Danilov ordered Lozak to take Seratov deep and to increase his speed very slowly. The best way to remain hidden was to remove any possibility of detection from an enemy he now held increased respect for.
The torpedo blasts had been just as obvious to the men on Houston. There was little difficulty in determining the outcome. But there had been two torpedoes that destroyed Helena—and they had come from separate sources! Sonar had been unable to determine their exact bearing, but the missiles burst from the tubes at different ranges, both to the north. One submarine had turned tail and run loudly. The other—the wise one . . . and the more dangerous—seemed to have tiptoed into the Arctic depths.
Reed ordered Houston to close Imperator. Snow had already given away a good deal of her capabilities, and now it would be wise to change tactics before their next encounter. It seemed to Reed that the submarine he had been ordered to protect might soon become his benefactor.
Andy Reed had poked an antenna above the surface to receive satellite pictures of the ice fields ahead. What had been broken floe ice six hours before was now a solid sheet of white, up to five feet thick in many places. A long lead, an open body of water, appeared about fifty miles to the north, northeast. He called to Snow over Gertrude to rendezvous there in two hours.
Neither submarine was required to surface. Instead, buoys carrying antennae for extremely short-range communications were floated to the top. They could be neither seen nor heard unless an errant satellite had appeared directly overhead.
“You gave away a lot of the beans, Hal,” Reed began.
“Didn’t have a choice. At least, not from my point of view. I had a good target. There was more than one of them out there . . . just trying to even the odds a bit.”
“Don’t bother yourself with excuses. Sooner or later, they had to figure out your range capabilities.”
“I can do a lot better than that,” Snow replied impatiently.
“Keep it to yourself for now. They’ve got more attack boats coming over the pole. You’re going to have plenty to keep you busy. Have you been in touch with that other Alfa?”
“Never did have it,” Snow answered. “You sure that’s what it was?”
“We picked up something on him, maybe because we were still ahead of you.”
“Anything how?”
“Went silent after he fired. What little we had on him disappeared after we decided to get together with you. Sonar thinks he went deep, probably stayed under four or five knots.”
“I can’t figure out why we didn’t hold him,” Snow wondered.
“You picking up a lot of biologies?” He was referring to the sound of sea creatures, like the clicking of shrimp.
“Just a second,” Snow responded. He was back momentarily. “Yeah, quite a bit up ahead . . .”
“That’s him,” Reed interrupted. “Tell your boys that there’s very little life under the icepack, just ice noise. If they compare what they’re hearing now to their tapes, they’ll find out it’s man-made—some new kind of noise-makers, kind of similar to ours. Danilov’s just screening himself while he beats it off a little farther. I’ll bet you convinced him that he’d better sneak up next time.”
“Like a cat,” Snow concluded. He paused for a moment, then inquired hesitantly, “You still going to let me proceed independently, or do I have to tail you?”
“We’re going to stay close enough so we can talk again if we have to. It’s crazy for Houston to stay out in front now that Danilov has an idea what you can do. We’re going to play with the computer here, try out all our ideas with two subs now instead of three. We’ll stay about twenty-five miles on each other’s beam for the time being. When you pick something up, then I’m going to cut around one side or the other—sort of flanking them,” Reed added.
“I’m going to be your eyes and ears,” Snow concluded matter-of-factly.
“Until there’s something to shoot at, yes.”
Andy Reed’s plans to review his arctic strategy on the computer changed somewhat after his conversation with Snow. Their discussion had troubled him to a degree. Imperator’s captain was the most dependable man the consortium could have appointed. He possessed a natural ability to command literally anything, according to his psychological profile. His talent with submarines and men was legendary in a peacetime navy. Never in his career had he broken the chain of command or questioned his orders, though it was well known that he would later say exactly what he thought about the performance of others, a lack of political sensitivity that might have contributed to his inability to achieve flag rank, critics said.
Imperator had destroyed Soviet forces in the air and on the surface, and now had dispatched a Soviet submarine. In accomplishing the latter, Snow had compromised his own position, the sensitivity of his sonar, and the range and accuracy of his rocket-assisted torpedoes. There had been two Soviet submarines firing on Helena—one now understood exactly how dangerous Imperator could be and had gone silent, waiting, hoping Snow might be drawn into an impetuous act.
The decision to fire had been Snow’s. No one had dictated when he could use his weapons systems. Andy Reed admitted to himself that he’d considered launching if he’d acquired a firm target. But he could not have found that lead in the ice without phenomenal luck. There appeared to be no cut-and-dried answer to that one. When you have been taught all your professional life to destroy targets of opportunity, especially when you might be the next target, how could all the positives and negatives be balanced?
