Silent Hunter

by Charles D. Taylor

  “Captain, it was on a bearing dead ahead . . . right where you expect them. I’d—”

  “Sorry,” Snow interrupted. “I didn’t mean to discourage you. Call your bearing up to sonar and have them work it too. The only man-made thing in front of us is that Russian submarine.”

  “Wait a minute, Captain. We’ve got something again dead ahead . . . very faint—”

  “Does sonar hold it?” Snow shouted impatiently across the control room.

  “Negative.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s very faint. Caesar’s barely holding it. If it’s a submarine, it’s either a hell of a long way off or dead slow.”

  “Is it man-made?”

  “No doubt about it . . . but we can’t classify it.”

  “Roger . . . see if you can get a track on it.”

  Snow closed his eyes tightly, imagining what he might do if he were in Danilov’s shoes. The man knew his Alfas made a great deal of noise, and that Imperator’s sonar ranged beyond the human state of the art. No doubt about it—go silent, as silent as possible, and wait. Imperator also possessed exceptionally long-range torpedoes. She could take the chance of using active sonar to obtain the Russian submarine’s range. Then fire before Danilov’s torpedoes would be effective.

  The Russian admiral was known for his brilliance; he wouldn’t leave himself out in the open. More likely he would hide behind a pressure ridge. Snow kept his eyes tightly shut as he contemplated Danilov’s options. They were limited. It was probable the Russian would fire first if he could hide successfully. Get wire-guided torpedoes in the water—then steer them, Snow realized. He gave the order to stand by the evasion devices forward. Caesar would fire them automatically if the ship appeared to be in danger.

  Admiral Reed sat disdainfully before the computer console eyeing the blank screen. He had been intent on playing the game “what if” when he sat down, but never touched a key after switching on the terminal. Instead, he readily acknowledged that they were beyond the war-games stage. They were no longer struggling for position. It was now a matter of who would fire the first shot and which submarine would be the first to plunge to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean.

  It had become apparent to Reed from the messages directed to him, and what little he could garner of the political situation that existed, that both Washington and the Kremlin were willing to settle things beneath the arctic ice. At this stage, the threats and counterthreats would continue on the international level. The United Nations, and those countries who understood the stakes involved if either country dug in its heels, would attempt to mediate by keeping the conflict on a shouting level.

  Since the sinking of Fahrion, Reed and Danilov knew that they were not really pawns being moved about on an international set. Few people in their own countries—none among their allies—were aware of the scene evolving under the arctic ice pack. Andy Reed understood that it was being left to him and to Abe Danilov, two men who had met twice before, to settle matters. If Imperator was able to complete her journey beneath the ice and surface off Norway, the United States would have succeeded in supporting NATO and maintaining a hazardous neutrality on Europe’s Northern Flank. If she did not, the Soviet Union would control what she considered rightfully hers—the arctic seas—and she would be able to maintain her tenuous threat to America by keeping her missile submarines beneath the ice pack.

  By nature, submarines and their commanders were given sanctions that other leaders with more powerful forces never entertained—once submerged, their decisions were their own. Whether they eventually were right or wrong would be determined long after they had been made and ships and men lay on the ocean bottom. Andy Reed and Abe Danilov, and each of the men who commanded the submarines under them, would settle the international squabbles taking place above them over the next thirty-six hours.

  Danilov had wisely removed himself from the scene north of the Bering Strait when he realized that his odds were unsatisfactory. Now he had reached the depths near the pole, intent on a fight. Having reacted prudently before, there was no reason to believe that he now was throwing caution to the winds. He must feel that the odds were back on his side and that could mean only one thing—his reinforcements were nearby.

  Six additional attack submarines had been sent out to assist him. There was no logical reason to imagine they would remain together. Sometime during the past twenty-four hours Danilov must have been in contact with them. A plan would have been formulated, a loose one because submarine warfare was an individual game—but it had to be taking shape as Reed sat staring at the console. No, there was no way to insert Danilov’s mind into a machine and expect to have definitive answers. Submarine warfare was conducted on experience and instinct. With the possible exception of an outrageous mistake, the best man won.

  Reed picked up the sound-powered phone and pressed the button for the control room. When the captain came on, he said, “Turn ninety degrees to port and stop engines. Concentrate sonar on an arc about thirty degrees either side of the bow. I’m willing to buy a round for every man aboard if we aren’t being flanked ourselves right this minute. I’ll be up shortly.”

  The concept had come to Reed as cleanly as if he had planned it himself. Of course—if he had six submarines coming in as a backup he’d form them in a rough half moon to avoid being flanked.

  Andy Reed considered Danilov’s tactical ability equal to his own, and that’s essentially what he would have done. No matter what flank the American 688 class was on, he would be caught in a pincer. So the thing to do was to pick off the outboard submarines one by one. Using the North Pole and Danilov as the center of a rough maneuvering board, Reed devised probable positions for each of the six Russian submarines. When he was satisfied with what he had done, he left for Houston’s control room.

  “Ross.” He beckoned the captain over to his side, laying out his projection. “This is the pole, right here. How about inserting a current position for Houston on my chart?”

