"All right, let's go through the procedure one more time. Maybe we missed something."
He reached over to pick up the discarded tech manual to go back to the beginning. Then the engineer noticed something. The book had fallen open to the description section, the part of the manual that gave a simplified explanation for non-technicians. That section was many pages in front of the troubleshooting and repair sections they had been using.
There, at the bottom of the page, his eyes fell on an innocuous little note: "If the VPI sensor is manufactured by TRW, the terminal numbering is reversed from the drawings and procedures in this manual."
Kuhn looked hard at Waters.
"Bert, who made that sensor?"
Waters sorted through a bag of trash and pulled out the box the part had come in. He held it up so Kuhn could see it. Prominently stenciled across the top of the box were the words: "Manufacturer: TRW, Inc."
"There's the problem!” He paused for a moment as the realization of what had to happen next hit him. “Bert, we have to go back into that reactor compartment."
Kuhn pulled himself erect and walked back up into the reactor compartment tunnel, his legs still wobbly beneath him. Waters followed him.
"Eng, let me go do it. You’re still zapped from the last time."
"No, Bert. I know how it's laid out. I've been in there. Besides, I need you to be able to do the alignment. You wait here. Chief Bechtold will come in with me."
The engineer pulled the coveralls and gloves on again, then disappeared down the ladder, followed by the burly machinist chief, moving awkwardly in the protective gear. Kuhn stepped up to the sensor and immediately tossed off his gloves. Taking a deep breath, he grasped each lead, switching them around to the right order. The flesh on his hands sizzled and popped. He cried out, screaming from the pain, the tears almost blinding him. Still, he worked on. It took him twenty awful minutes to complete the task. Bechtold could only stand there, staring in disbelief, unable to do anything to assist other than helping to brace the engineer against the continual rocking of the boat.
Finally the last lead was in place and tightened. Like Chief Hendrix before him, Kuhn fell to his knees once he was finished, clutching his charred hands. He stumbled, half-crawling to the ladder, shaking off Bechtold's attempts to help him. He clawed his way up the metal ladder and fell heavily through the doorway and onto the tunnel deck.
"It's fixed," the engineer gasped, then, mercifully, he passed out cold.
In another four hours, Spadefish was once again underway. The diesel was cooled down and quiet again. The battery was being re-charged. The ocean water four hundred feet below the surface was calm and she slid smoothly through the depths. Most of the crewmembers were resting, exhausted from the ordeal of the last twenty-four hours, the steady hum of the boat helping them sleep.
Jonathan Ward was wide-awake, though. He sat in the quiet wardroom with Joe Glass and the corpsman.
"How are they, Doc?" he asked, his concern for Kuhn and Hendrix etched on his face.
The buffet along the inboard bulkhead was still stacked high with piles of medical dressings, stainless steel trays of surgical equipment, and the other paraphernalia of an emergency operating room. The operating table lights still hung from the overhead above the wardroom table.
Doc Marston took a swallow of coffee.
"They're both sedated now. Their hands are going to hurt like hell for a while. You know how painful burns can be. Both of ‘em have deep third-degree burns over most of both hands. They'll have scarring when the burns heal. I’d say they’ll both need to have a good bit of reconstructive surgery." He looked at his own hands, lost in thought for a long moment. "Infection and shock are our biggest worries right now."
Glass looked over at the corpsman.
"Do we Medevac them right away?"
Marston shook his head.
"They're stable now. Treatment isn't life threatening."
"Thanks, Doc. I agree," Ward said. He pointed upward, toward the ocean’s surface above them. "And that storm up there would make any Medevac a dangerous proposition for everyone involved right now. Doc, do whatever you can do to make them as comfortable as possible. We'll get them off the boat when the storm blows out. By then we should have found that lousy rust bucket for John Bethea." Ward rose to leave. As he walked out, he added, "XO, tell Chris Durgan he's acting engineer. He's certainly proved he can handle it."
“Aye, skipper.”
“Now, let’s go find us a mad dog and put it out of its misery.”
