Clive Cussler dp-6 Page 10

  "I'm not fanatical on official protocol," Mercier replied. "An informal meeting such as this has its advantages."

  "Like catching your quarry off his home ground," said Sandecker, cannily sizing up Mercier. "A sneaky tactic. I use it myself on occasion."

  "According to rumors, you're a master of sneaky tactics."

  Sandecker's expression went blank for an instant. Then he burst into a laugh, pulled a lighter from a pocket of his sweat suit and lit the cigar stub. "I know when I'm licked. You didn't ambush me for my wallet, Mr. Mercier. What's on your mind?"

  "Very well, suppose you tell me about the doodlebug."

  "Doodlebug?" The admiral gave a faint tilt to his head-a movement equivalent to stunned surprise in any other man. "A fascinating instrument. I assume you're familiar with its purpose."

  "Why don't you tell me?"

  Sandecker shrugged. "I guess you could say it's a kind of water dowser."

  "Water dowsers don't cost six hundred and eighty million taxpayer dollars."

  "What exactly do you want to know?"

  "Does such an exotic instrument exist?"

  "The Doodlebug Project is a reality, and a damned successful one, I might add."

  "Are you prepared to explain its operation and account for the money spent on its development?"

  "When?"

  "At the earliest opportunity."

  "Give me two weeks and I'll lay the doodlebug in your lap neatly wrapped and packaged."

  Mercier was not to be taken in. "Two days."

  "I know what you're thinking," said Sandecker earnestly. "But I promise you there is no fear of scandal, far from it. Trust me for at least a week. I simply can't put it together in less."

  "I'm beginning to feel like an accomplice in a con game."

  "Please, one week."

  Mercier looked into Sandecker's eyes. My God, he thought, the man is actually begging. It was hardly what he expected. He motioned to his driver who was parked a short distance away and nodded. "Okay, Admiral, you've got your week."

  "You drive a tough bargain," said Sandecker, with a sly grin.

  Without another word the admiral turned and resumed his morning jog to NUMA headquarters.

  Mercier watched the little man grow even smaller in the distance. He seemed not to notice his driver standing patiently beside the car, holding the door open.

  Mercier stood rooted, a maddening certainty growing within him that he'd been had.

  It had been an exhausting day for Sandecker. After his unexpected meeting with Mercier he fenced with a congressional budget committee until eight in the evening, hawking the goals and accomplishments of NUMA, appealing for, and in a few cases, demanding additional funding for his agency's operations. It was a bureaucratic chore he detested.

  After a light dinner at the Army and Navy Club, he entered his apartment at the Watergate and poured himself a glass of buttermilk.

  He took off his shoes and was beginning to unwind when the phone rang. He would have ignored it if he hadn't turned to see which line held the incoming call. The red light on the direct circuit to NUMA blinked ominously. "Sandecker."

  "Ramon King here, Admiral. We've got a problem on the Doodlebug."

  "A malfunction?"

  "No such luck," replied King. "Our sweep systems have picked up an intruder."

  "Is he closing with our vessel?"

  "Negative."

  "A chance passing by one of our own subs then," Sandecker suggested optimistically.

  King sounded concerned. "The contact is maintaining a parallel course, distance four thousand meters. It appears to be shadowing the Doodlebug.

  "Not good."

  "I'll have a firmer grasp on the situation when the computers spit out a more detailed analysis of our unknown caller."

  Sandecker went silent. He sipped at the buttermilk, his mind meditative. Finally, he said, "Call the security desk and tell them to track down Al Giordino. I want him in on this."

  King spoke hesitantly. "Is Giordino acquainted with…... ah, does he…...?"

  "He knows," Sandecker assured King. "I personally briefed him on the project during its inception in the event he had to substitute for Pitt. You'd better get on with it. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  The admiral hung up. His worst fear had put in its appearance. He stared at the white liquid within the glass as if he could visualize the mysterious craft stalking the defenseless Doodlebug.

  Then he set the glass aside and hurried out the door, unaware that he was still in his stocking feet.

