Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  The American had instinctively gone to the rear of the tank depot rather than following the ravine, Half a dozen KGB guards moved out to cover the approaches. Nothing. Then another light flashed on the security board in the guardhouse. It was relayed to the leader’s machine. Someone was moving near the back of the depot.

  The American found exactly what he was looking for. Cutting through the heavy camouflage cover, he briefly illuminated row after row of T-80 main battle tanks. Perhaps the mental effort of estimating the numbers so quickly decreased his alertness. Whatever the cause, the first sound he heard—small, high-speed engines—was much closer than he ever should have allowed.

  Moving rapidly into the open, he flashed a rough coded signal of what he’d seen in the direction of the satellite, realizing the intelligence was now more vital than his life. However, every move he made at this stage now became guesswork, as his signal was aimed skyward in a direction he anticipated the satellite was located. His tank estimate also seemed jumbled as the sound of engines drew dangerously near, and he repeated his signal, adding a warning at the end to indicate he was in danger.

  With still no confirmation of what he faced, the American skied quickly away from the approaching machines. There was no way he could outrun a snowmobile, but he might confuse them, then burrow in the drifts until they gave out. With long, purposeful strides, he increased his speed to the maximum. He knew his limits but he had maintained such a pace in training for as long as fifteen minutes at a time. No other human had ever been able to keep up with him. There was as yet no doubt in his mind that he was able to survive any challenge.

  The KGB team leader carried an infrared detector. When a third beam was momentarily broken in an adjacent sector, there was little difficulty in locating a warm-blooded creature in the frigid Arctic. The Soviets closed their target like a pack of wolves. They could neither see nor hear their quarry, but they could track the minimal heat he was radiating.

  The American knew his odds were limited when he recognized engines on either side and he accepted his fate when the roar of another was directly in front. The crack of the first rifle shot came to him through the chill blackness at the same time as the muzzle flash and the impact of the bullet in his thigh. He went down in a heap as more bullets cracked above him.

  Rolling to his belly, he unhooked the lightweight, automatic rifle from his hip. There was no way a man could escape this godforsaken region with one leg, but he promised himself that others would remain with him as he brought the weapon to his shoulder. The firing subsided. They were moving closer, and at twenty yards they opened fire again. He selected the flash of two weapons too close together, set the selector on automatic, and squeezed the trigger, moving his gun barrel rapidly from side to side, then up and down.

  There was no further response from that direction. He waited, hoping against hope that someone else might fire on him and miss. But they were too smart. Nothing.

  Then a steady blast came from his right side, no more than fifteen yards away. His head moved in that direction and he tried to bring his weapon around, but he was unable to wheel fast enough. The firing continued long after the American had died.

  Their leader came over and kicked at the body. Satisfied, he roped the intruder’s feet, attaching the other end to the back of his snowmobile. He flicked on his homing device, and the vehicles raced back to their quarters. The American bounced along behind, face down in the snow.

  The loss of two such superb operatives was not to be the last—for either side. The disc recording left by Kovschenko established beyond a doubt that a submarine of great magnitude was building on the Washington coastline. The death of fine men before and after him would prove that great sacrifice was necessary to learn the capabilities of this immense submarine. Similarly for the Americans, the knowledge that a prepositioned invasion force was developing near the Norwegian border was proof of Soviet designs on the North Atlantic in the near future.

  For more than a decade, the Russians had been designing their ballistic missile submarines to operate under the arctic icepack. They reinforced their craft for surfacing through the ice. improved communications gear to keep in touch with their commanders, and developed navigational devices to perfect targeting from that region. Under the ice, they were as close as necessary to their American targets without the need to expose themselves to sophisticated detection equipment by transiting to the Atlantic or Pacific. They could depart their own arctic ports and commence directly north to the safety of the ice. The only method of locating them after that would be another submarine—an attack submarine designed to seek them out, without being detected first, and sink them before they could fire their missiles. ICBMs raining down on American cities from unknown sources in the Arctic were almost impossible to defend against, The Russians were converting the Arctic Ocean into a Soviet domain.

  The American response had been to produce faster, deeper-diving submarines, vessels so quiet they could sneak up on their opposite number and fire before they themselves were heard. There were two direct routes to the Arctic Ocean: one through the shallow Bering Strait between Alaska and Siberia, the other through the North Atlantic and Norwegian Sea. The former could be easily monitored by the Soviets; the latter presented a challenge. The Kremlin determined that the only method of protecting their territory—for they felt quite defensive about the waters north of the Scandinavian countries—would be to eventually control Norway and convert the Norwegian Sea into a high-threat environment. With naval bases in that country and Soviet planes flying over the ocean between it and Greenland, they were confident that they could protect their missile submarines under the icepack.

  Soviet intelligence estimates indicated that they’d have to respond rapidly or the Americans would move additional attack submarines into arctic waters. Control of the Norwegian Sea appeared a necessity. The Norwegian Constitution denied quartering of foreign troops in that nation in time of peace. American and Canadian military supplies had been prepositioned there, but they would be useless if the land was in Soviet hands before troops could be landed. The Soviets moved their own prepositioned material for a blitzkrieg-type offensive into position in the dead of winter. The troops were less than a hundred miles away in Murmansk.

