by Ahern, Jerry
They were being enveloped by two Island Class submarines of the Soviet Navy, one of the vessels hailing them on the standard Soviet emergency frequency. There would be a code, of course, and the crew currently manning the Arkhangelsk didn’t know it, of course, because the submarine was stolen.
Jason Darkwood’s fingertips gouged into the arm rest of the Arkhangelsk’s command chair. Lance Corporal Lannigan, not perfectly qualified for the task he had been given, but someone whose abilities Jason Darkwood could trust and as suited to manning a position on the command deck of a submarine as any of the Marine Corps or Naval personnel aboard, looked back from the Arkhangelsk’s sonar array console. “I’m as sure of it as I can be, sir.”
“I’m comforted by your reassurances, Lannigan. Stand by.”
Right arm slung low from the shoulder wound he’d sustained, Sam Aldridge, a Marine captain but filling in as Darkwood’s executive officer, turned from the plotting
console. Aldridge asked, “Then they’re onto us?”
“What about Rourke?” Darkwood stood up, ignoring his own question as if it were rhetorical. But it wasn’t. Under the circumstances, with cyclonic conditions on the surface and two Island Classers closing in, it was the next best thing to rhetorical, at least. “Sam, get over on that weapons console.”
“Aye, Captain,” Aldridge nodded grimly, leaving the plotting table.
Darkwood stood, assuming Aldridge’s station. “Seaman Eubanks, is it?” Darkwood began, addressing the man filling in on the engineering station.
“Aye, Captain!”
“Can you handle this, son? We’re going to be moving fast once we have to.”
“Yes, sir, I think so. I’ve been going over everything in my head.”
“I’m happy, Seaman Eubanks,” Darkwood nodded.
The diode readings were showing the intersecting trajectories of the two Island Classers, time remaining until the Arkhangelsk was totally boxed in under two minutes, unless they or the Arkhangelsk altered speed.
“Engineering.Reactor status?”
“Port and starboard reactors full on line, Captain. There’s a little fluctuation in the starboard unit.”
“Fix it. I’ll need full power when I need it. Weapons.”
“Aye, Captain,” Aldridge snapped back.
A Marine was always a Marine. “Run a check on fore and aft torpedo tubes. Make sure all tubes are loaded and on line. Give me the status on cluster charges.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Darkwood’s eyes narrowed as he studied the forward navigational display on the view screen. He could make out the hulking shapes of the Island Classers as they approached. He had intentionally avoided any evasive action to forestall the inevitable. “Lannigan. Change hats and give me word on their communications.”
“Yes, sir!” Lannigan was ambitious, wanted to be an officer and, if he kept going, Darkwood thought, he’d probably make it. With the relatively static population level of Mid-Wake and a constant war footing, there was always the need for good officers to come up through the ranks and usually ample opportunity. If the war expanded to the land, there would be casualties in the ranks of the officer corps to fill. It was a grim thought.
“They’ve cut out their ship-to-ship communications and I’m getting a personal appeal for a Commander Stakhanov to respond, sir.”
“We could always try telling them he’s in the head, I suppose,” Darkwood said under his breath. His eyes were riveted to the two converging lines, the two Island Class submarines with which he was about to do battle. And somewhere, out there in the storm on the surface, Doctor Rourke and his friend Mr. Rubenstein were likely powerless to move, if they were still alive. He’d summoned up every available piece of data he could find in the Reagan’s computers dealing with aircraft. And, from what he had read, the chances for a helicopter’s survival in conditions like those on the surface weren’t very good at all.
The two lines were closing.
“Give me split screen forward and aft display,” Darkwood ordered, the view screen at the forwardmost section of the bridge splitting diagonally, the Russian equivalents of ‘fore’ and ‘aft’ flashing discreetly but noticeably.
“Captain, I’ve got full capabilities on all weapons panels,” Sam Aldridge announced.
“Hold onto that thought,” Darkwood nodded.
