Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  That torpedo was in a long spiral when it sensed Imperator’s propeller signature. Once again, the guidance mechanism slipped into a homing mode. At a little over a thousand yards’ distance, Caesar was unable to reprogram the lost torpedo in time to destroy it from astern. It struck just outside the computer room.

  The impact was felt in the control room but the immense hull absorbed much of the concussion. It was much like hitting an aircraft carrier with a bomb or torpedo—distant parts of the ship were basically unaware of the trauma at the scene.

  Imperator continued on its course with no change in speed. Reports from most departments came in an orderly manner indicating no damage. Engineering found minor leakage in compartments nearer to the blast but basically size and honeycomb design prevented the hit from becoming a tragedy. There were no human injuries.

  The smile on Hal Snow’s face was widening to one of triumph until the initial indication of a major casualty became evident—“I’ve got trouble here!” It was Carol Petersen, and her voice carried a note of fear Snow had never heard before.

  Snow had been studying the imager closely, a triumphant expression growing as the track of their torpedoes neared the Russian submarine. He was waiting for the little narrow images to merge with the larger one when the imager began to flicker. The Soviet submarine vanished, then returned in a slightly different location. Houston, little more than twelve miles distant, jumped out of position, then vanished. The ice pack, for so long a secure roof above, rippled and fluttered, then disappeared altogether.

  As Snow stared, speechless, the holographic imager went blank. He moved his hand through it, like a magician proving to his audience that there were no strings attached.

  Carol was frantically working at the console, attempting to isolate the casualty. “Caesar’s reporting failures in his equipment room . . . we’ve got troubles. . . bad . . . switching to manual on all systems.” The screen blinked out before her, reflecting a neutral green haze, like the surface of a pool table.

  “Damage control,” Snow managed to sputter into the 21MC.

  “Automatic,” Carol interrupted. “When the computer identifies a casualty, it appears automatically on Damage Control Central’s Board. They’ll already—”

  But Snow had flipped the switch to DC Central before she could finish. “You got anything on the computer yet?” he bellowed.

  “I got men on the way, Captain. Give them a minute to hook up a phone. I’ll get back as soon as I have something.” There was a pause with many voices in the background before he added, “We’ve got water down here . . . don’t know whether it’s salt or fresh yet . . .”

  Snow was momentarily distracted as sonar, still operating normally, reported, “Two torpedoes . . . two hits, Captain. No way that Russian could have escaped from that . . . he’s a goner for sure.”

  The report registered with Snow—it meant that there were no longer any Soviet contacts to prosecute—but he had more vital problems. The brain that controlled this monster of a submarine had flicked off.

  “Captain.” The light on the 21MC speaker indicated it was DC Central. “We got fractured valves down there and flooding. Pressure to the pipes has been secured, but we had to do it manually. The automatic valves failed to function.” Of course—they couldn’t! They were controlled by the computer that was being flooded! “Water hit the electrical conduits, too, and we’re fighting some electrical fires now. Got a lotta smoke spreading down there—”

  “Can you control the fires?” Snow interrupted.

  “No problem there. Nothing’s going to run away on us, Captain. The problem’s in shorting. A lot of small fires. Lots of smoke, too. We’re going to need to ventilate.”

  “How bad’s the smoke?”

  “Don’t know for sure. We got men with masks in there now. But that smoke’s gotta go somewhere.”

  That was it—one of the most feared hazards in a submarine, smoke! It was near-impossible to fight a submarine efficiently if the crew was wearing breathing devices over their faces. Smoke had to be removed, but there was nowhere for it to go in a submarine. Smoke could be pervasive, trickling from one compartment to the next.

  The precipitators could eventually clear it. But the only quick way to get rid of it was to surface and ventilate the spaces.

  Andy Reed was analyzing readouts from the navigational sonar with the quartermaster, Gorham. It was a time-consuming process to compare their projected path with their past course, and they both knew it could be futile because of the shifting ice above. They were searching for thin ice or a polynya or lead because Reed wouldn’t allow the use of any active sonar yet. They weren’t in that bad shape, or at least that was the attitude Reed was projecting. They might even navigate all the way home if they had the time and patience. Besides, there was a missing submarine in the vicinity—Danilov’s—and Andy Reed was sure it hadn’t been sunk. The man he had been leery of even before they got underway had become his nemesis once Houston was damaged. He desperately needed Imperator’s protection until they could surface for repairs.

  “Anything yet from Imperator?” he asked as he worked at the chart.

  When there was no answer to his question, he looked up from the chart table irritably, only to discover Ross standing beside him, his face drawn. “No, Admiral. Nothing from Imperator yet. That’s still a pretty long distance to read voice with all the background noise we’re making, even in these waters. She’s had another tussle . . . her and that last Russian. I don’t think there’s any doubt that that Alfa’s on the bottom, but we picked up an explosion separate from the other—a torpedo—a few degrees from the Alfa. Imperator could have been hit . . . we don’t know yet,” he hastened to add. “But she’s dead in the water, all engines stopped for the time being.”

  “Keep at it, Ross. I don’t want to have to take this thing to the surface without someone standing guard for us.” Andy Reed was sure that if such a thing as a sixth sense existed, they were being watched now.

