Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  Though he had never before participated in an attack that would result in only one winner, he did understand that there was no such thing as creeping into an attack. Success came only to those who pressed home their attack with ferocity, and that would eventually mean revealing Ryazan’s presence to Imperator.

  He wished there was an opportunity to write a last letter to his wife—even though there would never be an opportunity to post it. It would have made him feel better.

  There was nothing left to chance, nothing that might give them away. Captain Lozak enjoyed the confidence and loyalty of his men and they performed flawlessly as Seratov made preparations for emerging from her hiding place. Lozak beamed with pride when Admiral Danilov commented on it.

  “If your crew can continue to operate in this method, I . . . I just might be home in time,” Danilov said. The remark was more to himself.

  Neither Sergoff nor Lozak responded. It was a personal comment that had escaped his lips quite by accident.

  “Rudder amidships,” the helmsman responded to Lozak’s query.

  “Make revolutions for three knots,” Lozak ordered. There was the slightest shudder as the propeller pushed against the icy water, gradually increasing the number of turns until Seratov eased away from the protection of the pressure ridge. “Left ten degrees rudder. Hold it there,” he added. “I’ll tell you when to bring it amidships.” He would wait until sonar had obtained reasonable contact with Imperator and Houston.

  “We’ve got a good picture down here, Captain,” sonar reported shortly.

  “Rudder amidships. All stop.” To the diving officer, he added, “Sound off if you have any trouble holding depth.”

  Danilov smiled and nodded when Lozak turned in his direction. To Stevan Lozak, that was a great improvement over being lectured to with his elbow in that iron grip.

  “Range fourteen thousand, Admiral.”

  Reed was leaning against the stanchion by the number one periscope, his arms folded. “Move in closer so there’s no doubt. Even cripples have a way of fighting back.” The tubes had been flooded, the muzzle doors opened, the torpedoes prepared, when sonar reported, “She’s picking up speed . . . must’ve added at least three or four knots in the last thirty seconds.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Hell, yes. With the racket she’s making with that busted pressure hull, that bucket of bolts sounds like a whole bathtub full now. You can’t hear anything else.”

  “Nothing?” A note of concern crept into Reed’s voice. “Not a damn thing. Sounds like a herd of elephants.”

  “Speed up the firing, Ross. I don’t know how the hell she’s doing it, but I’ll put money down that the son of a bitch is attacking.”

  In less than thirty seconds, Houston’s first torpedo was on its way. A second followed shortly afterward. With the Russian slightly less than ten thousand yards away, both torpedoes were running properly.

  “Turn away, Ross.” There was something very wrong with the Russian’s last moves. “That all made me very unhappy.” Reed called down to sonar: “You got anything else out there besides our own torpedoes?”

  “Admiral, if there was, we’d have a hell of a time sorting it out right now. She’s covering that entire bearing—hell, it looks like ten degrees either side of the bearing with all that racket. I don’t know what she can hear from us with all the problems she’s probably having with her own noise, but she hasn’t reacted to our fish yet.”

  “Goose it, Ross. I don’t care if Seratov’s sitting on our tail.” He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder as if he could see something approaching behind Houston. “And let’s add some depth, too.”

  Reed was still pacing the control room when, thirty seconds later: “Contact . . . contact . . . breaking away from the same bearing.” Then, “Yeah, there is something out there.” Everything from sonar could be heard in the control room. “No . . . no . . . isolate . . . see if you can squelch the background . . . sounds like screws to me . . . high speed.” Then a voice was heard above all the rest. “Torpedo in the water . . . two of them . . . both torpedoes range gating in a three-second interval . . .” The reports continued in a staccato fashion.

  “Pull the plug,” Ross howled. At this range it was more a matter of luck than technique. Houston dived. Her speed increased as fast as possible. The diving officer fought to avoid too steep an angle. Ross used his rudder to alter courses. The objective in such close quarters was to confuse the torpedo’s homing device enough to send it off after the decoys now in the water.

