Wall of Night

47

Cathermeier and Mason left Holystone and drove to the Pentagon.

Finally convinced of not only Mason’s suspicions about Martin, but also that the premise of Columbia’s mission was bogus, Cathermeier wasn’t about to let it continue. Whatever else China had up its sleeve was yet to be seen, but by calling off the attack on Nahrut, Cathermeier might at least be able to impede their plans.

What he couldn’t know was that it was already too late.

The Pentagon’s nerve center, the National Military Command Center, is divided into three main areas: the Emergency Conference Room, or ECR, “The Tank,” or the Joint Chiefs secure conference room, and the Current Actions Center, or CAC, a large room filled with communications consoles and computer terminals. Mounted on one wall are three projection screens, one displaying the readiness conditions of various U.S. military theaters, the other two showing maps and satellite feeds.

Cathermeier and Mason walked in and walked directly to the CAC watch officer, an Army major. “What can I do for you, General?”

“Send an ELF to Blade,” Cathermeier replied, referring to Extremely Low Frequency message, a slow but effective method of communicating with submerged submarines. “Have her surface for traffic.”

With Sunil Dhar bound, gagged, and still unconscious in the corner of the their lay-up, Jurens and his men lay on their bellies at the edge of the blind, Night Owls raised and focused on the mouth of the bay. In the greenish glow Jurens could just make out the light of Ryurik, the village at the tip of the cape and beyond the black line of the horizon.

“Sickle, this is Blade, over.”

Jurens grabbed the handset. “Go ahead Blade.”

“En route. Time to target, seventy seconds. Heads down, over.”

Sconi smiled. Thanks for your concern, Archie. “Roger. Sickle out.”

He powered up the LTD and peered through the eyepiece. The glowing red dot was holding steady on the Nahrut’s midships hatch. As a target point, it couldn’t be better. After their terminal pop-up, the Harpoons would bore into Nahrut at an angle and explode at her waterline, breaking her in two.

Forty seconds passed.

Zee called out, “Target, Skipper!”

“Where away?”

“Bearing one-seven-five. Boy, they’re really moving!”

Jurens swiveled his Night Owls around.

Flying at over four hundred knots and skimming a bare six feet over the water’s surface, the lead Harpoon appeared out of the fog, barely visible against the night sky. As Jurens watched, the second Harpoon came into view, two seconds behind the first and staggered to the left a few feet.

Two miles from Nahrut and passing the tip of the cape, the Harpoons executed their first and only waypoint, turning ten degrees to the northwest and lining up on Nahrut’s bearing, their seeker’s homing in on the LTD’s signal.

One mile and twelve seconds from impact, the lead Harpoon popped up to a height of fifty feet, followed a second later by its mate. Jurens watched, waiting for them to tip over toward Nahrut, but they continued flying high and level.

Malfunction? he thought. Come on, nose over …

And then they were past Nahrut and streaking toward the port.

He snatched up the handset. “Blade this is Sickle, drop-kick! I say again, drop-kick!”

It was too late. Two hundred yards from the wharf, the missiles split, the lead Harpoon turning west toward the port’s tank farm, the trailing Harpoon east toward a line of ships sitting at berth.

“Jesus Christ …” Smitty muttered.

In a double bloom of fire, the Harpoons struck home and detonated.

Eight miles away, Columbia heard Jurens’s call for missile destruct, but Archie Kinsock had his own problems. Fifty seconds after launching the Harpoons, he was descending and turning east toward deeper water when the squawk box crackled: “Conn, Sonar, contact! Probably submerged vessel, close aboard! Bearing zero-four-four. He’s right on top of us, Skipper.”

“All stop!” Jurens ordered.

“All stop, aye.”

“Conn, Sonar, torpedo in the water, torpedo in the water! Same bearing!”

Kinsock turned to the diving officer. “All ahead flank, full down on the down planes, come right to course one-nine-zero!”

The DO repeated the order. The helmsman and planesman hunched over their controls.

“Launch noisemaker!” Kinsock ordered.

“Noisemaker away.”

“Fire control, open doors on stern tube and fire snapshot.”

“Snapshot, aye!”

“Sonar, Conn, talk to me.” Kinsock called.

“Torpedo’s gone active, sir! It’s got us!”

“Conn, aye.”

“Noisemaker away, Skipper.”

“Launch another.”

Coming to full speed, Columbia pitched over into a spiraling turn. The deck shuddered as compressed air jettisoned the torpedo from the stern tube. “Torpedo away.”

“Cut the wires.”

“Conn, Sonar, it didn’t go for the noisemaker, Skipper. It’s coming in!”

“Time?”

“Ten seconds.”

“Launch another noisemaker!”

“Noisemaker away.”

“Conn, Sonar: Five seconds … four …”

Time seemed to slow for Kinsock. Heart pounding in his throat, he looked around the Control Room, taking in the faces of his crew. If it’s gonna happen, he thought dully, let it be quick.

He snatched the IMC handset: “All hands brace for shock!”