Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  "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."

  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 twi
sted 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."

  "On our way." Mercier motioned toward the door. "Shall we?"

  They stepped into the White House cabinet room. A blue rug matched the drapes and on the north wall a portrait of Harry Truman peered from above the fireplace. The President sat at the center of a huge oval mahogany table, his back to the terrace overlooking the rose garden. Directly opposite, the vice president scratched notes on a pad. Admiral Kemper was present as was Secretary of Energy Dr.

  Ronald Klein, Secretary of State Douglas Oates and the Director of Central Intelligence, Martin Brogan.

  The President came over and greeted Sandecker warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you, Admiral. Please sit down and get comfortable. I believe you know everyone present."

  Sandecker nodded and took a vacant chair at the end of the table. He sat alone and distant from the others.

  "Now then," the President said for openers, "suppose you tell us about your mysterious Doodlebug."

  Dirk Pitt's secretary, Zerri Pochinsky, walked into the computer room with a cup of coffee and a sandwich on a tray. The rims of her hazel eyes were watery. She found it difficult to accept the fact of her boss's death. The shock of losing someone so close had not fully settled about her. It would come later, she knew, when she was alone.

  She found Giordino straddling a chair, his elbows and chin nestled on the backrest. He was staring at the row of inert computers.

  She sat down next to him. "Your favorite," she said softly. "Pastrami on wheat."

  Giordino shook his head at the sandwich but drank the coffee. The caffeine did little to relieve the frustration and anger of having had to watch Pitt and the others die while he stood helpless to prevent it.

  "Why don't you go home and get some sleep," Zerri said. "Nothing can be accomplished by staying here."

  Giordino spoke as if in a trance. "Pitt and I went back a long way."

  "Yes, I know."

  "We played high-school football together. He was the shrewdest, most unpredictable quarterback in the league."

  "You forget, I've been present when you two reminisced. I can almost give you an instant replay."

  Giordino turned to her and smiled. "Were we that bad?"

  Zerri smiled back through her tears. "You were that bad."

  A team of computer technicians came through the door. The man in charge came over to Giordino.

  "Sorry to interrupt, but I have orders to break down the project and move the equipment to another section of the departments."

  "Erase-the-evidence time, is it?"

  "Sir?"

  "Did you clear this with Dr. King?"

  The man solemnly nodded his head. "Two hours ago. Before he left the building."

  "Speaking of home," said Zerri. "Come along. I'll do the driving."

  Obediently Giordino rose to his feet and rubbed his aching eyes. He held the door open and gestured for Zerri to exit first. He started to follow her, but suddenly stopped on the threshold.

  He came within a hair of missing it. Later, he could never explain why an unfathomable urge made him turn for one final look.

  The wink of light was so brief he would have missed it if his eyes hadn't been aimed in the right direction at the right moment. He shouted at the technician who had just switched off the circuits. "Turn them back on!"

  "What for?" demanded the technician.

  "Damn it, turn the circuits back on!"

  One look at Giordino's scowling features was enough. There was no argument this time. The technician did as he was told.

  Suddenly the room lost all dimension. Everyone recoiled as though witnessing the birth of some grotesque apparition. Everyone except Giordino. He stood immobile, his lips spreading in a surprised, joyous smile.

  One by one, the computers returned to life.

  "Let me get this straight," said the President, his face clouded with doubt. "You say this Doodlebug of yours can see through ten miles of solid rock?"

  "And identify fifty-one different minerals and metal traces within it," Sandecker replied without blinking an eye. "Yes, Mr. President, I said exactly that."

  "I didn't think it was possible," said CIA Director Brogan. "Electromagnetic devices have had limited success measuring the electrical resistivity of underground minerals, but certainly nothing of this magnitude."

  "How is it a project of such importance was researched and developed without presidential or congressional knowledge?" asked the vice-president.

  "The former president knew," Sandecker explained. "He had a fancy for supporting futuristic concepts.

  As I'm sure you're aware of by now, he secretly funded an undercover think tank called Meta Section. It was Meta Section scientists who designed the Doodlebug. Wrapped in security, the plans were given to NUMA. The President arranged the bankroll, and we built it."

  "And it actually works?" the President pressed.

  "Proof positive," Sandecker answered. "Our initial test runs have pinpointed commercially obtainable deposits of gold, manganese, chromium, aluminum and at least ten other elements including uranium."

  The men around the table had a varied display of expressions. The President looked at Sandecker strangely. Admiral Kemper's face was impassive. The rest stared in open disbelief.

  "Are you suggesting you can determine the extent of the deposit as well as an appraisal of its worth?"

  Douglas Oates asked dubiously.

  "Within a few seconds of detecting the element or mineral, the Doodlebug computes a precise evaluation of ore reserve data, projected mining costs and operating profits and, of course, the exact coordinates of the location." If Sandecker's audience had appeared skeptical before, they looked downright incredulous now. Energy Secretary Klein asked the question that was on everyone's mind.

  "How does the thing work?"

  "The same basic principle as radar or marine
depth sounders, except that the Doodlebug transmits a sharply focused, concentrated pulse of energy straight down into the earth. This high energy beam, similar in theory to a radio station that broadcasts different sound tones over the air, throws out various signal frequencies that are reflected by the geological formations it encounters. My engineers refer to it as sweep modulation. You can compare it to shouting across a canyon. When your voice hits a rock wall, you get a distinct echo. But if there are trees or foliage in the way, the echo comes back muffled."

  "I still don't understand how it can identify specific minerals," said a confused Klein.

  "Each mineral, each element in the makeup of the earth resonates at its own peculiar frequency. Copper resonates at about two thousand cycles. Iron at twenty-two hundred. Zinc at four thousand. Mud, rock and sand shale each have an individual signature that determines the quality of the signal that strikes and reflects off its surface. On a computer display, the readout looks like a vivid cross-section of the earth, because the various formations are color-coded."

  "And you measure the depth of the deposit by the signal's time lag," Admiral Kemper commented.

  "You're quite right."

  "Seems to me the signal would weaken and become distorted the deeper it goes," said Mercier.

  "It does," admitted Sandecker. "The beam loses energy as it passes through the different earth layers.

  But by recording each encounter during the penetration, we've learned to expect and recognize the deviant reflections. We call this density tracking. The computers analyze the effect and transmit the corrected data in digital form."