  “One’s locked on . . . no doubt on that.”

  While sonar recorded the dual blasts from their own torpedoes that finished off Poltava, a frightened voice continued to reel off the shortening ping intervals as the Soviet torpedo bore relentlessly down on them.

  In a last-ditch attempt, Ross threw the rudder sharply in the opposite direction at the same moment more decoys were released. It seemed futile to him at the time. Houston was at flank speed, making more noise than any decoys could ever hope to imitate, but it may have saved them.

  “Still on us,” came the detached voice from sonar. “Closing hard . . . stand by . . .”

  A deafening explosion rocked Houston. Darkness followed instantly combining with the crash of equipment and glass and frightened shouts of her crew.

  The emergency lights revealed a tangle of men on the port side of the control room. Reed still grasped one of the support stanchions, but he had been thrown against the periscope and his forehead was covered with blood. Only one thing was certain—the lights proved they hadn’t yet sunk.

  Damage control reports streamed into the control room. Forward spaces were still secure, with minor flooding from cracked pipes. Sonar was still functioning forward; the towed array wasn’t responding. The control area had experienced normal shock damage. The torpedo had detonated aft, somewhere off the stem—probably caused by one of the decoys. The hull remained solid, though cracked pipes in the engineering spaces were causing minor interior flooding. The engineering report was more critical—there seemed to be external damage to the propeller. Houston’s speed would be under fifteen knots. Steering problems cropped up a few minutes after and it was assumed they were likely the result of bent or broken control surfaces.

  Reed tied a handkerchief around his bleeding head. “Run her through her paces, Ross. See what we can get out of her if we use a little force. Maybe if we wind her up, everything’ll straighten out.”

  The planes worked properly and the trim system remained solid. But Houston literally shook herself apart at any speed beyond fourteen knots and the rudder responded only to wide, gentle turns. There would be no chance for her to maneuver under attack again. While she could still fire torpedoes, any attack on her would prove fatal.

  “What’s the range to Imperator?” Reed asked unhappily.

  “A little over thirty miles.”

  “Steer for her,” he ordered.

  Ryazan’s political officer had to say something. The tension was proving too much. Words, any words—they didn’t have to make sense—would release the pressure. He stated in a much louder voice than anticipated, “They know we’re out here.” He then felt much better. He also felt stupid for having uttered it.

  “Of course they do,” the captain growled. “Submarines don’t evaporate. The American knows that as well as you do. He’s already isolated a patch of ocean, and you can be sure we’re in it.” He knew the reason for Imperator’s wide circle around their position was to remain on the outer limits of their torpedo range. He experienced a brief sense of futility—his back was against a cliff and the wolf was circling, sniffing the air . . . inching closer.

  “Perhaps he’s had a sonar casualty,” the political officer commented.

  “Perhaps.” the captain responded, without really paying attention to his answer. He was sure Imperator was functioning normally. No, there was no outside chance that they could advance on the American and fire without knowledge of
their approach.

  Ryazan was able to identify every sound emitted by their nemesis. They knew Imperator’s tubes had been flooded . . . they knew the muzzle doors lay open now as the American craft closed the half circle cautiously.

  The captain was increasingly impressed with his own patience. Never before had he exhibited such calm. He had often hoped to be an example for his crew, the single thin thread that maintained discipline in the face of certain death. The captain marveled at this new side of himself and wondered if he would ever have discovered it under normal conditions. Or was it something that surfaced in a man only when he faced death? Or was it perhaps a condition that was reserved for those who had the opportunity to prepare themselves for it? After all, most men in his position never experienced the luxury of preparing for their fate; it came suddenly for most.

  Like the letter he wished he could write to his wife, this was another discovery that he should have been able to relate to someone—this discovery of inner peace. No, he concluded, this is all foolishness. No man waits bravely to die. He may know that he must die, but he waits to get even!

  And that is what Ryazan’s captain really desired more than anything else, more than the chance to see his family once more—he wanted to get even with the object that was taking all that he loved away from him forever.

