Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  “I think at this point. Admiral, I should defer to your judgment. You have been correct at each stage.”

  “How about you, Sergoff. You’re a wily one. What would you do?”

  “The American admiral can’t have any firm idea of our position. I wouldn’t allow him the pleasure of discovering us now,” Sergoff paused, then added, “This Imperator is a formidable weapon, though, and I would hate to see us face her without more assistance. If Houston continues her present course, her objective would seem to be the other two submarines. I would let Houston pass.” Before Lozak could say a word, he concluded, “But then I would attempt to sneak up behind her.”

  “That is exactly what I would do,” Danilov agreed. “That is exactly what we will do, Captain,” he indicated to Lozak. “We will remain deep enough only to avoid any ice damage. I have no intention of using any active sonar to give us away.”

  Olympia had made no secret of her presence, approaching at high speed. The two submarines intent on creeping up on Imperator’s stern were left with no alternative. The Alfa, faster and deeper diving, came about. Leaving a pattern of noisemakers to distract the American, she went silent near the surface.

  Olympia’s captain appreciated the Soviet strategy. He was being forced to make the first move while the Sierra turned toward Houston. As he altered course to close his range with the Alfa, he was interrupted by a call from sonar.

  “Captain!” The sonar officer’s voice was pitched a shade higher than normal. “I’m getting a malfunction . . . some kind of a variation in power. The computer’s having trouble sorting out the incoming signal.”

  “Make it simple, Peter . . . simple.” Lieutenant Merry was intrigued by details. He would have been a good lawyer.

  “It’s just like a phone conversation, Captain, when you can only hear half of what the other guy’s saying. I’ve got his noisemakers—they’re mobile. But I can’t distinguish a pattern. And it sounds like the Alfa’s changing depth . . . probably going up.”

  “Are you able to hold the Alfa?”

  “Negative . . . that is, not all the time. Every time we start to get a good picture, the signal cuts out. Then we have to start all over again. And there’s a lot of movement in the ice up there. If he gets below three knots, he’ll be pretty well masked.”

  “Last range?” The captain’s voice was soothing. “Between nine and ten miles . . .” the fire control coordinator responded.

  “Speed?”

  “He’s cut down to about six knots . . . staying behind that screen of noisemakers.”

  “Are you able to hold him enough?” he asked the sonar officer.

  “Hell yes, Captain. When my gear is operating right, J no problem.” Lieutenant Merry qualified everything.

  “Just checking, Peter. I’m not worried yet. Just keep your technicians humping. Could he be close to firing soon?”

  “Maybe, Captain. But he’s right on the edge. He wouldn’t have a great solution . . . but it would be better than anything fire control can give you now.”

  “And there’s no way he can tell that we’ve got a sonar casualty?”

  “No way . . .” There was a long silence, and the captain was about to speak when he heard, “Christ, that was a long one. Chief, could it be in the sonar dome, or—” He was interrupted by a voice in the background. Then he was back on the speaker again. “We lost it for almost thirty seconds on that one. The chief is sure the problem’s somewhere in this equipment, Captain.”

  “Recommendations, Peter?”

  He was faced with another long pause before Lieutenant Merry answered. “I . . . I don’t have any, Captain. All I could think would be to . . .” Again there was silence before he concluded hesitantly, “. . . to get the hell out of here. But we could be in his range now.”

  The captain had already waved over his XO. “All stop. Let’s get some decoys out—double fast! And . . . I guess we’re going to have to generate some noise. I want all tubes ready for firing, on manual input if we have to.” Better to have his torpedoes warm and muzzle doors open.

  The images creeping into the captain’s ordered mind grew more unattractive by the minute. He could picture a Soviet Alfa loitering near the surface, using the movement of the ice for cover as he closed to torpedo range. And if the man possessed a sixth sense, he might begin to wonder why the American had held off firing torpedoes for this long . . . perhaps a casualty to take advantage of. The minutes seemed hours as they closed their target with often erratic contact by sonar.

