by Craig Thomas
* * *
"Contact continuous, Captain."
"Excellent — keep calling." The captain of the Grishka grinned at his first-lieutenant.
"Lock on indicated… three thousand five hundred metres of run completed, sir… four thousand metres completed… heat sensor responding and locked on… command override on, sir… proximity fuse armed and on, sir… seven thousand metres of run completed… TV camera on, light on —"
"Come on, come on," the Russian captain murmured. Too long, too long, he told himself. Should have waited, she's out of range.
"Seven and one half thousand metres of run completed, sir… eight thousand metres of run completed."
"Positive contact, sir!"
"Cox" n hard astern!"
"Hard astern, sir."
"Contact identified as a torpedo, sir!"
* * *
On the tiny television monitor in the Grishka, receiving pictures from the camera in the nose of the torpedo, there was nothing more than a weakly illuminated rush of grey water, almost like a heavy, dull curtain being continually whisked aside. Then there was a blur of darker water, then the grey, whale-like shape of the Proteus as the British submarine began her turn. The torpedo seemed to dip towards the submarine, strangely hesitant, and the proximity fuse detonated the reduced warhead. The television screen at which the captain of the Grishka stared went blank, making him wince as if the flash of the explosion had been visible and had startled, even blinded him.
"Target acquired, Captain! Hit, hit, hit!"
"We" ve got her?"
"Direct hit, Captain!"
There was cheering, which he immediately silenced.
Torpedo room, load Two. Multiple warhead torpedo, set range at nine thousand. Manual guidance, direct search track."
"Tube Two ready, Captain."
"Fire Two!"
* * *
"Planesman, check that roll!"
" — can't hold the turn —"
"Emergency lights — cancel —"
"Can't hold the trim, sir!"
"Trim responding, sir."
"Engines down one-fifty revolutions."
"The dampers aren't controlling the oscillation, sir."
"All stations — immediate damage report." Lloyd wiped a hand across his forehead, his eyes riveted on the forearms of the two planesmen as they struggled to right the trim of the Proteus. The muscles flexed and strained, veins standing out, the tattoo of an anchor and chain livid on one of the arms. The whole submarine was oscillating wildly, like a bicycle out of control. A child in the saddle, feet unable to reach the pedals. The lights had come back on. His arms felt nerveless and weak as his thoughts churned like his stomach, over and over, and fused into a circuit. The Russians had fired on them, fired on them… Thurston crossed the vibrating control room towards him and lurched against the periscope housing, where he clung unsteadily. "Christ, John — they fired on us!"
Thurston's face confirmed the inadmissible. Enemy action.
"Chief engineer, sir," Lloyd heard over the control room speaker.
"Yes, Chief?"
"Initial damage report suggests external impact, sir. Pressure hull okay, outer plates and aft ballast tanks ruptured. Planes and rudders misaligned, but responding, sir. The vibration we're experiencing is linked to our revs, so there must be prop damage. Or maybe it's the shaft. Or both. The main shaft bearings are heating up."
"Can we still remain under way, Chief?"
"I think so, sir. We'll have to try various rev settings to find an optimum for remaining under way with least vibration and some degree of control. We may be lucky, if the bearings don't get too hot. They're in the orange now, sir."
"Very well, Chief. In your hands."
"Aye, aye, sir."
* * *
The multiple-warhead torpedo tracked down the wake of the Proteus, following the range and bearing instructions fed into its tiny computer. It, too, was armed with a proximity fuse. The Red Navy's experts had concluded that a reduced warhead, although capable of damaging the Proteus, might not have sufficient stopping-power to render the British nuclear submarine immobile, which condition was essential to the success of the operation. Therefore, an experimental multiple-warhead, code-named "Catherine Wheel", had been hurried through its last stages of development and its laboratory and sea trials, to fulfil the preliminary work of the reduced-warhead torpedo that would cripple, but not ensnare, the Proteus.
