He opened his eyes and uttered one word, “Dive!” as loudly as he could. It would be their only chance. He knew Imperator was diving also. At this speed, they would go down quickly—though he had no idea whether it would be fast enough to avoid the torpedoes bearing down on him. Strangely enough, he was not the least concerned with survival at this stage. His entire being was concentrated on eradicating the foe threatening the Motherland—halting it in any manner possible . . . including sacrificing himself.
Seratov felt as though it was standing on end as the bow planes wrenched them into a sharp dive. Lozak shouted a warning to the men in the control room as the deck fell away from under them. Loose gear clattered across the deck.
“Range to torpedoes?” Danilov shouted.
“Seven hundred meters.”
“Can we get under them?”
“No . . . maybe . . . I don’t know . . .”
An explosion, representing the last of their torpedoes, was clearly audible. “That’s a hit,” shouted the weapons officer. “A hit . . . a hit . . .” His voice faded as he peered about the control room at the others tightly grasping the nearest handhold. Not a one of them had ever experienced such a sharp dive.
“Captain, my angle is getting too steep. I . . . I have to pull back on the planes.” The diving officer was already changing the angle as he called out to Lozak. “Too close to losing control . . . is it all right?” he finished tentatively.
Lozak turned to see Danilov nodding his head rhythmically in agreement. Either they had evaded . . . or they would be dead shortly. Even Steven Lozak now accepted his fate calmly. Danilov’s desire to destroy Imperator at all costs had now infected him. It no longer seemed to matter if they returned to base, or if he achieved all the promotions he dreamed of. He was comfortable with the concept that it seemed much more important to sacrifice for the homeland. He found himself totally involved in Danilov’s objective.
The deck mercifully began to return to an acceptable angle.
“Torpedoes appear to be passing overhead. Probably too close to reacquire us—” The report was interrupted by a tremendous blast that sent almost every man reeling off his feet. The lights blinked out as Seratov rolled viciously to starboard. For an instant, darkness and terror ruled. Then the battle lanterns came on, revealing a control room without a man still at his station.
Steven Lozak was the first to return to his feet. One arm had been wrapped about a support bar as they dived, preventing him from flying across the room. He saw by the dials that Seratov was still moving forward; her engineering spaces seemed to be intact. One of the planesmen slid back into his seat, reaching instinctively for the wheel in front of him. Without a word, he nodded over his shoulder to Lozak that it appeared to be functioning.
“Stop all engines—hold your depth.” Lozak was in control and felt strangely calm.
The political officer moved quickly to the executive officer’s position and called over the ship’s speaker for damage reports—the torpedo had hit forward . . . heavy damage in the torpedo room and living spaces . . . no fire . . . but flooding was out of control forward.
“We’re taking on water too fast,” the political officer said. “We’ll have to surface.” His hand was gesturing upward as he spoke.
Lozak shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked about for Danilov. The admiral had been thrown across the control room and had come to rest in a sitting position near one of the weapons control consoles. His left arm hung limply at his side. A deep gash across his forehead poured dark blood down one side of his face. “Admiral, are you able to speak to me?” Lozak moved tentatively in his direction, fearing the man who controlled everything in his life might be unable to function.
Danilov did not move. His eyes looked up to the advancing Lozak and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged. He blinked his eyes, then shut them for a moment. His forehead wrinkled in pain. When he opened his eyes again, it appeared to those around him as if he was more in control. His lips strained to form a sound—then the words came out fitfully, “Sergoff . . . is that you, Sergoff?”
“It’s Stevan Lozak,” the captain answered softly, kneeling beside the admiral.
“I can’t see you. Captain. Are you in front of me?”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“I can’t see anything.” Danilov sighed. “Are we . . . are . . . what is the ship’s status?”
“We’ve been hit forward . . . taking on water rapidly at about two hundred meters. We have to surface, I think, if there’s any way to save the ship.”
“Sergoff. Where’s Sergoff?”
