Deep Whisper

by Henry Martin

  Beneath the waves his boat was a sleek and silent shark, a cold and deadly predator ready to deal death.

  On the surface she was just a target like everyone else.

  He had witnessed another submarine sink, so it should have made him reluctant to dive his boat. But it hadn’t. The stress and worry over the Russian sailors’ fate made Castillo yearn safety. And for his submarine, safety could only be found beneath the sea.

  “Passing eight hundred feet.”

  “Very well, helm.”

  Castillo caught Glazer’s eyes and stepped over to the DRT plot, joining Trent. “Let’s talk about the picture,” he murmured.

  Glazer pointed at a pair of pencil tracks. “Closest contacts are a pair of Osa-class patrol boats. They must have been cruising the coast when the Victor went down, only way they could have come up on us so fast. They’re nasty little missile boats—but they don’t have much of an ASW capability. Shouldn’t be a threat to us.”

  “Lots of noise from the bearing to Vladivostok, Captain,” said Trent. “Looks like the Russians are surging a significant portion of their surface fleet.”

  Castillo shook his head. “I’m not worried about the skimmers. What I want to know about is their submarines.”

  Trent and Glazer shared a look.

  “What is it?” asked Castillo, irritated.

  “We haven’t detected any subsurface contacts,” said Trent. “None.”

  Which was beyond strange. And Trent and Glazer were too smart to trust good news they didn’t understand. Unless Russians attack boats were needed elsewhere for some other reason. Why had the boomer been transiting without an escort? Castillo could just see the hint of something, a blurry shape, if only he could¼

  Damn it, he would have to act on what he knew.

  And hope for the best.

  “All right,” he said, “for all intents and purposes we’ll ignore the surface contacts. But if Sonar detects a Russian submarine, any submarine, I want to know about it immediately.”

  “Yessir,” answered Glazer crisply.

  “We’ll go in slow and quiet and contact the Victor. That part shouldn’t be too hard. Our goal is to get Volkov to request assistance. The next part is trickier—we’ll have to relay that request to the Kirishima without surfacing and without using the growler. We can’t risk Zhakov or any of the Russian’s surface fleet breaking our message.”

  Glazer frowned. “So how will we— Oh, flashing light.”

  Castillo nodded. “We’ll come to pee dee and flash a message. Kirishima’s signal bridge will relay to Captain Kagawa who will contact Chihaya.”

  “That’s a lot of steps, Captain,” said Trent.

  Castillo sighed. “You’re not kidding, XO.”

  “Steady at nine hundred feet. At ordered depth.”

  Glazer turned back to look at the helmsman. “Very well, helm. Left standard rudder. Come to new course three four seven. All ahead one-third.”

  Castillo stepped over to the quartermaster’s table and watched his submarine track across the chart, moving towards the position of the downed Victor. When the little pencil triangles reached the line that indicated the end of international waters, he raised his voice. “All stop. All back one-third.”

  “Captain has the conn,” called Glazer.

  Castillo waited until the backing bell completely arrested Pasadena’s forward motion and then he called, “All stop.”

  “All stop, aye, aye,” answered the helmsman, reaching forward and twisting the engine order telegraph. A second later: “Maneuvering answers all stop.”

  This time Castillo was certain that he was in international waters. He stepped over to the growler and pulled down the handset. “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena, over.”

  Nothing.

  The growler wouldn’t work without power and Castillo knew the Victor was already drawing down its battery just to keep the lights and heat on. If the battery was running out of juice they wouldn’t be able to communicate.

  And if they couldn’t communicate he would have no pretext to rescue the Russian crew.

  “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena. Are you receiving?”

  He heard a distant whisper of sound over the speaker—just enough to convince him that the Russians were trying to answer up.

  He glanced at Trent. The XO ran his hand through his blond buzz cut and then said what Castillo was thinking. “If they’re having power drain¼” He shook his head. “We’re going to have to move closer to hear them.”

