Sea Leopard

by Craig Thomas

  "I think we are. The KGB Resident wouldn't charge off unofficially without good cause or strong suspicion. Hyde couldn't have lost his trail. Damn that girl and her father!" He returned his attention to the map. The dot of the Nimrod was crossing the Arctic Circle. Proteus was surrounded. The Kiev was steaming at full speed to the Tanafjord, and the rescue ship Karpaty was on station. There really was no escaping the conclusion, and little chance of avoiding disaster. Aubrey felt very tired, entirely incompetent. "I think we have already lost, Ethan. This may be the view from the canvas, from the loser's corner."

  "I hope to God you're wrong about that."

  "I don't think I am."

  * * *

  The interference crackled in front of Ardenyev's voice, masking it and giving it, to Dolohov's ears, a peculiarly unreal quality, as if the man were fading, becoming ethereal. Then Dolohov raised his voice, not to be heard but to remove the strange, uninvited perception; the whisper of failure.

  "Get aboard the helicopters, Valery! you must transfer to the Karpaty now!"

  "Sir, I'd really like you to have a word with one of the pilots — " Ardenyev's voice seemed more distant still, the storm smearing his words mockingly.

  "No! It is too late for words! The traces are piling up. We're almost there." Dolohov looked round at Sergei, who stood obediently and silently at his elbow as he hunched over the table in front of the telephone amplifier. To Sergei, it seemed that the admiral was losing control, was dangerously elated by events, by the slipping, chasing minutes that passed and the sightings or partial and unconfirmable reports of the British submarine that kept coming in. The old man was racking them up like a score, mere multiplication stimulating his confidence and his arrogance. "We have them, Valery, in the palm of our hand. They're ours!"

  "Sir, you don't seem to understand. It's a question of whether they can put us down on the deck of the rescue ship —"

  "Don't argue with me, boy!" Dolohov thundered, his fist beating a counterpoint to his words on the surface of the table. "You have your orders — the pilots have their orders. You will board the helicopters at once and set course for the rescue ship. Understand?" There was a gap, then, of space and silence in which the storm hissed. "Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Your orders will be carried out, to the best of my abilities."

  Dolohov was suddenly, manically expansive and generous. "Good boy, good boy. Good luck and good hunting. Over and out." The old man flicked off the telephone amplifier and stood up. He moved with some of the robotic jerkiness of arthritis battled and temporarily overcome; or the driven, muscular awkwardness of someone possessed of an unquenchable desire. He slapped his hand on Sergei's shoulder and the young man hoped that his smile did not appear too artificial. Dolohov looked at him, however, with eyes that had little perception in them. Not glazed or dulled, rather fierce and inward-looking. "The end-game, Sergei — the end-game," he murmured in a strange, ugly, caressing voice.

  The rear-admiral was punctilious, almost smirking, full of a bustle that had previously been absent. "Final positions, Admiral," he offered, indicating the computer print-out sheets in his hand.

  "Good, good — come, let me see." He took the rear-admiral's arm, ushering him to the window, clutching the sheets with his other hand. Sergei realised that the rear-admiral had cast aside all doubts and reservations; whether from self-interest or because he had contracted the admiral's current illness, Sergei could not decide. Probably both. "Where?" They were at the window.

  "There," the rear-admiral proclaimed, histrionically waving his hand down towards the map-table. “Kiev, Karpaty on station waiting for Ardenyev, Grishka and the other submarines — see? There, there, there, there, there —" The finger jabbed out at each of the lights below. 'the other units of the fleet in back-up positions, or sailing on deception courses." He looked at Dolohov. "It's up to them now. They have their orders. All they need is a positive ident on the British submarine."

  Dolohov's face possessed a beatific expression His eyes were almost closed. Sergei, embarrassed and disturbed, realised that it was a moment of love. The cold, stern, paternal admiral was unrecognisable. Sergei did not know, however, what it was that Dolohov embraced — this challenge, the drama of the moment, the prize, or the winning of the game. Perhaps even the game itself?

