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The third result was more a response to the first effect and an aftermath of the explosion: the force that had smashed the sternplanes upward from the tail section of the sub had compressed hydraulic oil in the cylinders that pushed the stern plane surfaces, the oil returning to the air-loaded accumulators, the pressurized oil embued now with more energy than the air pressure after the explosion. The high-pressure oil set up a hydraulic pendulum, the same sort of hydraulic pendulum observed by sloshing back and forth in a bathtub, the rising water on one end inevitably bound to rush to the other end. Now that the explosive power of the detonation was dissipating, the force pushing on the stern plane vanished.

The high-pressure oil rushed from the accumulators unchecked, back to the cylinders that controlled the sternplanes, now unopposed by the seawater force on the sternplanes, likewise unopposed by the actions of the sternplanes man in the control room, the youth slumped in his control seat dazed and on the border of consciousness. The cylinders forced the stern planes back down to the full-dive position and kept them there.

The final result was a jam dive — the ship speeding ahead at over forty knots, the stern planes in the full-dive position, inclining the ship downward at high speed heading for crush depth, her dead reactor unable to pull her back, her dazed crew no longer capable of pulling the ship out.

In the control room, Kane watched his ship’s lethal dive toward the bottom.

* * *

The explosion of the Nagasaki torpedo was picked up by several dozen sonobuoys floating below the orbiting P3 Orion at the western strait mouth. The sonar technician shared a look with the ASW officer. The explosion detections were all at the position of the submarine contact they had tracked as the 688class USS Phoenix. There was nothing the airplane could do except continue the effort to find the Destiny-class if and when it outchopped the Med. The ASW officer, hoping for good luck, and needing to do something, ordered the spinup of the Mark 52 torpedo nestled in the weapon bay beneath the wings. When the torpedo was warm, its computer asked for target coordinates. The ASW officer, frustrated, was unable to answer the question.

CNPS HEGIRA

Sharef looked back to the chart table to see their progress through the strait, debating with himself whether he should increase speed, finally deciding against it out of unwillingness to generate a louder sound-signature with the aircraft so close. Behind him, on the fifth and sixth sensor-display consoles, lines of noise intensity jumped and danced as the ship’s hull arrays picked up the propulsors of the American Mark 50 torpedoes orbiting at the mouth of the strait, as yet unnoticed by the officers at the consoles, who had been suddenly distracted by the indication of a dozen sonobuoys that had just splashed into the water above them.

Sharef’s mouth opened to order evasive action when Tawkidi, his eyes wide, his characteristic calm cracking, announced the next jumping graph on the display, much worse than sonobuoys: “Low aircraft overhead, sir, looks like he’s got a positive detection.”

* * *

Two sonar techs and the ASW officer of the midchannel P-3 Orion leaned over the central console, reviewing the incoming data from the last field of sonobuoys dropped five minutes earlier.

“That’s him,” the sonar tech said.

“One last volley, about here,” Lieutenant Commander Quaid said, speaking into a lip-mike intercom to the pilots up forward.

The plane turned, pulling many more g’s in the turn than its ungainly turboprop appearance would indicate. Quaid held himself on a handhold as the plane lumbered back around to the south, watching the displays as the next round of sonobuoys dropped out of the plane’s belly and splashed into the water below. The console display curves filled the display, the lines incomprehensible to the uninitiated but full of detail and luscious information to the fraternity of flying antisubmarine warriors.

“Definite contact. Destiny submarine. Lock-in solution, shift to internal power and prepare to drop.”

“Weapon ready, solution set.”

“Skipper, ASW, target located and confirmed. Right turn now to zero one five. Request release.”

“Turning now … on zero one five. Permission to release.”

“Drop!”

“She’s down.”

The aircraft, glinting silver in the moonlight, dropped its payload into the strait, the torpedo looking like a large bomb as it separated from the P-3 and dived nose-first toward the black waves, a parachute popping astern to slow its entry into the water. A flash of phosphorus foam, and the torpedo vanished.

* * *