The TV camera switched on at an instruction from the torpedo room operator, and the light came on at the same moment. On the tiny screen, the Russian captain watched the swirling rush of water, and thought he detected the bubbles and general disturbance of the Proteus's wake. He tensed himself, almost as if he had been riding the torpedo like a horse, then the grey-black, whale-backed shape of the submarine emerged from the darkness of the sea. He imagined — saw? — the damage to the rudder and the hydroplanes, and bent his head and cocked it to one side in order to perceive the outline of the stern more easily. Then the warhead detonated, and to his intense disappointment the TV screen went blank. Memory continued the succession of images.
He had seen the "Catherine Wheel" in operation on an old sub during trials. The film had been poor, grainy and cut-about, but the images had been stark, vivid, deadly. When the separate warheads split from the body of the torpedo, they would whirl and spin and weave outwards in a net-like circle. Some of them carried small explosive charges, some barbed hooks of super-strengthened steel, some suction caps or magnets. Twelve in all, each of them trailed a length of toughened steel cable, whipped into a frenzy of whirling movement by the spinning-top effect of the small warheads. Two, three, four or more of these would make contact with the hull and rudder and hydroplanes of the Proteus and, as the submarine moved forward under power, the trailing, whipping steel cables would slash at the hull, be dragged with it, and would fasten and entangle the propellers, twisting tighter and tighter like strangling cords.
It would take no more than seconds, and little more than a minute to halt the submarine, her propeller bound and made immovable by the entangled steel cables.
He closed his eyes, seeing the drama on an inward screen, himself seated in the darkness of the briefing room as the film was shown. He did not hear, did not need to hear the exultant cry from the torpedo room, nor the cheering in his control room. He awoke when his first-lieutenant shook his elbow, startling him. The young man was grinning.
"Direct hit, sir. Another direct hit!" he bubbled.
"Good," the captain said slowly. "Well done, everyone." He stood upright. Already, the British submarine would be slowing, her crew terrified by the vibration as the cables tightened against the revolutions of the propeller, strangling it. "Very well. Send up an aerial buoy. Transmit the following message, Lieutenant. Message begins TOLSTOY, followed by target impact co-ordinates. Message ends. Direct to Murmansk, code priority nine."
"Yes, sir!"
"Retrieve the aerial buoy as soon as the transmission ends."
* * *
"It's no good, sir," Lloyd heard the voice of the chief engineer saying, "that second impact has either damaged the prop even further, or we're entangled in something." Lloyd was shuddering with the vibration, and the noise of the protesting propeller and shaft was threatening to burst his skull. It was impossible to stand it for much longer. The submarine was slowing, the prop grinding more and more slowly. The Russians had done something, caught them in a net or some similar trap, choking them.
"Very well, Chief." He could not utter the words clearly, only in an old man's quaver because of the shudder in the hull which was worsening with every passing second. He shouted his orders above the noises. They were in a biscuit tin, and someone was beating on the lid with an iron bar. "First-Lieutenant." Thurston nodded, holding on to the depth indicator panel, his legs as unreliable as those of a drunk. "John. I want a reading of the bottom as soon as we're over the plateau. If we find a flat bit, set her down!"
&n
bsp; "Aye, aye, sir!"
The tension in the control room, even though it remained filled and shaken by the increasing vibration, dispelled for a moment. He'd done what they expected of him, demanded of him. The two planesmen struggled with the increasing difficulty, veins proud like small blue snakes on their skin, muscles tight and cramped with the strain. They had to slow down, stop.
"Captain to all crew!" he yelled into his microphone, which jiggled in his hand. "Prepare for bottoming and maintain for silent running!" Silence. A bad joke. The protest of the propeller, the shaft, the bearings drummed in his head.
* * *
"Lieutenant, come about and set up another sweep pattern two thousand metres to the east. Sensor control — no relaxation. We can't have lost her! She's here somewhere. Keep looking."
"Well done, John." Lloyd tried to lighten the sudden, sombre silence. "Light as a feather." No one smiled. The tension in the control room tightened again like a thong around his temples. The din had ceased, the torture of the prop and shaft was over. Yet the silence itself pressed down on them like a great noise. "All non-essential services off. Stand down non-operational crew and safety men. Get the galley to lay on some food."
