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"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."