There was open sea in their wake, the two Island Classers, from the looks of it, planning to form a wedge behind the Arkhangelsk, blocking escape back the way the Arkhangelsk had come, even if there were maneuvering room in which to try. “Lannigan. Try to get past their open frequencies and see if there’s any transmission from somewhere up ahead of us, beyond normal range.”
There was a third Island Classer. Inside himself, Darkwood knew it.
And the two whose courses were plotting out on the
display were getting ready to send him straight into number three.
There were several choices. Surrender and death he immediately ruled out as unacceptable. Albeit such a decision narrowed the possibilities dramatically, there were still possibilities… .
T.J. Sebastian swung the captain’s chair left. “Communications. Anything from the Arkhangelsk?”
Lieutenant Mott turned away from his console. “Nothing, Mr. Sebastian. Just the same communications patterns as before, some ship to ship from what sounds like two Island Classers—but that’s getting a lot more irregular and it’s in battle code—and they’re repeating requests to speak personally with this Commander Stakhanov on the Arkhangelsk.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. Keep me advised of anything new which might arise.” He turned toward the warfare station. “Lieutenant Walenski. Status on the torpedo tubes.”
“Forward torpedo status—tubes one, two, three and four loaded with high explosive independent sensing, Mr. Sebastian. Aft torpedo tubes one, two, three and four loaded with HEIS as well, sir.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.” Sebastian stood, descended the three steps from the command chair to the illuminated plotting board at the almost exact center of the area which formed the con. He studied the glowing patterns of diode plots for the two known enemy Island Class submarines and the third line—with which the first two were rapidly intersecting—which showed the course of the Arkhangelsk under the command of Jason Darkwood. “Hmm,” Sebastian murmured. He reached down the intraship communications microphone and spoke into. “This is Commander Sebastian speaking. Now hear this. Now hear this. Battle stations. I repeat. Battle stations. This is not a drill.” The klaxon sounded.
Sebastian replaced the microphone in its nest in the overhead. “Communications. Anything new?”
“Nothing new, sir.Same patterns.”
“Sonar. Still picking up that ghost?”
Lieutenant Kelly didn’t look up from the console. “I’m still on it, sir. It might just be that, sir, just a ghost.”
“Unlikely, I think,” Sebastian said, eyeing the intersecting lines of light on the plotting board.
It was a trap for the Arkhangelsk. That much seemed evident. But he would have to be very careful while aiding the Arkhangelsk lest the Reagan fall into the trap as well.
inhaled, flicking down the cowling, extinguishing the flame.
He exhaled, the gray smoke warming him.
That the German tobacco was non-carcinogenic was certainly heartening, but more important was that it smoked well.
There was no rush with the main rotor pitch control defrosting; because, until the winds died down, only an idiot or a desperate man would have even attempted a takeoff, one with a death wish… .
CHAPTER THREE
John Rourke sipped at the coffee, his hands shaking from the cold; Paul Rubenstein at the controls of the still grounded German gunship, activated the main rotor, the gunship vibrating, almost pulsing as the wind and rain buffeted it. The gunship strained at its moorings, Rourke’s coffee nearly spilling all over his hands. He wouldn’t have felt the heat, Rourke realized, his fingers
nearly numb.
“I’m getting a little response, John. I think what you did worked.”
“Keep the main rotor idling, Paul. That’ll speed up the de-icing and keep us from running down our batteries,” Rourke said through chattering teeth. With studied effort, he set down the coffee cup, the liquid within an almost perfect study in wave motion, but not quite spilling over the edge. The M-16 needed seeing to, but not until the metal warmed to the touch. There were other weapons to hand. His hands fumbled in his bomber jacket pocket, finding a cigar. It was one of the German ones. The tip he’d already excised.
From the pocket of his pants, the BDUs almost soaked through, he found the battered old Zippo wind lighter. Rourke flicked back the cowling, rolling the striking wheel under his thumb. He smiled. It lit the first time. The tip of the cigar penetrated the blue yellow flame and Rourke
She escaped the debriefing as quickly as possible, the crew of the Reagan already long gone, some sort of message coming in that had made somber Mr. Sebastian and all the rest of them, including nice Maggie Barrow. Especially nice. It was due to the Reagan’s ship’s doctor that she had the clothes she wore now. She had felt awkward walking around in a rankless uniform, and more conspicuous than a sore thumb.