  "Good, good," the old man murmured again. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened and all his attention was concentrated on the voice of one of the officers behind him in the control room.

  "Submarine unit Frunze reports a magnetic contact —"

  Dolohov was across the room and at the officer's shoulder with the speed and physical grace of a younger man. "Where?" he demanded. "What range?" Then, before the man could answer: "Can they lock on to her course?"

  The communications officer listened to his headphones after repeating Dolohov's questions, and the old man could see his head begin to shake. "No, sir — they" ve lost it. Could have been sea temperature —"

  "Rubbish. It was a magnetic contact, not infra-red! It was them, you idiot!" He turned to the rear-admiral. "Order all submarine units to converge on the Frunze at once!"

  "Admiral, is that —?"

  "Do it."

  "Very well, Admiral."

  Dolohov walked aimlessly yet intently back to the window. He appeared to have little interest in the glowing map below him. The situation had been ingested in its entirety or — here Sergei corrected himself— perhaps it had always been in his head. Sergei half-listened to the rear-admiral issuing a stream of orders, half-watched Dolohov, principally being aware of himself as an unimportant cipher, something like a parcel left in one corner of the room.

  Then: "Submarine unit Grishka reports another magnetic trace —"

  * * *

  "Magnetic trace fading, Captain."

  "Thermal trace fading, Captain."

  "Planesman — ten degrees down, level at eight hundred feet."

  "Sir."

  "Steer twelve degrees to starboard."

  "Sir."

  There was silence in the control room of the Grishka. The bow sonars were blank and silent, their sensors absorbed or deflected by the British anti-sonar equipment. The infrared trace was decaying, was already almost non-existent, illusory. The magnetic anomaly detection equipment was already inducing a frustrated hunching of the shoulders in its operator. The advanced, delicate, heat-sensitive "nose" was sniffing cold ocean water without trace of the British submarine. Every trail was cold, or growing cold.

  "Steer fifteen degrees to port."

  "Sir."

  Guesswork, the captain of the Grishka admitted. A blind dog with a cold in its nose seeking an elusive scent. No prop wash even, not a trace of the trail she ought to be leaving in the sea from her movement and her turning propeller. They had picked that up once before, then lost it again.

  "Nine knots."

  "Sir."

  Silence.

  "Weak magnetic trace, sir. Bearing green four-oh, range six thousand."

  "We're almost on top of her — don't lose it. Steer starboard thirty."

  "Starboard thirty, sir."

  "No thermal trace, sir."

  "Magnetic trace fading again, sir."

  "Stand by, torpedo room. Any sign of prop wash?"

  "Negative, sir."

  "Steer starboard five, speed ten knots."

  "Magnetic trace lost, sir."

  "Damn!"

  * * *

  "Steer port four-five."

  "Port four-five it is, sir."

  There was silence then in the control room of the Proteus. Whispered orders, like the rustling voices of old men, lacking authority. The sonars which, in their passive mode, were difficult for any enemy to detect with his electronic sensors, registered the movements of the Russian submarine; demonstrating the proximity of the hunter.

  "Computer ident, Number One?"

  "A “Victor-H”-class submarine, sir. Our friend is back."

  "Range and bearing?"
/>
  "Moving away, sir. Speed approximately nine knots, range eight thousand, bearing green one-seven-oh. She's passing behind us."

  "Other activity, John?"

  " “Kashin”-class destroyer, range eleven thousand. “Alpha”-class attack submarine, range fourteen thousand, bearing red six-five, and closing. Kiev at range sixteen thousand, and increasing. The submarine rescue ship is holding station, sir."

  "Coffee, sir?"

  "What — oh, thanks, Chief. ETA Norwegian waters, John?"

  "At present course and speed, eleven minutes, sir."

  "Speed fourteen knots."

  "Prop wash, sir?"

  "Correction — twelve knots."

  "Twelve knots it is, sir."

  "Steer port ten."