"Hayter to Captain."
"Yes, Don?"
"The “Victor-II” is still sniffing around, but I think she's lost us for the moment."
"Good news, Don."
The lights blinked off, to be replaced by the emergency lighting. The submarine seemed to become quieter, less alive, around him. They were more than twenty fathoms down on a ledge jutting out from the Norwegian coast, and the Russians would now be looking for them, more determined than ever.
Part Two
Search and Rescue
Chapter Six: LOST
Part of him, immediately he left the warmth of the headquarters building, wanted to respond to the driving sleet and the howling wind and the lights of the port of Pechenga gleaming fitfully like small, brave candles in the white-curtained darkness. He wanted the weather not to be critical, merely something to be endured, even enjoyed. Instead, there was the immediate sense of danger, as if a palpable, armed enemy was closing at his back. He turned up the collar of his heavy jacket, and crossed the gleaming concrete, slippery already, to the waiting car.
His driver was a michman — petty officer — from Pechenga base security, and he saluted despite the fact that Ardenyev was not in uniform. His face was cold and washed-out and expressionless in the purpling light of the lamps. Ardenyev had the strange and unsettling impression of death. Then the driver opened the rear door of the Zil staff car, and the momentary feeling evaporated.
The car wound swiftly down from the hump of higher ground on which the Red Banner Fleet's headquarters in Pechenga stood, towards the port and the naval helicopter base. Lights out in the roads, the glare of the arc-lamps from the repair yards, the few commercial and pleasure streets sodium-lit and neon-garish, like the stilled arms of light from a lighthouse.
Ardenyev was disturbed by Dolohov's manic desire for success. The admiral had never been careless of risks before. This adventure with the British submarine obsessed him. He knew the details of the met. reports as well as anyone, and yet he ignored them. Ardenyev had, on his own authority, delayed his departure for the rescue ship out in the darkness of the Barents because of the worsening conditions. Delayed, that is, until further postponement would have meant running behind the schedule of the operation; and that he was not prepared to do. Instead, he nursed his conviction that Dolohov was unjustified in ordering them out.
It was cold in the back of the staff car despite the powerful, dusty-smelling heater. Ardenyev rubbed his hands together to warm them. Then the staff car slid under the canopy of white light of the helicopter base and the driver wound down the window to present his pass to the naval guard at the gate. The guard took one swift look at Ardenyev, the cold air blanching his face from the open window, more out of curiosity than to identify him. Then the heavy wire-mesh gates swung open, and the driver wound up the window as they pulled forward. The car turned left, and they were passing hangars and repair shops where warmer light gleamed through open doors. Then a patch of darkness, then the sleet rushing at the windscreen again. Through it, Ardenyev could see the two helicopters, red lights winking at tail and belly. Two MiL-2 light transport helicopters, the only naval helicopters in current service small enough to land on the seemingly fragile, circular helicopter pad of the rescue ship Karpaty.
The car stopped almost in the shadow of one of the small helicopters. Snub-nosed, insect-like, frail. Ardenyev thanked the driver abstractedly, and got out of the car. The sudden wind and cold sleet did not drive out the unwelcome, crowding impressions that seemed to have taken possession of his imagination, leading into the rational part of his mind, polluting clear thought. The Zil staff car pulled away behind him.
"You changed your mind then, skipper — decided to come?" came a voice from the door of the MiL. A grinning, cold-pinched face, blown fair hair above a dark naval jersey. Senior-Lieutenant Andrei Orlov, Ardenyev's second-in-command and leader of Blue section of the special operations unit. Ardenyev summoned a wave he hoped was optimistic, then looked up at the sky, wrinkling his face.
"The pilot's moaning about the weather, skipper," Orlov added. "It's just having to turn out in this muck, I reckon."
Orlov took Ardenyev's arm, and he swung up into the hollow, ribbed interior of the helicopter. The door slammed shut behind him. Someone groaned with the cold. Young faces, five others besides Orlov. Blue section. Ardenyev nodded at them, business-like. Then he clambered through into the helicopter's cabin. The pilot nodded to him. His face was disgruntled.
