“We’ll just have to listen and see what he does. He sees safety in numbers near the pole . . . or he may figure the best thing to do is let us run up his back.”
“The Americans have an expression for it,” Sergoff remarked. “I think they call it a bull in a china shop . . . or something to that effect. Whatever the exact words are I think that is a very apt terminology.”
“Crazy. That’s what it is—crazy!” Stevan Lozak had refused to believe his sonar officer and took the headphones for himself. He decided a child could have figured this one out. “Why, he’s a madman . . . giving away his position . . . giving away everything we had hoped to hear.”
“Maybe he’s crazy like a fox.” Abe Danilov chuckled. “That’s another expression I like,” he said to Sergoff. Then he turned to Lozak, clapping him on the shoulder. “No one does what he is doing without a purpose. He is inviting all our friends out here to dine with him.”
Captain Lozak saw little to find humor with. Like Danilov, he knew there was a purpose in Imperator’s wild display. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why a submarine commander, who had engaged in stealth for so many days, would now seemingly go on a rampage.
Sergoff enjoyed analyzing the impatient Lozak. The man was wise in the ways of the sea; he knew submarines as well as, or sometimes perhaps better than, any captain afloat. But his patience was limited. In wartime, such men either lost their boats early or became heroes—often dead heroes. Danilov, on the other hand, was a study in contrasts. His impatience stemmed from boredom, the lack of an objective, in this case a live contact to prosecute. Once he found his quarry, he became the picture of moderation. Satisfaction reigned once he was sure his objective was within sight.
“Range to the American?” Lozak called out.
“Approximately sixty kilometers . . . although he is moving away from us now.” They had been tracking Imperator using computer projections.
“I recommend we follow, Admiral.” Excitement radiated from Lozak’s eyes.
“Admiral, I suggest we establish the position of our other submarines first.” Sergoff employed his diplomatic talents as he added, “There is no need to expose our own location until we have a better idea of the perspective the American gains of our own forces. After all, a little more time won’t hurt us . . . especially if it’s to our benefit.” Lozak and Sergoff both looked to Danilov—Lozak for concurrence that the aggressive stance was necessary, Sergoff that further analysis of the situation was required.
“Would you be kind enough to provide us with an analysis of all contacts?” Danilov asked Seratov’s sonar officer. “We have the time,” he added pointedly to both officers.
Imperator’s indiscretions had generated exactly what Andy Reed and Abe Danilov anticipated. Seratov’s sonar officer constructed a visual picture of five Soviet submarines cautiously closing, based on their earlier projected positions. The American Los Angeles-class identified as Houston, the one they’d tracked intermittently since the loss of their first submarine, was moving away from Seratov at an angle that would eventually intercept Imperator. A Soviet Alfa was between them. The two submarines Danilov had placed on the opposite side were certainly attracted toward Imperator. The two he had placed at the far end of the box had generally been masked by Imperator’s actions, though sonar occasionally identified their signature. There was little doubt they, too, were drawn toward Imperator.
“I don’t understand the American’s reasons, but I recommend we close this end of the box,” Lozak insisted.
“No need,” Sergoff stated calmly. “If, for some reason, he decides to escape in our direction, we are here . . . waiting.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Lozak began.
“We wait,” Danilov responded firmly. “You see, Captain Lozak, we appear to be the one submarine Imperator has lost.” The admiral’s face was expressionless now, though his features grew hardened as he sensed time was becoming precious. “The American knows this is my flagship and that is why he came directly at us. Every officer in every military organization in the world understands from his earliest days that the primary target is the leader or the radio . . . that is Seratov! If he hasn’t already guessed that we have fooled him, he’ll know shortly. There is nothing quite so frightening as the unknown . . . and I intend to remain the unknown.” His heavy eyebrows rose and he extended his hands, palms up. “Relax, Captain. I have no objections to your desire to sink him. It’s just that Captain Sergoff has been with me for years and understands my methods. We will wait and watch.”
“Man your battle stations again, Ross. Let’s see if we can open one side of that box for Hal Snow.” Andy Reed found himself enjoying the taste of blood much more than he would have expected.
“Same process as before, or do we just go in balls to the wall?”
“No need for hide-and-seek. He’s been aware we’re somewhere behind him since we blew apart his buddy—maybe hoped he’d find some safety among his friends.” Reed was sensing the spirit of the hunt. “I’ll bet he feels less secure since Snow started running around in circles. All of a sudden, I wonder if this one doesn’t think maybe one of his friends on the other side will help him.”
“Range to target,” the captain requested.
“About thirty miles, Captain . . . just a little aft of the starboard beam now. It looks like he may be picking up some more speed . . . and his aspect’s changing some now.”
“I want a course to intercept,” the captain explained to the OOD. “And a time to firing position.”
“I don’t know, sir. If he keeps upping his speed, he’s going to outrun us—”
Reed interrupted. “Imperator’s still in one of her mad circles, isn’t she?”
“Seems to be. Admiral. She should be coming toward us again soon.”
“Watch our target. See if he doesn’t inch away when he sees that huge submarine turning right at him . . . even if she is a long distance off. When you don’t understand the other guy, you give him a little space.”