The navy blue sundress was one of three outfits sent to her with a little note. “Sorry I have to run out on you, Annie. See you when I get back. Trust Doctor Rothstein. He’s the best.” Maybe he was, but she was scared to death. Then why had she asked to meet him as soon as possible?
She shook her head, putting down the sundress, sitting on the edge of the bed just in her slip. It was a full slip, so either Maggie Barrow had similar taste in clothing or was very perceptive. Perhaps both.
The women of Mid-Wake dressed like the women she saw in videotapes at the Retreat. Pretty dresses, high-heeled shoes, feminine looking, as if things had just become frozen in time five centuries ago when the then-few scientists and researchers and Naval and Marine personnel stationed there had been cut off from the rest of the world on the Night of the War.
Annie Rourke Rubenstein smiled. The women here probably watched the same videotape movies she had.
She stood up again.
Not the sundress. Even though it always looked more or less like daylight here, it was nighttime. She changed stockings, from the sheer ones to the black opaque ones— they held up on her thighs with elastic, just like the ones she’d seen that Natalia had-then dressed in a gray long-sleeved blouse with six covered buttons at each cuff and a collar that tied into a floppy bow. A black skirt, flared, below mid-calf length. The high-heeled shoes-black-felt somehow natural to her, although she wore such things so seldom.
Natalia.
She hurried, no jewelry to put on, telling herself that was understated elegance, arranging her hair over her shoulders but drawn back in a barrette at the crown of her head. “Knock ‘em dead,” she smiled, looking one last time at herself in the mirror.
Annie left the room, the two female Shore Patrolmen waiting just outside to escort her to her appointment. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn… .
“Mr. Tagachi, attack periscope,” Sebastian intoned, approaching the periscope array.
“Aye, Mr. Sebastian.” Seaman First Morris Tagachi sang back, working his control panel. The handles folded down, Sebastian peered through the device. “More computer enhancement, Mr. Tagachi.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lurking in the shadows beyond where he could say with any certainty that what he saw was really there, there had been movement. A school of large fish whisked suddenly upward. He could have sworn there was a black shadow and a wake.
“Down periscope, Mr. Tagachi,” Sebastian said, moving quickly across the deck, ascending the three steps, settling himself into the command chair. He activated the correct armrest control. “Computer. This is Commander Sebastian.”
There was a pause, then the familiarly annoying English butler voice came back, “Voice print identity confirmed. Proceed, Commander Sebastian.” He’d almost said ‘Lieutenant Commander,’ the orders for his promotion shoved into his hand after a ten minute debriefing with Admiral Rahn. But how did the computer know? An interesting question, but there was no time to probe for an answer.
“Analysis of Soviet progress in efforts toward achieving total sonar masking.”
“Processing.”
Sebastian’s eyes focused on the illuminated plotting board. It was out there, a fourth Island Class submarine, Jason Darkwood commanding one of them, the two already identified Soviet craft. And one more. He could feel it.
The voice came back through the armrest console speaker. “Soviet progress toward total sonar masking cannot be readily assessed. September 18, 2426, derelict Soviet sonar drag array discovered off the Aleutian Trench. Contained component elements unfamiliar when compared with previous Soviet sonar equipment. December 26, 2431, reference ‘Zheleznodorozhnyy Cypher,’ decrypted transmission between Soviet Marine Spetsnaz Headquarters and Soviet Island Class submarine Tobseda (sunk in action with United States submarine vessels Ronald Wilson Reagan and John Wayne November 11, 2439) referred to successful testing of Project Potemkin by Island Class Submarine Mikhaylova off the Yap Trench. USS George Herbert Walker Bush on routine patrol off Eauripik Atoll in the Caroline Islands detected no Island Class submarine present, although there were reports of numerous Scout Class submarines active in vicinity of the Bush. Mid-Wake Naval Scientific Research Institute Staff report submitted February 14, 2441, summary conclusion: ‘The Soviet Navy is implementing an intensive research and development program toward the goal of perfecting sonar invisible undersea craft which will be capable of evading conventional sensing devices employed and currently under development by United States Naval forces for the purposes of detecting and interdicting enemy activity.’ Summary ends.”