  Deep beneath the surface of the Labrador Sea not far from the northern tip of Newfoundland, Pitt stood in stony silence, studying the electronic readout across the display screen as the unidentified submarine skirted the outer fringes of the Doodlebug's instrument range. He leaned forward as a line of data flashed on. Then, suddenly, the display screen blinked out as contact was lost.

  Bill Lasky, the panel operator, turned to Pitt and shook his head. "Sorry, Dirk, our visitor is a shy one. He won't sit still for a scan."

  Pitt put his hand on Lasky's shoulder. "Keep trying. Sooner or later he's bound to step on our side of the fence."

  He moved across the control room through the maze of complex electronic gear, his feet silent on the rubber deck covering. Dropping down a ladder to a lower deck, he entered a small room not much bigger than a pair of adjoining phone booths.

  Pitt sat on the edge of a folding bunk, spread a blueprint on a small writing desk and studied the guts of the Doodlebug.

  A diving deformity was the less than endearing term that ran through his mind when he first laid eyes on the world's most sophisticated research vessel. It looked like nothing previously built to prowl beneath the seas.

  The Doodlebug's compact form lay somewhere south of ludicrous. The best descriptions anybody had come up with were "the inner half of an aircraft wing standing on end" and "the conning tower of a submarine that has lost its hull." In short, it was a slab of metal that traveled in a vertical position.

  There was a reason for the unorthodox lines of the Doodlebug. The concept was a considerable leap in submersible technology. In the past, all mechanical and electronic systems had been built to conform within the space limitations of a standard cigar-shaped hull. The Doodlebug's aluminum shell, on the other hand, had been built around its instrument package.

  There were few creature comforts for the three-man crew. Humans were essential only for emergency operation or repairs. The craft was automatically operated and piloted by the computer brain center at NUMA headquarters in Washington, almost three thousand miles away.

  "How about a little medicine to clear the cobwebs?"

  Pitt lifted his head and looked into the mournful bloodhound eyes of Sam Quayle, the electronics wizard of the expedition. Quayle held up a pair of plastic cups and a half pint of brandy, whose remaining contents hardly coated the floor of the bottle.

  "For shame," said Pitt, unable to suppress a grin. "You know NUMA regulations forbid alcohol on board research vessels."

  "Don't look at me," Quayle replied with mock innocence. "I found this work of the devil, or what's left of it, in my bunk. Must have been forgotten by an itinerant construction worker."

  "That's odd," said Pitt.

  Quayle looked at him questioningly. "How so?"

  "The coincidence." Pitt reached under his pillow and pulled out a fifth of Bell's Scotch and held it up. The interior was half full. "An itinerant construction worker left one in my bunk too."

  Quayle smiled and handed the cups to Pitt. "If it's all the same to you, I'll save mine for snakebite."

  Pitt poured and handed a cup to Quayle. Then he sat back on the bunk and spoke slowly: "What do you make of it, Sam?"

  "Our evasive caller?"

  "The same," answered Pitt. "What's stopping him from dropping in and giving us the once-over? Why the cat-and mouse game?"

  Quayle took a healthy belt of the Scotch and shrugged. "The Doodlebug's configu
ration probably won't complete on the sub's detection system. The skipper is no doubt contacting his command headquarters for a rundown on underwater craft in his patrol area before he pulls us over to the curb and cites us for trespassing." Quayle finished his drink and gazed longingly at the bottle. "Mind if I have seconds?"

  "Help yourself."

  Quayle poured himself a generous shot. "I'd feel much safer if we could pin a name tag on those guys.,"

  "They won't come within range of our scan. What beats me is how they can walk such a fine line. They seem to dip in and out as if they were taunting us."

  "No miracle," said Quayle, making a face as the Scotch seared his throat. "Their transducers are measuring our probes. They know within a few meters of where our signals die out."

  Pitt sat up, his eyes narrowed. "Suppose…... just suppose?"

  He didn't finish. He left his quarters at a half run, clawing his way up the ladder to the control room. Quayle took another swallow and followed. Only he didn't run. "Any change?" Pitt asked.

  Lasky shook his head. "The uninvited are still playing cagey."