  * * *

  The transmissions from the Grishka and the other Red Banner units were being received via the aircraft carrier Kiev. Dolohov had ordered the abandonment of coded signals in favour of high-speed, frequency-agile transmissions in plain language. Transferred to tape and slowed down, Dolohov then heard them broadcast in the control room. The voices, and the silences between the words, seemed equally to agitate and excite him. Sergei observed his admiral closely, worriedly. He felt like a youthful relative watching a grandparent growing senile before his eyes.

  Dolohov's shoulders were hunched as he stared down into the well of the operations room, watching the moving, dancing lights and the flickering, single light that represented the British submarine. It flickered on and off as if there were an electrical fault in the board.

  Sergei guessed that Dolohov had begun to entertain doubts; or rather, the doubts he had formerly crushed beneath the heel of certainty had now sprung up again like weeds. It was more than an hour since the first contact signal had been received from the submarine Frunze. Since then, the Grishka and two other units had reported traces on more than one occasion — Grishka three times — but the British submarine still eluded them. Dolohov had been able to ignore his doubts for hours, even days; but now, watching the cat-and-invisible-mouse game of the board below him, he had begun to disbelieve in success. Or so Sergei suspected.

  The old man was talking to himself. His voice, in the silence from the loudspeaker, was audible throughout the room.

  "Can it be done, can it be done?" He repeated it again and again, a murmured plea or a voiced fear. "Can it? Can it?" The shorter phrase became more final, more full of doubt. "Can it? Can it?" The old man was entirely unaware that he was speaking audibly, and Sergei felt a hot flush of shame invade his features. To be associated with this old man, muttering to himself in this moment of crisis like a geriatric in a hospital, was embarrassing, insulting. Others were listening, everyone in the room —

  Then the voice of the monitoring officer on the Kiev silenced Dolohov, smearing across his words, erasing them. The admiral's shoulders picked up, his head inclined like a bird's as he listened.

  "Submarine unit Grishka reports lost contact —"

  Dolohov's shoulders slumped again. It was evident he thought he had lost the game.

  * * *

  "The “Victor-II” is turning to starboard, sir."

  "Damn. John, insert our track and that of the “Victor-II” on to the display screen."

  "Track memory is on, sir. Submarine bearing red one-six-eight, range nineteen thousand."

  "Do we still have that layer of warmer water below us?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Right. Let's make it much more difficult for them. Take us down through it."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Lloyd sensed the dipping of the Proteus" bow. The Russian submarine was on their tail again. They were still three minutes out into international waters, and the "Victor-II" was closing rapidly. Even though he doubted now that an imagined political line on a chart would have any beneficial effect on their circumstances, Lloyd knew of no other move he could make. The display screen traced their track over the seabed, and that of the Russian. A swifter-moving, hazy line of light was dead astern of them now that the Russian captain had altered course.

  "Information on the “Victor-II” becoming unreliable, sir."

  "I can see that. The warmer layer's causing ghosting and refracting. Are we through it yet?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Level at eighty fathoms, cox" n."

  "Eighty fathoms, sir."

  "Is that the coast at the edge of the screen John?"

  "No, sir." Thurston was at his side, staring down at the screen. The image of the Russian submarine was faint. The warmer layer of sea water through which they had descended would be confusing the Russian's sensors, hiding the Proteus. "It's a small plateau. Our depth makes it look like a mountain."

  " “Victor-II” now bearing green one-seven-oh, range fourteen thousand, and she's in a shallow dive, sir."

  Thurston looked into Lloyd's face. "We didn't fool her. She's back with us," he whispered.

  "The computer confirms course and bearing, sir."

  Lloyd hesitated for only a moment. Then a tight determination clamped on his features. He had accepted the evidence of his sonars and his computers.

  "John," he said in a steady voice audible to everyone in the control room, "call the crew to Alert Readiness. The time for playing games with this Russian is over. He's after us, all right."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  * * *

  "Negative contact on Magnetic, Captain."

  "Maintain present course for one minute, then hard starboard — mark."

  "Marked, Captain. One minute."

  "Negative contact, sir."

