Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  He knew he was tough now, especially mentally. But this sense of loneliness was intruding and pervasive. It would take all of his willpower to put it aside once the hunt began.

  There was room for only two people in Seratov’s tiny bridge as she departed the ice-choked harbor at Polyarnyy—Abe Danilov and the submarine’s commander, Stevan Lozak. The younger man had been handpicked by his admiral the year before. His selection was much like Admiral Gorshkov’s sponsorship of young Abe Danilov. Mentors were invaluable in the Soviet military.

  They winced as the howling winds snapped sharp crystals of sleet into their faces. It bounced off their goggles with “a crack, bit into their exposed cheeks, then dripped down through heavy mufflers onto their necks. The low sail area rose out of the hull like a knuckle. There was little protection as the wind whipped spray off the white-caps that swirled about the hull.

  “Yes . . . yes, I have it,” Danilov exclaimed. His words disappeared into the wind, but Lozak had caught them, noted the angle of the admiral’s binoculars, and swung his on the same bearing. “Almost four points to starboard, maybe five hundred . . .” His last words were swept away by the winds.

  Lozak steadied his arms on the bridge railing. A sheet of snow and sleet from a floating cake of ice swirled across his line of sight. For a moment the range opened to five or six hundred yards and he caught a glimpse of the sea buoy Danilov had pointed out. He bent to the speaker just below the bridge railing, “Come left two degrees.” He knew exactly where he was, or he at least had a better idea than the radarman below who had reported at least three different locations for the sea buoy in the past sixty seconds. The channel was wide now. His only concern would be any other craft foolish enough to venture into Polyarnyy in this weather without informing the port control. “Increase your speed to seven knots,” he ordered.

  Danilov turned toward the captain and nodded. Even though the admiral’s face was mostly covered, Lozak recognized that familiar smile of contentment that appeared whenever they cleared the buoy and headed into the open sea. Only Danilov’s cheeks showed and they were a bright red from the stinging sleet. But he nodded again, which was also habitual at this stage of the cruise, and he leaned over to Lozak’s ear. “I’m going below now. You’ll be able to dive shortly after you’re clear of the peninsula. It should be soon.” He clapped the other on the shoulder and was quickly through the hatch into the control room.

  The surface of the Barents Sea was no place for a submarine on a day like this, and the bridge was certainly no place to tarry. For perhaps the fifth time that morning, Danilov found himself at the chart table, hands in pockets, studying the thin red line signifying the path Seratov and her two sisters would follow to a point in the Chukchi Sea well north of the Bering Strait. They would take a northerly course that would bring them between Franz Josef Land and Spitsbergen. An almost constant course would take them within a hundred miles of the North Pole. At an average speed of thirty-five knots, they would arrive at a point slightly north and west of Point Barrow and about five hundred miles north of the Bering Strait after three days at sea. Sergoff had calculated that Imperator would take about four days to reach a point south of the Bering Strait if she was not intercepted before then. Though departing a day after Imperator, Danilov would be waiting on the fifth day. That one day was designed to track Imperator if she made it through the Bering Strait. Abe Danilov wanted every possible bit of information fed into his computers before their cat-and-mouse game began in earnest.

  “How long has it been dead in the water?” Snow inquired.

  “About three hours, Captain.” The chief sonarman turned a control switch to allow another of his operators to search for the reported spy ship. If it could be found, the source would be electronically isolated by the computer, then transferred to the sonar console. “A maritime patrol aircraft picked it up on the surface due west of us and stuck with it. It took a while to locate in the catalog after we intercepted their report. Classified it after a time as a Moma-class intelligence collector.”

  “Never heard of them.” Snow had given up his futile attempt at listening on the headphones.

  “Neither did I, Captain. It was listed in there, but it was buried pretty deep. They were originally buoy tenders built in Poland. They’re little bulldogs—about two hundred forty feet, fifteen hundred tons, two diesels, two shafts—the type that would probably just plow through a sea of cement if they had to.”

  “Not a bad cover. Who the hell’s supposed to pay attention to a buoy tender bobbing along?” Snow shook his head in wonder. “Except there’s nothing out here to tend for thousands of miles. Christ, they’re smart. Never miss a trick.”

  The sonarmen hadn’t paid much attention to searching for the little Soviet ship until the watch changed. One had been assigned to look it up in the intelligence manuals. It was a habit Imperator’s men had been taught at Snow’s insistence—never take anything for granted. There’s something hidden, he repeated time and again during their training, in everything you perceive until you prove otherwise. So one of them had looked up the Moma class and noticed that some, even though they’d been reclassified as intelligence ships, had retained their buoy-handling cranes. And the previous year, two of them had been equipped with a highly sophisticated passive sonar system. An immense hydrophone unit, not as yet classified in the West, could be lowered over the side with the crane. A structure had been built on their stems that intelligence assumed was a computerized evaluation system for the sonar, along with a satellite relay to shore.

  “No kind of sound from her?” Snow inquired, as if he needed reassurance.

  “Not a thing. She’s stopped just about on top of our path of advance according to the position that patrol plane called into his base—probably using her engines to maneuver a little bit—station keeping. I guess.”