  "Gradually fade the probes. Maybe we can draw them closer. When they step into our yard, hit them with every sensing device we've got."

  "You expect to sucker a nuclear sub, manned by a first-rate professional crew, with a kindergarten trick like that?" Quayle asked incredulously.

  "Why not?" Pitt grinned fiendishly. "I'll bet my snake medicine against yours they'll fall for it."

  Quayle looked like a salesman who had just sold a waterfront lot in the Gobi Desert. "You're on."

  For the next hour it was business as usual. The men went about their chores of monitoring the instruments and checking the equipment. At last Pitt looked at his watch and gestured in Lasky's direction. "Systems standby," he directed. "Ready systems," Lasky acknowledged. "Okay, nail the bastard!"

  The data unit in front of them burst into life and the remote display swept across the screen.

  Contact: 3480 meters.

  Course: Bearing one zero eight.

  Speed: Ten knots.

  "He bit the hook!" Quayle couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "We've got him!"

  Overall length: 76 meters.

  Beam (approximate): 10.7 meters.

  Probable submerged displacement: 3650 tons.

  Power: One water-cooled nuclear reactor.

  Design: Hunter-killer.

  Class: Amberjack.

  Flag: U.S.A.

  "It's one of ours," Lasky said with obvious relief "At least we're among friends," Quayle muttered. Pitt's eyes were intent. "We're not out of the woods yet."

  "Our snoopy friend has altered his course to zero seven six. Speed increasing," Lasky read aloud from the screen. "He's moving away from us now."

  "If I didn't know better," Quayle said thoughtfully, "I'd say he was setting for an attack."

  Pitt looked at him. "Explain."

  "Several years ago, I was a member of a design team that developed underwater weapons systems for the navy. I came to learn that a hunter-killer sub will come to flank speed and break away from the target prior to a torpedo launch."

  "Kind of like firing your six-shooter over a shoulder at the villain while riding out of town at full gallop."

  "A fair parallel," Quayle allowed. "The modern torpedo is crammed with ultrasonic, heat and magnetic sensors. Once fired, it goes after a target with ungodly tenacity. If it misses on the first pass, it circles around and keeps trying until it makes contact. That's why the mother sub, figuring the target has weapons of the same capability, gets off the mark early and takes evasive action."

  A concerned look came over Pitt's face. "How far to the bottom?"

  "Two hundred and thirty meters," Lasky answered.

  The metric system had never quite caught on with Pitt. Out of habit he converted the reading to about 750 feet. "And the contour?"

  "Looks rough. Rock outcroppings, some fifteen meters high.

  Pitt walked over to a small plotting table and studied a chart of the seafloor. Then he said, "Switch us on override and take us down."

  Lasky looked at him questioningly. "NUMA control won't take kindly to us cutting off their reins."

  "We're here, Washington is three thousand miles away. I think it best if we command the vessel until we know what we're facing."

  Confusion showed in Quayle's face. "You don't seriously think we're going to be attacked?"

  "As long as there's a one percent probability I'm not about to ignore it." Pitt nodded at Lasky. "Take us down. Let's hope we can get lost in the seafloor geology."

  "I'll need sonar to avoid striking an outcropping."

  "Keep it locked on the sub," Pitt ordered. "Use the lights and TV monitors. We'll eyeball it."

  "This is insane," said Quayle.

  "If we were hugging the coast of Siberia do you think the Russians would hesitate to boot us where it hurts?"

  "Holy mother of Christ!" Lasky gasped.

  Pitt and Quayle froze, their eyes suddenly taking on the fear of the hunted as they stared at the green letters glowing on the display screen.

  Emergency: CRITICAL.

  New contact: Bearing one nine three.

  Speed: Seventy knots.

  Status: Collision imminent.

  Time to contact: One minute, eleven seconds.

  "They've gone and done it," Lasky whispered with the look of a man who had seen his tomb. "They've fired a torpedo at us."

  Giordino could almost smell the foreboding, and he could see it in the eyes of Dr. King and Admiral Sandecker as he burst through the door of the computer room.

