“Black holes are the seductive dragons of the universe, outwardly quiescent yet violent at the heart, uncanny, hostile, primeval, emitting a negative radiance that draws all toward them, gobbling up all who come too close. Once having entered the tumultuous orbit of a black hole, nothing can break away from its passionate but fatal embrace. Though cons of teasing play may be granted the doomed, ultimately play turns to prey and all are sucked haplessly―brilliantly aglow, true, but oh so briefly so―into the fire-breathing maw of oblivion.”
—Robert Coover
Chapter 25
“Any response, Nikolin?” Karpov was hovering over the communications station, an anxious uncertainty in his eyes.
“No, sir. There has been no reply to our last message.”
“Send it one more time. Tell them this is the last warning they will receive. They either grant my request for negotiation and make those arrangements to my satisfaction, or we will settle the matter in battle at sea.”
“Very well, sir. Sending now.”
Karpov paced as he waited, his footfalls seeming loud in the silence of the bridge. The tension was evident there, though the bridge crews were alert and confident at their posts. They had seen Karpov in combat before, and came to respect and admire his ability. Yet there was no way to bury the obvious emotion they felt as the prospect of another big fight loomed ahead of them. The Captain had just made a tremendous show of force. Ten minutes after his conversation with the American Admiral he had fired a MOS-III, programming it to make a run to a point some twenty kilometers northwest of the Halsey task force. The weapon it carried was only a 15 kiloton warhead, but that was nearly the size of the bomb the Americans dropped at Hiroshima, at least in one iteration of this history, the world still chronicled in Fedorov’s old books. It would detonate over a hundred kilometers to the south at a designated point, well over their horizon.
Minutes later, however, they could see the evil mushroom cloud, rising ever higher in the distance from beyond the deceptively placid curve of the earth, and it put well deserved fear into the gut of every man who looked at it. Would the Captain use another if the Americans did not back down? Nikolin’s voice had just the hint of a plea in it as he broadcast in English. There was only silence in return.
“They don’t answer, sir,” he said dejectedly. “I’ve sent the message three times now.”
Karpov seemed angry. “What is wrong with them? Don’t they see what we’re capable of?”
“Perhaps the detonation affected their communications.” Rodenko was at the Captain’s side now, arms folded, considering the situation.
“Mister Nikolin?”
“Possible, but not likely, sir. They don’t have advanced electronics, and in many ways their systems would be much less vulnerable to EMP effects.”
“I agree,” said Rodenko. “That was a very low altitude airburst. There was no significant EMP burst in any case.”
“Then they are deliberately maintaining radio silence,” Karpov concluded. “Which means they could be planning something—some surprise attack.”
“They won’t be able to surprise us, sir. We have helicopters up and we’ll see any launch operation from their carriers.”
“How soon will they be reporting in?”
“Any minute now, Captain.”
Tasarov shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his brow furrowed, and obvious concentration on his face. Karpov caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, a wary look on his face. He had seen that look before, and knew that Tasarov was processing something, a hidden signal return picked up on the ship’s sonar. He waited, watching his sonar man intently until Tasarov looked in his direction.
“Con, sonar. Undersea contact, possible submarine, confidence high. I think this is a diesel electric boat, sir. Bearing 240 degrees, range approximate at 18,000 meters; speed six knots and closing on our position.”
“Someone is creeping up on us,” said Karpov looking at Rodenko. “That doesn’t sound very friendly. Do we have another KA-40 ready for launch?”
“Yes sir, the second helo is on ready alert.”
“Launch immediately. Overfly the contact and refine its position with sonobuoys. They may think they can sneak up on us like this, but we’ll soon show them otherwise.”
* * *
USS Archer-Fish was the unhappy recipient of Karpov’s attention that day. The boat had been out on its seventh and final war time patrol, assigned to provide life guard services for B-29 crews should any be lost in the last days over Japan. For Commander Joseph, Francis Enright, it was lackluster duty compared to the old glory days earlier in the year when he had stuck one of the largest feathers any submarine commander could ever earn in his cap discovering a formation of five ships, a carrier with four escorts.