  Snow considered the consequences. Given time, the Russians would record enough sound data on Imperator to thoroughly analyze this mystery ship. Without ever seeing her visually, they could construct a reasonably accurate picture of what they faced. There was no doubt in Snow’s mind that right now those hydrophones were riveted on his bearing and that very picture of Imperator might be developing. Every sound radiating from her could be recorded on tape and relayed by satellite to a land station for final analysis. They could create such an accurate picture of Imperator that they’d figure out everything but the color of his skivvies. It was a very neat effort.

  “What’s the range now?” Snow asked.

  “Nothing firm, sir, since she’s not moving. I’d say, figuring our own advance the last few hours, that she’s a little more than a hundred miles now.”

  “Fair enough. No reason to spread our legs and give them a free look. We’ll take it out/’ As he left the blue-lighted sonar room, he added over his shoulder, “We’ll see how our Tomahawks work in a few minutes, Chief.” Snow’s orders were to take out anything in his way—no need to create an international incident if he could solve the problem himself.

  Submarines on patrol acted quite the opposite of other military units when they were out on their own. Their appearance when surfaced—evil and intimidating—became their personality when they dived. They became hoodlums cruising the depths, sneaking about the darkened abyss of the oceans seeking trouble. Communications with their bases, or any higher authority for that matter, were rare. Totally on their own, each decision by a commanding officer was an interpretation of his final orders before departing. No man could delve into the future to see what might challenge each mission, so the captain of a submarine became a god unto himself. The right or wrong of his actions would be considered when, or if, he returned.

  General Quarters was sounded from the control room. Snow overruled the computer. He would run the attack himself Caesar would run a dummy attack, and the results would be compared afterwards. Snow hoped that each new evolution could be handled totally by a human being and then matched with Caesar’s solution before he would trust the ma
ster computer—Snow was still from the old school.

  The process was no different from that on an attack submarine. The target was reidentified for weapons control. Approximate range was fed into the attack computer. The Tomahawk missile was selected, the tube flooded and pressure equalized with the outside, the door opened, presets entered in the missile. Standard reports were made verbally to Snow. His excitement heightened as he heard “weapon is ready” and then “solution is ready.” Quite suddenly, Snow was aware that the control room was as silent as it had ever been. Each person was responding exactly as trained.

  “Shoot on generated bearings,” Snow ordered evenly, masking his excitement.

  The weapons control coordinator’s finger squeezed the firing key. A red light blinked, signifying weapons release. There was no sound, no sensation at all in the control room as a Tomahawk cruise missile leaped out from the forest of vertical tubes in Imperator’s hull almost a thousand feet ahead of them. Snow’s brow knit—there should be something, some physical response, but, nothing . . . His brows knit in disappointment.

  “Weapon’s broken the surface,” came from sonar.

  Snow’s expression relaxed. The Tomahawk was airborne. “Time of flight?” he queried.

  “Eight minutes, four two seconds.” There was a pause. “Caesar claims five two seconds.”

  Snow considered what could happen in the next eight or nine minutes on the targeted ship. They had to be totally involved in the details of their mission, locating then acquiring every sound emanating from Imperator. Did they consider that they could have been detected by that plane? Would they know the sound of a missile fired from below the surface? Most of the crew on those intelligence collectors were civilian. It was more than likely none of them had ever been aboard a submarine. What did they have on board to pick up electronic radiation? Would they be listening for a missile’s radar homing? It seemed unlikely. Intelligence collectors weren’t normally on the firing line. Why would they worry about being a target so far from any land? Or did they even realize the significance of what they were tracking? Negative on all counts, Snow was sure.

  The minutes passed slowly, each one taking longer to tick away. The weapons officer reported with a cool detachment the various programmed evolutions the missile was passing through until it achieved active radar homing. That would be the crucial stage. A warship would have a good chance of detecting the electronic emissions and have time to prepare evasion tactics—fire chaff, emit false signals, activate antimissile weapon systems. But this small Moma-class ship was more than likely wallowing in the North Pacific wholly consumed in its tracking mission. They could have heard the missile emerge from the submarine, but it was probable they would have no one on board to identify the sound, or verify that they were being fired on.

  Time magnified doubt in Snow’s mind. Should he have fired another? There was so much that could go wrong—a malfunction, the missile detected and decoyed, or it could even hit and cause only minor damage to the target. He’d considered the latter and dropped the idea. Now, it again became important. A thousand pounds of high explosive should do the trick . . . but if it didn’t, the Russian ship could get off a warning message. Christ, he’d be everybody’s target once they knew he was allowed to fire at anything at any range.

  Imperator continued on her course at a steady speed. She had a mission. There was no time for deviation as they waited for eight-plus minutes to elapse. The tension remained constant until a report came from sonar, “We have sounds on that bearing, Captain.”

  While the computer automatically initiated an analysis of these new sounds, it was the chief once again who reported solemnly, “That’s the sound of a ship breaking up, Captain. I’ll bet on it—even at that range. I’ll put all my paychecks on a direct hit.”