What concerned Reed more was the truculence that had been evident when he questioned Snow’s rationale for firing. Snow had just been too matter-of-fact. There had been no discussion with his senior, no explanation of the factors involved in making the decision. That was so unlike the Hal Snow he’d known over the years that Andy Reed determined to keep a much closer watch on Imperator’s commanding officer. Every submariner was on his own in a situation similar to the one Snow had faced, but Reed knew a great deal of soul-searching should be involved in a mission such as this before revealing one’s position.
Novgorod was about four hundred miles northeast of Prudhoe Bay, heading quietly eastward just below the ice. Her mission was to prevent Imperator from turning toward the Northwest Passage as an alternative route, and to make sure that none of the American submarines attempted a sweep to the north along the arctic islands to get behind the Russian forces.
The water near the surface was less saline and extremely cold, and sound waves tended to bend upward as a result. Therefore, a submarine hovering just under the ice possessed an advantage. It was much easier to detect another at a lower depth and, in a shooting match, torpedoes had much more difficulty detecting a target when the background was obscured by ice. Sea life was limited that far north, making for superb listening conditions. What extraneous noise existed came from the ice itself. It could grind or break with a pop, a splash, or a fizz. Sonarmen classified the sounds with such names as “bergie seltzers” and “growlers.”
Novgorod had been cruising independently since Danilov detached her days before. The submarine had poked her antennae to the surface in polynyas at the designated times for her message traffic, but she had sent nothing but her own position reports. A recent message from Danilov indicated that there was now a distinct possibility that one or more American submarines could be sweeping in her direction. The result had been a series of boring lectures from the political officer concerning American designs on the homeland and the necessity of stopping the American submarines before they got beyond the pole.
Novgorod remained as silent as possible. Nothing was allowed that might create extraneous noise, and no maintenance could be performed without the commanding officer’s permission, which then usually required another officer to supervise the process directly. Meals were of the simplest kind, prepared with the intention of eliminating any sound that might pass through the hull.
“Captain, sir.” One of the sonarmen appeared in the control room and s
aluted. “We have a contact to the southeast.”
“Classification?”
“I am sorry, sir. We have nothing specific at this time. My officer insisted that you should be informed as soon as anything—”
“Very well,” the captain interrupted. “You have done the correct thing. You may return to your duty.” As the man turned on his heel, the captain added, “Fifteen minutes. Inform your officer that I want classification in fifteen minutes. He will report to me personally.”
The political officer insisted on remaining by the captain’s side. He had no doubt that he knew almost as much about submarine warfare as most of the other officers on board, having been with this commanding officer for more than two years. The captain had no interest in discouraging him, since the political officer really did little to interfere. While he had so far concurred with the captain on all decisions, he was required to report directly to his own superiors after each cruise on the activities of each officer.
Those “higher-ups” in the party had great influence in furthering the careers of captains when they became too senior to stay aboard submarines. It was worthwhile letting the political officer participate.
“Do you assume it is an American?” the political officer inquired. He had already determined in his own mind that it must be. but he never committed himself without first discussing the matter with the captain.
“None of our own boats are in this area. Nothing can travel on the surface. The Canadians operate nothing here.” He traced a lightly penciled line on the chart representing the rough bearing from Novgorod that sonar had reported. There was nothing in that direction. The pencil passed into the wilderness of Canada’s Northwest Territory. “If there is a true submarine contact on that bearing, it has to be an American.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything other than that myself. My recommendations would be to attack as soon as identification is conclusive.”
“Thank you.” The captain might have been sarcastic but political officers were meant to be humored. He paid little attention to a report that sonar had lost the contact momentarily.
A small, dangerous fire in Olympia had been controlled quickly. It was an accident. The cooks normally kept a tin of oil near the grill, a practice approved by the executive officer during sea trials, but in this case, one of the copper kettles had been balanced precariously on a shelf above the grill by one of the mess cooks. When another had been shoved onto the same shelf, the first one slipped off. A frantic grab for it dislodged a third kettle which had tipped the fat onto a red-hot burner. Luckily, no one was injured. They’d all been through the drill so many times that the fire was controlled within moments. But in that time, the most precious item in a submarine—air—had been consumed beyond the ability of the equipment to replace it quickly. A most dangerous addition to the environment had also been added—smoke.
The precipitators had worked overtime to remove particulate. Oxygen had been regulated quickly, but the stench hung heavily in the air. Eventually the submarine would cleanse itself—it was designed to do so—but there was nothing like fresh air and the captain decided that he would poke the sail above the surface in a nearby polynya.
It took no more than half an hour to retrace their steps to an opening in the ice. Olympia’s sail stuck just above the ice, enough to satisfy their needs. The captain was alone on the bridge, wrapped in arctic foul-weather gear, when a call came from the control room. “Captain, we’ve picked up an unusual signal on the ESM gear off to the northwest.”
“Any idea what it is?”
“Hard to be absolutely sure. A couple of the technicians claim they’ve listened to similar recordings in school. They seem to think it’s one of those high-speed transmission buoys the Russians pop up to the surface to send messages.”
