Survivalist - 15.5 - Mid-Wake Read online

  As the auto focus of the binoculars took over, he was able to see the Chinese camp clearly. A defensive perimeter had been established, but it appeared that there was little happening. Mortars were being fired into it by two mortar teams located well out of range of conventional small-arms fire. There was no sign of the gas trucks.

  He asked himself what Otto Hammerschmidt would have done.

  The answer was obvious. Move the camp while they waited for Chinese and German reinforcements to arrive and safely escort the gas out of the range of Soviet influence. But he would have maintained the original Chinese camp for appearances’ sake. There seemed to be sporadic machine-gun fire coming from the Chinese

  camp, aimed uselessly toward the mortar emplacements that were pounding it.

  And if he wanted to find out what had become of his wife, Annie, and the others, the most logical if least expeditious means seemed to be helping out the defenders of the Chinese camp below.

  Paul Rubenstein started back down the ridge. He could take the long way around the valley and come up behind the mortar emplacements. If he could strike quickly and if the Chinese still defending the camp caught on, there was a chance.

  He quickened his pace… .

  The gunfire from the original campsite was clearly audible, but the Soviet mortars sounded more loudly. As Annie Rubenstein stared down into the valley, she realized she was listening to her own future. The Soviet commander, Captain Grubaszikova, was killing two birds with one stone. First, taking care of the minor annoyance presented by the original camp and its few defenders. Second, sending a signal to Annie and the others here of what lay in store for them once the mortar emplacements at the base of the hill started to open up, once the machine-gun crews started to work.

  She turned her head quickly around, hearing running feet behind her. It was Otto Hammerschmidt. “Frau Rubenstein, Fraulein Doctor Leuden—I have been in radio contact with the original camp. They will not be able to hold out much longer.”

  Maria Leuden, crouched beside her in the rocks looking down over the base of the hill, asked, “Isn’t there anything we can do for them, Otto?”

  “There is nothing, Maria. And shortly we will be in the exact same predicament. The Chinese commander here has hit on a plan for some of us to exfiltrate the hilltop and work our way behind the forces in the valley below. Some of the Chinese, Liu, Rolvaag, and myself. If we can get in close enough before they detect our pres

  ence, we may have a chance. The question is, Annie— can you and Maria and Ma-Lin and the few Chinese soldiers here hold the hilltop while we work our way into position?”

  Annie smiled at the German commando. “Do we have a choice?”

  Hammerschmidt nodded once. “Good—I will let you know before we leave. So now, if you will excuse me, ladies,” and he was up and moving, in a low crouch at first and then to his full height.

  There was no reason to suppose his plan would work, Annie realized, but it was better than just sitting here and letting the Russians come and kill them like shooting fish in a barrel. It was an old expression, “shooting fish in a barrel.” And she suddenly wondered if anyone had ever really done such a disgusting thing. “Yuch!”

  “What?” Maria Leuden asked, staring at her oddly.

  “I was just thinking about fish.”

  “Fish?”

  “Never mind.” She returned her gaze to the base of the hill and the Russian forces there. The mortars could still be heard in the distance, pounding the first camp.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Jason Darkwood sat in the Island Class’s command chair. Fourteen other Soviet personnel had been captured and brigged, the missing Mr. Rourke had been reunited with Major Tiemerovna, and Major Tiemerovna, Mr. Rourke, and Corporal Harkness had brought both reactors to full power.

  He had appointed Sam Aldridge as acting First Officer, which was silly because the only person who knew anything about running a submarine aboard the vessel was himself—and perhaps Major Tiemerovna, who had said she knew how to sabotage one. Which might come in handy.

  “Sam—pull in deck security.” “Aye, Jason.”

  Darkwood cranked the chair right. “Communications—stand by for any signals from harbor control. Don’t answer to them, just listen to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re supposed to say, “Aye, Captain,” corporal. This is a naval vessel, remember?” “Yes, sir.”

