Phoenix Sub Zero

The ship followed the river until the Norfolk piers passed by on the starboard side, the Squadron Seven submarines lit by floodlights, the ships quiet. Further north, the destroyer and frigate piers, then the cruisers, and finally the giants, the aircraft carriers, their decks towering over the sail. They too faded astern as Pseudo made the turn to the east and entered Thimble Shoals Channel, a slender highway of lit buoys extending southeast to the vanishing point.

“Increase speed to flank,” Pacino ordered.

Pseudo smiled. “Speed limit in the channel is fifteen knots, sir.”

“Ask me if I care.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead flank.”

“BRIDGE HELM, ALL AHEAD FLANK, AYE, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL AHEAD FLANK.”

“BRIDGE, MANEUVERING,” Hobart’s voice rang out, even more peeved now that Pacino had ordered the flank bell without first lining up the circulation pumps. He now had to do an emergency procedure to lower plant power, start the pumps and bring the power back under control.

“COMMENCING FAST INSERTION … STARTING MAIN COOLANT RECIRC PUMPS …”

Aft the screw’s foamy wake boiled up as the ducted propulsor doubled its speed. The deck shuddered, more pronounced this time, as the bow wave rose, no longer smooth but full of phosphorescent foam, past the sail to amidships before breaking into the wake. The bow wave kicked up spray onto the bridge, the noise of it growing. The land, now some three miles distant in the widening bay, slipped past faster. By now the ship would be doing twenty-five knots.

“BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, ANSWERING ALL AHEAD FLANK.”

The sky ahead of them began to show signs of dawn’s approach, the clouds taking on a slight glow. Astern of Pacino the flag flapped in the wind of the ship’s motion, the bow wave shrieking, the wet wind deafening. Behind them the two periscopes rotated rapidly as the navigator took visual fixes on the way out, the radar mast rotating once every second. By the time the ship turned south into the exiting traffic-separation scheme, passing Virginia Beach, the sun had climbed above the horizon. Pseudo turned east, the ship finally clear of restricted waters. The land faded astern until only the tallest hotel buildings of the beach were visible. Then they too vanished and the ship was alone on the sea, the early morning vista nothing but dark blue ocean, clouds, patches of sky and the sun. Pacino checked his watch; by noon the ship would clear the continental shelf.

“I’m going below, Mr. Pseudo. Good job driving us out. Continue at flank to the dive point.”

“Aye, sir.”

Pacino lowered himself to the bridge, clapped Court on the shoulder and took one last look at the seascape, breathing in fresh air before consigning himself to the ship. Always before he had been able to laugh off the voice that said this lungful of fresh air might be his last, but this time there was someone, something out there waiting for him, some thing with an unknown purpose that was committed to his ship’s destruction. And the only thing standing between him and death was skill and heart—his own and his crew’s.

He climbed down the ladder into the belly of the ship, chiding himself for thinking too damn much.

Chapter 23 Tuesday, 31 December

EASTERN ATLANTIC

When Captain Kane walked through the hatch to the forward compartment he felt for the first time since

being fired upon by the Destiny that his ship might make it out of the near-sinking after all. It had been an hour since he and Mcdonne had resuscitated the reactor plant, which now idled at eighteen percent power, and waited for the order to spin the main engines. The atmospheric-control equipment had been started up, burning the carbon monoxide and hydrogen.

Mcdonne had started a high-pressure oxygen bleed and brought the oxygen generator — called the bomb for its production of oxygen and hydrogen from distilled water, the mixture highly explosive — up on the oxygen banks. Kane unplugged his air-mask hose and hurried to the hose station at the analyzer panel, a small cabinet that took air samples and examined the levels of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, hydrocarbons and other pollutants. He opened the face of the cabinet and rotated a selector switch to sample forward compartment upper level. All readings on pollutants were normal, though oxygen was high out of specification, which was okay. If anything, the oxygen content would help the crew wake up — those who were still alive. He wondered how many had died. Feeling a sudden anger at the Destiny, he hurried through the other compartment-level readings, all of them the same readouts as the upper level forward. He uncinched the rubber straps cutting into his sweat-soaked hair and pulled off the mask, tentatively breathing the ship’s air. He continued forward, stowed the mask in a cubbyhole and climbed the ladder to the upper level.

In the control room he could see that Lieutenant Houser was on his feet, rubbing his shoulder.