  Another of the sonarmen listened intently as the chief identified the sounds of a ship in distress. When it was over, and there was only silence on that bearing, the younger man removed his headphones and murmured, “There’s nothing out there now, Chief.” He turned to look up at the man. “You get kind of used to something when you listen for hours. It almost takes on a special personality. Now it’s gone.”

  Snow had sent a message to the Soviets with that missile, even more symbolic than the slaughter of Fahrion. The Americans had unleashed a lethal weapon that sailed with orders to remove anything in its path—and that would change the Soviets’ approach to Imperator. They could no longer try to satisfy their curiosity. Now there was no choice but to destroy her. But unlike Fahrion, she was not a sacrificial lamb . . . she was a lion . . .

  Andy Reed was the kind of admiral sailors liked to have aboard, not so much because he was affable and pleasant to work for, but because he was the type who would always get them through. There were armchair admirals who plotted strategy and there were seagoing admirals who carried those plans through. Reed was the latter type. In an underwater world, each man on a submarine depended on the next. At the upper end of the chain, the only person left was the captain or, in this case, Andy Reed. The men in the three submarines of Andy Reed’s hunter/killer group were content. Their admiral was a survivor.

  Both Soviet and American strategists acknowledged that it was difficult to fool the other concerning ship movements. With spies roaming in port, spy ships offshore, and spy satellites, there were few surprises. Admiral Reed went to sea with specific orders to shield Imperator those first few days, especially while Hal Snow and his crew learned about their vessel.

  The three submarines in Reed’s group departed Pearl Harbor days before at different times, allowing themselves to be tracked in separate directions. Rabbits were then detailed to shake their tails. Houston’s rendezvous with Olympia and Helena was a sector one thousand miles due south of Kodiak Island. Andy Reed’s group would provide the buffer line for Imperator to pass through the lower Aleutians into the Bering Sea. Then, like a pulling guard, they would join her as she headed north through the Bering Strait.

  In reasonable perspective, Reed could study the progress of his own three submarines, of Imperator as she hastened on the course that would take her through the Aleutians near Dutch Harbor, and of the two converging Soviet submarines. Reed doubted their intent was more than tracking for intelligence, perhaps even minimal harassment to determine operational characteristics. Moreover, it would be absolutely useless for propaganda purposes, since there were as yet no news items concerning Imperator or her mission.

  Reed’s objective was to place his small force between Imperator and the snoopers. The Soviets had yet to invent a computer that could separate and analyze sound through the barrier he planned to create. Limiting their intelligence-gathering activities was almost as important as guaranteeing Imperator’s progress.

  Reed’s tactical display was simulated by computerized projections on a darkened board that created three-dimensional depth with a little imagination. Houston and her sisters, Olympia and Helena, formed a wedge in the Pacific aimed between the two Russians and Imperator. There were no communications between the American vessels yet. Nor would Reed break the silence until it was absolutely necessary, He knew Hal Snow would be contemplating the identical picture in his control room, but he would be using a three-dimensional holographic imager. Reed had no doubt that his Soviet counterparts would create much the same picture in theirs.

  Initially, at ranges half a day apart from each other, the six submarines appeared shy participants in a slow-motion dance. Their speeds remained essentially the same, yet their pace appeared to increase as they drew closer. The Soviet boats split, one on a northerly heading to cross Imperator’s projected path, the other continuing on intercept approach. By a simple signal, Reed directed Olympia to impede the progress of the first one while Houston and Helena continued on a course to interpose themselves between Imperator and the second sub. She was one of the titanium hulled Alfas capable of diving deeper than any American boat. The choreography of this underwater dance now took form.

  But
nothing was instantaneous at those distances; the strategy evolved over three watches. Soon night cloaked the ocean surface when Reed ordered Houston to alter course, wedging her now between Imperator and the Soviet. Reed noted that the Soviet submarine approaching Olympia was rising to the surface at about the same time, and would be communicating with her base at Petropavlovsk—which was unexpected—indicating to Reed that she was seeking new instructions. Since the Russian submarines would be under specific orders regarding Imperator, the only purpose for communicating would be a change in those orders. He had no idea Imperator had already eliminated one problem in her path.

  Carol Petersen was dozing on the wardroom sofa when someone dropped roughly onto the opposite end. She stirred but didn’t open her eyes. It should have been obvious to anyone that she was sleeping. But whoever was on the other end obviously intended to talk with her. She waited, not moving.

  Snow wondered whether she was playing games with him, or really was still asleep. He began tentatively, “Carol . . . Carol . . .” Then, more firmly, “Carol . . . I need the assistance of a computer genius . . . along with a little goodwill.”

  She smiled before opening her eyes. “Then it’s just for business you’re waking me out of a sound sleep, Captain?”

  “Well, yes . . .” Men on submarines wouldn’t think of responding to their captain in that manner. He was very glad, perhaps relieved, that only the two of them were in the wardroom.

  “Now what if I’d been in bed in my stateroom?” She was grinning to herself, but now there was no expression on her face. “Would you have called me . . . or would you have come in like you just did and bounced on the end of my bunk?” Her eyes remained tightly shut, but there were traces of amusement at the comers of her mouth.

  “I suppose . . .” There was a moment’s hesitation, then he continued, “I guess I would have called down to you.”