  Castillo clutched the phone so hard that pain stabbed through his knuckles. There was a big difference in willfully violating Russian waters and coming to the aid of a desperate submarine captain who was watching the cold and darkness claim his men one by one. But there was only so much CYA he could do. Sooner or later he was going to have to make a decision.

  And Castillo wasn’t a big fan of waiting around to see what happens.

  He drew a deep breath. “In my judgment as captain of the Pasadena it is necessary to enter Russian waters in order to carry out our duty under maritime law to assist a vessel in distress. This is my decision and mine alone.” He turned to the quartermaster of the watch. “QM3, please enter that in the deck log.”

  “Yessir,” said Williams crisply.

  “Helm,” said Castillo, “make turns for five knots.”

  “Make turns for five knots,” answered the fireman on the bow planes. “Sir, Maneuvering answers turns for five knots.”

  Castillo looked at his watch. Five knots. One hundred sixty-seven yards per minute. At 36 seconds he looked up and called out, “All stop.”

  “All stop,” answered the helmsman. “Maneuvering answers all stops.”

  One hundred yards, Castillo thought. I’ve violated Russian waters—and my orders—by hundred yards. I hope to hell it’s worth it.

  He picked up the growler handset. “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena, over. Are you receiving?”

  This time he heard a tiny whisper of sound. “Pasadena, this—” Static. “—Moskovskiy, over. Running low—” Static. “—ower.”

  This was never going to work. Castillo already had his hand in the cookie jar, but if he was going to pull those men out he was going to have to reach deeper.

  Maybe all the way to the bottom.

  He glanced down at the surface plot. The two patrol boats orbiting overhead weren’t really ASW platforms. They weren’t going to overhear the growler conversation—and there wasn’t anyone else out here. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Castillo muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse me, Captain?” said Glazer.

  “Mr. Glazer, take the conn and give me a hundred more yards.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Castillo raised the phone to his face. “Moskovskiy, please report status.” He closed his eyes. No, no that wasn’t right. “Martyn Leonidovich,” he said gently. “Please tell me how you are.”

  There was a pause.

  “We do not have much time, Pasadena.” The sound volume was still low, but at least Castillo could hear Volkov clearly. “My men are brave and faithful to the Rodina to the end. All but a few lights have flickered out. Our battery power is nearly expended. The sea seeps in, Pasadena. It has climbed to our waists. I— I can no longer feel my legs.”

  The words wrenched Castillo’s heart.

  “Please,” said Volkov, “please.”

  The man had the strength of a ship’s captain—but he was also begging for his life, for the life of his men. That combination— Well, it was the most horrible thing Castillo had ever heard in his life.

  “Is there nothing you can do for us, Mark Castillo?”

  “Hold on, Martyn Leonidovich. Hold on. Help is on the way. The Japanese DSRV is almost—”

  “Nyet, my friend. It must be Russian rescue submarine, not Japanese.”

  Castillo’s guts turned to ice. He had expected Volkov to ask for help. But if Volkov insisted on Russian rescuers there was nothing Casti
llo could do.

  “Captain, the Russian vessel Keet, it’s still sixteen hours out at least.”

  “Sixteen hours,” Volkov whispered. “My God!”

  There was a long silence.

  “Then there is only one thing you can do for me.”

  “Name it,” said Castillo fiercely.

  “Tell my countrymen, that my men served the motherland right up until the end.”

  “Wait, Martyn, wait. Please, let me send the Japanese DSRV for you, it’s not too late, if only you’d—”

  His entreaty was interrupted by the harsh pinging of active sonar, lashing his hull, ringing Pasadena like a bell.

  “Con, sonar,” blared the bulkhead-mounted speaker. “Contact close aboard at three five oh.”

  Close aboard at three five oh. Right above the Victor.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” Trent shouted.

  “Diesel boat, a Kilo or a Tango.” Castillo snapped. “Has to be. Nothing else would be quiet enough to sneak up on us.”

  He stepped out of Main Control and shouldered his way into Sonar. “What the hell just happened, Watch Supervisor?”

