“Unit’s running properly, sir.” They could break the wire now!
“Very well . . . all ahead full . . . make your depth six hundred feet.” He had to change the aspect he was presenting to the Russian. “Right full rudder.”
Olympia’s deck slanted downward, the angle increasing perceptibly as the propeller bit into the water. With the rudder hard right, she began to bank slightly with increasing speed. The feeling of motion—forward, downward, starboard—was exhilarating. Now they were making their escape.
The political officer heard each of the reports. He knew the American had fired first . . . that Novgorod had answered within seconds . . . then had fired again . . . that the American also had two torpedoes in the water . . . but he was unable to move. His feet were glued to the deck. His hands gripped the side of the chart table. He was aware there was no way he could assist the captain, but in such moments he also understood that the captain didn’t want his help. All along, he had been humored by the captain . . . and he now realized the amount of patience the man could exhibit to an important party member.
“Captain, their first torpedo is range gating!”
“Is it locked on us?” the captain called out frantically.
“I don’t know yet . . . it could be the ice . . . a noisemaker . . . us . . . I can’t tell, Captain, I’m not sure.” Fear was cracking his voice.
There was little point in maintaining position, waiting foolishly to determine if they were a firm target. The engineers were ready. “Ahead full . . . right full rudder,” the captain barked.
A warm feeling surged down his back as the submarine responded. Noisemakers! That was it. Screen himself! If he was now going to create so much noise, he had to put more decoys in the water. He knew how much noise an Alfa generated. Glancing briefly at the political officer, whose eyes stared blankly into space, he called for more noisemakers over the din of reports from each department. He knew the American was also underway now, more than likely scrambling just as he was. No point in precision when you may be blown up any moment.
“Torpedo closing . . . port quarter . . . locked on us.” The sonarman’s voice had changed from fear to a high-pitched cry as the torpedo propellers screamed ominously into his headset.
Olympia’s sonarman had been reporting the Soviet torpedo’s approach in a dry monotone. This changed instantly to a shout of glee, “First torpedo appears to be locked on a noisemaker . . . passing astern.”
The captain tried to restrain himself. “Number two . . . where’s the second?”
“Still in search, sir . . . may be too shallow . . . they may have programmed it for a different depth after own first one.”
“Hold that angle, Chief,” the captain called out. “We can stay under it . . . make your new depth eleven hundred—”
His voice died with the distant explosion that needed no sonarman’s identification. The sharp blast cracked across the depths, penetrating Olympia’s hull, into the ears of each of her crew. It was the most terrifying sound a submariner could hear—a massive underwater detonation.
The silence in Olympia endured for perhaps five seconds. Each man stopped whatever he was doing—pondering his own good fortune, considering the fate of his opposite on the other submarine, desperately hoping that his own destiny would not be settled within seconds.
It was the captain who broke the silence. “Confirmation on that hit . . . did it impact the target?”
“It’s a mess out there, Captain—hard to separate. I think I still have cavitation on that bearing . . .” His voice trailed off as he strained to differentiate the full spectrum of noise through the rolling waters. The grinding of disturbed ice floes magnified the confusion.
“What about their other fish?” The captain’s voice was demanding.
“Still in search well above our port quarter. They could have been depending on the wire when our torpedo hit.” The second sonarman interrupted. “No chance. They’d already turned on the horses and were changing course. Wire had to be busted before.”
“Own speed eighteen, Captain.”
“Passing through nine hundred feet . . . decrease your angle,” the chief whispered to the planesman. “We’re still gaining speed.”
“My rudder is straight, Captain. Do you have a new course?”
“Is that fish still searching up there?” The captain was sensing victory—not that his enemy was sunk, but that he had also escaped the second torpedo.
“Still circling . . . no change in depth.”
“Chief, level off at twelve hundred . . . what course are you passing now, helm?” The captain’s breath was coming in short gasps. He could feel his heart thumping. Could he have held it when they started maneuvering? Hell, no. He’d never stopped talking—just good, healthy fear.
“Now passing one one two, Captain.”
“Steady up on one three zero.” That would be almost a reciprocal course from the torpedo’s origin.
“Captain, I still hold the Alfa. I have a burst of cavitation . . . also sounds like she’s going deep.”
Olympia’s torpedo had burst directly above Novgorod’s port bow plane, the pressure of the blast forcing both bow planes into a full dive position. With the submarine increasing speed, she instantly pitched into a sharp dive.
Her captain was one of the first to pick himself off the deck after the shattering explosion. Emergency lights outlined a crumpled pile of bodies thrown to starboard by the blast. The men handling the control surfaces remained strapped in their chairs. The political officer, who never once moved from his white-knuckled position by the chart table, had been flung against a stanchion. Blood now flowed from an ugly gash on his forehead across his neatly pressed uniform. The slant of the deck was increasing quickly with the planes at the full dive angle. They were falling rapidly from the relative security of the ice overhead.
“Up angle,” the captain shouted, “up angle . . . up angle.”
