Nonetheless, it was a wonderful week. The Anejo rum seemed smoother each time, complementing the fresh lemon and lime juice so perfectly that he could have put away a dozen of them that night. That vacation had been a little over three years ago, but it came back so vividly. His daughter, Tammy, had decided after only a couple of turns at the wheel that she was never going off to college—the life for her was the sea. She was going to go into her own charter business and spend all her time sailing through the Bahamas and the Caribbean. At thirteen, what could be more romantic?
Dick had been fifteen at the time and nothing around home had ever suited him. It didn’t matter whether it was having to make his bed, or putting his dirty clothes in the hamper, or mowing the lawn. Nothing was ever right and nothing was ever his fault. There were days when it was hard for Andy Reed to live in the same house with him.
Yet out here on the ocean, he’d changed overnight. He took his turn at the wheel with gusto and there was never a complaint about handling the sails, washing down the deck, or any of the constant chores that had to be done when eight people lived so closely together on a small craft. He even volunteered to help with the more difficult work, anticipating the moments when his father would need help.
The oldest, Timmy, was the quietest. But when they were out of sight of land, he was the one hanging over his father’s shoulder to learn how to pilot the boat through the islands. He’d become quite a navigator in just a short week. He managed to replace the great navigator, Folger, who would never let anyone else help once he’d laid out his charts. But Timmy Reed became equally proficient in those seven days, challenging his father to contests to see who’d be the first to sight a landmark or pick the correct moment they’d drop anchor each night. He usually won.
Now, both Timmy and Dick were off to college. Neither one had any desire to follow their father to Annapolis, but that never disturbed Andy as it did so many of his peers. Considering his situation now, racing toward the North Pole five hundred feet under the ice pack, he was sure they’d all made the right decision.
The big fish had been the highlight of their final days on the water. The youngest, the unplanned-for Kevin, became the fisherman of the Reed family during that trip. He was the one who loved to run down to the nearest stream wherever they lived to fish for sunny and bullhead. As soon as they were in open water in the Bahamas, he was the one who used to troll for hours from the stem, his bare feet dangling over the side. Kevin had the patience of Job. He would sit there forever, occasionally reeling in so that one of his brothers could put on a new plug for him.
The big fish had struck the last day. Andy remembered the screams of excitement from the stern. It sounded as if someone had fallen overboard, but when he poked his head through the hatch he saw Timmy with his arms already around his little brother’s waist. Little Kevin held tightly to the pole while the line fairly screamed out. Lucy was at the helm and he still remembered her words as he stared dumbly at the scene on the stem. “For God’s sake, Captain, do your duty and get aft and help the boy. Something big just jumped back there.”
It had taken more than an hour and Kevin needed help from each of them, but Andy had finally leaned over the rail and gaffed a handsome sailfish. When they entered port that night, all the people wandering the docks had come down to take pictures of the little boy who happily posed with the fish that stood twice as tall as he. It was something Kevin would never forget all his life, and it was a picture that Andy Reed still carried in his wallet. Whenever he settled into a wardroom, every junior officer had heard that the first thing to do was ask the admiral if he had a picture of his son with the big fish.
Each of the children had experienced something they would never forget. As he dozed now, he realized that it would be one of the happiest memories he and Lucy would retain. How he missed her now! Remembering things like that brought back so much . . . and it was always Lucy who was smiling back at him through those memories. It didn’t matter whether it was a simple picnic on a Sunday afternoon or the traditional meat loaf dinner she prepared whenever he was getting underway. Always—always Lucy was smiling, never asking when he was returning. Just sending him off with “all the love he could handle” were usually her last words when she said good-bye.
How could any man be so lucky?
“Admiral.” The sharp voice competed with the knuckles rapping on the bulkhead. “Sir, the captain sent me down to inform you we just copied our normal message traffic. We have a position report on a Soviet burst transmission, probably a sub, no more than two hours ahead. The captain said he sure could use your help in the control room.”
“Thank you. Tell him I’ll be right up just as soon as I get a little cold water on my face.” Cold water—that would clear his head. He had to find out how much time had elapsed since that Soviet transmission. Danilov could already have chosen where he planned to make his stand. A weather update in the last traffic might answer that. There was no doubt that if the Russian made a move from Murmansk, the U.S. would make one also from Thule.
Refreshed, Reed dried his face and ran a comb through his hair. Staring back at himself in the mirror, he wondered if perhaps the decisions had already been made for him, though it wasn’t of great concern if they had been. The first thing he would do would be to make final contact with Snow. As he sauntered down the passageway to the control room, he could sense the up angle of the deck. The captain had certainly anticipated him. If Danilov was already searching for them, they wanted to hover just under the ice. No need to give the other guy the advantage.
Hal Snow studied the red numbers on the digital display—one seven nine degrees four six minutes west, eight eight degrees five six minutes north. Imperator was just to the east of the International Dateline and would soon be on the other side of the North Pole.
“Captain, we just got a call from Houston.”
“Patch it into the number three speaker.”
“No need yet, Captain. Admiral Reed just requested us to close him near a polynya about twelve miles to our west.”