Lozak peered about the control room. He recognized one of the sailors kneeling by Sergoff. He beckoned another over to help him and they rolled the limp Sergoff onto his back. One of the men felt for a pulse; the other held his hand by Sergoff’s nose. There was no indication of life. Then the second pointed at his neck. The first looked back at Lozak and shook his head.
“Captain Sergoff was severely injured. Admiral. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Oh . . .” Danilov squeezed his eyes tightly again as if he would be able to see when he opened them. He stared sightlessly back at Lozak. “Imperator . . . what has happened to the American?”
Lozak glanced about as if searching for the answer. He spotted his weapons officer and called out, “What does sonar have on the American?”
“We have only the hydrophones on the port side. Captain. We are having trouble.”
“We were both diving at the time.” Lozak snapped back sharply. “We were both close, no more than seven or eight hundred meters at one time. You must hear something.” They were interrupted by the crash of a bulkhead collapsing against tons of seawater. The political officer’s face was pale now as he restated the obvious. “We have little time. Either we try for the surface now or sink.”
Lozak reluctantly began the orders to surface. He knew they were taking grave chances maneuvering with so much weight forward, and that they would increase that weight as they moved upward, but there was no choice. There seemed so many reasons to go along with the political officer. Lozak was responsible for the safety of his submarine. He was also defenseless. The torpedo room had been destroyed.
His only other choice would be to do what he was sure Danilov was intent upon as they charged toward Imperator moments before—ram? Who was he responsible to? He looked again at Abe Danilov, the finest man in the Soviet Navy.
“Captain, we have contact with the American . . . quite clearly. She seems to be close aboard . . . port bow. She must be near the same depth . . . maneuvering very slowly.”
He knew exactly what Danilov would do.
The Soviet torpedo had opened a large hole low in Imperator’s port quarter. With no computer to automatically seal damaged compartments, seawater flooded the engineering spaces until it lapped at the main switchboard. The blast that followed touched off an electrical fire creating a dense pall of smoke. Under emergency lighting, the damage control parties finally closed off much of the port quarter spaces. Steering had also been lost instantly. The submarine was now maneuvering under an emergency system that left Imperator wallowing grotesquely.
Pumps were unable to keep up with the water. Without the computer, much of the damage control had fallen to a small party of men incapable of managing the valves and watertight doors that had once been under electronic control.
As Snow watched the XO manually list the compartments now sealed off, he asked quietly, “The computer areas—did they receive any further damage? Carol Petersen . . .” It seemed to Snow that he was floating . . . transported to a place beyond his body where substance seemed unimportant.
The XO looked up gravely from his list. “All the spaces in the computer complex were just sealed off, Captain. Bulkheads were collapsing.” He looked back down at his list. “DC Central said no one was able to get in to see if there were any survivors. The entire space is flooded now,” he added softly.
“Very well.�
� Snow turned away, biting his lip involuntarily before he felt the pain. Carol Petersen—he was sure he’d made a friend. There hadn’t been many over the last few years. And she had made an effort to be nice to him . . . “Very well,” he muttered again. It was requiring all his effort to maintain his mind within his body, almost as if the emotional part of his being—was that what some called the soul?—would soon depart forever.
“Captain, sonar’s back on-line again. That Russian’s awfully damn close . . . not more than seven or eight hundred yards away . . .”
But Snow found himself unable to concentrate. There was an emptiness he could not explain. His mighty vessel, the invincible Imperator . . . controlled by a computer that made her superior to all comers . . . was severely damaged. The one new friend he thought he’d made in so many years was dead, probably floating against the overhead in a space cluttered with icy seawater and debris. ‘ Somehow, he found the battle over. At least . . . his own battle was over.
“Hal . . . Hal . . .” Someone was coming through the forward hatch.
The voice was familiar. At first it seemed a long distance away. Then it was by his ear. “Hal . . . are you all right?” A hand grasped his shoulder.