After a heady race to get ahead of the Japanese flotilla and achieve firing position, Archer-Fish dealt a spread of six torpedoes from her forward tubes and, quite amazingly, scored six hits on the target. He would soon get credit for the sinking of Shinano, the world’s largest aircraft carrier at the time. Originally laid down as the third Yamato Class hull, work was stopped on the battleship and she was wisely converted to an aircraft carrier. Now Enright was slated to receive a Presidential Citation for his effort, and the kill filled the crew with pride and enthusiasm for battle.
Their next patrol had not been so glorious. Enright found himself in a small three boat wolfpack dubbed “Joes Jugheads” in the South China Sea. In one brief engagement the boat believed they hit and sank a Japanese submarine, though the kill would later be stricken as unconfirmed. Finally, on her last patrol, the war ended as the boat was cruising just off the southernmost tip of Hokkaido, Cape Erimo Saki. The jubilation on the announcement was well earned, but short-lived as well. Archer-Fish was heading for Tokyo Bay to join the planned surrender ceremony when she received orders to make an abrupt about face and head north.
There was a gaggle of loose subs around Hokkaido at the time. Two others were nearby to join the unusual operation, the Atule under Commander John Maurer and the old Gato, first boat in her class, under Lt. Commander Richard Farell. Together they had accounted for a few Japanese coastal corvettes and a sub chaser in the waters off Hokkaido as the war ended, but now they were to join Enright and the esteemed Archer-Fish in a new wolfpack heading north to look for Russians! It was a most unusual order, which had a good number of jaws wagging in the crew compartments as the boat turned north.
Enright wasn’t happy about the duty. He had been all set to lay eyes on Tokyo Bay, and now here he was, still sweltering in the boat with his fluky air conditioning. So much for the grease monkeys. They were supposed to fix the damn thing but whatever they did only made things worse. He had made a point of delicately mentioning that in his log: “The air conditioning alteration decreased rather than increased the habitability of the ship.” It wouldn’t matter much if they could make a steady surface approach, but for some reason the orders had emphasized that they were to proceed submerged, surfacing only to make scheduled radar checks, and to look for three Russian ships.
He swiped his brow with a handkerchief, looking over at Lt. Commander L.G. Bernard near the periscope. The protocol was to make periscope depth and check radar returns at thirty minute intervals. Then they would submerge deeper, alter heading, and proceed toward any contacts. They had been creeping up the east coast of Hokkaido and were now about 20 miles northeast of Shikotan Island. The long gray profiles of the southern Kuriles were evident in the distance when they surfaced.
“Still reading that interference on the APR?” Enright checked with Bernard on some unusual readings they had during the last radar sweep.
“It’s not on the same band width and pulse as any Jap radar,” said Bernard. “Suddenly stopped about five minutes ago. Now we’re getting pings. Sounds like something is up there nosing around.”
“Sonar has no screw noise close in, just that dull rumble at long range we took to be our target contact.”
/> “There was also that Typhoon warning. We bumped into something a couple hours ago, but there was no apparent damage. That said, the storm might be stirring things up enough to move a lot of debris our way.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the storm way up here. I heard it might delay the ceremony in Tokyo bay, which is fine by me. I wanted to be there for that—then we got this duty.”
“Well if the Japs have surrendered why are they still jamming?”
“Get a clue, Lieutenant Commander. We aren’t up here looking for Japs anymore. It’s the Russians this time out.”
“Yeah? Well that doesn’t make much sense either. That said, sonar has hold of something, sir. They just can’t read it through this interference. Suppose we get up and look for Gato. They were due for surface radar sweep about now.”
Enright looked at his watch, nodding. “Alright,” he said with a shrug. “Fire two smoke bombs and surface. Maybe the Radar will help sort this mess out.”
