Page 135 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
The drone lifted gently toward the surface to a depth of fifteen feet—well below theOregon’s waterline, but certain not to pass under her keel.
The drone’s electric motors kicked on, speeding the torpedo at eighteen miles per hour toward the giant magnetic target pinging on its sonar.
In less than two minutes, the defenselessOregonwould be split in half.
?
OregonOp Center
“Comms down, helm down, radar down, sonar down, Wepps down.” Each station called out its status report.
Max was surprised on two counts.
First, every ship at sea knew that lightning was a hazard and prepared accordingly with lightning rods, grounding, surge protectors, circuit breakers, and the like. TheOregonwas festooned with them. For a conventional lightning strike—whatever “conventional” meant for such a rare occurrence—theOregonwas perfectly protected.
But in the crazy, swarming surge of multiple strikes like theOregonhad just experienced, the protections had all been overwhelmed—by the Vendor’s design.
Max’s second surprise was the failure of the automated power transfer switch to kick over. He had no idea why. But without available power, they were dead in the water and vulnerable to attack.
He had to do something, and fast.
TheOregonwas arguably the world’s most advanced intelligence-gathering ship, loaded with the latest technologies. Max was the ship’s chief engineer, and he had helped Juan design and build every high-tech iteration of the storied vessel. But despite his affinity for technological innovation, the man with the high, hard belly and halo-spray of graying auburn hair always held a fondness for analogue systems. Whether from boyhood nostalgia or hard-nosed practicality, Max was convinced that many of the old ways were best. Or at the very least, the best backups.
Max charged over to a panel on the rear bulkhead and yanked it open. Inside was an old-school sound-power phone—the kind that World War II submarines used for intra-ship communication. Max’s sound-power phone connected directly to the engine room.
Unlike conventional comms, the sound-power didn’t rely on electricity, copper wiring, or circuit boards—all of which had obviouslybeen interrupted, damaged, or destroyed by the massive lightning blast. Max snatched up the handset and shouted into it. His booming voice generated powerful sound waves that vibrated against the handset’s diaphragm. The diaphragm, in turn, sent those sound vibrations via an oil-filled tube to the diaphragm of the receiver located in the engine room.
“Hit the manual power transfer switch!”
Despite the volume of Max’s voice, he sounded like he was yelling through a soup can underwater. But his first engineer on the other end of the line understood him just fine.
“Switching now,” the voice burbled back.
Suddenly, all of the primary lights and monitors kicked back on.
Max sighed with relief. He had insisted on secondary and even tertiary alternative circuits for just this kind of catastrophe. He slammed the sound-power back into its cradle.
“Hali—”
“On it,” Kasim said, tapping buttons. “Engineering is on speaker.”
“Engines?” Max asked.
“Back online and purring like kittens,” the engineer said in the overheads. “No damage.”
“Thank God for that.” Without engines, theOregonwas not only dead in the water but devoid of any power source.
?
Eric Stone drummed his fingers on the helm console. His monitors had fired back up, but he was staring daggers at the dueling progress bars. The sonar and radar computers were still booting up.
The radar finished first. But the image was glitchy. The radar dome must have suffered a direct hit. Another repair that needed to be logged for the damage control party.
The sonar display snapped on. Since the arrays were located underwater they had suffered no damage.
An alarm blared on the console.
“Torp in the water,” Eric shouted.
