America by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page A

thirteen knots now.
    Warfield jabbed the button on the squawk box labeled Radio.
    â€œTell everyone in the world, flash immediate: We have fired a warning shot across America ’s bow and it was ignored.”
    When Warfield looked up, his XO was standing there, the finest naval officer he had ever been privileged to serve with, Lorna Dunnigan. He felt better just having her there. As usual, she got right to it.
    â€œWhat do you intend to do, Captain?”
    â€œI don’t want the responsibility for killing a bunch of Americans either,” Warfield admitted. “I want more facts before I pull any triggers.”
    *   *   *
    Vladimir Kolnikov was on his second cigarette when the splash of the warning shot showed on the integrated tactical display and on the sonar. He glanced at the photonics image—yep, there too.
    â€œHow deep is the water here?” he asked Eisenberg, his navigator.
    â€œOne hundred eighty feet below the keel, Captain.”
    â€œHow long to the hundred-fathom curve?”
    â€œThree hours at this speed.”
    â€œFifty fathoms?”
    â€œAn hour.”
    Kolnikov leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the console in front of him. “I need an ashtray,” he remarked to no one in particular.
    â€œAren’t you going to sink this destroyer?” Heydrich asked. He was seated in an empty sonar operator’s chair, watching.
    â€œWith what? It will take all night for us to figure out how to aim and fire a torpedo.”
    â€œSo he can kill us at his leisure?”
    â€œThat’s about the size of it. But he won’t. The captain of that destroyer does not know what happened aboard this boat. He certainly suspects, but he doesn’t know. None of the Americans know, and we are not going to help them find out. I wouldn’t shoot at that destroyer even if I could.”
    â€œThey will fish some of the Americans from the sea and question them. Those men will talk.”
    That process would take time. And no two of the Americans would tell the story the same way, Kolnikov reflected. Half-drowned men would tell disjointed tales, disagree on critical facts. “They’ll talk,” he told the German. “And they will say that there are still Americans aboard this boat.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThat fact means nothing to you, Heydrich, but it will mean a great deal to the Americans. Trust me.”
    *   *   *
    A half hour later Harvey Warfield had two pieces of critical information. He knew that about fifty Americans remained aboard America, and he was convinced that the submarine had been hijacked. In addition to the testimony of the America sailors pulled from the sea, he had a videotape from the camera of the television news helicopter, which was sitting in the helo spot on the destroyer’s fantail. Two navy helicopters were circling over the sub and destroyer, neither of which was equipped with a dipping sonar or any of the other high-tech paraphernalia of antisubmarine warfare. Warfield talked to the Pentagon duty officer on a scrambled radio voice circuit as he watched the video on a monitor mounted high in a corner of the bridge.
    â€œAt least a dozen men,” Warfield said. “They spoke accented English. One of the crewmen thought they were Russians, two thought they were Germans, one guy thought they were Bosnian Serbs, two swore they were Iranians, no one knows for sure. I’m watching them on videotape, though, shoot a submachine gun at the helicopter taking pictures. The guy just turns and shoots, like he was swatting at a fly.”
    â€œHow many Americans were killed?”
    â€œAt least eight that we know of. The Coast Guard has already recovered that many bodies.”
    â€œCaptain Sterrett?”
    â€œDead. Shot once at the base of the throat with a bullet that went all the way through.”
    â€œI’ll pass this along to the national command