Reed’s instructions were simple when they talked between the communications buoys. They followed his original plan of sending Houston out on what was assumed to be Danilov’s flank. Imperator would continue directly toward the pole. Weather data indicated a fair area in the region ahead and that it should remain the same for the next forty-eight hours. Olympia was expected to be approaching from the opposite flank within the next twelve hours. There was no need for further discussion. The stage was set. As they severed communications and each submarine submerged, they were on their own.
Carol Petersen entered the control room just as Snow was about to call her. “My sixth sense tells me that you are planning to wear out Caesar in the next day or so.” Her smile was friendly and professional.
Snow forced a thin smile in return. “I’m going to use the hell out of him. Come on over here.” Without explanation he directed her to the chart table, where he picked up a pencil to outline what he was about to say. “Admiral Reed should be about here right now. I want to get a reasonable position on him as soon as you’re back below. Insert a course about like this.” He drew a rough of Houston’s projected course, and jotted down an average speed for a submarine operating just below the ice. “You’re going to lose him from time to time and I want Caesar to know where to expect him to reappear.” He drew a circle near the pole. “Danilov ought to be somewhere in that sector. Sonar has a tape on every possible sound a Russian Alfa ever made. Plug that into Caesar if you haven’t already. Danilov’s going to be hugging the ice, too, but we might pick up a chance peep of some kind before he wants us to hear him.”
“Back to the old needle-in-the-haystack approach?” Snow shrugged. “No choice. He’s got the upper hand for the time being. What Andy asked me to do is toss out some of those new noisemakers of ours. Since Danilov knows we’re coming after him, he’s going to have to sort us out of a number of different contacts.”
“Can’t h
e figure out where we are just from the sound patterns of those noisemakers?”
“We’re going to run a little zigzag for a while. And have Caesar insert time delays on most of them so they won’t begin to radiate until we’re well away from them.” She nodded, saying nothing.
“Olympia should be coming up here.” He marked an area to indicate where the other submarine would be approaching. “I can’t take a chance on sinking her . . . because”—he enclosed Olympia’s circle with an even larger one—“the Russians have another half dozen probably moving in somewhere beyond the pole. Alfas, Victors, Sierras, Akulas . . . they all produce different signatures from a 688-class.”
“That’s one thing you can bank on. Caesar knows the difference.” She bit her lower lip before adding, “Captain, why don’t you come below with me to see how I’m going to go about telling Caesar everything that he’s supposed to do.” Frustration had replaced the pleasure and excitement of just a few minutes before. Hal Snow could be so damned condescending!
Snow glanced at the fingers of his right hand beating a tattoo on the chart table. What the hell made her talk to him like that? The answer was evident even before he looked up. “You’re right. Nerves . . . can’t imagine why Caesar didn’t tell you that was my problem,” he added weakly. His thin-lipped grimace was replaced by a slight grin. “Why don’t you just tell me whenever I’m asking too much . . . which I don’t think will happen.”
“Great,” she answered. It was admittedly a weak, meager apology. “There’s got to be more . . . right?”
Snow was amused by her flip response. She reminded him a lot of himself in years past. “Sure. There’s no way I can use missiles anymore. Even if I found a hole up there to fire through there’s no chance I could hope for it to come back down on anything but solid ice. I’ve reloaded every tube with torpedoes. Since I’d much rather fire too soon than too late, I’ll expect firing solutions on any sound we come up with, even before we identify it. But don’t let me fire too soon . . .” His voice trailed off at the end, almost as if he anticipated the possibility of crossing over the fine line of self-control. It seemed more difficult to maintain each day.
“Between these people”—she indicated his fire control party—“and Caesar, you’ve got everything under control. The only thing that can happen is if you try so hard to confuse the Russians that you do the same to Caesar.”
“Understood, ma’am.” The wry grin playing at the comers of his mouth was completely out of character compared to the touches of anger he had shown only moments before. “Can Caesar provide me with a visual on the ice above us from the inputs from sonar?”
“Just call me when you need it. I can put it on the holograph.”
“I’m going to need contacts plugged in there, too.”
“I can handle all that, and more. What I’m more curious about is how do you plan to creep up on Danilov when you’re driving four football fields of submarine.”
“On cat’s feet,” he murmured softly. He tore the paper off the chart table and handed it to her. “On cat’s feet . . .”
Abe Danilov’s hand ran up and down the shiny chrome support pole on the platform overlooking the fire control suite. He could feel the adrenaline surge through his system—once again he felt like a young Turk rising through the ranks of the Soviet submarine force! In those days, it seemed that nothing could stop him, and today he was equally invulnerable. They would make contact with the Americans today, and he could hardly wait. He was imbued with a sense of invincibility.
Such anticipation also convinced him of the necessity of placing his concern for Anna in proper perspective—that much he owed to Seratov’s crew! Before he dropped off to sleep, he was positive that he was once again spiritually in contact with her, and he slept happily because she understood he would not be back until his mission was complete. When he awoke four hours later, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so rested. For the first time on this cruise, he never considered the doctors’ orders a burden. He felt so good that he was positive he would feel even better by following their instructions.