"Get your clearance — we're on our way," Ardenyev told him, "just as soon as I get aboard your pal's chopper. Take care." Already, the inertia of the mission had affected him, sweeping him along like a current growing stronger each moment. An easy and familiar adrenalin invested his body. His mind was clear now. He clambered back into the passenger compartment. "OK, you lot?" Each man nodded. Most of them grinned, nerves flickering like small electric shocks in their faces and arms. "Good. See you on the Karpaty. Open the door, Andrei."
The door slid back, and Ardenyev dropped lightly to the ground. He crossed the patch of wet, slippery concrete to the next pad, and the door to the second MiL opened with a screech. The senior michman who was his deputy leader in Red section hauled him aboard, wiping sleet from his jacket even as he slammed the door shut behind Ardenyev.
"Thought you weren't coming, sir," he offered. His face was bony and angular beneath the cropped hair. Viktor Teplov.
"Thanks Viktor. Lieutenant Orlov thought just the same." He looked round at the other five men, grinning. One or two older faces. Red section was the senior team in the unit. The faces were as they should be. A couple of good youngsters, too. "Everyone keeping warm?"
"With difficulty, sir," Teplov answered.
"Let's get going, then." He clambered through to the passenger seat beside the pilot. "Very well, Lieutenant, shall we proceed?" he said as he strapped himself into the seat.
"You're going to be very lucky, Captain, to get down on to the Karpaty. The weather out there is worse than this."
"I have implicit faith in your skills, Lieutenant." He gestured towards the windscreen of the helicopter where two huge wiper blades and the de-icing equipment struggled with the sleet. "Shall we go? I take it you're cleared for take-off?"
"We are. We" ve been waiting an hour, fully cleared."
"What's the matter, Lieutenant?"
"I" ve told my superiors — I" ve told anyone who will listen."
"Told them what?"
The wind is force four plus. What if we can't get down, just can't make it?"
"The Kiev, I suppose. Why?"
"Let's hope it's not too bad for the Kiev, then. The range of this chopper means that once we get out there, we haven't enough fuel to get back. You should be in a MiL-8, one of the big boys, all of you. They sho
uldn't have assigned this—"
"Shouldn't have assigned you, you mean? Two small, light helicopters were requested. The rescue ship contains all our equipment. The Kiev's no good to us. MiL-8s can't land on the Karpaty. Now, we can go?"
"All right. Just wanted you to know."
"I'm grateful."
The pilot lieutenant cleared with the tower. Ardenyev settled himself more comfortably in his narrow seat. The two Isotov turbo-shafts began to whine, and above his head the rotor blades quickened, cutting through the sleet, swirling until they were transformed into a shimmering dish. The lieutenant altered the angle of the rotor blades, the engine pitch changed to a higher note, and the helicopter moved off its chocks. The pilot paused, checking his instruments, the wheels of the MiL were just in contact with the ground. The pilot's knuckle was white on the stick.
"The wind," the pilot observed gloomily.
"Yes."
The MiL lifted, with seeming reluctance, from the patch of concrete. The sleet whirled round them in the downdraught. A fist of wind swung at them, made contact, knocked them sideways. The pilot shuffled his feet on the rudder bar, juggled the stick and they steadied, drifted, steadied again, and rose above the lights of the helicopter base. A white dish beneath them, darkness above.
"See what I mean?" the pilot offered. "We're right on the edge of possible flying conditions." The wind buffeted them. It seemed a physical strain on the pilot to maintain course. It had seemed a struggle to alter the stick and head the MiL out to sea, as if the helicopter was some reluctant, untamed animal.
"Yes, I see," Ardenyev replied thoughtfully. "Is our fellow traveller with us?"
The pilot looked in his mirror, then spoke into his throat-mike. The other pilot's voice was a pinched, unreal sound.
"He's there."
A shudder ran through the fuselage, as if it had received a powerful blow, some direct hit with a weapon.