  “Torpedoes in the water!” The cry from sonar was urgent. “Two of them . . . our gear was down again. We never heard anything until it came back on.”

  “Snap shot . . . tubes one and two. Whatever input you’ve got, shoot on generated bearings.” The captain signaled to his XO with his hands to dive and go to flank speed as he shouted into the speaker, “Sonar go active. I need a range.”

  “About eight thousand yards . . .”

  Damn! He’d crept at least five thousand yards since the last firm range. He’d let the Russian sneak right in. As the thud of the last torpedo leaving the ship came to him, the deck was rolling to starboard and falling away. Olympia’s props slashed the water. Alternatives raced before the captain’s eyes. He knew more decoys had been fired and that Olympia was reversing course and diving as fast as she could. But, it would most likely be maneuvering that would save them.

  Two torpedoes fired at that range and they’d never heard a thing . . . not the telltale sound as the muzzle doors were opened after flooding tubes . . . not a goddamn thing! Just the report from sonar that they were victims of their own inoperative gear. And the Russians had the advantage—good target solutions in their warheads!

  Olympia had performed so perfectly the past few days, killing quickly and efficiently. And here she was running . . . running when she should have been attacking. The captain had no idea how much data they’d been able to insert before they shot, but he was afraid it wasn’t enough. Torpedoes were like little spaceships, miraculous instruments but almost directionless without the simplest of instructions. Each bit of information made them that much more intelligent. With proper input, they could be as accurate and deadly as a rifle. His single advantage was that an Alfa moving at high speed simulated the sound of an express train—or at least that’s what his sonarmen indicated.

  “Are we able to get a range on the nearest torpedo?” The captain’s voice was loud and sharp, but there was no fear evident.

  “They’re both still in search.”

  “What is Alfa doing?”

  “Same thing we are, Captain.” For a moment. Lieutenant Merry’s voice was tinged with humor. “Running like a scared rabbit. He’s making such a racket that the ice isn’t giving him the least bit of help now. Hell, if anything, it’s reflecting all that sound.” But the Soviet torpedoes were still closing.

  Olympia’s decks canted sharply. The diving officer kept her planes on the edge of a full dive. The rudder was hard left, after first turning to starboard. Her speed was still building.

  The captain, gripping the shiny chrome railing, noted a sensation completely foreign to anything he’d ever experienced in the past. Everything he’d ever anticipated in all his years aboard submarines—assuming he was ever fired upon—no longer seemed to be important. Two high-speed Soviet torpedoes were bearing down on him, and the fears and the systematic orders he’d once memorized no longer mattered. Each situation had to be unique. Intuition was everything in successful evasion—that and a little luck, like having perfectly operational equipment.

  Those torpedoes bearing down on Olympia had been programmed to chase after a diving, evading submarine—and they were doing just that.

  “Their torpedoes are past that first batch of decoys.”

  “We did fire more?” The captain glanced over his shoulder at the XO for confirmation.

  “. . . ought to be in the middle of them now . . .” The XO’s response was lost as sonar reported one of th
e Soviet torpedoes apparently veering away . . . attracted by one of the decoys.

  But one more was still closing, its electronic brain intent on an American 688-class submarine making enough noise in its escape attempt to attract them.

  Olympia’s captain shifted his rudder again as the diving officer leveled off near test depth. They were approaching maximum speed now. The captain was gambling—hoping to confuse the torpedo with radical course changes. The addition of the noisemakers might just turn the trick.

  “Range . . . two eight hundred . . . range gating . . . damn . . .” ‘

  The sudden silence was ominous. Then the words droned over the speaker, “. . . sonar’s cut out again . . . we’re sure it was homing on us . . . Then, “. . . got it back again . . . it’s on to us, Captain . . . definitely homing . . .”