  Neither man acknowledged his arrival or so much as glanced in the direction of the swarthy little Italian. Their full concentration was fixed on the huge electronic display covering one wall. Giordino quickly scanned and absorbed the readout on the impending disaster. "Reverse their forward motion," he said calmly.

  "I can't." King lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. "They've switched to control override."

  "Then tell them!" Giordino said, his tone suddenly sharp. "No way." Sandecker's words came strained and hollow.

  "There's a breakdown in voice transmission from the communications satellite."

  "Make contact through the computers."

  "Yes, yes," King murmured, a faint gleam of understanding in his eyes. "I still command their data input."

  Giordino watched the screen, counting the remaining seconds of the torpedo's run as King spoke into a voice response unit that relayed the message to the Doodlebug.

  "Pitt anticipated you," said Sandecker, nodding at the screen. They all felt a brief surge of relief as the forward speed of the submersible began to fall off.

  "Ten seconds to contact," said Giordino.

  Sandecker grabbed a telephone and bellowed at the shaken operator on duty. "Get me Admiral Joe Kemper, chief of naval operations!"

  "Three seconds…... two…... one."

  The room fell into hushed silence; all were afraid to speak, to be the first to utter the words that might become the epitaph of the submersible and its crew. The screen remained dark. Then the readout came on.

  "A miss," King sighed heavily. "The torpedo passed astern with ninety meters to spare."

  "The magnetic sensors can't get a firm lock-in on the Bug's aluminum hull," commented Sandecker. Giordino had to grin at Pitt's reply.

  Round one. Ahead on points.

  Any bright ideas for round two?

  "The torpedo's circling for another try," said King. "What's its trajectory?"

  "Appears to be running a flat path."

  "Have them turn the Doodlebug on her side, angling to a horizontal plane, keeping the keel toward the torpedo. That will reduce the strike area."

  Sandecker got through to one of Kemper's aides, a -lieutenant commander who told him the chief of naval operations was asleep and couldn't be disturbed. The aide might as well have thrown a pie at a freight train.

  "You listen
to me, sonny," Sandecker said in the intimidating tone he was famous for. "I happen to be Admiral James Sandecker of NUMA and this is an emergency. I strongly suggest you put Joe on the phone or your next tour of duty will be at a weather station on Mount Everest. Now move it!"

  In a few moments, Admiral Kemper's yawning voice slurred over the phone. "Jim? What in hell is the problem?"

  "One of your subs has just attacked one of my research vessels, that's the problem." Kemper reacted as if he'd been shot. "Where?"

  "Ten miles off the Button Islands in the Labrador Sea."

  "That's in Canadian waters."

  "I've no time for explanations," said Sandecker. "You've got to order your sub to self-destruct their torpedo before we have a senseless tragedy on our hands."

  "Stay on the line," said Kemper. "I'll be right back to you."

  "Five seconds," Giordino called out.

  "The circle has narrowed," King noted.

  "Three seconds…... two…... one."

  The next interval seemed to drag by as if in molasses while they waited. Then King announced, "Another miss. Only ten meters above this time."

  "How close are they to the seafloor?" Giordino asked.

  "Thirty- five meters and closing. Pitt must be trying to hide behind a formation of rock outcroppings. It looks hopeless. If the torpedo doesn't get them on the next pass, there's an odd son chance it'll tear a hole in the hull."

  Sandecker stiffened as Kemper returned on the line. "I've talked with the chief of arctic defense. He's putting through a priority signal to the sub's commander. I only hope he's in time."

  "You're not alone."

  "Sorry about the mix-up, Jim. The U.S. Navy doesn't usually shoot first and ask questions afterward. But it's open season on unidentified undersea craft caught that close to the North American shoreline. What was your vessel doing there anyway?"

  "The navy isn't the only one who conducts classified missions," said Sandecker. "I'm grateful for your assist." He rang off and gazed up at the screen.

  The torpedo was barreling through the depths with murder on its electronic mind. Its detonator head was fifteen seconds away from the Doodlebug.

  "Get down," King pleaded aloud. "Twelve meters to the bottom. Lord, they're not going to make it."