  The thin kid from west Texas looked up at him, agony scrawled across his face. “I’m sorry, skipper, but she’s not moving. She didn’t sneak up on us—she was already there.” The words were pouring out of Busfield like beer out of a smashed bottle. “I got no screws and no reactor pumps. Must be a diesel boat running on battery. She’s doing a damn good imitation of a hole in the water.” Busfield was sweating. Castillo had never seen that before.

  “What can you tell me?”

  Busfield shook his head. “Without a yankee search, I can’t give you range.”

  Castillo shook his head. “I’m not worried about range. I’m guessing she’s near the Victor. I’m more worried about what she is and what her intentions—”

  Glazer’s voice over the 1MC speaker cut him off: “Captain to Control.”

  Castillo turned and scrambled down the p-way, stepping into Control. He didn’t have to ask.

  Trent was on the growler. “Wait one,” he said into the mouthpiece and passed the handset on to Castillo. “New boat, Captain.”

  Castillo counted to five before he put the handset up to his face. He was conducting rescue ops and these son of a bitches had just lit him up. At the end of his count he said, “This is Pasadena actual, over.” He’d managed to scrub most of his anger out of his voice.

  “Pasadena, this is Russian submarine. You are in violation of Russian territorial waters. I instruct you to immediately withdraw and surface.”

  Fury ran through Castillo’s body like an electric current. “Russian submarine, we are conducting rescue operations in accordance with maritime—”

  “You are instructed to withdraw. We will not warn again. Russian submarine, out.”

  Pain lanced through Castillo’s jaw. He deliberately unclenched his mouth, but he could still feel the tightness in his neck and across his neck, feel his heart throbbing in his chest.

  And then a frightened voice emerged from the 1MC speaker. “Transients,” said Busfield. “She’s flooding tubes.”

  Castillo’s jaw sagged open and he actually looked up at the speaker for clarification. That couldn’t be right, could it? The other Russian boat out there wasn’t going to fire on an American boat in the middle of a rescue operation.

  Were the Russians really crazy enough to start a war over who was going to rescue the men in the Victor?

  Castillo had a lot of room in his orders—but not enough for this. For a moment he closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. Then he opened them. “Helmsman,” Castillo barked, “all ahead one-third. Left full rudder, come to new course one eight zero.”

  He was dimly aware that the sailor was giving him the standard repeat-back, but Castillo didn’t really hear him. “Very well,” he said mechanically.

  Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum as her main engines came up to match ordered speed, Pasadena turned her tail towards her enemy. At his order, Castillo’s submarine fled.

  “We’ve cleared international waters,” said QM3.

  “Officer of the Deck, surface the ship,” said Castillo.

  “Surface the ship, aye, aye, Captain,” said Glazer crisply.

  I have abandoned my trapped brothers, thought Castillo. His mouth tasted dirty, foul. Inside his chest he felt wrong.

  It felt just like it had when he’d held George Fuentes as he died.

  Castillo could see the Russian vessel Keet from Kirishima’s fantail. He was told that Keet was the Russian word for whale—and the colossal ship certainly fit her name. She road calmly in the blue sea, not even seeming to rock. As he watched a white crane boom swung out from the ship’s port side and sailors in a ship’s boat began hooking the crane’s block and tackle to the DSRV’s hard points.

  So they were recovering the rescue vehicle. No more men would be coming up off the bottom. The last count Castillo had heard was 54 survivors.

  Out of a crew of 98.

  Forty-four officers and men would not be returning to their families. Castillo couldn’t help thinking that if he’d found a way to conduct rescue ops eight hours earlier, maybe some of those 44 men would have survived.

  No matter how much Coke he drank or how much he brushed his teeth, he just couldn’t seem to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.

  “Commander,” said a sharp voice from behind him.

  Castillo turned and saw Admiral Nikolai Zhakov standing there, flanked by Kagawa. The three men were alone—apparently Kagawa had repositioned his aft lookout. There was no sound save for the Rising Sun flapping in the light, cool breeze.

