Night Probe! - Cussler Clive (онлайн книги бесплатно полные txt) 📗

"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."

Giordino's mind raced in search of options, but none were left. There was no escaping the inevitable this time. Unless the torpedo destructed in the next few moments, the Doodlebug and the three men inside her would lay in the sea forever.

His mouth felt dry as a sand pit He did not count down the seconds this time. In times of stress men perceive strange things that are out of place with unusual clarity. Giordino idly wondered why he hadn't noticed before that Sandecker wasn't wearing any shoes.

"It's going to strike this time," King said. It was a simple statement of fact, no more. His face was drained of all emotion, the skin pale as he raised his hands over his eyes and shut out all sight of the screen.

No sound came over the computers as the torpedo bore in on the Doodlebug. No explosion or shriek of metal bursting into twisted scrap came through the impassive computers. They were immune to the choked-off cries of men dying in the black and icy depths.

One by one the soulless machines shut down. Their lights blinked out and their terminals went cold. They stood silent.

To them, the Doodlebug no longer existed.

Mercier felt no sense of elation about what he must do. He liked James Sandecker, respected the man's candor and forthright manner of organization. But there was no dodging an immediate inquiry into the loss of the Doodlebug. He dared not wait and run the risk of a security breach that would bring the news media circling like vultures. He had to quickly formulate plans for bringing the admiral, and the White House, through the mess without a national outcry.

His secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Admiral Sandecker is here, sir."

"Show him in."

Mercier half expected to see a man haggard from lack of sleep, a man saddened by death and tragedy, but he was mistaken.

Sandecker strode into the room resplendent in gold braid and beribboned uniform. A newly lit cigar was firmly anchored in one corner of his mouth, and his eyes twinkled with their usual gleam of cockiness. If he was going under the magnifying glass, he was obviously going in style.

"Please have a seat, Admiral," said Mercier, rising. "The Security Council meets in a few minutes."

"You mean the inquisition," said Sandecker.

"Not so. The President simply wants to learn the facts behind the Doodlebug's development and place the events of the last thirty-six hours in proper perspective."

"You're not wasting any time. It hasn't been eight hours since my men were murdered."

"That's a bit harsh."

"What else would you call it?"

"I'm not a jury," said Mercier quietly "I want you to know I truly regret that the project didn't work out."

"I'm prepared to shoulder all blame."

"We're not looking for a scapegoat, only the facts, which you've been most reluctant to reveal."

"I've had my reasons."

"We'll be most interested in hearing them." The intercom beeped. "Yes?"

"They're ready for you."