  Wiser heads in the Soviet Union suggested that maybe an arrangement could be made with the U.S. to keep NATO ships south of a designated line in the North Atlantic. It might serve as a starting point to negotiations and withdrawal of Soviet forces near the Norwegian border. Some of the Politburo felt that talking was a better option than invading their neighbors.

  In Washington powerful people on both civilian and military levels felt that nothing could be done before the prepositioned Soviet forces were completely withdrawn. Intelligence reports established that the arctic wasteland between Norway and Murmansk already possessed the greatest concentration of naval, ground, and air forces in the world. There were forty airfields, sixteen of them capable of all-weather operations, with close to fifteen hundred military aircraft. Two motorized special winter divisions were quartered in the Murmansk region along with an amphibious infantry division in Pechenga. And their Northern Fleet was now approaching one hundred fifty warships. Nothing should be negotiated with that threat. Attack submarines were ordered to additional positions under the icepack and counterinvasion plans were instigated to defend Norway. The final plan was an early release of the most powerful weapon devised in submarine warfare as a direct challenge to the Russians. Work in the secret submarine pen on the Washington coast was hurried.

  While the politicians watched and wondered and schemed, intelligence reports on both sides expanded on the dire consequences taking shape, urging immediate action before the other side could move.

  1

  HAL SNOW HAD never learned to keep his mouth shut, nor was he concerned with the problem. That was the prime reason he was never nominated for the star that would have made him a flag officer. “I don’t give a shit what they say in the P
entagon . . .” he responded.

  “You are in the Pentagon,” Admiral Reed interrupted. “I know that, Andy. But you’re not Pentagon military anymore than I am. You just as much as admitted you’re not part of the in group right now.”

  Andy Reed was not, he knew, part of that elite that Snow referred to, but there were few these days who were welcomed to it. He did wear the two stars of a rear admiral, which carried about as much weight this moment with Hal Snow as . . . the hell with it, he said to himself. “Go on, Hal, I’m listening.”

  Snow was in civilian clothes—for security reasons. He had been requested to wear a uniform only when he was aboard Imperator in her pen. The navy preferred not to broadcast the fact that Hal Snow had returned to the navy. Studying him now in a tailored gabardine suit, Reed could see why the defense contractors fell over themselves trying to hire Snow when he left the service a few years back. He was tall and slim. Finely chiseled features complemented a full head of close gray hair. Snow looked as sharp now in a three-piece suit as in a uniform and he spoke well and understood the language in both corporate boardrooms and Capitol Hill. He was exactly the type the civilian contractors wanted to carry their messages to legislators and speak before the television cameras—but as he often repeated, he didn’t have to like it.

  Admiral Andy Reed was also a very persuasive individual. He had been the one to convince Hal Snow to come back, “for one more ride.” Reed remembered how he’d rehearsed that speech that day before Snow first came into his office, thinking of every word that might convince this superb submariner to return to uniform. Snow had let him go on, never once interrupting, which was very odd for Snow. And when Reed had finally come to the clincher and explained how badly the navy needed him now, Snow had said simply, “Okay.” When Reed asked why the decision had been so easy, Snow responded with one of his classic statements: “It’s simple, Andy. I feel like a goddamn transvestite, switching from the captain of a nuclear submarine to a huckster pleading for someone’s tax money.” Hal Snow, Reed realized, was never one for understatement.

  Snow had taken over Imperator a little less than a year ago, while she was still on blocks. Taking over Reed’s responsibilities, he’d accepted that unforgiving job of preparing a new construction ship for sea—and had done his usual superb job.

  Now, Reed had to use the power of his two stars to convince Imperator’s commanding officer that she was going to sea ahead of schedule and that there was work that wouldn’t be completed. It was nothing critical to her mission, but Hal Snow would know there were blemishes where a perfect ship should exist.

  “You know, Andy, it’s just like rape. I’ve got the largest, most powerful ship ever built, a goddamn secret weapon—the juiciest command ever—and these armchair admirals want to put it on the market just before it’s ripe.”

  “She’ll be fully capable, Hal. No limitations in the engineering plant or weapons department—”

  “The idea stinks,” Snow added with finality.

  “You want to turn her over to someone else?”

  “Not on your life.” Snow grinned for the first time. “Dumb sometimes. Big mouth a lot. But crazy? Not by a long shot. Imperators mine, Andy. She’s a dream . . .” Then he paused, a quizzical look spreading over his face. “Yeah, dumb sometimes . . . maybe now, too. Why, Andy? Why do they want her out before she’s finished?” And when Reed gave the only answer he could—he didn’t know exactly why he’d been ordered to prepare Imperator for sea ahead of schedule—that’s when Snow had said, “I don’t give a shit what they say in the Pentagon.” The Pentagon mentality—that’s what outsiders called decisions that appeared to have no reasons, or at least no reasons given. So now Reed sat there while Snow got everything off his chest. Listening was easy because he knew there was no one else to replace Snow.

