Dangerous Ground

by Larry Bond

  Jerry corrected his course to maintain a closing geometry and to force the Russian to continue maneuvering. The range had dropped to five hundred yards when the Russian increased his turn rate, throwing his rudder hard over, but the Manta was far more nimble than the larger Akula and Jerry stayed with him. The Russian continued his sharp turn and changed depth again, this time rising, and he started to put on more and more speed, gradually pulling away from the UUV.

  With the Russian heading away from both the Manta and Memphis, Jerry turned sharply back toward his sub and the pursuing torpedoes. He could see Memphis, now heading east. A few hundred yards away was the counter-measure and the knuckle created by her hard turn. The torpedoes, heading northeast, were a few hundred yards back from that and he could not only see the weapons but their seekers on his display. The Akula was still running away to the northwest.

  The torpedoes reached the point of Memphis’ turn and roared past both the decoy and the knuckle. Neither would trigger the warheads, unfortunately. Unlike the first time, though, the weapons did not follow Memphis’ turn; instead, they slowed and their seekers slowed their ping rate. Sonar and the Manta’s displays showed them starting to circle, searching for their missing prey.

  “Well done, Mr. Mitchell! They won’t acquire us now,” said Hardy with relief in his voice.

  The Akula’s radical maneuvers had broken the guidance wires that connected it to its weapons. Without the Russian sub to guide them, the torpedoes were easier to decoy. “I’m moving in to give them another target,” Jerry reported.

  At twenty knots and with his simulator mode still on, the Russian torpedoes picked him up as they circled. He saw the ping rate shift again to a range gate mode and without waiting for orders, he turned northwest, drawing the weapons away from Memphis.

  But how many more times could he do this? The Manta’s battery was at forty percent. That meant he could stay at maximum speed for almost an hour, but the Akula was undamaged and had plenty of torpedoes. He could see it starting to turn toward them again. Memphis still had some countermeasures, but the Manta was out.

  “Sonar has lost contact on the Akula due to countermeasure interference, but it appears that he’s slowing down. Bearing rate also indicates that he’s zigged again, probably coming back around to reengage.” At his current speed, near maximum, the Russian was blind. As he slowed below fifteen knots, the noise of his engines and the flow of water over his hull would be reduced and soon he’d be able to see, and shoot again.

  “Sir, I’m going to make another run at the Akula,” Jerry said over the circuit. As he said it, he put the Manta on an intercept course.

  “I don’t think that’s wise, mister. The Manta’s battery won’t last forever.”

  “I’m not planning on turning away this time, Captain.”

  “What?” Hardy’s shout reverberated over the sound-powered phones. “That Manta’s the only thing that’s kept us alive. Ramming the Russian won’t sink him and we’ll lose our only effective defense.”

  “Sir, we are running out of options. I doubt I can fool him again. I’ve got a clear enough picture to tell bow from stern and I have the advantage in maneuverability. I can easily match his zigs with my zags. If I can hit him near the bow, I’ll either take out his tubes or his sonar, maybe both.”

  “And a hit near the tail would cripple him, but he still might be able to shoot.” Hardy mused. “All right, Mr. Mitchell, you’ve made your case. Smack the bastard in the face and good luck.”

  “Smack the bastard in the face, aye, aye, sir.”

  The Russian was only twelve hundred yards away, his rudder holding a hard starboard turn. As the Akula turned to the east, the speed of closure between the two increased to almost forty knots. At that combined speed, they’d cover the distance between them in less than a minute.

  “Conn, sonar. Regained sierra nine one, bearing two six five. He’s slowing down,” sonar announced. “Estimated contact speed is twelve knots based on blade rate.”

  Jerry tried to guess what course the Russian would steady up on and angled slightly to port. He actually needed to come in from just off the bow. From dead ahead, even an Akula might be too small a target to hit. Nine hundred yards.

  “Conn, sonar. Detecting compressed cavitation. He’s increasing speed again. He’s seen the Manta.”

  And he’ll probably continue his turn, try to turn inside me rather than turn away, Jerry decided. He corrected again, anticipating a continued starboard turn. Seven hundred yards.

  If he continued the turn, the Akula had the power and speed to outrun the Manta. But the Russian captain couldn’t know how tightly he could turn and he needed time to build up his speed again. Five hundred yards.

  Jerry had lost a little distance angling to one side, but was still closing. The rate of closure had slowed, but that was actually working to his advantage. He had a clear view of the Akula’s starboard bow and cut sharply to the left. As he did so, the acoustic intercept display warning lights lit up. The two torpedoes were right behind him. For a moment, the UUV and the submarine ran parallel to each other at no more than a hundred yards, with Jerry pulling ahead. With little time left, he pulled the Manta into a hard right turn and unconsciously braced for impact.

  A moment later the display screens went blank, replaced only with a stark, flashing MODEM SIGNAL LOST alert message. The sudden loss of his God’s-eye view was a shock and he kicked himself mentally for an idiotic decision.