“I can’t, Captain.” The planesman was straining at the controls. “They’re jammed.”
“Help him,” the captain shouted, pointing at a sailor struggling to his feet. “He can’t do it by himself.” He waved his hands in the direction of the control panel. “Help him.”
He stared impotently for a few seconds as the two men struggled over controls which would not respond. The angle was now critical. Those trying to regain their feet slid across the deck, frantically grabbing for any handhold.
“All back full,” the captain called. “Blow the forward main ballast tanks.”
The diving officer rose to his hands and knees, crawling to the controls that would blow high-pressure air into the ballast tanks. There was no roaring sound of water flushing from the tanks. Again he went through the motions before he cast a desperate glance over his shoulder. “I’m getting nothing, sir . . . main ballast blow system doesn’t respond.”
Novgorod’s angle was beyond anything she’d been designed for. She began to shudder as the backing engines turned a propeller that struggled furiously against the downward flight of thirty-five hundred tons. Not a man had been killed by the impact of the torpedo. Some bulkheads had been fractured, but it was not a killing hit. Yet Novgorod was passing five hundred meters, her bow long past the critical angle for survival. Her ballast tanks remained as full of sea water as before. Now the rumble of her turbines and the high-pitched yowl of her single shaft desperately straining against gravity could be heard for miles through the icy waters.
Her captain refused to relinquish his grip. By then, it was as if he was swinging from a bar above his head. He had seen the depth gauge pass six hundred meters . . . eight fifty . . . a thousand. “Impossible!”
He could sense the hull rupturing. The immense pressure of the depths cracked Novgorod’s once-powerful hull like an egg. He was aware of the screams about him as the submarine exploded inward. And then there was nothing as the crumpled junk drifted to the sea floor almost four thousand meters below.
Olympia remaine
d on the same heading until the executive officer came over to the captain and rested a hand on the man’s arm. “Captain, do you intend to remain on this heading for the time being?” The answer was obvious but it was the easiest way to start.
The captain looked down at the reassuring hand, then peered about the control room. No one else was nearby. Each man seemed to have a specific job to accomplish. “Negative. Do you have a recommendation?”
“Suggest we resume course and speed as recommended by Admiral Reed, sir.”
“Very well. Secure battle stations. Set the normal underway watch. Check our current location. We may just have some catching up to do so that Andy doesn’t have to wait for us . . . and you should have the comm officer prepare a short action report for me when we surface for messages.”
Stevan Lozak remained in his control room as Seratov moved away rapidly to the north. He had followed Danilov’s wishes and taken his submarine deep, over six hundred meters, and eventually he had sped away behind the distraction of noisemakers that no listening device could penetrate. Abe Danilov understood that although Imperator might be as fast as the Russian Alfas, she could travel only as fast as Admiral Reed’s Los Angeles-class submarine. Not even the awesome Imperator would be allowed to race boldly into the lion’s den without Reed nearby.
For Abe Danilov, this was an opportunity to rest once again. It seemed that those doctors in the Kremlin were correct. At his age, men in his position required more rest, more time to prepare mentally for the taxing work that lay ahead. He hated to admit it, but mental exercise was growing more tiresome each day they were at sea. There was no problem with his strategy. His ability to sustain a mental picture of the vast stage they were covering, and placing the surviving submarines in their appropriate positions, was better than he remembered. Mission awareness was simplistic as far as he was concerned. He understood what Reed and Snow were attempting, and had no doubt in his own mind how they intended to go about it.
Though Abe Danilov remained a bear when it came to analyzing an enemy’s strategy, he also possessed a comparative weakness—he failed to comprehend at this stage his increasing dependency on Anna’s letters. Her neatly handwritten memories redeemed choice events of his past, rekindling a desire to return to the happiness of those days. He now desperately wanted to partake of the joys that he had so often missed because of duty, even if he was limited to exercises of the mind. He realized what kind of father he had been, returning home each time as a hero to his children—yet he was a father they really never knew. He saw’ himself as he must now be in their eyes: an authority figure in a greatcoat covered with snow. But he never really knew them. He loved them and they loved him, but much of his affection had been distributed in choking doses over short periods of time.
He lay in his bunk as Seratov raced northward, comprehending more fully how much he had actually missed of a family that had grown up successfully under Anna’s direction. As he memorized each word of her earlier letters, he came to the realization that he didn’t want to miss another moment of that life, even if it involved only himself and Anna.
But Anna was dying, and he had no options other than this tiny, cramped bunk in another man’s stateroom. He must complete this mission quickly! It was vital that she understand that her message had gotten through to him, vital that she know he would continue her efforts to hold the family together.
Danilov removed the packet of letters, taking out two of them. It was almost the end of the fifth day, and he knew he would not sleep again until the sixth—and then he would be so busy. Perhaps it was cheating Anna, but he would read both of them now.