  “Never mind.” He pushed the console button. He hoped it was the right one this time. “Engineering— reactors still stand at full power?”

  Natalia Tiemerovna’s rather lovely, accent-free English came back to him. “Everything is ready, Commander Darkwood. As far as any of us can tell.”

  “Gimme an educated guess, major.”

  “Educated guess—we have full power in both reactors.”

  “Wonderful—bridge out.” He looked down toward where Sam Aldridge stood over the plotting table. “Time for you and me to trade places.” Darkwood stood up and started down to the control deck. As Aldridge passed him, Darkwood grinned at him. “Lighten up—and all you’ve gotta do is exactly what I tell you to do. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Darkwood slid into the helmsman’s position. “Sam— order the deck crew to take in all remaining lines fore and aft and to clear the deck and notify me immediately as soon as the main hatch is closed.”

  “Right, Jase.”

  “Right, Jase,’ ” Darkwood repeated, just shaking his head. He flexed his hands over the controls.

  “They got all the lines cast off and the main hatch is secured.”

  “Marvelous.”

  He heard Corporal Bacon’s voice. “Hey, sir—the Russian harbormaster is throwin’ a fit. He’s demanding to know what we’re doing.”

  “He is, huh? Tell him to fuck off or the nearest Russian equivalent you can think of. Sam—tell engineering to sustain full power on both reactors and to listen for bells off my console. And for God’s sake to remember which bells mean which speeds.”

  “Gotchya.”

  Darkwood suddenly panicked that the two men he’d detailed to disconnect from the gangplank had forgotten. “Sam—just say everything I say—to engineering.”

  “Right, Jase—ready.”

  “Two-thirds power to portside bow thrusters now!” The dual rudders directly abaft the dual propellers of the Island Class vessels supposedly gave them magnificent low-speed control despite their enormity. But he’d never had one of the Island Classers to practice on before. “Full power on portside bow thrusters immediately and fifteen degrees right rudder, bring up to all ahead one third and hold it there.” He was sweating. “Communications—anything new and exciting?” “Same old shit, sir.”

  “Right. Sonar—the stuff making sense to you?”

  “I think so, sir,” Corporal Lang answered. Lang was an experienced underwater cartographer, the closest thing to a sonar man available.

  “Wonderful, corporal—tell you what. If anything funny starts happening, tell me, huh?”

  “Sure thing, sir—fact of the matter is, there’s some funny bumpy sounds against the hull.”

  Darkwood smiled. “Rest easy, corporal—that’s just the Russians shooting at us.” He turned his attention back to the plotter. “Sam—tell engineering to kill the bow thrusters and bring the rudder amidships.”

  “Right.”

  “Then tell ‘em to hold at all ahead one third.” He called back to Corporal Lang. “Lang—get me some bottom readings—if we get less than fifteen feet beneath the hull tell me quickly.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  Darkwood realized this was insane, but he had realized that earlier, so the revelation wasn’t startling to him. Apparently they hadn’t hauled the dock with them, which was a plus. “Sam—get the forward video composite up for me now.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Ask the computer—and hurry.”

  “Right.”

  “Sonar—h
ow we doin’?”

  “Pretty good, sir, I think—sounds like more bumpy things on the hull, though.”

  “Just keep an eye on the bottom and let me know if anything unfortunate’s about to happen.” He looked over his shoulder. “Bacon—anything on communications?”

  “They’re ordering us to stop, sir.”

  “Even after that nice thing you told them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Goes to show, huh—hang in there. Sam? Video?” “I think I got it coming—ha-ha! There it is!”

  There was full forward scan on the composite video, and what Darkwood saw matched some of the terrain beneath the lagoon that he remembered from the swim-in. He called for ten degrees right rudder and started working the diving planes. “Sam—tell engineering I need negative buoyancy.”

  “Negative buoyancy comin’ up, Jase.”