He’d stretched until every muscle seemed to tingle throughout his body. Sitting up on his bunk, he breathed deeply, his mind alert to the day ahead. He realized he wasn’t the least bit concerned about the purpose behind it all. Abe Danilov was going to show his seniors that he still had a long way to go in the service. As he shaved, checking the messages that had come in during the last burst, he admitted that he felt even better because he had followed the doctors’ instructions.
The breakfast he consumed in the wardroom was huge, and he ate it with a gusto none aboard Seratov had seen since he boarded. His ebullience spread through the submarine. The same atmosphere had developed on other submarines Danilov had ridden in the past. His enthusiasm was infectious.
Sergoff was delighted with the change in the admiral as he entered the wardroom that morning. He had been awake a good deal of the time Danilov was sleeping, and his mood, he knew, would be based that day on how the admiral felt.
Seratov was now meandering through the ice pack, keeping no more than fifty feet between the top of the sail and the bottom of the ice. The forward-looking sonar was activated to warn of imminent danger ahead. The upward-looking sonar charted the thickness of the ice above, care; fully recording those areas that were suitable for surfacing in an emergency. Speed was kept at a minimum to avoid noise. There was no longer a need to outdistance their enemy. Instead they were waiting . . . waiting for the Americans to give themselves away.
“Contact!” The red light winked on above the fire control board. “Relative bearing two one six.”
Danilov nodded pleasantly to the fire control officer, who glanced over in his direction. “That’s right. That’s close to where they should be coming from.” He relaxed as they maneuvered to get an accurate plot on their contact.
“Contact appears to be moving east to west. Speed about eighteen knots. Classified as probable American Los Angeles-class . . .”
More details followed. As he listened, Danilov’s smile disappeared. They should be coming toward him . . . they should be hugging the ice when they knew he was ahead of them, and they shouldn’t be radiating all that noise. He sent Sergoff into sonar to have them go through the identification process again. He was sure the Americans—Reed—wouldn’t come charging right at him.
“Contact . . . bearing one seven one.” Again, the process was the same as the first. Another Los Angeles-class! Impossible, Danilov surmised. There was no way the one off to the east could have come back this close so quickly. This contact moved more slowly and was making a zigzag path, according to the sonar officer. It didn’t make sense.
A half hour later, another contact was reported—another Los Angeles-class! The strategy became obvious to Danilov. The Americans weren’t going to come to him waving a red flag, and to have expected that possibility would have been foolish. The first contact fooled him, the second planted the seed, the third confirmed that they were toying with him. Sonar insisted that their classifications were accurate and there was no way he would dispute their analysis. It would take an expert to sort out the difference between the noisemaker and the real thing. He was sure Houston wasn’t equipped with such a device, nor could it move about so agilely to release them without being located herself. No . . . this had to be Imperator coming directly toward him!
Danilov turned to Stevan Lozak and said softly, “Captain, that submarine of theirs may well hear us before we can sense it. Stop your engines.”
“All stop.” Lozak turned expectantly. “Secure the active sonar, sir?”
Danilov nodded, appreciating a man who anticipated him. “Let’s have a look at that chart of the ice we’ve been developing.”
Properly laid out, the portion of the ice pack under which a submarine had passed should read like a map. In addition to the thickness of the ice, they also recorded obstacles, especially the pressure ridges, which could easily sink a submar
ine. However, the ice pack is an unstable element that can be affected by the weather above. Wind and current can push the ice together, forcing pressure ridges as much as a hundred feet below the surface. A submarine drawing not much more than thirty feet of water can hide behind such a deep pressure ridge.
Danilov studied the sonar chart carefully. Finally, he selected a spot with his finger. “Right here.” He tapped the spot repeatedly. “Bring her here, Captain. I don’t mind if it takes a couple of hours. Just don’t make a sound while you do it, I want to hide behind this ridge as long as we can. If it disappears, so what? By then he may have given himself away.” He turned to Sergoff. “See if you can find any consistency to those decoys he’s using. Perhaps we can locate him through his efforts to confuse us.”
The warning light on the sound-powered phone caught Snow’s attention before the buzzer sounded. “Captain here.”
“Caesar picked up something dead ahead of us—very faint. Hard to classify but it appears to be man-made.” Carol Petersen’s voice was hesitant.
“Sonar didn’t report a thing.”
“I know that. I already checked with them. That’s not their fault. This is apparently below the threshold of even your best sonarman. Captain. Caesar can pick up a lot that he can’t identify, a lot that the human ear wouldn’t know was there. That’s what this was. It was only there for thirty seconds, and for some reason it stopped.”
“Probably the ice.”
“Negative. This was man-made,” she insisted. “Caesar can differentiate that much.”
Snow was ready to dispute her comment without thinking. “What the hell—” But then he remembered how many times the engineers back in the fishbowl had extolled the superhuman features of their computer—and one of the items that had been repeated was its ability to distinguish sound, even if it could not classify what it heard. One of them even went on to say it could save his life some day.
Silent Hunter Page 24