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"If I didn't know better," Quayle said thoughtfully, "I'd say he was setting for an attack."
Pitt looked at him. "Explain."
"Several years ago, I was a member of a design team that developed underwater weapons systems for the navy. I came to learn that a hunter-killer sub will come to flank speed and break away from the target prior to a torpedo launch."
"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."