Less than ten minutes passed before sonar reported that the Russian seemed to be turning toward an intercept course with Houston. “He knows we’re coming after him, Ross. You may have to waste a fish to keep him on his toes. As long as we fire first, I think we have the advantage . . . he’s got to be nervous.”
“We’ll be in position for a shot in thirty-five minutes, Captain.”
“No more than thirty if he decides to turn more toward us. Make it twenty-five. . . and have that fire control tracking party of yours ready to shoot in less.”
Olympia’s captain watched with a studied interest as the sonar chief transferred to paper the projected locations of the sounds he had been interpreting in sonar minutes before. They were based on a jumble of sound and satellite transmissions of Reed’s last analysis, now three hours old. At that distance, a good deal more than fifty miles to the closest one, he estimated, there was little difference in bearing. They were all dead ahead a few degrees either side of his bow. Imperator was identified with a solid black mark. There was no doubting her signature. On the far side of her, he had readings on what could be two submarines. The two between Olympia and Imperator appeared to be Alfas, though one might be an Akula. They bore many similarities.
“No doubt they got her pinpointed,” the captain mused. “I guess we ought to go after these two,” he indicated to his XO. “They’re closer. What do you think? If we run that reactor for all it’s worth, we ought to be on top of them in at least three hours if they remain in that area?”
The XO nodded. “I don’t see why not. No one’s going to be leaving Imperator. Of course, at flank speed, we’re not exactly going to sneak up on them.”
“We’re not supposed to. Andy Reed said that when the Russians started making noise, we all better.” What had seemed absurd at the time now made a great deal of sense. “We’ll man battle stations when we’re about thirty miles out.”
When Imperator ceased her wild circling, she
possessed a contour map of the ice above her that read like a road map. She had also located and identified each Soviet submarine. With her nose now pointed toward the nearby North Pole and her stem toward Murmansk, she held to the rear a Sierra and an Akula. They were closing cautiously, hugging the ice and keeping about forty miles between them. There was nothing directly ahead, though Snow had hoped there would be some sign of Danilov’s position. Somehow Seratov had disappeared into thin air—yet there was no place to go with ten feet of ice above.
On his starboard bow and running aft toward his beam were a Soviet Alfa and Andy Reed’s Houston closing both of them. On the port bow were two more Soviet submarines, an Alfa and an Akula, both separated like those astern and closing very cautiously. Caesar had reported that astern of them Olympia’s signature was evident, approaching at flank speed.
The holographic imager presented a three-dimensional picture. All the participants were oriented to the center stage where Imperator bobbed and weaved quietly on the erratic path devised by Caesar. Those on the outside advanced, hugging the ice, twisting around ice formations as they moved inward with an occasional ping for safety. It was a puppet show in slow motion.
Carol Petersen was now in the control room, at Snow’s request, in touch with the computer from a remote console. “Once again, this computer seems to agree with you, Captain. The Alfa to starboard is the least of our worries now. Houston appears to be in an attack pattern, according to Caesar.”
“How about the two to port?” Snow experienced a weird fascination in comparing his estimate of the situation to the computer’s. The latter depended on a complex program in contrast to Snow’s years of experience and a sixth sense that rarely had failed him.
“The closest—the Akula—could present a problem when he nears torpedo range. But it looks like they’ve got to worry about Olympia within an hour or so at the speed she’s making. They should turn in her direction—if for nothing more than the integrity of Danilov’s strategy, according to Caesar—in order to avoid penetration of their artificial perimeter.”
“I can’t argue with that either,” Snow concluded. “So I suppose he says I ought to go after those two astern first?”
“That’s a decision, Captain. Caesar never makes decisions. I’ve been asking him to evaluate the threat. He concurs with you in that regard. As far as how you should imperil your command, that’s up to you.” She looked over her shoulder teasingly. “I could tell him the captain is unsure of his next step, but Caesar would just query the statement since he’s not programmed to make strategic decisions for you. But he can run a hell of an attack with his eyes shut!” She immediately regretted the last statement, sure that once again Snow would be provoked.
He laughed instead. “The only thing that computer can think about for me is where the hell that Seratov is hiding.” He pondered his situation for a moment before adding, “We’ll reverse course toward those two astern.” Then, with a coarse, almost unpleasant laugh, he asked.
“Which one should I take out first . . . in Caesar’s opinion?”
Carol knitted her brows as the response finally appeared on the screen. “Hard to tell, Captain, They’re both new and reasonably fast—not as fast as an Alfa, Both the same size . . . both equally dangerous. If we didn’t have that ice above us, the Sierra might be a bigger problem. But there’s nothing she can do with her cruise missiles down here.”
“We’ll take the first that comes in range. Sooner or later, they’ve got to go active on their sonar to find us. They know we’re within certain coordinates. All they’re going to be looking for is enough data for a firing solution.”
“Captain!” Snow’s XO was indicating the holographic imager, “Look at the one near Houston. She’s turning out to attack.”
“Alfa’s turning, Captain.”