  “Captain Castillo,” said Kagawa, bowing, “please accept the hospitality of my stateroom.”

  Zhakov stabbed a meaty finger at Castillo. “You violated Russian waters yesterday. You broke international law—and your word to me.”

  “Or we could discuss here,” said Kagawa sourly.

  “I acted properly under maritime law to aid a ship in distress,” said Castillo evenly. “I was unable to communicate with Daniil Moskovskiy from outside your territorial waters, so I moved closer. There is no international incident here.”

  Zhakov snorted. “You Americans are all cowboys.” He cast an angry glance at Kagawa. “And your Japanese puppets aren’t—”

  “That’s enough,” Castillo snarled. “Throughout this entire incident Captain Kagawa and the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force have acted properly. And as for the United States Navy—”

  Castillo reached into the pocket of his khakis and pulled out the message he’d received from CINCPACFLT, handed it to the Russian. “Read paragraph three.”

  Zhakov glanced down and then looked up again. “Proves nothing.”

  Castillo snatched the paper from the admiral and shoved it back in his pocket. “I alone made the decision to encroach upon Russian waters. I was out of communication with both Kirishima and my chain of command, so I was forced to rely upon on my own judgment.”

  Zhakov snorted again. “Your judgment.”

  “That’s right, my judgment. If you push this, you’ll find that I entered the entire incident in my deck log and that I took individual responsibility. You can try and hang me if you want, Admiral, but rest assured, you won’t be able to force anyone else to march to the gallows.”

  Zhakov’s face was flushed red, his eyes narrowed. “You Americans,” he spat. “You tell the world you are ‘good guys.’ But one of our submarines goes down and you use as excuse to spy on us.”

  Castillo took a step toward the man. “You Russians,” he said. “You are so busy trying to prove to your own people that you’re not the same group of ham-fisted commissars from the past that you have to refuse all help. Have to prove you can do it yourself. Tell me Admiral Zhakov, how many of those 44 dead Russians might be alive today if you had accepted help from Chihaya?”

  Zhakov’s face was beet red and he was breathing hard. He l
ooked like he might take a swing at the submarine captain. Or he might have a stroke. Castillo was ready for either eventuality.

  Instead, the admiral turned and stalked off without another word.

  Kagawa muttered something in Japanese. He turned to look at Castillo. “You took entire blame.”

  Castillo shrugged, suddenly exhausted. “No sense getting both of us burned.”

  Kagawa shook his head. “It’s not right.”

  Castillo shook his head. “Sagutaro, you were working with me to try to find a way to do the right thing. That makes you a damn fine officer, that’s all. But it was me who violated Russian waters. End of discussion.”

  For a long moment the Japanese officer just stared at Castillo, no expression in that round face or those dark eyes.

  Then he came to attention and snapped out a perfect salute.

  Castillo returned the salute, his throat closing up with emotion.

  No sooner had Castillo dropped down the forward logistics and escape trunk then the XO appeared by his side. He hadn’t even had a chance to take off his bright orange Kapok. “I’m sorry, Captain, but your presence is requested on the bridge.”

  Castillo sighed. The last few days had put him through the wringer—all he wanted was to hit the rack. But a captain’s job was never done. “Thanks, Paul,” he said, patting the XO on the shoulder.

  He stepped into Main Control which was deserted except for the young seaman sitting at the helm wearing sound-powered phones. Seaman . . . Cole. Danny Cole, Castillo remembered. From Salt Lake City.

  “How’s it going, Seaman Cole?”

  The kid flashed him a sunny smile. “Fair to middlin’, Skipper. Something I can do for you, sir?”

  “No, you’re good.” Castillo pointed up. “Just going topside for a minute.”

  The kid nodded and turned back to his gages. He was still smiling.

  Castillo shook his head in wonder. Wasn’t the kid tired?

  He stepped over to the fold-down steel ladder in the center of Control and began to climb straight up, his muscles screaming with every rung. The ladder took him up through the tight confines of the sail. He had to crawl up a full story before he reached the hatch and emerged into brilliant sunlight.