“Aren’t those directional? Straight up to a satellite?”
“Right, Captain, but they do bob around a little bit. There’s some spillage and we’re damn sure down here we got the right reading . . .”
“And,” the captain responded to the pause.
“And if it’s a Soviet submarine taking a normal message break, then he can’t be that far away. The technician on the set says he doubts that we could have picked that up much more than thirty miles away from the transmitter.”
“What else could it be?”
“Nothing else, I’m told.” Some louder voices echoed in the background. “Out here, Captain, there’s practically nothing else they pick up on the ESM gear to begin with. When they get a signal, these guys move pretty fast . . . and they said that was strong enough so that it had to be pretty close. Nothing on that frequency travels any distance horizontally, even under the weirdest of conditions.” They pretty sure they got a live one then?” He was sure, but he wanted to hear it confirmed first.
“Stake their lives on it, Captain.”
The hell with airing the wash. Prepare to submerge.
And man battle stations.” He leaped through the first hatch. There had been nothing to secure on the bridge.
Abe Danilov was increasingly displeased with himself. Before departing Polyarnyy, he’d understood how vital his mission was, but he had also seen it as one in which he would quickly finish off anything allowed to transit the Bering Strait into the Chukchi Sea. It was hard to imagine that a submarine, regardless of its size or impressive capabilities, could not be destroyed within the first few days by Soviet forces. The methods of terminating its voyage had been planned well ahead of time in the Kremlin, so he was not as yet sure why each of their carefully planned attempts had failed. He was willing to give Imperator credit for being a magnificent instrument, but he gave even more credit where he felt it was due—to Admiral Reed for seeing that his charge was safely protected.
Scant days before, Danilov had envisioned a one-on-one situation as he lay in his bunk. He admitted that his speculations were somewhat childlike, for he was imagining great feats that he would perform to the adulation of his peers. What he now faced were men equally as able as he and a machine that possessed capabilities yet to be tested.
He was sure that Houston was still with Imperator, and also suspected that his earlier assumption had been correct—that there was one American submarine heading east to guard the Northwest Passage. That alone justified sending Novgorod there. While he couldn’t imagine navigating something the size of Imperator through those narrow, ice-jammed stretches that time of year, this move would also prevent any sweep of an American submarine behind his own forces.
Now, Abe Danilov found himself in the position he might have dreamed about just a few short nights before. Seratov was alone now, maneuvering to interpose herself between the oncoming American behemoth and the homeland. Houston was still escorting her charge while Seratov was at a slight disadvantage after the loss of Smolensk.
Danilov rarely, if ever, weighed the odds for or against him. While most naval experts would give a Los Angeles-class submarine like Houston the nod over a Russian Alfa, Danilov felt perfectly comfortable facing one at any time. Even against the formidable Imperator, he wouldn’t have bothered himself over rumored superior abilities. But against the two of them, and considering the talent commanding them. Danilov was wisely reassessing the situation.
There were another half dozen Soviet attack submarines racing under the icepack to support him. They would be able to provide aid by the end of the next day. It made excellent sense to accept the advantage of numbers—even though he ached for the opportunity to personally destroy Imperator.
But, too often now, as he considered his situation, another factor intruded to curtail his planning—Anna, his wife. Her patient endurance would be considerably shortened if he could dispatch this invader now and return to their cozy apartment in Moscow.
He was interrupted by a burst message just arrived from Novgorod—she had what must be an American submarine under surveillance; they would evaluate the contact and prosecute as necessary. Providing the American was sunk, Novgorod could rejo
in him by the next day. Danilov was reluctant to lose any precious moments with Anna, but a wiser mind would wait for backup.
Danilov would let Novgorod keep Houston busy on her return.
The decision to wait, to be cautious, won out for the time being over the childish dream of facing the dragon—slaying Imperator.
Novgorod’s captain relished his haughty position on the raised platform in the center of the control room. He glanced for a moment at the political officer who stood next to him, then glared back down at the navigation officer as if he’d broken a cardinal rule.
Just minutes before, the navigation officer had asked for and received permission to utilize the forward-looking sonar. Traveling as close to the ice as they were, it was standard navigating procedure to activate that sonar for several sweeps every ten minutes to ascertain the likelihood of any ice keels in their path. The last time, approximately eight minutes ago, they’d had a return almost two thousand yards dead ahead. At six knots, they would cover that distance in ten minutes. “I reduced speed when you first identified it,” the captain finally responded. “We shouldn’t be there yet.”
“Captain, sonar has reported numerous times that the ice is shifting around us. We are almost on top of that contact. It could be a deep pressure ridge.” When ice floes ground together, one piece would inevitably ride up on another. Current and wind could play havoc with the process, forcing tons of ice downward to create a hazard to any submarine just below the ice pack.
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