  The captain noted their position on the navigation gear, measured it off on a nearby chart, and came back to mark the same spot for Reed. “Those your Soviet subs?” he inquired, pointing at the six marks forming the half moon.

  “No doubt in my mind—attack subs, each looking for us right now.”

  “That one’s pretty close.” He winked at Reed. “Could be within sonar range, I’d say.”

  “Want to bet on thirty degrees either side of the bow?”

  “Wouldn’t touch that bet for the life of me.” Then he added, “Unless he had us before we were silent, he could end up on top of us before he knew what hit him.”

  “Come on,” Reed said. “We’re not doing ourselves any good standing here staring at the watch. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  There were freshly made doughnuts on the wardroom table. They were almost finished with the second, after a short discussion on waistlines, when the wardroom phone buzzed. The captain conversed briefly in monosyllables with the OOD, then replaced the phone, explaining, “Looks like they got an Alfa on the starboard bow, Admiral. Nothing certain for range yet, but they’re maneuvering and ought to have something by the time we put away the last of these doughnuts.” He winked again and grinned. “Glad I’m not a betting man.” He glanced down at his watch, “It’s less than an hour since you told us where we’d find ’em.”

  Back in the control room, the fire control tracking team was already set. “It looks like he’s about thirty miles away,” noted the executive officer. “That’s an early mark. Give them a little more time to confirm. Seems to be heading toward us at a little more than five knots—trying to be quiet, but those Alfas just seem to broadcast over three knots. His aspect has him passing somewhere on the starboard beam if he holds course.”

  Reed nodded, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “He wouldn’t be so quiet if he didn’t expect we might be nearby, Danilov figured exactly what I’d do.”

  “We’ve got enough time, Admiral, but I’m going to initiate t
he attack sequence. No telling how he might change in the next hour or so.”

  Reed nodded. “The best idea would probably be to just sit here and wait for him. But that takes time and I don’t want his buddies to think we’re easy. Now that we know where he is, let’s close him very slowly on a reciprocal course. He’s not going to hear us yet and I want to get up closer to the ice. No need to be firing at the entire ice pack from down here. Let’s take away any advantage he has.”

  Abe Danilov had done much of what Hal Snow anticipated from Imperator. The scenario that Snow expected with Seratov hiding silently was correct, except that Danilov had no intention of firing a torpedo. As Seratov nestled behind the pressure ridge, the admiral explained exactly what he intended to do to Stevan Lozak, then asked the captain to pass the word through every compartment that he expected absolute quiet. Every piece of machinery that could possibly be secured was silenced. Even if Snow’s sonar had heard them, the Russian submarine would now essentially disappear from the Arctic. The only possible way they could be detected would require that Imperator come around the pressure ridge and either run down the Alfa or locate them with active sonar, and Danilov knew that the Americans wouldn’t be using that.

  There were indeed six Soviet submarines that had received orders from Danilov and they had spread themselves across a wide range. But they were not exactly in a half moon. While two were well out on the flanks, two others were assigned to stations between the flanking submarines and the last two, who remained a good distance from Seratov. The latter two were almost a hundred miles astern of Danilov, and they had gone silent. Their orders were to wait until an unidentified submarine came in contact. Beyond positioning themselves they would do nothing to give away their location. While a pincer was in effect, there was also a box into which Danilov hoped to draw Imperator. There would be five submarines surrounding the giant sub within hours after she passed by Seratov.

  Abe Danilov depressed the button on the side of his watch, just as he had done innumerable times that day to assure himself of the date. If he could dispose of Imperator before this day was through, he would be able to keep his promise to Anna. He would be home on the tenth day.

  Hal Snow fidgeted with the instruments on the chart table, then paced from station to station around the control room, peering over the shoulder of each man. Since that initial contact, that single faint indication that Seratov was somewhere ahead of them, there had been nothing.

  He came to the sliding screen that separated sonar from the control room, stared at it for a moment, then slid it open a few inches. Hesitating, he glanced at the men hunched over the equipment, headphones dwarfing their heads, taking no notice of his presence. His sonar officer looked over, squinted against the glare, trying to recognize the intruder, then put his index finger to his lips for silence. Snow slid the door shut.

  Striding over to the sound-powered phone, he buzzed the computer room. “Come on, what’s wrong with that computer of yours,” he asked before Carol Petersen could speak. “First you think you got him—then nothing. Either he’s out there, or you were imagining it.”

  “Caesar has no imagination, Captain,” she responded calmly. “Remember, I explained to you once that we couldn’t program human qualities . . . and he can’t develop them himself,” she added, hoping to shield the unpleasant inflection in her voice.

  “There was a submarine out there—” Snow began. “There did seem to be one, Captain. We held a man-made sound for a very short time, though it could not be firmly identified. Since that report, we have identified nothing similar.”

  “Maybe you’re experiencing an electronic casualty.”

  “If there was any electronic gear inoperative, Caesar would report it automatically. Everything is working. Captain,” she began, “it’s possible for a submarine to go silent and nothing could pick it up at long ranges or under certain conditions if it didn’t want to be heard—”

  “So much for engineering marvels,” Snow interrupted sarcastically.