The skipper of Spadefish was gone.
34
Ken Temple reached over to tap Tom Kincaid on the shoulder, trying to get his attention. It was impossible to talk inside the noisy Bell Jet Ranger helicopter without an intercom. The one at Kincaid's seat didn't work. The Seattle Police Department bean counters had been cutting cost on maintenance again.
“What’s next?” Temple grumbled, though he knew Kincaid couldn’t hear a word he said. “They gonna ration bullets? Only three per shoot-out allowed?”
The two cops had requisitioned the chopper when John Bethea called for a search for the missing mini-sub and its suspected load of coke. When they mentioned Bethea and the JDIA, the paperwork was approved instantly and they were airborne before they knew it. They spent every minute of daylight flying up and down the hundreds of inlets and coves along the lower Puget Sound. They had only sore butts and ringing ears to show for it.
Kincaid lowered the binoculars and leaned back in the open window to hear what his friend had to say. Temple yelled to be heard.
"Tom, Coast Guard called. They got a SAR beacon activated over on Carr Inlet. That storm out at Cape Flattery has them all tied up pulling fishermen outta the drink. They want us to swing over and take a look."
Kincaid nodded. He had seen his share of the SAR buoys on the Coast Guard boats he had ridden. He had even tracked one druggie who had a habit of tying them to the mangled body parts of informants and leaving them floating in the Gulf of Mexico for the DEA to find. Still, he doubted there was anything to this one. Not that far down in the narrow waters of the Sound.
"Probably just one fell over the side. Some party boater kicked it overboard reaching for the beer cooler."
"Yeah, but it's only five minutes over there with this thing. May as well see what’s going on."
Kincaid felt the Jet Ranger bank and tilt as it gained speed, heading to the north. The sun was up and already beginning to burn off the early morning haze, even though it still lingered lazily among the towering spruce trees. They had been flying fruitless circles for over two hours now. It was almost time to head for SEATAC to refuel and grab some breakfast. This little detour was almost directly on the way.
“What’s that?” Kincaid asked, pointing to the buildings hiding in the trees along the shoreline in the cove they were approaching. Temple read his lips.
“Some kind of old Navy lab. Been closed for years. Abandoned.”
The pilot watched his GPS as he brought the chopper to a hover fifty feet above the exact coordinates the Coast Guard station had sent them. Kincaid and Temple leaned out, searching for any signs of the SAR buoy. The pilot started to move the chopper in a slowly expanding spiral search pattern around the coordinates.
Ken Temple saw it first.
A red plaid shirt floating just beneath the surface. The detective had pulled enough bodies from the drink in his day to recognize what this was.
There was no accidental SAR activation.
Someone had died here.
Barry Jones watched the Cyclone’s radarscope intently. Another contact, bearing two-five-seven, range twenty miles. Could this one be the Helena K? The patrol boat had stopped ten ships so far this morning already and raised the hackles of a captain or two. None had matched the pictures Jones held, though. He would be happy when they had that ship in tow and were heading home.
There were worse places to be than out here on a morning like this one. The air was co
ol, the sea calm now that the storm had blown to the east.
Jones picked up the microphone.
"Suspect contact. Man the small boat boarding party."
He watched as some of his crew ran out on deck to take stations at the two 25mm Bushmaster cannons. There was no reason to expect they would need to use them. Even drug smugglers gave in quickly when they saw how well armed Cyclone was. Her guns commanded respect.
The speaker above his head blasted a reply.
"Skipper, XO. Small boat party manned and ready. I'm leading the party. Ready to lower the RHIB on your order."
Everything was going according to the book. Jones liked that. Keep the surprises to a minimum. Follow procedure. Complete the mission.
Then go home safely.
Ray Mendoza leaned back after staring hard at the sonar screen for a full five minutes. His mind was made up. He reached for the microphone.