  Negative buoyancy was for going down, actually, but he didn’t bother confusing the issue. He asked for another fifteen degrees right rudder and as best he could tell he got it, the Island Classer going below, but the response so much more sluggish than the Reagan. He didn’t like a vessel that couldn’t be directly controlled from the helm either—it made for slow tactical responses. In his mind, in case he got out of this alive, he was logging away the details of how the Island Classer performed. They would come in handy the next time he met one in combat.

  He leveled the diving planes, starting the Island Classer into the sonar tunnel, not to avoid sonar detection—she was too big for that—but because he knew the terrain there. “Communications—switch to the Soviet emergency band and start repeating that code phrase just as soon as we’re out from under the dome. If the Reagan’s out there, Sebastian‘11 come running.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Finally, somebody was getting that right at least… .

  Sebastian had followed orders. “Communications— Lieutenant Mott, please broadcast the code phrase ‘bad luck’ to Mid-Wake. We should be just within maximum range for interception.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sebastian.”

  Margaret Barrow had been haunting the bridge before Sebastian had turned the Reagan for the open sea and since. He looked at her now. “Margaret—be of good faith. It would be hard to imagine a more competent officer than Jason Darkwood or Samuel Aldridge. We

  may get permission to return to the Pillars—” “Mr. Sebastian!”

  Sebastian rotated the chair. “Yes, Lieutenant Mott?”

  “I’m getting a distress signal off a Russian sub. It’s very faint and my range and direction finding almost puts it right outside the Russian domes.”

  “The nature of the signal, Mr. Mott?”

  “I can’t make out the words, Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Keep the code phrase going to Mid-Wake on automatic only so you can devote full attention to the Soviet distress signal.” He looked at Margaret Barrow. “May I suggest that you return to sick bay, commander? Since I may very shortly be taking the Reagan into combat, it might prove more advisable than waiting here.” He ignored her presence. “Warfare—ascertain that all systems are functional. What is torpedo status?”

  “Fore and aft, one through four, ready to go, sir.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant. Navigation—precede by most direct course toward the Russian domes at all ahead two thirds.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Engineering—reactor status?”

  “Port and starboard reactors full on line, Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Thank you, Commander Hartnett. Communications? What can you tell me?”

  “Sir, I’m getting a lot of jamming—but every once in a while, I’m making out a word.”

  “Which words are you making out, Mr. Mott?”

  “Something about ‘Johnny comes marching home,’ sir.”

  “Navigation, increase speed to all ahead full and hold there.” He already had full-forward video display and he fixed his eyes on the screen.

  Andrew Mott’s voice sang out. “Mr. Sebastian. Receiving coded transmission from Mid-Wake.”

  “Decrypt, Mr. Rodriguez.”

  “Computer decrypting, sir.”

  Jason Darkwood had used the final option they had discussed just before Jason’s departure. He had stolen a

  Russian vessel.

  Julie Kelly called to him. “Sir—I’m getting an Island Classer pursued by other Island Classers on long-range sonar.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He turned the chair to his left. “Warfare—arm all forward torpedoes.” He turned the chair another ninety degrees. “Computer?”

  “Decryption ready, sir.”

  He turned the chair facing forward again so he could visually monitor the screen, then summoned ship’s computer on the console on the chair. “Computer. This is First Officer Sebastian.”

  “Confirming voice print.” There was a pause which, though he realized it was of standard duration, seemed inordinately long. “Voice print confirmed.”

  “Text of decrypted message from Mid-Wake, please.”

  “Processing.” There was another pause. Then, “Attack Submarine Wayne en route to your position. Do nothing. Message ends.”

  “Thank you, computer.” He turned toward Andrew Mott. “Mr. Mott, use the scrambler—we don’t have time for encryption and decryption. Communicate to Mid-Wake that Commander Darkwood has apparently liberated the subject Major Tiemerovna and is proceeding from the domes in command of a Soviet Island Class submarine, and that he is being pursued. Then attempt direct contact with the Wayne and suggest to Commander Pilgrim that he might care to join us in assisting Commander Darkwood.”

