his gray sweatshirt up to his neck.

“What happens if they wait us out and we have to surface to snorkel?”

“Then we lose,” returned Lefty, who was beginning to feel a bit chilly himself.

“It’s times like these that I wish we were in a nuke,” observed Burke.

“Then we could stay down here almost indefinitely.”

“I don’t know about that, Seth. If we had been in a 688, I’ll bet that Spruance would have tagged us for sure when they passed over us. Those nukes can’t shut down like we can. They’ve always got to have some sort of coolant pump going, and that means additional noise. For good-old quiet, I’ll take the Razorback’s battery power any day of the week. Say, have you ever heard the sound of your flashlight going?”

This question seemed to stump the seaman second class, who pondered an answer. Meanwhile, Lefty Jackman’s attention was drawn back to his headphones as a far-off, crackling noise sounded from their stern hydrophone. Of a different pitch than that of a turbine engine, the faint noise was somehow familiar. Positioning himself squarely before his console, Lefty began to investigate it more fully.

On the floor immediately above Lefty, Commander Philip Exeter and three of his senior officers stood before the chart of the Gulf of Santa Catalina. The atmosphere that surrounded them was tense. The rest of the control room’s complement of men was hunched in front of inactive instruments, waiting for the word that would get them going once again.

Around the navigation station, a whispered discussion was taking place. Lieutenant Smith, the Engineering Officer, had just figured out that they had a little less than sixty minutes of battery time left. Then they’d be forced to ascend and recharge their batteries.

Since Operation Mauler extended another ten hours, if the destroyer and her escorts stayed close by, the Razorback would come up on the short end.

Smitty also informed them that the boat’s heating unit was close to failing. It was impossible to repair in a condition of ultra-quiet, and the temperature inside the vessel had already dropped a full ten degrees.

Philip Exeter and his fellow officers had long since put on their short khaki jackets. The additional chill was the least of their problems, and Exeter opened their predicament up for discussion.

Lieutenant Willingham was the first to offer his opinion.

“I think we should attempt to creep away under battery power while we still can. Directly to the east of us there’s all sorts of shallow trenches we can take advantage of along San Clemente’s eastern shore. There we can safely ascend to snorkel depth, and if necessary, take on additional air in quick sips.

When night falls, it should be a relatively easy run around the island’s southern edge, and then we’re home free in open ocean.”

Contemplating this plan, Exeter turned to query his XO, who was standing to his right.

“You’ve been unusually quiet this morning, Mr. Benton. What do you think is our best course of action?”

Pulling his pipe out of the corner of his mouth, the XO studied the chart a few seconds before answering.

“Lieutenant Willingham’s idea is interesting, but I’m afraid, in this instance, it’s just too dangerous. The currents around San Clemente are extremely treacherous.

This drastically increases the risks of us going aground. Not only could we fail the operation, we could lose the boat as well.

“I’d say we’d have a much better chance following the bottom of the trench we currently occupy northward.

That will put us smack in the middle of the Outer Santa Barbara Passage. Once our batteries get us there, we can find ourselves a thermal and use it to veil us until it’s safe to ascend. Right now, I’ve got a feeling that those surface ships topside aren’t really certain where we are. Pushing on to the north could lose them for good.”

Taking in this suggestion, the Captain was just about to offer a comment of his own when the comm line activated. The excited seaman relayed the message breathlessly.

“Sonar reports an underwater contact, sir. The bearing is one-eight-seven, with a range of fifty thousand yards.”

Hastily rechecking the chart, Exeter realized that this would place the contact well within the southern perimeter of Operation Mauler. Since no U.S. submarine but the Razorback was authorized to be in this triangular sector for the next seventy hours, the Captain’s pulse quickened. Tapping the comm line to the sonar room himself, he issued a single query.

“Can you get me a signature I.D. on it. Lefty?”

Recognizing this voice’s source. Seaman Jackman’s voice nervously faltered.

“I believe I can, Captain. Though it’s at the limit of our range, it’s making speed and really kicking up a ruckus. Don’t hold me to this, sir, but I could swear this is the same sub that we picked up off Washington. Though I can’t definitely prove it as yet, my gut tells me it’s that outlaw Soviet Victor!”

Shocked by this revelation, Exeter stirred.

“Good work. Lefty. Keep me posted on any developments.”

Disconnecting the line, he pivoted to address his officers.

“Well, this certainly throws a new log on the fire. Seaman Jackman feels this newest contact is none other than that Victor we chased out of Juan de Fuca. Do you believe the gall of those guys? It looks like it’s time for us to teach our comrades another lesson about trespassing in American waters. Prepare the boat to get under way. I’m going to want flank speed.”

“But what about the exercise?” offered the XO.

“Damn the exercise!” countered the Captain.

“I’m not about to just sit here twiddling our thumbs while one of the Soviet Union’s most advanced attack subs scoots right through our own backyard. Even if we can’t pull thirty-two knots like they can, at least our pursuit will lead our ASW force to them. I say that it’s time to put the fear of God in them!”

It was while he was initiating the flurry of orders that was putting new life into the Razorback’s control room that one of the vessel’s radiomen proceeded to the Captain’s side. He handed Exeter a single, folded sheet of white paper. Opening it with a flourish, the Razorback’s senior officer paled upon reading its contents.

Conscious of this message’s effect, the XO approached him.

“Is there anything the matter. Captain?”

Philip Exeter managed a small grin.

“Just when it seems most confusing, the U.S. Navy has a way of stepping in and making your decisions for you. Cancel that intercept, Mr. Benton. We’ve just received a top-priority transmission from COM SUB In effect, the Razorback has been ordered to abandon all operations and proceed with all due haste to the seas off Vandenberg. There we’re to assist the Air Force in the salvage of a Titan 34-D rocket that has just gone down in the Pacific.”

“Jesus, you’ve got to be kidding!” returned the XO.

“What about the Victor?”

Exeter shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess we’d better radio those destroyers and let them know where the real enemy lies. Right now, I’d better get going on that course to Point Arguello.

“Prepare to ascend, Mr. Brawnley. Lieutenant Willingham, our new depth will be sixty-five feet. All ahead full on course three-zero-zero.”

To a roar of venting ballast, the Razorback shuddered and slowly began rising. Invigorated with new purpose, the black-hulled vessel appeared imbibed with life itself as its planes rotated upwards and its single screw whipped into action with a frantic hiss.