  “Decoys—spit ’em out.” This course and depth were no good. They couldn’t go deeper. And with the torpedo still above, they couldn’t head up . . . the only option was to make it a stern chase. The captain altered course, then ordered the diving officer to add five hundred more feet. That would take them below test depth—but it also would make it that much more difficult for the torpedo. Olympia’s deck tilted sharply once again.

  Reversing course cost more precious seconds. Even at top speed, the new Soviet torpedo was more than twenty knots faster than a 688-class. Olympia became the rabbit for a torpedo that would not be deterred by their decoys.

  The Soviet torpedo detonated in Olympia’s reactor compartment as she plunged beyond test depth in her frantic effort to escape certain death. Those who weren’t killed by the blast in the after third of the submarine died within seconds as bulkheads were crushed by the intense pressure of the water. Those in the forward section behind the watertight doors survived . . . until Olympia’s hull was shattered like an egg as she plummeted past crush depth.

  None of them lived to hear the blast as one of their own torpedoes was attracted by the express-train sounds of the Russian Alfa, detonating after a glancing blow. The outer hull fractured behind the control room. Power was lost when the shock wave rolled over the ship driving the rods into the pile. The scram was momentary. The engineers reacted instinctively, quickly bringing the reactor back on-line. The Alfa would have been unable to sustain a second hit. Many of their instruments had been shattered. Only experience kept her operating within reasonable limits.

  She turned to rejoin her sister ship, seeking protection while she licked her wounds.

  Abe Danilov’s eyes remained tightly shut, as if he were in a trance . . . scarcely breathing. But Sergoff knew better—and Stevan Lozak had learned to appreciate these eccentricities as never before.

  What Danilov perceived behind those closed eyes was much like what was depicted on the holographic imager in Imperator, but it was within his mind. He was withdrawn from the picture, gazing down on it well away from Seratov. He had mentally erased Orel when she was mercilessly destroyed by Imperator, and he had dismissed Olympia in the same manner. The Alfa that had been damaged. Poltava, reversed course and limped after her sister ship, Ryazan. On the far end, Tambov huddled among the ice floes, hoping to remain hidden until Imperator blundered too close.

  Through all of the day’s action, he was as tempted as Lozak to venture forth to assist his sheep. Yet Admiral Danilov remained aloof to their needs. He was in sole command and his orders were to destroy Imperator. He had not been expected to return with every man and submarine under his command . . . only to destroy what appeared to be the greatest threat to his country. He was doing it the best way he knew how.

  Carol Petersen, curiosity piqued, remained in the control room, but well away from Hal Snow. Though Caesar continued to provide data to all weapons systems, Snow retained control. There wasn’t a trace of doubt in anyone’s mind that he would now show that he could complete the next attack as efficiently as the computer.

  Snow was again perched on his stool before the imager. The representation of Tambov was vague, almost to the point of fading. Sonar no longer held contact, and only Caesar’s memory bank provided an image of the Soviet’s last known position. A series of pressure ridges had formed in that location, deep clefts of ice forced downward by the clash of immense floes above—tons of ice temporarily forced fifty, seventy-five, sometimes more than a hundred feet below the surface by unimaginable pressure.

  It was a dangerous retreat at best, but worth a chance after the harsh destruction of Orel. Her captain was sure that there was no passive sonar able to detect him amidst the crush of these untold tons of ice. He had no doubt of Imperator’s intentions. She had turned at high speed from her destruction of Orel and headed immediately in his direction. Revised target data were continually inserted into his torpedoes. Once the range was right, he would increase his depth, maneuvering for a proper angle on his target to empty his tubes. He was sure that lurking between the pressure ridges vastly increased his odds.

  Glancing out of the comer of his eye, Snow noticed Carol hovering in the background. He motioned her forward with a wave of his arm. “Grab a stool. More than enough room to watch the fun from here.”