  “Conn, sonar. Loud noise detected from the same bearing as sierra nine one.” He could have figured that one out. But what damage had been done?

  “Blade rate’s slowing and it sounds . . . wait one.” There was complete silence, which stretched on for far too long. “Conn, sonar. Sierra nine one is flooding tubes.”

  That was the ball game. Even if he’d successfully destroyed their sonar, they were going to fire again on the last known bearing. Would Memphis be able to pull another rabbit out of the hat?

  “Conn, sonar!” exclaimed the sonar supervisor. “One of the Russian torpedoes has started range-gating! It’s accelerating to attack speed!”

  “Countermeasure!” Hardy ordered and Jerry braced himself for another hard turn. Sonar reported again, “Conn, sonar. The second torpedo has also started range-gating, but they are not homing on us. Repeat, they are not homing on us. Son of a bitch! Loud explosion, bearing two five six!” It must have been a big one, because Jerry actually heard it though the hull—a distant, low rumble.

  “Conn, sonar, second large explosion, same bearing!”

  Jerry’s confusion began to fade and was replaced by relief. Sitting at his now-useless console, he processed the sudden influx of information into a likely scenario. The torpedoes had been chasing his Manta. The Akula, blinded or confused, was unable to react as his own weapons homed in on him.

  “Conn, sonar. Breaking up noises bearing two five five. Sierra nine one is sinking.”

  Jerry powered down the console for the very last time.

  * * * *

  May She Ever Return

  June 17, 2005

  Moscow, Russia

  Admiral Alex Ventofsky saw Kirichenko alone. There was no need for aides or secretaries. They had known each other for twenty-two years and had served together on two different occasions. They were not close friends, but they knew and respected each other and they both served a common master.

  Ventofsky was standing, pacing, as Kirichenko was shown into his office. It was large enough to let him go a good distance before turning. Decorated with the flags and pennants and other symbols of the Commander of the Russian Navy, he’d seen the Northern Fleet commander here many times before. This time Kirichenko snapped to attention as soon as the door closed behind him. Ventofsky continued pacing, as if walking could burn up his anger or resolve his problems.

  The admiral was short, almost small, and nearly bald. A fringe of white hair was cut short, which only emphasized his round face. Like Kirichenko’s, it was ba
ttered by decades of harsh weather and hard service.

  Ventofsky stopped pacing long enough to look at Kirichenko, who remained motionless and silent. He took a few more steps, then turned to face the junior admiral.

  “Is there any new word from the search?”

  “No sir. They’re still analyzing the debris and plotting its possible origin.”

  “But it is from Gepard.”

  “Yes, sir. Bottles and cushions, other buoyant material, all standard Navy issue.”

  “And no survivors in the debris field.”

  “Not even a lifejacket, sir. Although they are still looking.”

  “And they will continue to look,” Ventofsky said harshly. “But that is no longer your concern. You are relieved. My office will notify Admiral Sergetev to take over, pending selection of a permanent replacement.”

  Kirichenko nodded. “Ivan would make a good Fleet Commander.”

  Ventofsky’s calm snapped and he almost shouted at Kirichenko, “A few days ago that would have meant something.” He took a deep breath and regained a little control. “The best thing you could do for Ivan now would be to say nothing.”

  He walked over to his desk and pointed to a pile of documents on one corner. “It’s all here, Yuri. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

  Kirichenko’s blood suddenly froze and he fought to maintain control. What had they discovered?

  Ventofsky picked up each document in turn as he spoke. “Inflating the threat, sending that incredible message to Gepard. Making up a story about some Western spy. What were you thinking?”

  Kirichenko waited half a moment before responding. “I did not wish the American submarine to escape. It was important that the Northern Fleet corner or kill this boat. It would teach the Americans to respect our borders and it would show our own countrymen that the Navy is still an effective force, despite the paltry funding we are given. I want the world to respect us and the motherland!” Kirichenko poured the feigned patriotism on thickly; it was his only real defense and the Slavic Admiral would readily appreciate it.

  “And any transgressions you made during that pursuit would be forgiven,” Ventofsky concluded. “Was that it?”

  Kirichenko nodded. “I couldn’t let this sub escape. He’d penetrated our waters. He had to be prosecuted. We’d pursued him, attacked him, and may have even damaged him.”

  “Which should have been enough of a victory, in my opinion,” Ventofsky argued sternly. “Instead, in violation of every regulation, you sent Gepard to attack a foreign submarine in international waters. Were you trying to start a war?” Ventofsky’s voice rose sharply as he asked the question.

  “I was defending our territory.”

  “You were trying to get that sub’s scalp to hang on the wall! Glory-hunting is. . .” He trailed off, then sat down heavily on the edge of the desk. “So unbelievable from you. You were one of our best. You would have taken over from me in a year or two when I retire.”

