The Eighth Day
Page 42
“Tell me there’s a proximity safety fuse on that sucker!” Hiccock said to the sailor, who took the axe from his scorched hand.
“Better have the doc look at that hand, Sir.”
Hiccock inspected his blistered, singed hand, suddenly feeling the pain.
The sailor’s headset crackled. “Fifty-nine percent, Sir,” he reported to Hiccock.
“Cut the fiber-optic cables now!”
The sailor ran over to the cables lying across the tie-off cleat. He wielded the axe over his head and brought it crashing down on the cable bundle. They severed without a spark or sound, because they carried only light waves. Hiccock took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand as he headed down the ladder back to the ECM.
The president patted Hiccock on the shoulder. “Bill, there is no way to count all the lives you just saved with that bit of ingenuity. We saw it all on the monitor.”
Hiccock swiveled to see a row of TV monitors up on the bulkhead that showed every weapon system on the ship.
Tyler noticed his wrapped hand. “What happened?”
“I forgot it was a rocket.”
Janice kissed him on the cheek. “Congratulations. That’s the most illogical thing you could ever do!”
“We reached 59.7 percent before the fiber-optic cable was cut,” the Admiral said.
“Then we did it! We did it!” He hugged her then had to check, “We did do it, right?”
“59.7 means she can never regenerate.”
“Now onto part B,” Hiccock said as he nodded to the president.
“Captain, clear your ship of all but the most essential personnel. No more than ten.” The president used all fingers on both hands to reinforce the limited head count.
∞§∞
The bow and stern lines of the U.S.S. Princeton were cast off, those crewmembers themselves jumping onto the pier as they freed the ship. Mitchell wanted to be along for this part, but cooler heads prevailed and he acceded to the Secret Service’s advice. The captain personally worked the lateral thrusters, which pushed the ship away from the dock sideways. Then, when he felt he had enough room, he engaged the main engines and the ship accelerated through the light chop of San Diego harbor. He pushed the helm to full speed ahead, ignoring the five-miles-per-hour antiwake rules.
The president watched from the dock with Reynolds, as the ship, with his helicopter on it, steamed away from the naval base.
∞§∞
“Where are we going?” ALISON asked in Marilyn Monroe’s voice. Hiccock was surprised. “You know you are moving?”
“GPS sensors indicate southwest direction at twenty knots.”
“She’s trying to think,” Kronos said. “But she’s learning she doesn’t have the friggin’ core no more. It’s like she’s going senile.”
Hiccock left the ECM.
∞§∞
In the wheelhouse, the captain was at the helm. The Admiral stood next to him, watching the blue ocean sprawled out before them. The pointed bow of the modern cruiser sliced through the waves, leaving a minimal wake.
“Honored to have an Admiral on my ship, Ma’am. I apologize for not saluting, but you weren’t in uniform.”
“I was in the desert, tending to my garden two weeks ago.”
“They called you up to active duty?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I wasn’t recommissioned until today.”
With the expansive Pacific ahead and his hands on the helm, the captain had a pang of nostalgia for all things nautical. “What we are doing right now, Ma’am, it is the only way, right? I mean, this is necessary?”
“Captain, what we have captured here is the most dangerous machine ever built. And none of us, the president included, trusts anyone, even our own government, to leave it alone. It’s too tempting. That’s why we have to do this.”
“Ma’am, would you make the last entry into the ship’s log? You know, kind of make it official from an officer of flag rank.”
“It would be an honor, Captain.”
“Take the wheel then, Ma’am.”
“I haven’t even driven a car in thirty years.”
“No problem, just hold her steady while I get the log.”
Hiccock entered and smiled at seeing Henrietta at the helm. “Returning to your roots?”
“Not my roots. I was landlocked in Administration. The only time I was ever on a ship was on vacation.
The captain came in, handed the Admiral the logbook, and checked his navigation. “We are approaching the Pacific Trench. Deep water in one minute.”
“Signal the copter to start up.”
On Hiccock’s order, the captain radioed Marine One.
“Captain, let’s get your crew loaded.”
The captain turned the handle on a World War II–vintage device. A claxon horn started bellowing an augah, augah sound, signaling the crew to abandon ship.
“Mr. Hiccock, would you do the head count, Sir. Then have the chopper radio me back. I’ll set the sequences from here and then join you.”
The Admiral handed the logbook back to the captain, and she and Hiccock left. They made their way aft, joining the crew as they headed toward the copter.
∞§∞
The captain opened his shirt and removed a red key from around his neck. He walked over to a box on the wall, not unlike a fire alarm. He took a chain-attached hammer and broke a glass faceplate covering a turnkey switch and a three-position-selector knob. The selections were marked “Safe,” “Capture,” and “Scuttle.” He dialed the fishtailed black knob from the safe to the scuttle mode, then inserted and turned the key. Immediately a wailing siren was added to the “abandon ship” alarm. Simultaneously, a decimal readout started counting backwards from ninety seconds. He broke off the key in the lock-switch, took one more look around his command, then grabbed the logbook and scurried out the door and down the stairs to the main deck, high-stepping his way aft.
∞§∞
Two crewmembers were at each strut of the Marine chopper’s wheels.
Hiccock extended his hand as the captain boarded the chopper, shouting to him above the rotor noise. “Eight of your men are in the cabin, the two on the struts, my three, and you. That’s fourteen. We are good to go!”
The captain signaled the two sailors manning the struts to release the hold-downs. The portside strap released and that sailor climbed aboard. But the starboard side was not freeing up.
“Are we clear?” the pilot yelled over the engine noise of the open cabin.
“No,” Hiccock said.
The captain jumped down and joined the sailor in trying to free the strap.
“It’s not made for this big a bird, Sir, just Navy Stallions and Bells.”