  “Captain, sound does strange things in cold regions. What we heard could have been something very loud and very definite that traveled over a long distance. That’s possible. Sound waves also bend in this region. What we had could have been attenuated after a second. There are too many possibilities to begin to consider.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m not patient. Forget it. I’ll just wait here,” Snow finished with exasperation as he hung up the phone.

  Beyond Imperator, in the icy arctic waters, the only sounds that sonar could identify clearly were those of the ice itself, cracking, sliding, fizzing. Sea life was almost nonexistent beneath the pole.

  “Range twenty-one thousand yards.”

  Reed’s hand rose involuntarily in the air. “Stop,” he murmured softly to the captain, almost as if he might be heard by the approaching submarine.

  Houston glided to a halt. “Sound off if you have trouble holding trim,” the captain said to the diving officer. “Any change in the contact?” he asked the fire control officer.

  “I don’t think he’s about to change anything now. He seems to have increased depth.” The Soviet had secured his navigating sonar, which likely meant he’d lowered his depth at least 150 feet. “He’s still moving at about five knots. . . and you can be damn sure he’s straining to hear us. We could take him now, Captain.”

  The captain turned to Reed, eyebrows raised in question. “Negative, Ross. Give him maybe . . . another twenty-five minutes. At eight thousand yards, he shouldn’t be able to dodge any torpedoes no matter what he hears. And when he turns on the horses to run and makes all that racket, the better for your fish.”

  Minutes ticked by more slowly, each one seeming longer as the Soviet Alfa closed them. What if he’d tracked Houston before they were silent, each man wondered privately. Just enough data to plug into a torpedo? Maybe he’ll fire half a minute ahead of us and turn tail before we have a chance to put our fish in the water. Then we’ll be on the defensive . . .

  The torpedoes were warm, their tubes flooded, pressure equalized, muzzle doors open, when Reed said to the captain. “Don’t let a soul make any noise, Ross. Just take her through the steps until the solution is ready, nice and easy. . . let your crew feel this is the easiest thing in the world . . . there’s going to be more . . .” He was whispering.

  The captain silently registered the reports through to torpedo presets, checked to ensure that his target appeared to remain at the same depth, made sure that Houston was at the right .angle to the target, and finally turned to Reed. “We’re ready, sir. Request permission to shoot.”

  “Your discretion, Ross.”

  The captain glanced over at the fire control coordinator, who gave him the thumbs-up sign. “Shoot on generated bearings.” The sound and sensation of the water slug as the firing key was depressed was felt in every corner of the submarine. The second torpedo was no different.

  “Standby decoys,” the captain ordered. It was second nature to anticipate return fire. .

  “Torpedoes running . . . wire continuity good.”

  There was no time at this range for the Russian to initiate a firing sequence. Escape was the single, vital requirement of the moment. Just in the time that it took for the Russian to achieve enough speed to increase his turning angle, the American torpedoes had covered that much more ground—while the Soviet forward motion brought them even closer.

  “Hull popping,” sonar reported. The creaking, crackling sound of hull compression was clear as the Soviet boat increased depth rapidly. “And she’s really turned on the horses. Her aspect’s changing fast.”

  Reed watched with a professional eye as the technicians aboard Houston continued their individual functions. The attack did not cease after firing. The wire attached to each torpedo was an umbilical still connecting it to the womb, the fire control computer. Changes in the target’s actions could be transmitted to the torpedoes to avoid a programmed search pattern before they were within acquisition range. The ope
ration ran smoothly, sonar reporting the Alfa’s evasive actions while continuous data was transferred to the miniature computers within the torpedoes.

  Houston had succeeded beyond even Reed’s expectations, waiting until the ultimate moment. Their enemy had been unable to pause long enough to develop a target solution. There was no need for evasive action.

  “She’s got decoys in the water . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four of them. . . all running off in different directions . . . torpedoes still operating normally.”

  Reed nudged Houston’s captain. “Looks like a good shot, Ross.”

  The captain smiled. “Seems to happen whenever we have an admiral on board.” He was in awe of Reed’s tactics and could think of nothing else to say.

  “Alfa’s changing aspect fast . . .”

  “Wire’s snapped on number two . . .”

  “Alfa’s like a dog chasing its tail . . . aspect’s changing again . . .” The reports from sonar were increasing in intensity. Each man was creating a mental picture of the submarine and the torpedoes. The sonarmen added further reality with verbal accounts of the sounds of the chase, which they had developed to a maximum sensitivity. It was akin to the nose of a hunting dog on a trail. Sound heightened the image of the hunt.

  “Captain, number one is on to him . . . I’m sure . . . seems to be range gating . . . I think it’s locked on.”

  A tremendous explosion echoed through Houston as a torpedo detonated.

  “Captain, if this trace from the fire control system we’ve got here is close to right, he almost ran right into that fish.” The fire control coordinator tore off a sheet of paper and brought it over to show the track of the torpedo and the submarine. “What do you think, sir?”

  Reed’s smile grew as broad as anyone had seen it the entire trip. “I think he swallowed it. What does sonar have to say?”