  So he was willing to tarry as long as he had to for an opportunity that might never appear. He was hoping for that unanticipated distraction that would give him an advantage over Imperator—just enough time to strike a blow before Ryazan was destroyed.

  The mood in Imperator’s control room couldn’t have been more jovial. Everything in their path had been wiped out. Now, the remaining Soviet submarine in the imager was within their grasp. True, it was a projection from Caesar’s memory indicating that vessel’s last known position, but Snow knew that if they hadn’t heard it, it hadn’t gone far. Target solutions based on that memory had already been inserted in the torpedoes. The fish were warm, the tubes flooded, muzzle doors open. All that remained was to shoot at the first confirming sound.

  “Captain.” It was sonar. “We’ve got something coming from Houston’s bearing. Can’t figure it out yet.”

  “Computer’s working on it, too,” Carol Petersen echoed.

  They already knew the alteration in her sound signature indicated damage. But she seemed able to move at a sustained speed—somewhat lower than normal—in their direction. It had just been a matter of carelessness, Snow said. Otherwise Houston would be rejoining without a scratch.

  “What’s the problem?” Snow inquired irritably. “How far away is she?”

  “A good twenty miles, sir . . . and she’s making a lot of noise with that screwed-up prop—”

  “Captain,” Carol interrupted. “Caesar holds that new sound as a voice print. Houston’s trying to contact us.”

  “Christ, you can’t transmit voice at that distance. Andy Reed knows that.” He didn’t want to break off the attack now.

  “Must be some kind of emergency,” the XO commented. “What can the computer do with it?” Snow asked. “Caesar’s working at it, but I’m afraid . . .” Her voice drifted off as she waited for a response on the screen. Then, “. . . nothing. . . still too far off . . . too much interference from our own ship’s noise. We’ve got to close her a bit more.”

  “I thought Houston was coming right toward us,” Snow retorted.

  “Negative. She was on a sort of intercept course but now she seems to be drifting off. . . or else we’re . . . yeah, we’re still in a wide circle around that target, and now we’re going slightly away from that intercept point. Houston’s course is steady.”

  “Want me to set a course to intercept, Captain?”

  “Negative. Not yet. Have we passed the closest point of approach to Houston yet? Is she going away from us?”

  “Still closing, Captain. We just won’t intercept. That’s all.”

  “Then concentrate on Houston and see what the trouble is. I don’t want to lose this last target. Recheck that firing solution every sixty seconds,” he barked at the fire control coordinator.

  “If we can straighten out our course for a few minutes, I can toy with one of the hydrophones. We should be able to copy Houston a few minutes after,” Carol explained.

  “Go ahead,” Snow grumbled to the XO. “But only a few minutes. We are going to get that Russian out of the way before we do anything else.” He jabbed a finger emphatically at Ryazan’s location within the imager.

  Ryazan’s captain considered the slight change in Imperator’s course. Everything at this stage was a guess on his part, but this could be the moment he hoped for. He knew he would be dead shortly if he was wrong, but he also assumed he would be dead within hours anyway. What difference did it make? It was too late for the world to appreciate his discoveries over the last few hours. The party would take care of his family whether he died now or tomorrow, or even if it had been yesterday.

  The captain nodded to the XO, who called aft to the engineer. Ever so slowly, Ryazan’s prop began to turn. The rudder was put over to bring her to a course directly in line with Imperator. Noisemakers were prepared as they picked up speed. Perhaps they might provide enough distraction to give them another couple of seconds.

  The familiar thrum of the deck under his feet gave the captain a feeling he’d never imagined before. His spirits were high. He was charging directly toward his fate. He was a paladin, a knight pounding across the field of combat. Though his final battle would never be seen, he had accepted that as his fate. Pride surged through his veins. When it seemed their approach had to be obvious, he ordered the political officer to play the national anthem over the PA system.