"Conn, sonar. Contact sierra nine-two is definitely our old friend, the Helena K. We've listened to that trash hauler enough that I'd recognize her in my sleep." Mendoza watched the traces on the screen for a few more seconds. "Now, the other guy? Contact sierra nine-three is running four five-bladed screws. My guess is it’s a Cyclone-class PC. He's moving pretty fast. I'd say turns for twenty-five knots. Oh, and the traces are converging."
Jon Ward glanced over at Joe Glass and allowed himself a small grin. The XO had his team busy tracking the two contacts as the dimly lit control room buzzed with activity. Glass looked up from the navigation plot and nodded in Ward’s direction.
"Skipper, we have a solution. Confirm what sonar just reported. The two are definitely converging. Estimated range fifteen thousand yards. Looks like the PC is dropping in for a bite of lunch with our old friends on the Helena K."
"Well, Joe, why don’t we just go up and watch. I'd like to have a good seat so I can see this sucker go down." Ward turned to Beasly, standing by the periscopes. "Nav, make your depth six-two feet."
The Helena K sat there on the horizon, just coming into view from the bridge of the Cyclone. No doubt about it. She exactly matched the picture Barry Jones held. Jones grabbed the marine band radio microphone and checked that its dial was on channel sixteen. He pushed the key and started talking.
"Helena K, this is the United States Coast Guard. Come to ‘All Stop.’ Stand by to receive a boarding party. Over."
Jones waited for a moment. No response. He repeated himself.
The freighter's bow swung around sharply. Black smoke belched from its stack as it picked up speed. The crazy son of a bitch was going to attempt to out run the Cyclone.
Jones smiled. That was a very foolish thing to do. He figured that he had at least a fifteen knot speed advantage on the freighter. The skipper of that old bucket was only delaying the inevitable.
He reached down and pulled the throttle control to “All Ahead Flank.” The Cyclone jumped ahead obediently as her four screws bit into the sea and propelled her forward.
Jones spoke into the microphone again.
"Helena K. Helena K. This is the United States Coast Guard. Heave to or we will fire."
Jones could see the furious churning of the Helena K's single screw as she tried vainly to push the old tub faster. He punched the station selector button on the intercom for the forward gun mount.
"Forward mount, fire a warning burst off her bow."
The gun trained around to point in the direction of the fleeing merch and promptly barked. The air tore as the shots whistled over the freighter. A row of three geysers erupted two hundred yards ahead of her.
The freighter's screw stopped and she coasted to a halt. Jones heard a deep voice with a northern European accent on his radio. The man was trying to sound outraged, but Jones doubted the tremble in his voice was from anger.
"Coast Guard, this is the Helena K. What is the meaning of this? We are in international waters. This is a Russian flagged ship under charter to the Peoples Republic of Korea. Why are you attacking us? You have no jurisdiction here."
"Captain, stand by to be boarded,” Jones answered. “We will search your vessel. I request your cooperation, but we will search you without it if necessary."
There was no reply.
The Cyclone closed the distance between the two ships quickly and glided to a stop with the Helena K five hundred yards off the patrol boat's starboard beam. Both Bushmasters swung out to train on the unarmed ship.
This was nothing new. Jones and his crew had done dozens of these boardings up here in the Northwest. It was rare to have to fire off a shot across their bow as they had this morning. It was only necessary to pull up alongside and show them their teeth. No one was ever foolish enough to try to run. Or open fire. Most of these guys were merely hired hands, more than willing to take a little jail time rather than face the wrath of the Coast Guard’s guns.
Jones glanced aft to see the RHIB slide down the boat ramp with the boarding party. Its big twin outboards roared to life and it shot toward the Helena K, the XO sitting up in the bow like the painting of Washington crossing the Delaware.
The eight Chinese men fanned out from behind one of the cargo containers on the merchant ship’s deck. They pointed their shoulder-fired missiles directly at the Cyclone.
The last thing Commander Barry Jones saw was the burning trail of the missile flying directly into the wheelhouse of the Cyclone. The blinding flash tore the wheelhouse apart.
