Phoenix Sub Zero

Still, the XO had his moments, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge of the boat and tactics. He was excellent at training, drilling the lessons into the officers. And strangely, Mcdonne was almost as good working a crowd as was Kane himself, his profane manner checked at the door of formal Navy functions. Kane had photos of Mcdonne at ship’s parties, his menacing look gone, a pleasing and jolly smile beaming out at the junior officers. Mcdonne was fundamentally different outside a nuclear submarine. If he could just manage to leave Becky Kane alone at their parties he would be redeemed in Kane’s eyes, but Mcdonne had a thing for Becky’s still impressive blonde beauty, and he just couldn’t quit.

All things considered, Kane and the ship functioned adequately with CB aboard, and Kane had heard from on high that he had amassed points with the brass for taking CB on without complaint. Kane looked up now at Mcdonne as the XO pushed in the forward door, his sides touching the port and starboard doorjambs as he stuffed himself in.

“I just got out of radio,” Mcdonne said. “You’d better see this.”

Mcdonne passed Kane the metal clipboard with the last message from the Augusta, the printout straight from the computer buffer after Phoenix had ascended to periscope depth ten minutes before on a routine trip to retrieve her message traffic from the commsat. Kane read the message and staring at the chart to the Strait of Sicily, his suspicions of the previous evening correct — the Destiny had sunk Augusta and might be coming their way.

Mcdonne looked disappointed in Kane’s reaction.

“What do you think about that?”

Kane looked at Mcdonne, his expression flat.

“I think, sorry to say, Rocket Ron made a mistake and paid for it.”

“Do you think the Destiny will come this far west?”

Kane shook his head. “No. He’s got to be going to the Atlas Front. That sub’ll broach its sail close in to the Algerian coastline, drop off Sihoud, then fade back to its port at Kassab. Two hours after he ties up to the pier a squadron of Stealth bombers will blow him to scrap metal.

No, I doubt we’ll even catch a sniff of him.”

“That’d be a damned shame,” Mcdonne said. “I’d like to put a Mark 50 right down his throat.”

Kane nodded, thinking that he had trained for this tactical situation his entire adult life, and now it might happen for real, outside of the sterile world of exercises. The sub had put Rocket Ron’s Augusta on the bottom of the Med, and no mere amateur could ever hope to do that. The Destiny-class submarine must be good, good enough to blow apart an Improved-688. Kane couldn’t help worrying about the chance an old Flight I 688 boat had against the Destiny.

“You know, XO, Augusta was damn near brand-new. She had all the latest stuff. Almost as good as a Seawolf-c}ass for acoustic detection range. And the Destiny plowed through her like she was a World War II diesel boat.”

Mcdonne nodded.

“Skipper, we know their tactics. He puts out a decoy, shuts down and hides. And when we attack the decoy he comes out of the baffles and shoots a volley.”

“So, CB, how the hell do we know if we’re following the decoy?”

“I guess the contact that shoots the torpedoes is the real submarine.”

“So we don’t know where he is until he puts weapons in the water, and if he’s shut down we still might not hear anything but the torpedoes — and by then it’s too late. Still think we’ve got an advantage?”

“We’re in trouble.”

“All we can hope for is that the Destiny makes a mistake or puts out a machinery rattle.”

“Wait a minute, sir. Ron fired off a volley of torpedoes at the Destiny. Maybe one of them hit him.”

“Did sonar have any explosions?”

“No … listen, Captain, if you think the Destiny will drop Sihoud off at the Algerian coast, maybe we should head east along the shoreline.”

“Can’t. cinc nav force med was specific — guard Gibraltar.

Kill the Destiny if he tries to come through. If he’s farther west, the P-3s or the Burke-class destroyers or the Vikings will nail him with sonobuoys, maybe force him our way.

Maybe put a hole in him with a Mark 52.”

“I think I’ll stop by sonar on the way to my stateroom, make sure the senior chief knows what we’re up against. I’d just as soon not die in my sleep.”

“Get some rack, XO.”

“Good night, sir.”

For a long time after Mcdonne ducked into sonar, Kane stared at the chart, wondering where the Destiny was hiding. And what his mission was.

WESTERN MEDITERRANEAN

The Hegira had passed Minorca and was approaching the invisible line linking Barcelona, Spain and Algiers. As the ship got closer to Gibraltar the sea began to narrow from 300 kilometers to 150 kilometers. It sounded broad but it was beginning to feel like a bathtub — land to the north and south, enemy fleets east and west.

Sharef walked from the chart table to the sensor consoles.