The boat was up in a few minutes and the radar man had three pips on his scope soon after. One was identified as the Gato on the IFF, the other two were both unknown—one airborne and coming in from the north, a second surface contact that was lost soon after it was first reported.
Enright climbed up the ladder to have a look with binoculars, but what he saw was unlike any aircraft he had ever laid eyes on. It moved slow, almost seemed to hover stationary at times, then moved again in the distance. What in god’s name was that?
Enright wasn’t sticking around in his rapidly dissipating smoke screen to find out anything more. He had a contact bearing and ordered a quick dive to set a new course with Gato to the northeast. A brief VHF call had confirmed that Atule was also in the vicinity, due west of Gato’s position.
“Something is up there alright,” he said to Bernard. “Strangest thing I ever saw. Well…now we have three bad boys out here in a good position to sweep north. So that’s just what we’ll do.” It was a mistake he would live to regret, but orders were orders, and he ordered a five point turn and ahead full.
Torpedo man Don Sweeney was on the Atule stowing some personal effects in his duffel bag when the alarm sounded. He had been looking over his certificates, and thinking of home back in Illinois. One was his “Sacred Order Of The Golden Dragon,” which he picked up last month on the 8th of July when the boat crossed the 180th Meridian in to Japanese home waters. Everybody got one, but to the folks back home it might seem a pretty big deal. He could display it with the Asiatic-Pacific WWII Victory Medal that he would get as soon as they made port again. He’d frame those two with the boat’s insignia patch of the torpedo toting fish, and it would make a real nice keepsake—or so he had been telling virtually everyone on the boat the last three days.
“Look Sweeney,” said his mate Paul Dunn. “Stow that crap and let’s get forward. Can’t you hear that alarm?”
The two men rushed to their post, surprised to find the duty crews already loading the forward tubes as though combat was imminent.
“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Sweeney. “We run into something?”
“Who knows, Sweeney. Just lend a hand and help run that 21 incher up to the kill tube. They got something on radar and we’ve got a job to do, Kapish?”
“Well, hell,” Sweeney protested. “Isn’t the war over? You’d think the Japs would know they were beat by now.”
“These ain’t Japs. Didn’t you hear? It’s Russian ships we’re after now, or maybe they’re after us. It’s the same both ways. Run that fish up!”
* * *
“Con contact confirmed by KA-40 with visual sighting and hard location on sonobuoy. Three submarines. Designating Alpha One, Two and Three.” The ship was at action stations and Tasarov was coordinating the effort with Admiral Golovko and the helos via live data link.
Karpov seemed edgy, pacing, his attention still torn between Nikolin where he was broadcasting his message to the Americans and the ongoing developments at the sonar station. Now it was not just a single contact, but three. The silence from the Americans was damning, at least in his mind. If this was their only response, to attempt a stealthy submarine attack after the massive demonstration of his firepower, then the Americans were more foolish than he could imagine. He would let them know he was well aware of their little ploy, and in no uncertain terms.
“Tasarov…Select one of the enemy contacts and order the KA-40 to put a torpedo on it. This has gone on long enough. If they will not listen to reason, then we’ll speak to them in another language.”
The language was the APR-hydrojet acoustic homing torpedo dropped by the KA-40. It fell swiftly into the water, listened to locate its contacts and then responded to Tasarov’s random selection of one target—the Atule. It was soon moving at 80 kilometers per hour, with a kill probability of over 90% that did not disappoint.
Weeks later a young Japanese boy named Kanji Akiro would be wading in the surf on the northern coast of Hokkaido Island when he saw something bright orange floating in the water. The tide brought it nearer, and he reached to grasp it before the sea could claim it again, peering at the curious image of a yellow dragon on an orange background surrounded by what appeared to be braided rope. The markings were strange and unfamiliar to him, and barely readable on the sodden paper.