“Range?” Ross glanced toward Andy Reed, who was engaged in conversation with the chief of the watch. “Thirty-eight thousand . . . closing at about thirty knots.”
“Torpedo status?”
“Tubes one, two, three, and four warmed and flooded.”
“Firing point procedures tube one.”
“The ship is ready, Captain.”
“The solution is ready.”
“Presets entered . . . she’s right at the edge of the envelope. Captain.” The target was barely within a realistic range of the torpedo.
“Doesn’t matter. Open the muzzle door tube one.”
“The door is open, Captain . . . weapon is ready . . .”
“Shoot on generated bearings.”
“Unit is running. Wire continuity is good.” The enabling run was high speed.
The captain nodded to the OOD as soon as the torpedo was far enough away. “Left full rudder . . . tell engineering I want maximum speed. Chief,” he called to the diving officer. “Take her down according to the admiral’s instructions.”
“Twenty degree down angle,” the chief ordered quietly.
Houston’s deck canted down and to port as she responded to the orders. Hands reached out for support as she dived away from her target.
“Wire’s broken,” the weapons officer called out.
“Torpedo’s running normally.”
Reed established the mental picture in his mind. The Alfa turned toward them on an intercept course. Houston had fired soon after that, and her torpedo would be leading the Russian submarine. Once the torpedo’s course was evident, logic and doctrine called for the Russian to turn away to starboard and dive at high speed. At that range, the Alfa would outrun the torpedo. But if Houston imitated the same evolution to port, the Russian would be coming directly toward Houston if she completed a three-quarter circle.
“Alfa’s aspect is changing rapidly.”
The chief studied the depth gauge closely. They were coming up on a thousand feet. “Ease back on your planes . . . slowly now . . . slowly.” Houston passed twelve hundred feet. “Zero bubble . . .”
The chief was trimming for neutral buoyancy at the new depth. He closed the valves as she settled close to 1,250 feet. Reed had indicated he wasn’t as concerned about the exact depth as long as they reached it fast—and they had.
The OOD was also meeting his rudder. They had come around 270 degrees. By the time Houston settled on her new course, the engines had been stopped. She was as silent then as she had been noisy a few minutes before.
While they were maneuvering, the captain had muzzle doors opened on tubes three and four. Houston lay ready, coasting to a dead stop at thirteen hundred feet.
“Captain, the Alfa’s evaded beautifully. That fish is somewhere off in the boonies.”
Neither Reed nor the captain had ever expected that first one to succeed. Now, as they listened to the sonar reports, the Russian came out of her turn at flank speed. Her emergency maneuver completed, she was on a course that would have her pass off Houston’s bow at about three thousand yards.
“She’s cutting speed. Captain.”
Just as Reed hoped, the Alfa had come out of the maneuver looking for her attacker. Though she had heard Houston move away at high speed after firing, there was no indication of the American’s position now. The only solution was to go silent herself and listen.
“She’s almost dead in the water.”
“Last range?”
“Seven thousand.”
Reed was beside the captain now and smiling. “Beautiful job, Ross. He’s right where you want him.”
“He’s about four thousand yards away from where you wanted him.”
“Doesn’t matter. You got a solution?” Reed glanced over to the fire control coordinator.
“Yes, sir.” He reported his current solution on the target.
“By the time we settled down snug right here, we had a bead on him,” the captain said with confidence.
“Go ahead. Ross. Don’t let me get in your way.”
The procedures were the same as for their first shot. Ross’s voice echoed through the control room as the reports of
weapon ready for tubes three and four came to him: “Shoot on generated bearings!”
There was an unnaturally long pause between sonar’s confirmation that both torpedoes were running normally and the report that the Alfa had suddenly come to life and was evading. At seven thousand yards, it would take the torpedoes less than three minutes to reach their target. The dead time between recognizing the threat and commencing evasion cut maneuvering time to even less than that.
The Alfa did turn, accelerating when they realized she had been attacked head on at close range, but there wasn’t enough time to outrun a torpedo closing so quickly. Nor could she dive a great deal more. Sonar reported decoys in the water. But that was too little, too late. Reed’s concept had been remarkably accurate. Two torpedoes barreled into the submarine within seconds of each other. However she had been hit, sonar reported that there was no chance of survival. After the impact, there was never a sound from her engineering plant, and the pitiful echo of collapsing bulkheads came to them as the Alfa dropped like a rock.
Abe Danilov’s eyes were shut tight. He was concentrating, willing himself to run Anna’s letters back through his mind—but they remained hazy. One might swim into focus, then wash out just as quickly, as if a receding wave had pulled it away from him. He knew Sergoff and Lozak were alert to every development even though Seratov remained an integral part of the immense ice ridge. While he should have been able to rest for a few moments, discipline would not allow it. He’d been straining mentally, almost willing himself into another dimension when . . .
“There’s no way she can escape . . . not with two torpedoes . . .”
Then the sound of two distinct blasts rumbled across the frozen depths. Danilov’s eyes did not have to open to know that Stevan Lozak was approaching or that Sergoff was close behind, having failed to dissuade Seratov’s captain.
Silent Hunter Page 27
