She lay motionless. The scrub brush around her flapped in the downwash from the blades. Puffs of brown dirt kicked up like miniature dust devils.
She closed her eyes. The throbbing pulse changed in intensity.
The rotor noise lessened. The scrub brush stopped flapping.
Keep going, B.J. prayed. Please go away.
The sound didn’t change. They weren’t going away.
She forced herself to look. There it was, no more than fifty yards away, hovering over a flat clearing on the hillside. As she watched, men in camo fatigues jumped from the hovering helicopter onto the ground. One, two, three in all. Each carried an automatic weapon.
The leader peered around, checking his bearings, then looked in her direction. He barked an order at the other two; then they trotted single file away from the helicopter.
Toward her.
B.J. sprang from her hiding place. Down the hillside she bounded, taking great flying leaps, somehow keeping her feet beneath her as she landed, bounding again.
Behind her she heard the men pounding down the hill. The throb of the helicopter intensified again. They were coming after her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PURSUIT
“Depth?” Manilov demanded.
“Ninety meters, Captain,” said the technician, his eyes riveted to the Fathometer. “Shallowing. Eighty-eight meters. Eighty-six now.”
“Slow to two knots.”
“Aye, sir.”
They were inshore, gliding over the seabed of the shallow Yemeni coastline. Manilov wanted to stay close to the bottom, hiding beneath the thermal layer that lay like a shield between the submarine and the surface above. To scrape the bottom here could damage the Mourmetz’s hull, but the greater danger was the acoustic hell it would raise on the enemy’s sonars. They would awake to the fact that a Kilo-class sub was lurking in their presence.
“One knot.”
“Aye.”
It was barely enough forward speed to keep the planes working. The Mourmetz was almost motionless and, thus, undetectable. At least that was what Manilov had to believe. He had no choice except to place his faith in the submarine’s ability to operate in nearly total silence. He knew that they still presented the tiniest of magnetic anomaly signatures, but unless the American sub hunters knew precisely where to search, there was only the remotest likelihood of being detected.
Last night had been their last opportunity to snorkel — to refresh the batteries and air. Now they would remain submerged until the conclusion of the operation. They could go for a week without snorkeling, and even longer if they went to extreme-conservation mode with the carbon dioxide scrubbers and the oxygen/hydrogen generator plant.
Such measures would be unnecessary, Manilov concluded. However the action ended, the last voyage of the Mourmetz would be over soon.
Perhaps this evening.
Darkness was coming, and with it his best opportunity to attack. Not until then would Manilov risk ascending to periscope depth. A quick look, then a decision. If he did not have a clear shot, he would drop the scope and immediately descend back below the thermal layer. If all parameters were correct, he would fire a salvo and then run.
What were their chances of escape?
He put the question out of his mind. The overwhelming magnitude of the enemy’s antisubmarine warfare capability was enough to intimidate any boat captain. What counted to Manilov was getting off the first shot. Kill the enemy. Every minute they lived after that was an unexpected blessing.
Manilov waited, checking every two minutes with the sonar passive operator. “Bearing and range, primary target?”
“Zero-four-zero, seven thousand meters, moving northeast at fifteen knots.”
Finally, sunset. Not completely dark, but it would do. Manilov didn’t want to wait any longer. Nineteen years was enough.
“Ascend to periscope depth.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Ready tubes one, two, three.”
“Tubes one, two, three loaded, ready to fire.”
The Mourmetz was carrying a load of ten elderly SET 16 torpedoes. It was all Manilov could requisition for the ferry trip to Iran. He would have been more comfortable going into battle with the normal complement of eighteen torpedoes as well as a battery of antiship missiles. The deal with the Iranian Navy included only enough armament for the Mourmetz to defend itself on the trip to Bandar Abbas.
It wouldn’t matter. Ten torpedoes were more than enough. Long before he could expend all his weapons, this battle would be over.
As the Mourmetz slowly rose toward the darkened surface, Manilov gazed around the control room. He could sense the tension hanging like electricity in the stale air. Lieutenant Commander Ilychin, the executive officer, looked like he’d stepped from a shower. Perspiration streamed over the officer’s face, dripping onto his console. Borodin, the young sonar operator, was moving his lips in some sort of prayer.
“Up scope,” Manilov ordered.
“Up scope.”
“Level… now.” The Mourmetz’s periscope was protruding a few inches above the surface. The sea was almost calm. As he expected this close inshore, ripples still washed over the glass. Because they were motionless — zero forward speed — the planes were useless and the scope was not as steady as he would like it.
He first did a complete sweep with the attack scope, taking a 360-degree look at his surroundings. Whenever a wave splashed over the glass he made himself pause and wait until it cleared again. Don’t rush, he commanded himself. The worst mistake you could make was to rush. Fear, adrenaline, the terrifying nearness of the enemy — all conspired to make you rush your shot and miss. Be calm; be deliberate.
He saw two ships, destroyers, both headed northeast away from them. Carefully working the scope he picked up what appeared to be an amphibious dock ship. Still rotating the periscope, he scanned eastward. Then to the south —
There it was! Manilov felt like shouting. Sliding into view was a silhouette, massive and foreboding. My God! He had never observed a vessel of such immensity through a periscope. Even in the gathering darkness he could make out the high, flat deck, the towering superstructure.
USS Reagan.
A wave splashed over the glass of the periscope, blurring his view. Manilov made himself wait while the image cleared. “Firing solution!”
At the MVU-110 combat information computer, the operator yelled out the data. “Primary target bears 155, range 8,640 meters, tracking 070, speed sixteen.”
“Stand by tubes one and two.”
“One and two standing by.”
After all this waiting, Yevgeny Manilov’s life had shrunk to this tiny speck in time. No past, no future. Just this moment.
He saw something. What was that? Another object, smaller, faster, directly aft of the carrier.
A destroyer?
Yes, damn it to everlasting hell, another destroyer! Pulling ahead, inserting itself between the Mourmetz and the Reagan.
Turning toward them.
He flipped the scope to aerial view and swept the sky over the ships. More trouble. A helicopter lifting from the fantail of the carrier. Swinging leftward, dipping its nose.
Coming toward them.
“Radar targeting,” called out the electronic warfare specialist. “Upper-spectrum fire control radar, same bearing and range as the primary target.”