  She’d been hoping he would notice her, hoping his mood would remain positive. She made a concerted effort to be as casual as she could. “You and Imperator are finally getting a chance to—”

  “Oh, no bother about the ship. We both knew she could do it.” He was totally engrossed in what they were doing, yet seemed quite pleased she was there. “See . . . the Sierra, right there.” He pointed toward the pressure ridges.

  “If that’s where Caesar left him. I’ll go along with you.”

  Snow frowned momentarily. “He’s there,” he repeated conclusively.

  “What do you think he’s planning?” The question sounded stupid when it came out.

  “He’s hoping we don’t know where the hell he is . . . just snuggled in there waiting for us to come looking . . . waiting until we’re in range,” he mused, almost to himself. Then he added with more certainty, “It’s a damn good idea. I’d do the same. All the racket up there from the ice would give the average sonar fits. But, then, you know your equipment.” He grinned, patting her shoulder without looking away from the imager. “It was designed to do just what it’s doing now. Even though we don’t hold him on sonar, the memory has him in the last known position . . . and it’s one hell of a good one.”

  Carol nodded. She’d programmed Caesar, first attending all the courses on tactics that the navy offered. Then she spent time with the war games people so she could understand how battles evolved in the past and how today’s warriors studied them in relation to modern weapons.

  Snow spoke before she asked the inevitable. “Of course, I’m not going to let him come out and take a shot at us. We’re going to remove his hiding place instead.” This time he held her eyes with a satisfied grin. “We get to try those new fish, the ones with the sodium heads.” When sodium came in contact with water, it almost exploded with a violent reaction of hydrogen bubbles, burning with an intense yellow heat. It had been designed specifically for under-ice warfare.

  “Remove the walls he’s built . . .”

  “Mirrors,” Snow responded quietly. “It’s just like a mirror up there. We’re just going to shatter his mirrors so he’s standing there naked.”

  When Imperator came within range, which remained beyond the effective range of the Soviet submarine’s torpedoes, both Washington and Moscow soon understood that a violent confrontation was taking place on the Russian side of the North Pole. Infrared satellites detected tremendous amounts of heat. Boiling water roared skyward through fissures in the ice pack from the explosive contact of sodium and water. Nine separate blasts were recorded, the last four tracing the outline of Tambov as she frantically attempted to escape from the plunging cakes of ice ricocheting off her hull.

  The “eye in the sky” satellites—the ones that could identify a postage stamp in the snow—relayed photographs that could have been taken at Yellowstone. Ta
ll geysers of steaming water continued to burst into the arctic air, propelled through ice fissures by the violent reaction of the sodium as the warheads burst open against the pressure ridges. Icebergs the size of churches leaped skyward as they were released by the pressure of overriding ice floes, their pinnacles magnificent spires reaching for the heavens.

  The satellites could record only what existed within their capabilities. They could not see what happened to the Sierra-class submarine that had been nestled between these pressure ridges. Tambov reared upward from the initial blasts, three at about the same time. Her captain had made no effort to evade the approaching torpedoes because he assumed there was no way a homing torpedo could seek them out—Tambov was secure and silent behind the protective ice.

  Not until the final seconds did her captain become concerned with their true purpose. His suspicions, though well founded, were too late. Not a soul aboard Tambov understood what was happening to them. They hadn’t been hit by a torpedo, nor was there any explosion near enough to cause them damage. Yet they found their craft leaping uncontrollably upward from a force beneath them.

  A combination of pressure and immense broken chunks of ice keels attacked from beneath. Other bursts to either side rocked their craft. Beyond the impact of the blasts, the sound rolled through Tambov as if they were locked inside a bass drum. Ice breaking, ice grinding against other suddenly free chunks, ice leaping beyond the surface only to crash down again, the millions of bubbles created by the constant reaction of sodium and water—all this perpetual sound created a waking nightmare within Tambov. So horrifying was this experience that each man seemed driven within himself by an unnatural fear—the terror of the unseen! Not a one seemed capable of moving. They could neither hear nor follow orders. The unknown encased them in a living hell.