  “My intention was to protect the motherland,” Kirichenko lied.

  “Everyone has good intentions. We needed your good judgment,” Ventofsky explained, “and you let us down.” He picked up a single sheet of paper and studied it briefly. “All right. You are attached to this office until your trial next week.”

  Kirichenko paled, but Ventofsky’s tone was unforgiving. “We’ve lost seventy-three lives and a first-line nuclear submarine. There has to be a public accounting. You will be found guilty of poor judgment and malfeasance: exceeding your authority. In deference to your long service and good intentions, the court will not impose any jail sentence or fine. You will be discharged from the service without a pension.”

  The former Commander of the Northern Fleet stood silently for a few moments, then said softly, “Thank you for not sending me to prison.”

  “We owed you that,” Ventofsky replied, “but you owe the State for your actions as well. Use the time here to write your report. Do not communicate with Sergetev or anyone in your former command except through my office. I expect you’ll also want to make plans for your retirement.”

  Inwardly, Kirichenko almost cheered. The Russian Navy did not want a long, public trial, and neither did he. They’d already finished the investigation, which meant that his secret was still safe, at least for a little while longer. The only unknowns were what did the Americans learn from their intrusion and would they announce their findings to the world? He doubted it, since they would then have to acknowledge their violation of international law and their involvement with the destruction of Gepard. No, they will remain silent, which would give him the time he needed to finish the arrangements.

  He did have plans to make.

  * * * *

  June 25, 2005

  North Channel, United Kingdom

  Jerry’s first breath of fresh air almost floored him. Memphis had been submerged since May 13, almost six weeks earlier. It was a cool evening, given an edge by a stiff northerly breeze that also rocked Memphis.

  As he filled his lungs with the stuff, he focused on the stern light of the minesweeper a thousand yards ahead of him. Looking at something in the distance helped quiet his stomach. The minesweeper was also his guide to Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde, or Faslane in Scotland.

  Jerry swept the binoculars around the horizon. For the Irish Sea, it was good weather, with a solid overcast but a clear horizon. In the distance he could see Scotland to port, while Ireland lay to starboard. Looking aft, he could see a British Type 23 frigate following in their wake. Jerry could also see the warship’s helicopters searching on all sides of them, and Memphis’ ESM antenna picked up their radars. It even picked up the radar signals from several fighters, orbiting unseen above the clouds.

  Their Royal Navy escorts had met them when they surfaced, just south of the Hebrides Islands. It was a carefully timed rendezvous that not only brought them in late in the day, but when there were no Russian satellites overhead. While it would have been preferable to return in darkness, it just wasn’t possible this far north so soon after the Summer Solstice. The sun was never far from the horizon and twilight lasted throughout the night. But as far as Jerry was concerned, that was just fine. He preferred navigating strange waters when he could see where he was going.

  He’d studied the charts well enough to pick out the lights that marked the entrance to the Firth of Clyde. They were getting close to the turn.

  “Bridge, Navigator. Mark the turn,” squawked the speaker on the bridge suitcase.

  “Helm, bridge, left standard rudder, steady on course zero five zero.”

  “Left standard rudder, steady on course zero five zero, helm aye.”

  As Memphis swung to port, Hardy’s voice rang out from below, “Captain to the bridge.” Jerry and Al Millunzi moved out of the way as best they could to allow Hardy and Patterson up onto the flying bridge.

  “Good evening, Captain, Doctor,” said Jerry.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” replied Hardy, in good spirits. “What’s our status?”

  “We’re on track, Captain, and we’ve just entered the firth,” answered Millunzi. “We have good seas, good visibility, and lots of that hearty highland air.”

  “Splendid! I was hoping to show Dr. Patterson some of the sights as we come into Scotland. Can you see Ailsa Craig yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerry responded. “You can just barely make it out, twenty degrees off the starboard bow.”

  A craggy ocean pyramid, Ailsa Craig shoots up out of the sea to a height of over one thousand feet. It’s a small, barren volcanic island, only three-quarters of a mile long, in the middle of the Firth of Clyde. A spectacular sight, it is a favorite of mariners as they return home from the sea.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Dr. Patterson and I will be up here for a couple of hours, so carry on.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Jerry and Millunzi.

  As Memphis plied the firth, the clouds broke to the west and an incredible sunset greeted them. Patterson gasped
and murmured about its beauty. Al Millunzi and Jerry shared small talk as they conned the boat toward the Cumbrae Islands, with the MPA regaling Jerry with tales of a great fish ‘n’ chips place in Glasgow that served huge fillets boiled in lard.

  * * * *

  Lowell Hardy felt content, for the first time in a very long while. His boat and crew had done everything he had demanded of them, and more. He looked forward to when both he and Memphis could finally rest. Looking over at Joanna Patterson, he saw that she seemed a bit gloomy. He’d seen that face once or twice before in the wardroom, usually after long hours spent on the patrol report.