Two other perfectly aimed missiles tore into each Bushmaster mount and exploded. The other three missiles ripped into the superstructure of the Cyclone and turned her into little more than a burning hulk.
The XO stood in the RHIB with his mouth agape, disbelieving. His ship was now burning from a dozen fires back there where he had just left. He could make out dead or wounded shipmates hanging from the wreckage while others tried to drag themselves clear of the fires. He turned to yell to the coxswain to get them out of there.
He was a second too slow.
Two more of the Chinese opened fire with a 23mm machine gun. The cannon slugs tore through the XO's back and exited his chest before exploding into the bottom of the RHIB. Other bullets ripped through the rest of the defenseless men on the craft.
In ten seconds, the boat was sinking.
Serge Novstad watched the savage attack in horror from the ship’s bridge. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was a simple smuggling run. If they got caught, so what? His money would be in his Swiss account gathering interest while he served a pittance of jail time. Then he’d be out and back in Stockholm, living the good life until the next job came along.
"You stupid sons of bitches! What have you done? You've just killed us all."
The leader of the Chinese gunmen looked up from the main deck, a chilling smile on his face, and shouted up to the captain.
"We have done our duty. We have protected Master Sui's property, just as he directed!" He turned and ordered his men to reload their weapons. Turning back to Novstad, he yelled, "Now Captain, I suggest we move closer so we may ensure there will be no survivors to tell anyone what happened here. Then we’ll steam on to the rendezvous with the mini-sub as planned."
The Swede took another big slug from the bottle of Scotch he held in his hand. He tried to wash away the images he had just witnessed.
Earl Beasly walked Spadefish’s periscope in a slow circle, watching the water of the blue Pacific flash past. The only sound he heard was the COB calling out the depth change.
"One-one-zero feet…one-zero-five feet...one hundred feet…"
Then he heard words that sent a chill up his spine.
"Conn, sonar. Picking up loud explosions on the bearing of sierra nine-two and nine-three!" Mendoza's voice echoed around the quiet control room. "Sounds like sierra nine-three's engines have stopped."
Ward shouted, "Nav, get us up quick! Someone's shooting up there!"
Chief Roddie Macallister dragged himself from the ruins of the after deckhouse on the Cyclone. His legs didn’t want to wo
rk. He reached down to brush away whatever it was that was stinging his left thigh. His hand came away covered with something wet and sticky. Macallister stared in amazement at the bright red blood dripping from his fingers. There was a gaping gash across his thigh, his leg almost severed. He had seen wounds like this before. The only way to keep from bleeding to death was to apply a good, tight tourniquet. He ripped off his shirt, wrapped it around his leg just above the wound, and twisted it as tight as he could manage.
The bleeding slowed. He felt woozy, dizzy, but he would make it. He'd seen worse. Now, he had to figure out what the hell had happened.
Then the deep, low rumble of a heavy machine gun drowned out the crackling of the fires that blazed all around him. Macallister stuck his head around the corner of the deckhouse. He could see the machine cannon on the merchant's main deck firing into the Cyclone. He stared in horror.
Then Macallister understood. They intended to sink the Cyclone, to make sure there were no witnesses to this cruel ambush.
He ducked behind the meager cover of the aluminum deckhouse.
He remembered the bridge-to-bridge radio in the other RHIB. If he could just get to it.
Macallister slithered along as best he could. He headed aft across the unprotected deck to reach the boat well. He prayed they couldn’t see him. He made it, hiding behind the bullet-stitched remains of the second RHIB. The splintering gunfire moved on past him. He reached in and fished around until he found the radio transceiver. It wasn't damaged. It didn’t have much power output, but it was his only hope.
He switched it on and verified that it was on channel sixteen.
"Any ship, any ship. This is the Coast Guard ship Cyclone. Mayday! Mayday! We are under attack. We are under attack by an armed freighter. Our position is approximately one-three-one west longitude, four-seven-point-five north latitude. Someone please help us. They're machine-gunning the survivors. We're defenseless."
Final Bearing Page 43