She told him of another stage in their life that required more of his time away from the children. It was his first major command—the newest, fastest attack submarine in the fleet. He had helped to develop it during his time in Leningrad, and his reward after the mud and blizzards of Severodvinsk had been to take the sub as his own. Anna related how jealous she had been—it was no more than a machine, yet she had become increasingly irritated by it. And when they returned to port, all he could talk about was his submarine. He would go through the motions with the children, spoiling Eugenia, encouraging Sergei’s military studies, putting up with Boris’s competitive spirit. But never, she explained, never loving them regardless of what they were or would be. They were tough days for Anna and he marveled now at how sturdily she had faced them. What a powerful woman—her love had remained while he blithely took advantage of both worlds.
The second letter related their experiences in Moscow. Admiral Gorshkov had obtained orders for him to the Voroshilov General Staff Academy, where only prospective flag officers were sent. Those were the days of special privileges, the stores where only important government officials and high-level officers could shop. They were invited to the parties that the average citizen only suspected might take place, and they attended the opera and the ballet and so many other events that Anna loved. He attended because they were supposed to be there.
The special privileges were overwhelming. Abe Danilov grew more impressed with himself than others around him. Once again, it was his Anna who gradually awakened him to the fact that he was becoming enamored of another mistress—his own self-importance. That was not something she would ever love in a man. She picked away at it each week until he was able to understand exactly what she was driving at. He would destroy himself with his own self-indulgence and pride. There were other, more senior officers who had been through the same thing. She explained how they stood back in judgment of the younger ones as they experienced the same temptations.
He returned her letters to his drawer, briefly wondering why he had allowed himself to go out on this final mission. His place was beside Anna as long as she remained alive. He cursed himself momentarily for being coerced into going after the giant American submarine, until he acknowledged that it had been his own decision. There was no way he could have gone back!
Anna understood his strengths as well as she forgave his weaknesses. She would not have wanted him to remain in Moscow, however much she needed him. He would come home again soon, just as he always had before.
There have been moments in the past when two countries facing the probability of armed conflict finally come to the realization that some form of truth may be the best solution to mutual problems. It is not necessarily the whole truth they intend to utilize nor is there any rule that says it has to be anything more than as they see it. Truth is subject to interpretation. St can follow a variety of courses and usually does on the international level. It can often become a weapon.
The Kremlin was not about to allow the sighting of Imperator in the Bering Sea to pass without taking advantage of magnifying a mystery. Over the following thirty-six hours they projected a scenario of American aggression about to take place that increased international suspicion of U.S. intentions. While Washington was in the process of countering the movement of Soviet Spetznaz units toward the pole, the Soviets were documenting the fact that American Spec Ops and SEAL teams were already en route to arctic airbases. They were even successful for a period of time in convincing the media that the U.S. was pushing Moscow to the breaking point.
The White House countered—they felt justified in stretching Soviet intentions on the Northern Flank into the final step before the invasion of Europe. Russian denial to the contrary, the concept of a possible Soviet invasion of NATO countries became more feasible . . . a specter that invalidated Soviet hints of arctic warfare only hours before. Stated Soviet intentions of only defending their country against American encroachment, first in the Norwegian Sea and then in Soviet waters themselves, were lost in an American publicity barrage.
The Kremlin valued stretching the truth themselves, again emphasizing the terrifying possibilities of the deployment of U.S. attack submarines into the Soviet arctic bastion. While Russian ballistic-missile submarines were intended as a last resource, now they were exemplified as a means of maintaining stability in a frightened
world. Their sole purpose was to avoid a nuclear holocaust at the instigation of the U.S., and the main thrust of the Soviet argument was quite simply that an American attempt to dislodge the missile-carrying subs could be the beginning of an attack on the Soviet Union itself. And an attack on the USSR would precipitate a war that would draw in every peace-loving nation. The result would be unthinkable.
While there was never any doubt in a single Soviet military mind that the Northern Flank offered vital protection to the homeland against the American fleet, there had been no consideration of invading any NATO country. That would precipitate a war the Politburo could not afford. But it would be hard to convince those European countries bordering the Warsaw Pact nations, given the maneuvering of Russian forces on the Norwegian border.
Conversely, world leaders were horrified by the concept of the Arctic as a battlefield. Many would agree that the Soviet SSBNs in the region provided a rational balance to their American counterparts in the Atlantic and Pacific. The idea that the Americans might actually be in the process of challenging Soviet SSBNs in the Arctic created a noticeable stir in the UN and almost every world capital. Not only could a horrifying nuclear imbalance be possible, but the Russians also introduced the concept of a nuclear explosion in the Arctic that might create devastating environmental results.
The war of words manipulated truth as a shield to deflect the realities of their expanding confrontation. The Russians used Murmansk as a staging area for their special operating forces while the Americans had transferred their own to Thule Air Force Base on Greenland’s west coast. As far as either country was now concerned, reinforcement was brief hours from the North Pole, where their submarines seemed to be converging.
What neither power could do was communicate with their submarines long enough to explain the complexities of their evolving strategy. They were limited to selective data relayed in burst transmissions. Content was mostly reassurance of the placement of special operating forces as a backup. It became purely submarine against submarine.
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