It was a certificate assuring membership the “Sacred Order Of The Golden Dragon,” and if Kenji Akiro could have read the English he would have seen it belonged to Donald M. Sweeney. The duffel bag it had been hastily stuffed into when the last battle stations alert was sounded for the Atule would be floating in on the surf in another five minutes.
Atule’s war was over, but the next war was just getting started. Word of the sub’s sinking passed from Enright’s watch on the Archer-Fish and right up the chain of command through HQ Submarine Squadron Ten, Commander Submarine Force, Pacific, and from there on to Commander In Chief, Pacific Fleet, Chester Nimitz.
The Admiral shook his head, clearly distressed, and simmering with obvious anger. The Russians had just crossed a line in his mind and there was no going back now. If the attack on Wasp was not reason enough for reprisal, this deliberate sinking of a US sub on a recon mission was the last straw. His message to his fighting front line Admiral Halsey was brief and to the point.
“Get up there and sink the bastards—and do it now.”
Chapter 26
Haselden listened intently, hearing the odd thumping from the dark edge of the night and passing that uncomfortable moment between sound and sense when you hear something, try to locate and identify it, and cannot do so. The others could hear it as well, a deep thumping that seemed to grow louder with each passing second. Their eyes seemed to search this way and that as they listened. What was it?
They had been discouraged to find that the truck column passed through Makhachkala, thinking it would not stop, but then their hopes were bolstered. The column began to slow, and come to a halt. “Bloody hell,” said Haselden. “We’ve come much farther south than I had hoped, we’re near the harbor!”
“Who would have thought they would just keep on like this,” said Sutherland. “Now what? It’s nearly dawn and the place will be crawling with Russian military. There was supposed to be a big operation underway here to jimmy the oil rigs and move all the equipment to Kazakhstan, at least according to our briefing.”
The land here formed a great isthmus that served as a breakwater for the harbor. They were very near the base of that isthmus close to the coast where the road passed the railway station and oil loading depot.
“Things may get dicey,” said Haselden. “We may have to get off quick and try to melt away and get to some cover before the others discover they’ve lost three soldiers. We’ll work out what to do next once we know what we’re looking at.”
Haselden peered out the back tarp and saw obvious signs of war here. Some of the buildings had been bombed and burned, and one industrial district had been razed by the Russians themselves to destroy equipment and remove drilling
rigs.
All he could think of was the mission, and what they had to do to get this man Orlov and try to save their own hides in the process. At long last the column came down to the edge of the city, very near the water. They could smell the tang of the Caspian Sea, the brine on the quay and hear the occasional sound of a bell on small fishing boats out early for the morning catch.
“Shouldn’t be any trouble finding a boat here,” said Haselden.
“Maybe so,” said Sutherland, but getting it north and over the Caspian to Fort Shevchenko again will be a tall order, Jock, particularly if the Russians have anything to say about it.”
“Hush up, I think they’re slowing down to stop here. Get the lead out of your legs, boys. This is where we get off. There’s a warehouse off the right side of the road. Make for that and be quick about it!”
The three men eased the tarp open, Haselden leading the way as they slipped out. One quick jump and he was down off the truck on the road, and he stood there until the other two men joined him before they made for the warehouse. In the dull pre-dawn hours the city seemed softly asleep, the wide bay quiet and still, with only two boats out that Haselden could see.
They reached the warehouse and slipped in through a half open door, finding plenty of old crates and barrels to conceal them from curious eyes. Haselden picked a location where they could still keep an eye on the trucks, hoping he was correct in his hunch that the column was finally stopping here. Where else could they be going?
He was not disappointed. The squeal of brakes offended the morning calm, and the trucks stopped, shutting off their engines one by one. Haselden was sizing up the situation, studying the buildings all around them now. Then, to his chagrin, he saw that the gate of the fortress opened and out came a troop of NKVD, each man wearing a grey overcoat and black Ushanka. They approached the trucks, the leader soon speaking with the colonel commanding the column, and then the women and children, and the man they had been sent to bring safely home to Great Britain, were all herded away.
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