  Snow continued on about officers with too many scrambled eggs on their hats for their own good, and decisions that weren’t well thought out, and then he finally concluded by saying, “Okay, Andy, what can I do to help you? I know it’s not your idea. I’m not going to give her up.”

  “You can spend the rest of the day going over these work orders with me. They say they want her ready in eight weeks. I figure twelve may be what they mean. Help me get everything you absolutely want in the next eight weeks, and I’ll try to get you an extra month for cosmetics. How’s that?”

  Snow shrugged. “Aren’t we all supposed to say: I’m ready now?” He murmured with another grin. Then he cocked his head a bit to one side and added curiously, “You going to send me up under the ice before I have a chance to shake her down good?”

  “Come on. Cut it out. You’re shaking her down right now. The computer can do better than any human being with a ship like that. And you’ve got the prime specialist in the country handling it—”

  Snow interrupted, “That broad—”

  “That broad designed that system,” Reed said emphatically. “Carol Petersen knows more about that computer than you’ll ever know in a lifetime.” He pointed a finger in Snow’s direction. “You promised, and I’m holding you to it.”

  Andy Reed was not what the navy would consider the recruiting-poster type. He was of medium height, not short but certainly not the type that appeared to have been born to a uniform. His shoulders were broad, but sloped, and his legs were short and thick. His double-breasted navy jacket used to look smarter, but his spreading mid-forties waist pulled it out in the front and left it baggy in the rear. His posture was what his wife described as his saving grace. Andy Reed had military bearing before he had ever set foot in Annapolis; it was a touch that came with natural leadership ability. He was born to the job! His brown hair had become quite thin, but his black eyes were sharp and piercing and conveyed his every mood. Admiral Reed commanded respect naturally.

  “Say no more. That broad,” Snow added hastily, “can do whatever you say she can and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Don’t bring her up again,” Reed concluded. From the outset, he anticipated Snow’s contempt for a woman on a submarine. He was no different than any other submariner, maybe a little more explicit now that it was a fact of life. Carol Petersen was responsible for the design of Imperator’s computer. She had named it Caesar (“What better name for the machine that controls Imperator, soon to be the emperor of the seas?”). But no matter what her qualifications were—even mother of the computer—no submariner accepted the idea of a woman at sea with them. Most of the crew were navy types. They ran the reactor, controlled the weapons systems, and stood the watches. The only civilians were systems specialists, like Carol Petersen, who so far had been treated with disdain.

  Later that day, as they went through the stacks of work orders they’d been numbering one to ten in importance, Snow looked up, his eyes as clear and positive as ever, and stated, “I’ll bet we’ll go under the ice right away, Andy. No time to get the feel of her before someone tries to sink us. I want to be so ready. . .” Then his voice drifted off.

  Reed knew how much Snow had grown to love that monster of a ship. That was another reason they’d given him permission to talk Hal Snow into coming back. Not only was there no submariner out there with the know-how to take on this job—the best had been promoted and were anchored to desks—none of them could handle a ship and a crew quite like Snow. If he was a lousy administrator stuck in his rank forever, he was the optimal commanding officer. Some of the brass hated to take him back in after they’d passed him over for promotion and driven him out, but he was the one man for the job. None of them could disagree. The navy worked in strange ways in peacetime.

  As Reed and Snow determined how they would prepare Imperator for sea, senior flag officers in a room not too far away from their own struggled with another problem. They were now rescheduling assignments for attack submarines in New London and Norfolk and Charleston on the East Coast and San Diego and Pearl Harbor on the West Coast based on direct orders from the White House to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Whi
le some of the submarines would remain on assignments in other parts of the world, many would be directed to arctic waters—some as decoys, but most of them to counter the threat of Soviet ballistic-missile submarines lurking under the ice. It was considered by the White House to be a valid response to a valid threat from the Kremlin.

  The orders were issued at the highest threshold of security, based purely on a need-to-know basis. Even Admiral Reed had yet to be included in these plans. Unfortunately, there was limited knowledge of the sophisticated Soviet intelligence network within the naval communications system. Penetration by the KGB had taken a generation of operatives, but it was superb. Before many of the squadron commanders reported their units ready for sea, this shift in strategy was already being analyzed in the Kremlin. They also were aware the mystery submarine was preparing for sea and intuitively they assumed it would be directed to Europe’s Northern Flank.

  Abe Danilov knew more about submarines than any other admiral in the Soviet Navy. He also was considered without a doubt the expert on American submarine strategy and tactics. No decisions were made without first briefing Danilov and probing his mind for a response. He understood challenges and he knew when there was a bluff.

  ‘They’re not bluffing this time. They’ve no choice. The weakest segment in their defense system is to the north, over Canada. With our SSBNs sitting up there under the ice, they see a significant threat.” He turned to face Admiral Chernavin, his immediate superior. “If I was in their position, I would do exactly as they have done. They’ve no choice,” he repeated again, his dark brows knit together so that curly, maverick white hairs projected at odd angles above his eyes.