  Always the negative. The Russian captain sensed the Grishka around him, slipping through the blind darkness of the sea. He sensed the crew closed up to Action Stations, as they had been for more than half an hour on this occasion alone; and three other times he had spoken to the torpedo room, readying them, and calling his men to Action Stations. It could not go on for much longer, he would have to relax them. He was wearing them down. He sensed, especially, the torpedo crew room and the wire-guided, wake-homing torpedoes, one with reduced warhead and the second with the special MIRV warhead, the "Catherine Wheel". Once he ordered their launch, one expert crewman would guide them to their target, relying solely on his own skills. His man was good enough, and the torpedoes would do their job. Yet everything — everything — depended on tiny, delicate sensors in the bow of the boat; magnetic sensors, thermal sensors. Somewhere ahead — or below or beside or above or behind — there was a magnetic lump of metal which was emitting heat and which could not be entirely damped and rendered invisible. The British submarine was leaving faint traces, flakings of her skin, faint noises of her breathing. Somewhere in the ocean, those traces lay waiting for him to discover them.

  "Coming hard round, Captain."

  "Planesman — hold her steady."

  "Sir."

  Somewhere, out there in the dark, lay the Proteus.

  * * *

  "Sir, the “Victor-II” is coming hard round —"

  "I have her. Engine room — plus fifty revolutions."

  "Plus fifty, sir."

  "Heat trace confirmed and growing stronger, Captain."

  "Ten degree quarter — sixty second rate."

  * * *

  The captain of the Grishka leaned against the periscope housing. The range of the British submarine was still too great, and though the trace was strengthening it was still elusive. The game might continue for hours yet. He sensed the pressure on him not to fail, but more importantly he was aware of the growing, slightly desperate need for action in himself and his crew. His loyalty was, therefore, to the stifled, tense atmosphere of his control room.

  "Torpedo room," he said distinctly, pausing until everyone was alert with attention to his voice, despite their own tasks. Torpedo room, load manual guidance torpedo, set it for a screw-pattern search. Set maximum range and wait for my order."

  There was relief, palpable as cold, fresh air, in the set of every man's shoulders and o
n every face that he could see. He kept a sudden assault of doubt from his own features.

  "Heat trace strengthening, Captain."

  "Magnetic trace positive, Captain."

  "Sonars negative, Captain."

  "Range and bearing?"

  "Bearing unchanged, sir. Range thirteen thousand, and decreasing. We're overhauling her, sir."

  "Very well." He paused. The low-warhead torpedo was in the tube. He had four of them, and four multiple-warhead "Catherine Wheel" torpedoes. Could he risk the first one at that range? Torpedo room — fire One! Keep calling."

  Tube One away, sir, and running. Sensor on, lights green. Negative readout."

  The Russian captain looked at his first lieutenant standing at the depth indicator panel. He shrugged expressively.

  "Torpedo sensors have made contact, Captain."

  The wake-homing torpedo began its search immediately it was launched. The wire that connected it with the Grishka transmitted to its tiny computer the instructions of the experienced operator in the torpedo room. Its guidance control was tested, and responded, then the speed of the torpedo was altered a number of times in quick succession. On each occasion, the torpedo responded immediately and precisely.

  The torpedo crossed the traces of the Proteus" s wake one thousand metres from the Grishka. Its corkscrewing movement through the sea, which enabled it to search in three rather than in two dimensions, took it across the wake well astern of the British submarine's position. There was, however, sufficient trace of the wake remaining for the torpedo to register it.

  The torpedo nosed on through the dark water until it reached the conclusion of its next one thousand metre run, then it began retracing its course, back towards the wake. Once it crossed the wake for the second time, and its sensors registered either a stronger or a weaker trace, then it would be instructed to turn to port or starboard, and to run down the submarine's track until it made contact. Once its path was chosen, and the wake's direction established, contact was unavoidable.

  The torpedo crossed the wake and turned to port almost immediately with a flick as lithe as that of some hunting sea creature. Its corkscrewing track evened out as it began tracing its way down the wake of the British submarine.