Night Probe! - Clive Cussler

Mercier stood rooted, a maddening certainty growing within him that he'd been had.

It had been an exhausting day for Sandecker. After his unexpected meeting with Mercier he fenced with a congressional budget committee until eight in the evening, hawking the goals and accomplishments of NUMA, appealing for, and in a few cases, demanding additional funding for his agency's operations. It was a bureaucratic chore he detested.

After a light dinner at the Army and Navy Club, he entered his apartment at the Watergate and poured himself a glass of buttermilk.

He took off his shoes and was beginning to unwind when the phone rang. He would have ignored it if he hadn't turned to see which line held the incoming call. The red light on the direct circuit to NUMA blinked ominously. "Sandecker."

"Ramon King here, Admiral. We've got a problem on the Doodlebug."

"A malfunction?"

"No such luck," replied King. "Our sweep systems have picked up an intruder."

"Is he closing with our vessel?"

"Negative."

"A chance passing by one of our own subs then," Sandecker suggested optimistically.

King sounded concerned. "The contact is maintaining a parallel course, distance four thousand meters. It appears to be shadowing the Doodlebug.

"Not good."

"I'll have a firmer grasp on the situation when the computers spit out a more detailed analysis of our unknown caller."

Sandecker went silent. He sipped at the buttermilk, his mind meditative. Finally, he said, "Call the security desk and tell them to track down Al Giordino. I want him in on this."

King spoke hesitantly. "Is Giordino acquainted with…... ah, does he…...?"

"He knows," Sandecker assured King. "I personally briefed him on the project during its inception in the event he had to substitute for Pitt. You'd better get on with it. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The admiral hung up. His worst fear had put in its appearance. He stared at the white liquid within the glass as if he could visualize the mysterious craft stalking the defenseless Doodlebug.

Then he set the glass aside and hurried out the door, unaware that he was still in his stocking feet.

Deep beneath the surface of the Labrador Sea not far from the northern tip of Newfoundland, Pitt stood in stony silence, studying the electronic readout across the display screen as the unidentified submarine skirted the outer fringes of the Doodlebug's instrument range. He leaned forward as a line of data flashed on. Then, suddenly, the display screen blinked out as contact was lost.

Bill Lasky, the panel operator, turned to Pitt and shook his head. "Sorry, Dirk, our visitor is a shy one. He won't sit still for a scan."

Pitt put his hand on Lasky's shoulder. "Keep trying. Sooner or later he's bound to step on our side of the fence."

He moved across the control room through the maze of complex electronic gear, his feet silent on the rubber deck covering. Dropping down a ladder to a lower deck, he entered a small room not much bigger than a pair of adjoining phone booths.

Pitt sat on the edge of a folding bunk, spread a blueprint on a small writing desk and studied the guts of the Doodlebug.

A diving deformity was the less than endearing term that ran through his mind when he first laid eyes on the world's most sophisticated research vessel. It looked like nothing previously built to prowl beneath the seas.

The Doodlebug's compact form lay somewhere south of ludicrous. The best descriptions anybody had come up with were "the inner half of an aircraft wing standing on end" and "the conning tower of a submarine that has lost its hull." In short, it was a slab of metal that traveled in a vertical position.

There was a reason for the unorthodox lines of the Doodlebug. The concept was a considerable leap in submersible technology. In the past, all mechanical and electronic systems had been built to conform within the space limitations of a standard cigar-shaped hull. The Doodlebug's aluminum shell, on the other hand, had been built around its instrument package.

There were few creature comforts for the three-man crew. Humans were essential only for emergency operation or repairs. The craft was automatically operated and piloted by the computer brain center at NUMA headquarters in Washington, almost three thousand miles away.

"How about a little medicine to clear the cobwebs?"

Pitt lifted his head and looked into the mournful bloodhound eyes of Sam Quayle, the electronics wizard of the expedition. Quayle held up a pair of plastic cups and a half pint of brandy, whose remaining contents hardly coated the floor of the bottle.

"For shame," said Pitt, unable to suppress a grin. "You know NUMA regulations forbid alcohol on board research vessels."

"Don't look at me," Quayle replied with mock innocence. "I found this work of the devil, or what's left of it, in my bunk. Must have been forgotten by an itinerant construction worker."

"That's odd," said Pitt.

Quayle looked at him questioningly. "How so?"

"The coincidence." Pitt reached under his pillow and pulled out a fifth of Bell's Scotch and held it up. The interior was half full. "An itinerant construction worker left one in my bunk too."

Quayle smiled and handed the cups to Pitt. "If it's all the same to you, I'll save mine for snakebite."

Pitt poured and handed a cup to Quayle. Then he sat back on the bunk and spoke slowly: "What do you make of it, Sam?"

"Our evasive caller?"

"The same," answered Pitt. "What's stopping him from dropping in and giving us the once-over? Why the cat-and mouse game?"

Quayle took a healthy belt of the Scotch and shrugged. "The Doodlebug's configuration probably won't complete on the sub's detection system. The skipper is no doubt contacting his command headquarters for a rundown on underwater craft in his patrol area before he pulls us over to the curb and cites us for trespassing." Quayle finished his drink and gazed longingly at the bottle. "Mind if I have seconds?"

"Help yourself."

Quayle poured himself a generous shot. "I'd feel much safer if we could pin a name tag on those guys.,"

"They won't come within range of our scan. What beats me is how they can walk such a fine line. They seem to dip in and out as if they were taunting us."

"No miracle," said Quayle, making a face as the Scotch seared his throat. "Their transducers are measuring our probes. They know within a few meters of where our signals die out."

Pitt sat up, his eyes narrowed. "Suppose…... just suppose?"

He didn't finish. He left his quarters at a half run, clawing his way up the ladder to the control room. Quayle took another swallow and followed. Only he didn't run. "Any change?" Pitt asked.

Lasky shook his head. "The uninvited are still playing cagey."

"Gradually fade the probes. Maybe we can draw them closer. When they step into our yard, hit them with every sensing device we've got."

"You expect to sucker a nuclear sub, manned by a first-rate professional crew, with a kindergarten trick like that?" Quayle asked incredulously.

"Why not?" Pitt grinned fiendishly. "I'll bet my snake medicine against yours they'll fall for it."

Quayle looked like a salesman who had just sold a waterfront lot in the Gobi Desert. "You're on."

For the next hour it was business as usual. The men went about their chores of monitoring the instruments and checking the equipment. At last Pitt looked at his watch and gestured in Lasky's direction. "Systems standby," he directed. "Ready systems," Lasky acknowledged. "Okay, nail the bastard!"

The data unit in front of them burst into life and the remote display swept across the screen.

Contact: 3480 meters.

Course: Bearing one zero eight.

Speed: Ten knots.

"He bit the hook!" Quayle couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. "We've got him!"