  Imperator had been at the maximum range of the Soviet torpedoes when Ryazan got underway. The distance closed rapidly from that moment on. The first two torpedoes were fired while the national anthem echoed through every compartment. The second two left the tubes sixty seconds later. As soon as the first reloads were ready, they were fired. A total of eight torpedoes had been expended before sonar reported that Ryazan had been fired upon. Past experience told the captain there was no need to undertake evasive maneuvers. Instead he chose to go deep on the chance that one more lucky break might come his way.

  Abe Danilov’s eyes were once again tight with concentration. He carefully added each report to the expanded mental picture he was composing. Unlike the holographic imager on Imperator, his mind did not include the ice above, but he was able to establish an image of each submarine. They existed in their exact location in relation to Seratov. His concentration was powerful enough to cut out all extraneous voices. He heard only the reports from sonar.

  Poltava was gone, but the admiral also knew Houston had been damaged in the process. Her speed was limited by a propeller casualty and, since she failed to alter her course at all, he was sure her steering gear was also impaired. But that was an assumption he would wait on until there was absolute proof. His sonarmen also knew that Reed was trying to send an urgent message to Imperator.

  He opened his eyes briefly, knowing Sergoff was nearby, and gave the signal to get underway. He was sure Houston had enough trouble of her own that it would be difficult to pick up Seratov now. With all of Imperator’s wizardry, he was still confident that there was too much to occupy her time with Ryazan and Houston’s emergency.

  Stevan Lozak was pleased that they were once again moving, but his curiosity had yet to be satisfied. They were less than twenty kilometers astern of Houston and probably no more than fifty from Imperator. He had no idea what Danilov was planning and, if Sergoff knew, he was saying nothing. Each time that he impatiently queried Sergoff about their next move, the chief of staff would smile and lay a calming hand on his arm and explain that Lozak would know almost at the same time he did.

  “Come ten degrees to port.” The calm voice jarred him from his thoughts. He was surprised to find Danilov’s eyes open and fixed on him. “You may keep her at four knots . . . no mo
re. I think we have the luxury of time.”

  Luxury of time! Lozak couldn’t believe his ears. After all the hours they had spent huddling behind that huge ridge of ice while the other submarines attacked each other so savagely! Lozak had no doubt that Danilov would live to a ripe old age with so much patience. If only he would achieve such a level of calm—if ever he reached that age.

  Snow was caught by surprise. Everything before had been so easy. One after another, the Russian submarines had fallen before Imperator. Now he was actually under attack by the one he had been circling! The message that Houston was trying to send had occupied his time, only for a few minutes, but that was long enough to lose what he considered the proper picture. He was forced to relinquish control to Caesar.

  Eight torpedoes in four salvos! Incredible—it was beyond comprehension that the Soviet submarine could have maintained such discipline knowing that her final strike would be suicidal. Yet somehow her captain had enforced absolute silence until Imperator had been momentarily distracted. It was almost as if it had been part of a master plan. But Snow was sure that was impossible. It was luck.

  Snow had been ready to fire as he circled the Russian. Now Caesar automatically sent two torpedoes at him. There was no chance for evasion at that range. The Russian had made a headlong charge as his torpedo tubes were reloaded, and fired again. It was just a matter of time. He’d chosen sacrifice in his attempt to destroy the American submarine.

  Caesar deployed decoys with electronic precision. These were followed by the high speed antitorpedo missiles (ATMs) as he kept track of each incoming torpedo. One that broke through the defensive screen was illuminated by the laser and disarmed. While the computer coordinated the defense with uncanny accuracy, it was a malfunction by a decoy that allowed the only casualty sustained by Imperator. One of the Soviet torpedoes was drawn away astern by a decoy and altered its course slightly to home on the noise-maker. However, a casualty to the decoy’s sound-transmission system had silenced it. The torpedo, losing target contact, returned to a search pattern. Caesar’s memory no longer carried this torpedo that had gone after the decoy. The Soviet fish now became a maverick, unaccounted for by the computer now defending the giant submarine.