Snow turned to look into Andy Reed’s eyes staring back from a haggard face. “Andy. . . I thought they’d socked you away into a bunk somewhere.”
“Never got me there. Not now—not a tough old bird like me. When I got some strength back, I managed to talk my way down to the wardroom for some hot coffee.
Then . . .”He studied the XO’s long list of damaged spaces. “Then we were hit. I’ve been fighting my way through watertight doors. There was no alarm when I opened them. ”
“There’s no computer, Andy, and no power.” Snow’s eyes had a faraway look, the look of a man who no longer cared. “But we’ll survive . . . Imperator’s tough.”
“Seratov?” Reed snapped anxiously.
Snow’s eyes turned to a point on the bulkhead and he pointed slowly. “She’s out there about eight hundred yards away, getting ready to sink, I guess.” It occurred to Snow that sonar had regained contact when Reed entered the control room and they had reported Seratov out of control. “Status on the Russian?” he called out.
“Badly damaged. Moving again . . . very slowly. Sounds like she’s trying to surface. We can hear a hell of a lot there, Captain. She’s fighting a losing battle.”
“Can you ping on her?” Reed asked, noting the faraway cast to Snow’s eyes.
“Sure can.” There was a moment of silence as the weapons officer spoke into his mike, and then, “She’s at about seven hundred yards, sir . . . what’s that?” he inquired into his mike. “She seems to be turning toward us . . . she’s closing. Got no speed to speak of, but she’s creeping in our direction.”
“I know Danilov,” Reed said. “That son of a bitch is going to try to ram us if it’s the last thing he does. Get out of here, Hal. Crank it up.”
“All ahead one third,” Snow ordered. To his XO, he added mechanically, “Inform DC Central that we’re underway . . . emergency . . . we need steering bad.” His voice was a monotone now. Snow was following orders, instinctively directing his ship, but his emotion was drained.
“Range?”
“About four five zero yards. Sounds like she’s had her front end opened up, Captain. I doubt she can keep up for long. We can identify interior bulkheads collapsing.”
“DC Central says we have sporadic flooding aft. We can’t control it while we’re moving,” the XO reported. Snow was staring at the control panel as if he were about to give another order. His mouth dropped open but there were no words. Then he closed it, his eyes still fixed on the panel.
“Come on, Hal . . . we’re moving with Danilov.” Reed’s voice was a whisper just to one side of Snow’s ear. “Turn . . . you’ve got to put your rudder over.”
Snow turned his head slightly to stare at Reed. The admiral knew his words had failed to register, Reed had no other choice.
“This is Admiral Reed . . . I have the conn. Tell damage control I need starboard rudder—instantly. Tell them if they give me enough rudder they might live to see the surface again.”
The wait seemed to last forever before the report came back from damage control that the rudder had been jacked to starboard.
“We seem to be opening range slightly.” The voice from sonar was animated. “Up to five hundred yards now.”
Reed turned to study Snow, Imperator’s captain remained in the same position, his eyes still fixed on the control panel. This time, when his mouth opened, the words came slowly, so much so that Reed had to lean near to hear them. “I really didn’t know what I lost, Andy . . .” His voice trailed off as he turned his gaze on Reed. “I gotta get off this thing, Andy. I’m not fit to—” His words were drowned out by another report from sonar.
“Five five zero yards . . . opening slightly . . .”
Somehow, staring despairingly at Snow, Reed understood that his sixth sense had been correct when he insisted on heading for Imperator’s control room. As cold and miserable as he was, his instinct had told him that there was trouble. He had come to warn Snow that Danilov would do anything to destroy Imperator as long as there was a breath left in him. Abe Danilov was an old-school type—he thrived on stubbornness. He wouldn’t be finished until his submarine lay on the bottom.
“Russian seems to be losing the bubble!” The excitement in the voice from sonar spread a hush over the control room. “Sounds like he’s coming apart.”