  Abe Danilov opened his eyes and rose to his feet in a fluid motion. “That’s it. We are the only submarine left.” It often amazed him how advanced a submarine’s sensing devices had become since he first joined the service. The training of the sonarmen, coupled with advanced ranges and the ability of the computer to separate each individual sound in the ocean, had turned sonar into an audio television. It allowed them to “see” for hundreds of square kilometers around them and know exactly what was taking place. They knew how many torpedoes Ryazan had fired in her headlong charge at Imperator and they knew how the American craft had returned the fire. They knew the relative locations of the battling submarines, how long it would take the torpedoes to reach their mark, and they could tell instinctively that Ryazan was ripped apart.

  Of equal interest was that Imperator also appeared to have sustained a hit. Though they could only imagine the extent of damage, it was evident she’d experienced some negative results. The American boat had gone dead in the water, either to lick her wounds or to discover whatever damage had occurred. The critical factor—the most vital—was that Imperator was not immune to attack! She could be hurt—and if she could be hurt, Danilov had no doubt she could be sunk!

  “Is Houston still trying to establish voice contact?” the admiral inquired.

  “Yes, sir.” Sergoff knew exactly what Danilov’s next question might be. “We are not close enough to translate. Even speaking our own language, we are still too far away.”

  “Has Houston turned toward her?”

  “If I had to interpret her problem, I think one of them would be damage to the steering gear. Her course shows little variation. There could be extensive damage to her exterior surfaces if that propeller is any indication . . .”

  “She needs to surface,” Danilov interrupted, his face brightening.

  “Quite possibly . . .”

  “And more likely than not, she wants Imperator to protect her while she makes repairs.” Danilov’s face became animated. “Admir
al Reed knows we’re out here. And he knows we’d pounce on a cripple just like he did.” He noticed Lozak listening intently, and added for the captain’s benefit, “We could run right in after him now . . . but I think Reed would like us to use him . . . as the decoy, Captain Lozak. While we concentrate on him, Imperator blows us out of the water.”

  “A possibility,” Sergoff agreed.

  “A very good possibility,” Danilov smiled. “No. I’m not ready to go racing in for the kill quite yet. But, Captain, add turns for another knot. We’ll close them slowly. I really would like to eavesdrop on Reed’s problems. They might make all the difference in the world as to how to prosecute our attack later on.”

  Sergoff had been studying Stevan Lozak. Perhaps he really was maturing. Never once did he interrupt, and he was listening intently. Lozak should have understood that Danilov was adding one more knot, playing with the threshold of noise that could identify him, only because Houston was creating so much noise herself; and, she was concentrating on contacting the other submarine. Danilov desperately wanted to determine the extent of her damage. That would influence the where and when of his attack.

  “Captain, we’ve got the fires under control but we’ve still got a lot of smoke, especially from the insulation in the equipment room. We’re going to have to ventilate sooner or later.”

  “Can you isolate the compartments?” Snow asked. “Sure . . . but are you going to want to use this computer again?”

  “That bad?”

  “Captain, we’ve sealed off the vents in that area. But that means that smoke stays where it is. No one can get into those spaces for repairs. Look at your board. It’s so bad, you can’t see where it’s still smoldering.” Snow glanced at the colored sections on the damage control emergency board in front of him. “No matter what we do, eventually we’ve got to stick our nose above the ice.”

  “Wait one.” Snow snapped off the speaker to DC Central. He turned to Carol Petersen in agitation. “What’s it going to take to get that computer back on the line?”

  “I don’t know,” she responded helplessly. “The unit that analyzes casualties to the system is off-line. I can’t tell until I can see the damage. It could be simple. Maybe just a matter of replacing some component trays . . . but right now no one can get into those compartments.” Her face became firmer. “Captain, I know you don’t want to surface, but that computer’s going to remain inoperative until someone can get into those spaces. We’ve got to ventilate them somehow.”

  Snow licked his lips nervously. Imperator on the surface was akin to a carrier submerged. Neither could perform their mission. Like Andy Reed, he knew there was another Russian submarine in the vicinity, and that it had to be Danilov. There wasn’t another as cunning as the Soviet admiral . . . and what would be a better time for him? No, the decision to surface wasn’t going to be his. “Turn toward Houston and close Admiral Reed. It’s safe to establish contact now,” he said to his XO.

  “Imperator’s rogered us, Admiral. They’re in communication range.”

  “Are they standing by to open a hole in the ice for us?” Reed’s impatience was obvious.

  “Captain Snow insists on speaking with you, sir.” Andy Reed moved the few steps into sonar and spoke irritably into the mike. “Hal, we don’t have a hell of a lot of time. If you haven’t figured it out, there’s one more Russian out here. We need an open space or a soft spot to surface for some quick repairs, and we need it on the double. You can dive as soon as there’s enough ice-free space for our men to function outside the hull.”

  Snow’s voice came back with the eerie, hollow echo of a human voice transmitted through the water. “We’re not much better off than you. I took a near-hit, Andy. The hull’s still solid, but I’ve got ruptured piping in the computer spaces. The flooding set off fires . . . Caesar’s down . . . have to surface and ventilate smoke before commencing repairs. You’ll have to decide how we do this.”

