Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

the area, they were about to pull away to a distance of ten nautical miles. Even then, they would make sure to stay in the other boat’s “baffles,” its “blind spot.” They would go up to periscope depth for an hour and perform a task as old as submarining itself, expelling bad air and taking in fresh air from the surface. Except for damaged or malfunctioning equipment, modern submariners rarely had to be concerned about the air they breathed. It was typically cleaner than what they inhaled back home in the suburbs.

Smith glanced over at the fire control solution and did some quick mental calculations. The easy tail on the Chinese boat had just become considerably more complicated.

“Yes, sir. I’ll slow to two knots and come broad to him. It’ll take an hour or so to open out to twenty thousand yards, but I’ll still be able to hold him on the sphere.”

Glass nodded his approval.

“Makes sense. Give me a call when you get out to twenty thousand yards and have cleared baffles. I’ll be in my stateroom.”

“Will do, Skipper,” Walt Smith responded. “By the way, if you have a few minutes, Chief Gromkowsky has the work plan to fix both scrubbers and number two burner. We aren’t going to be able to fix number one. Both Mr. Ronson and I are on watch, but we have approved the work packages. All we need is for Chief Gromkowsky to go over it with you.”

“Have him bring the package to my stateroom.”

Glass disappeared out the forward control room door only to find Gromkowsky already waiting for him outside the captain’s stateroom.

Joe Glass spent the next hour reviewing the intricacies of the Toledo’s atmosphere control equipment. Chief Gromkowsky’s plan for repairing the complex electronics appeared to be complete and well thought out. The only tricky part was using a red devil blower, normally employed for damage control, as a jury-rigged substitute for the burner’s installed but burnt-out fan.

Glass had just finished signing off on the repair procedures when his phone buzzed. So much for catching a quick nap!

“Captain, Officer of the Deck. I have opened Sierra Three-Five to twenty thousand yards and have completed a careful baffle clear. I hold one sonar contact, Sierra Three-Five. Request permission to come to periscope depth and ventilate.”

“I’ll be right there,” Glass answered.

He stepped out of his stateroom and into the control room. A quick glance at the BQQ-10 display confirmed what Walt Smith had reported.

“Officer of the Deck, proceed to periscope depth.”

“Proceed to periscope depth, aye,” Smith confirmed. The control room fell silent. “Dive, make your depth six-two feet. Raising number two scope.”

Bill Dooley, the chief of the watch, called out, “Speed six,” as Sam Wallich, the diving officer, replied at the same time, “Make my depth six-two feet, aye.”

Walt Smith reached up into the overhead and grabbed the big red ring. A quick jerk counterclockwise and the periscope started rising out of the ’scope well. When the eyepiece and training handles cleared, Smith snapped down the handles and peered through the eyepiece.

Wallich directed the helmsman and the planesman as they flew the big submarine up to periscope depth.

Minutes later the periscope broke the surface and Walt Smith was looking at a bright blue sea. And an even brighter blue sky. There was no sign of any ship or aircraft as far as he could see.

Within minutes, the submarine was ventilating, exchanging the contaminated air with clean outside air. Though no one had really noticed that the air in the ship was getting stale, the salty aroma was wonderfully refreshing.

Glass took a deep draw of the sea air. That was one reason he joined the Navy. The smell of that air and the adventure it promised a young kid.

“Conn, Sonar, lost Sierra Three-Five. Looks like he secured snorkeling.”

Glass closed his eyes and muttered an expletive under his breath. Rotten timing!

Then he ordered, “Mr. Smith, continue ventilating for an hour. Then make best covert speed to the Chinese rendezvous point. We’ll just have to catch him at the other end of his run.”

Ψ

Admiral Tom Donnegan sat back in his squeaky old chair. He stretched his chin toward the ceiling, put both arms above his head, and took deep breaths. Sometimes that relieved the burning in his gut. Not this time.

Dammit, this was getting bad. The wife kept nagging at him about it likely being an ulcer. Probably just too much coffee. Too many of those sugary crullers from the cafeteria. Too little beneficial sleep.

Much worse, though, and he might finally need to break down and see one of those sawbones up at Walter Reed. Last resort, though. He detested modern Navy medicine and avoided it whenever possible. But the discomfort had become a maddening distraction. And with the flare-ups and full-blown catastrophes stacked up on his ancient oak desk, he simply had to be able to give his full attention.

Things were only getting much more complicated. First, TJ Dillon had called out of the blue to warn him about Sam Talbot and an alleged Mossad involvement in the Ocean Mystery mess. So far, that whole line had come up maddeningly empty. His normal Mossad contacts would not even talk to him. And no one seemed to know where Sam Talbot had suddenly disappeared to. Top that off with the fact that nobody appeared to be any closer to finding the lost ship or her crew. The president, the Joint Chiefs, Congress, the United Nations, CNN...hell, even his own wife...were demanding answers. And he had none. Other than that, his belly felt as if he had swallowed a shovel full of hot coals and tried to douse the flames with gasoline.

About the only positive thing lately came when Bill Beaman called in from somewhere in the Pakistani tribal lands. He claimed to have nabbed a smashed-up laptop that he had reason to believe belonged to Nabiin, the elusive Prophet. They could only hope they could retrieve something besides Nabiin’s favorite porn sites from the damn thing.

Of course,