The problem was that the starboard side of Marine One had a built-in step for the president’s comfort. This added dimension stretched the hold down to its limit just to lock in place. The copter, having shifted on the rolling deck, placed even greater strain on the strap. The quick-release buckle was fail-safed not to open under positive pressure; it had to be slack for the buckle to give.
The decimal readout on the bridge started red strobe lights flashing all around the ship as it counted down below the thirty-second mark. Seeing this, Hiccock jumped down from the chopper and ran over to the fantail access way. He grabbed the fire axe with his bandaged hand and returned to the chopper.
“Make way.”
He slammed the axe down on the composite resin-and-fiber belt. It snapped apart.
“We’re clear! Go. Go. Go,” the captain yelled, as he and his man scrambled into the chopper as it lifted off. Janice screamed because Hiccock was nowhere to be seen.
The ascent was stomach-wrenching. The huge Sikorsky engines at full power and maximum pitch of the rotor blade made the big machine rocket up at 5,000 feet per minute. With less than ten seconds until the ship below them self-destructed, it was not a comfortable speed. All they could do was ride it out and pray.
Jani
ce’s screaming for Bill was not heard over the engine’s roar. She started to tear at her seat belt, which caught the captain’s eye as he suddenly realized what she was yelling about. He scanned the small cabin and didn’t see Hiccock. As he lunged toward the open door, a bandaged hand appeared and flopped onto the cabin floor. The captain and a sailor hauled Hiccock in and shut the door.
“Sorry. Kind of forgot you there for a second,” the captain said.
“Geez, thanks a lot.”
They felt it before they heard it. The chopper jumped up from the shock wave as the first of the demolition charges went off. The 3,000 rounds of the five-inch ammunition blasted the turreted forward-deck gun up 700 feet in the air, almost as high as they had climbed, though in a different trajectory. The whole ship disappeared in an explosion of orange flame and black smoke.
The pilot shouted, “Everyone hold on, we’re too close.”
The chopper’s blades were grabbing for air, which was denied by the blast wave emanating from the ship. Without air, Marine One took on the aerodynamics of a wall safe. It plunged back down. The pilot fought hard to bring his chopper over the blazing ship in a last-second gamble. The huge helicopter suddenly buffeted and jerked as it caught the thermals rising from the now-incinerating ship. Like an eagle gliding upward, the blades now had something to dig into and again the copter started to rise.
The stern of the ship rose up from the water and slipped below the waves on its final journey down into the eight-mile-deep Pacific trench.
∞§∞
The chopper landed on the heliport back at San Diego Naval. The president and Reynolds greeted Hiccock and his people.
The captain walked over to the president, snapped the salute of his career, and handed the logbook over to him. “Sir, the U.S.S. Princeton was scuttled at sea, by your order at 2100 hours. No hands were lost.”
“Thank you, Captain. You have served your country and mankind well.”
“Let’s go home,” Tyler said to Hiccock, kissing him.
“Hmmph!” the president said, thumbing through the logbook.
“What?” Hiccock asked.
Mitchell turned the logbook so Hiccock could read the final entry by Admiral Parks: “Ship had to be destroyed. Had a bug in it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IT SEEMS LIKE YOU WRITE a book alone, but trust me, within these pages is the essence and dedication of every teacher who challenged my wandering focus. My English teachers, Mr. Green, Mr. Zimmerman, and Hilda Gore who, in her spare time, took kids from the South Bronx to Lincoln Center and opened us up to “culture.” To Al Alteri who taught me music and life lessons not in any book and to Joe White who taught me how much I didn’t know about humility. And Ron Silber who turned me inside out, thus letting the beauty of the world of words in. To Adrian J. Meppen who taught journalism but majored in confidence building that took me to incredible heights. And my science and math teachers who fed and nourished my hunger for answers, Mrs. Isrealoff, Mr. Kulick, Mr. Benson, Mr. Burger, Mr. Schoenfeld, and Irv Binger—great people who understood the wonders of the universe.
To those who guided me with their advice, counsel, and grammar through the birthing process of this book: Kristine Bascom, Kathleen Connolly, and Helen Eisenman. To Linda Ardigo who suffered the labor pains of the first draft. To my secret weapon in the war against boring prose, Lou Aronica of the Fiction Studio whose velvet-gloved guidance compelled me to write a better book, without one word of criticism. To all the guys I grew up with in the Bronx who may recognize a few things, “You got a problem with that?” And to Monta, who just makes me the luckiest guy in the world every time she smiles. In no small part, she is directly responsible for this book coming to publication.
Then my mastermind group: Sid Paterson for his wisdom, support, and friendship throughout the decades; to Dana Matthow for his friendship and generosity in backing my earlier endeavors; and to Peter Insalaco for being my moral and spiritual compass through the fog of life. Mike Miklos for the military accuracy, Stephen Cagliostro for the medical, and John Weaver for exposing me to Washington. Len Watson for his input and excellent advice; Peter Kessleman for science methods; and Steve Cohen, who suggested I write this book in the first place.
The additional scenes included in this Author’s Preferred Edition of the Eighth Day were edited by Jackie Baron McCue and the manuscript prepared for publishing by Stephanie Bartosiewicz.
TOM AVITABILE, a Senior VP/Creative Director at a New York advertising firm, is a writer, director, and producer with numerous film and television credits. He has an extensive background in engineering and computers, including work on projects for the House Committee on Science and Technology, which helped lay the foundation for The Eighth Day. In his spare time, Tom is a professional musician and an amateur woodworker. He recently completed his third novel in the William “Wild Bill” Hiccock, Quarterback Operations Group series.
The Eighth Day
Tom Avitabile
Author
Tom Avitabile Publisher
The Fiction Studio Copyright
Copyright (c) 2008, 2012 by Thomas Avitabile
ISBN
9781936558490