“Thank you, Computer. Request satisfied,” Sebastian said sonorously. “Navigator.”
“Aye, sir!” Lieutenant Junior Grade Lureen Bowman answered, turning toward him.
“Alter the already laid-in evasive action course to include a third enemy vessel, approximately six hundred yards off the portside bow and proceeding toward interception of the Arkhangelsk.”
“Three, Mr. Sebastian?”
“Your aural acuity has not failed you, Navigator. We see two vessels, but there are, in fact, three.”
He was gambling, not something he was wont to do. But if he were going to gamble, he would indulge in the time-honored tradition of hedging his bet.
“Lieutenant Walenski,” Sebastian began, his weapons officer turning toward him to respond. But he didn’t wait for her response. “Confirm status on all torpedo tubes as well as port and starboard cluster charges.” He dismissed his words as accomplished until she told him otherwise. “Engineering.”
“Aye, Mr. Sebastian.”
“Mr. Hartnett. Satisfy me that port and starboard reactors are ready for full power into maximum. Prepare for overdrive on demand.”
“Aye, Mr. Sebastian,” Hartnett nodded, pushing his splayed fingers back through his thick, dark hair.
Jason might, indeed, attempt the maneuver his father had accomplished so successfully some forty years before during the almost legendary battle of Miner’s Reef, and which Jason himself had updated only a short while ago in the battle which had succeeded in accomplishing the rescue of Captain Aldridge and the other prisoners escaping the Soviet underwater complex, among these Doctor John Thomas Rourke. What had worked against Admiral Suvorov and later against a hastily assembled pursuit wolf-pack might not work in a well laid trap. And, if Jason Darkwood, aboard the Arkhangelsk, were unaware of the significant likelihood that a third submarine waited for him, he would either sail right into its torpedoes or, perhaps worse, collide with it while the Arkhangelsk’s engines were reaching overdrive status. Jason had never attempted the maneuver with a craft so much bulkier and more sluggish in response. The Island Classers were not so fast to the helm as their American
counterparts. How could Jason Darkwood calculate for the difference in such a maneuver?
Sebastian shook his head, realizing that he was second guessing his captain’s abilities on the assumption that, without his —Sebastian’s—counsel they might somehow be lacking. He was ashamed of the thought, despite its sincere motivations.
“Commander, torpedo tubes fore and aft are fully armed with HEIS. Cluster charges armed.”
‘Thank you, Lieutenant.” There was no need to tell Louise Walenski to be ready for battle. She lived for it, Sebastian sometimes thought.
He, on the other hand, did not. Battle was an unfortunate consequence of his profession. That human beings had no recourse but to hunt one another like wild creatures of the sea was inexcusable, insane. To be a party to the insanity was necessary to the survival of his country.
Sebastian’s eyes moved to the plotting board. He could see the Arkhangelsk, just about to be cut off from retreat.
His fists balled over the armrests of his borrowed chair. He wished Jason Darkwood sat in it now.
“Communications. Broadcast to the Arkhangelsk in the most recent code we’re certain our adversaries have definitely broken, that the United States Submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan is coming to her aid in anticipated battle with two enemy vessels.”
“Two, sir? But I thought-“
“Transmit as given, Lieutenant Mott. Continue to broadcast this message until answered or we are engaged.” “Aye, sir.”
The next move was Jason Darkwood’s, unless the enemy pre-empted. It was unnecessary to direct Lieutenant Mott that should the Arkhangelsk give a reply—and if there were time, Jason Darkwood would—to pay particular at
tendon to the accuracy with which the message was copied. It would be computer copied at any event and Mott’s accuracy was unimpeachable.
“Seaman Tagachi?”