  “An Island Classer, sir?”

  “Just relay the messages—and hurry, lieutenant.” “Aye, sir.”

  “Sonar—any change in the pattern?” “No, sir—except the first submarine is moving a little erratically.”

  “That is unfortunately to be expected, Lieutenant Kelly. The Captain is the only one of the raiding party who knows anything about maneuvering a vessel. Estimated time until rendezvous with the lead vessel, Naviga

  tor?”

  “Seventeen minutes at present course and speed, Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Bowman.” He stood up from the command chair and walked down the three steps and reached to the overhead. “For your information. This is the Bridge. The Captain is apparently commanding a Soviet Island Class submarine which has just left the domes and is being pursued by several Island Class vessels under Soviet command. The situation is under control and I will keep you advised. Move to Battle Stations. I repeat. Battle Stations. This is not a drill.” He switched off and hung up the microphone.

  Communications called to him. “Mr. Sebastian. The Wayne has already responded. John Rourke is aboard her. Commander Pilgrim sends his compliments and awaits your instructions, sir.”

  “Convey to the commander my compliments as well. Suggest that if he has not already done so, he should move to Battle Stations—stand by. Sonar—how many pursuit vessels—do you have that now?”

  “Aye, sir—four of them.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant. Communications—convey also to the Captain of the Wayne that the commandeered Island Class submarine is now confirmed as being pursued by four—I repeat, four—additional Island Class vessels. And please also convey my compliments to Doctor Rourke on his restored good health.”

  He studied the video composite—and he wished, with the Reagan going into battle, that Jason Darkwood were aboard her… .

  John Rourke stood beside the command chair on the bridge of the Wayne, watching her Captain, Commander Walter Pilgrim, with considerable admiration. The man was very good at running a submarine. The Communications Officer, a pretty red-haired girl named Maureen O’Donnell, was relaying a message. “… additional Is

  land Class vessels. And please also convey my compliments to Doctor Rourke on his restored good health.”

  Pilgrim told her, “Signal message received and understood. Wayn
e out.” Pilgrim’s chair rotated and he called to his First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Bruno Smith. “First Officer—order Battle Stations,” the short, stocky man said.

  “Aye, sir. Ordering Battle Stations now.”

  Pilgrim rotated his chair to face John Rourke. He ran both hands through his balding hair and his blue eyes smiled. “Appears that quick briefing we gave you on our scuba gear, as you call it, won’t prove necessary. Which is probably just as well. Just out of the hospital, I wouldn’t want to try it for the first time either, even if I were experienced in other diving techniques.”

  “What happens now?” John Rourke asked.

  “We go to Battle Stations and so does the Reagan. We intercept the Island Classers—”

  “Those are the big ones, right?”

  “Big is an understatement. But both the Reagan and the Wayne are well suited to outmaneuvering them and we’re faster, by a considerable margin. Jason Darkwood’s as good a skipper as they come. U anybody in our Navy could handle one of those suckers, he can. And, I’d venture to say, he’s got your Major Tiemerovna aboard with him. We’ll get in there and run interference for Darkwood—”

  “I take it that football isn’t a lost art at Mid-Wake?”

  “No—yeah, we play football—and some of us just used to.” Pilgrim laughed. “So—we run interference for Darkwood while he gets himself clear and gets the Island Classer to full speed. As long as we buy him about ten minutes and he’s got a straight course, the other Island Classers can never catch up to him.”

  “You make it sound easier than it is.”

  “Ohh, it won’t be easy, Doctor Rourke. Especially if that Island Classer’s got missiles, and knowing Jason, he wouldn’t have bothered snatching it if it hadn’t. The Soviets won’t want us looking at their little missiles.

  They’ll try to blow their own vessel out of the water before that.”

  John Rourke didn’t say anything more. He turned his eyes to the composite videoscreen, as it was called, and watched ahead of them. Natalia, he thought …