Sonar detailed the sounds of the last minutes of the Russian submarine. Andy Reed was able to contain his joy only because he saw that Snow heard nothing. When he finally returned to Washington, he knew he would have to review all of the profiles again—he would have to find out what element had slipped by the experts . . . and what it was that might have triggered this reaction.
“Bring your planes up . . . full rise,” insisted Lozak. “We’re going deeper.”
“They are full, Captain. There’s too much water forward. We need to blow—”
“No way to blow anything . . . more speed,” he shouted into the speaker to engineering. Besides, how could you blow flooded compartments?
“You’ve got everything we can give you,” a hollow voice responded from engineering.
“I have everything,” murmured Lozak to himself. “I have nothing,” he added as he studied the depth gauge. They were falling more rapidly. He turned in Danilov’s direction. “We aren’t going to succeed. Admiral. They have way on . . . they’re pulling away. We can’t hold our depth . . . we . . .”
“I understand.” Danilov smiled back through sightless eyes. “Shh,” he added calmly, “I can hear her.” His finger was at his lips. “Shh . . .” His great head tilted to one side. “Good night, Anna, good night . . .” His voice became fainter until Lozak could no longer hear his words, though the lips continued to move.
Stevan Lozak experienced the first traces of loneliness. Admiral Danilov had transported himself elsewhere. Sergoff, who really wasn’t a bad sort, was dead. Of those men who managed to return to their stations, a few blindly remained at their posts. Others whimpered silently as the diving officer read off the depth every twenty-five meters.
Captain Lozak remained in his favorite position, one arm around the polished chrome stanchion near the periscope. He continued to study all the instruments until the hull burst in about him.
Andy Reed waited until sonar confirmed Seratov’s death before he gave the orders to surface in a nearby lead. Houston’s survivors needed them—and it was time to establish contact.
His action report to Washington was beamed off a communications satellite in plain language so that the Kremlin would receive it at the same time. There was no need for further loss of life. There had been a winner . . . and a loser. Washington and Moscow would surely want to discuss details in the next few hours.
Imperator could be jury-rigged by her crew so that she might continue her mi
ssion. It was safe now under the ice, and finally she could surface off Norway for the world to see.
Epilogue
ON THE TENTH day, Imperator surfaced in bright sunlight off Norway’s North Cape. Her arrival could have been recorded by satellite but the navy wouldn’t have it that way. The media had been flown out to gaze in awe at her power as her immense bulk broke the surface of a calm Barents Sea. Her injuries had been patched by a repair team parachuted to her near the pole. Imperator radiated a venerable lethality to those who looked down upon her from the skies.
The gull-wing doors were opened forward. One after another, her helicopters deployed with troops for exercises near Hammerfest. Tanks and field artillery were ferried ashore—and all of it was filmed for the world to see.
There was no reason to expect that the Russians would attempt to harm her. Agreement had already been reached—NATO observers were overseeing the complete withdrawal of all Soviet troops and equipment near the Norwegian border; American attack submarines had been recalled from a certain faceoff with the Soviet missile fleet; the government in Oslo had been assured that American marines would be airlifted out in forty-eight hours; both the United States and the Soviet Union had agreed to a series of meetings in Geneva, sponsored by the United Nations, to discuss withdrawal of military forces from the Arctic Ocean. Collectively, the world powers had condemned the Far North as a battlefield.
It was on the tenth day also that now-retired Admiral Sergei Gorshkov stopped by the Danilov apartment to pay his respects. There had been no parades for the loser, no state funeral, nothing made available to the general public that a great Soviet admiral had fought his last battle and in losing had perhaps saved his nation from a bitter defeat. The admiral found Anna Danilov sleeping peacefully forever. She was clutching a single red rose, the last one from the bouquet Abe had given her the night he left for Polyarnyy.
The We Eight was a good size, able to handle the entire Reed family comfortably. With just the three of them, each one could stretch out and enjoy the sun as the sailboat moved down Chesapeake Bay at a leisurely clip. There couldn’t have been a more perfect midsummer day for a sail.
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