  Reed considered the few options that existed. A little more than an hour before, nothing beneath the ice could have stopped them. Now, with casualties to both submarines, they were forced to protect each other from a Russian submarine that was certainly nearby, yet had succeeded in disappearing behind a cloak of silence. However he had done it, Danilov held the upper hand for the time being in a situation that might never have been programmed in a war game.

  “We need Caesar . . . badly.” Reed’s impatience had been quickly subdued.”

  “Agreed,” Snow answered.

  “What’s your estimate on repair time.”

  “We can’t even get in there to find out what has to be done.”

  “Okay,” Reed decided. “How confident do you feel about Danilov’s last known position?”

  “Wait one . . . can’t even use the goddamn memory.” I There was a long pause, then, “The best we can do is”—he read off a set of coordinates—“but that was hours ago.”

  “Probably good enough,” Reed answered. “Not more than a couple of miles from our own estimate. That means he was astern of us . . . toward the pole. I’ll tell you what—I need some open water if I’m going to be any use . . . and we can’t do anything until you bust up some working space for us. I can’t get on more than four degrees rudder . . . and I want to have my torpedo tubes in Danilov’s direction when I hit the surface. Give me a position, something that I can make a wide turn for so that I’m facing the pole when I reach open water. You surface and get some fresh air while I’m making the turn, then pull the plug again. No need for you to stay up top while you’re making repairs . . . you can stand sonar guard while I’ve got men outside.”

  “Roger. We’ve got a location one one zero degrees relative, about four miles. You can maneuver into that one easily. I’m on my way unless—”

  “Take off, Hal. No telling about our competition.”

  The competition had indeed crept close enough to record the transmission between the two submarines. The electronics officer ran the tape through a masking device to blot out background sound, transferring it to another tape for an interpreter. Much of the conversation was available.

  The interpreter typed out the transmission, leaving spaces where the speech was unintelligible. Then he analyzed what he had on paper, inserting the most likely words in each case. Once he was satisfied, he retyped the Americans’ conversation and delivered it to a pacing Danilov.

  “Plot that breakthrough position on the chart,” the admiral growled at Lozak, hoping they were closer than he estimated. His eyes brightened when he understood the extent of damage to Imperator’s computer.

  “We were right in the middle of the positions each of them had for us,” Lozak said, laying the chart in front on Danilov. He marveled at the efficiency of the American sonar, for they had been tracked at excessive ranges until their speed dropped under four knots. “Even now, if they were searching carefully, they might pick us up at this speed.” But his voice dropped off as he noticed the admiral clap his hands in delight.

  Danilov considered the relative position of the American submarines. Imperator was eighteen kilometers distant. Houston stood between them off Seratov’s port bow, sounding for all the world like a garbage truck with her howling propeller. She was successfully blocking Imperator’s sonar across that bearing. Houston would have to effect a wide turn to position herself beside an opening in the ice another eight kilometers beyond the giant submarine. Considering Houston’s infirmities, there was no need for a charge, nor anything that might be suicidal. Abe Danilov was convinced he could stop both of them.

  Stevan Lozak was unable to contain himself a moment longer. He could picture the thought processes taking place behind the admiral’s eyes and he was anxious to be a part of it. “Should we get the big one out of the way first?”

  “No.” The rapid response interrupted Lozak before he could explain himself. “Even damaged, Imperator could occupy all our time . . . if we were lucky enough to find an opening in her defenses. But she is going to be making
a lot of noise when she surfaces, especially when more than a thousand feet of submarine is breaking through all that ice. Houston shouldn’t be able to hear a thing at that point, and she probably can’t hear much beyond her own propeller anyway.”

  Danilov rarely made a decision that failed to appeal to Sergoff. The chief of staff had often wondered, as he read the history of submarine warfare, if the greatest captains and leaders were actually as sound under combat conditions as they were when they participated in exercises—from which everyone went home and drank vast quantities of vodka after they were through sinking each other. Danilov had been brilliant but cautious in peacetime, and Sergoff was thankful that these traits followed him into combat. He hoped they would not end up like the others—brave and dead.

  “I want a course that will bring us roughly six kilometers from where they intend to surface and I want to keep Houston between us and Imperator as long as possible. If they are going to place their bows in the direction of our last known position, I will settle for a position on their sterns.” That way, Danilov figured, Houston would remain unable to hear them and she would continue as a screen between Imperator and Seratov.

  Imperator was almost in position. The lead charted earlier had closed slightly, but the ice around the edges was relatively thin. Houston had now swung through the arc that would bring her into position bow first, and she was closing from astern.

  The two American submarines were methodical in carrying out their plan, for they appreciated how valuable each moment was with an enemy submarine lurking somewhere nearby. Realizing how wide Houston’s turn would have to be with only four degrees of rudder available, Snow brought his submarine’s bow into position as quickly as he could to keep his torpedo tubes in Danilov’s estimated direction. He kept his muzzle doors open and torpedoes ready for a snap shot until the last possible second before touching the ice.