“Rudder amidships. All stop,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied. “Setting depth to six-zero-zero feet. Quiet everyone.”
Sergeyev reached for an overhead pipe to steady himself. The submarine went completely silent and began to descend through the thermal layers as water entered the bow ballast tank.
“You’re up, Leonod,” he whispered to Popov.
Covering a yawn, stretching, and rubbing his eyes, the sonarman reached for his headphones and secured them over his ears for the first time since they’d begun tailing the tanker.
A few minutes later, as they settled at six hundred feet, Popov sprang forward on his chair.
“Contact!” he hissed, obviously struggling to keep his voice down. “Bearing three-two-zero. Range zero-eight miles. Depth one-five-zero feet. Captain, it’s a Virginia class. And it is behind us!”
Sergeyev inhaled sharply in true surprise, unable to explain that one.
“Have they flooded their tubes and opened their torpedo doors, Leonod?”
Eyes closed now, Popov listened before replying, “Negative, Cap’n. Torpedo doors closed. Tubes not flooded.”
“Captain,” Zhdanov whispered. “The Americans are right—”
“I know where they are, Anatoli. The question is, can they see us?”
“But how did they find us?”
Sergeyev wished he had an answer. “What’s their position, Leonod?”
“No change in bearing, depth, or speed, Cap’n. Zero-six miles behind us. They will cruise right over us in another four minutes.”
Sergeyev grinned as Zhdanov whispered, “They can’t see us, Captain. The Americans can’t see us.”
For an instant, Sergeyev was tempted to take on the sub. He had six torpedoes left and could fire them at a very short range, catching the sub by surprise.
Doing so, however, would not only be a gross deviation from his very strict orders, it would telegraph his position to the entire US Navy if the Americans managed to send out a distress signal. It would also expose him and his crew unnecessarily
So, instead, he just kept his sub silent and deep, standing in the control room alongside his men quietly waiting for the Virginia-class sub to pass them by.
It was a one in three chance, and Cmdr. Frank Kelly was beginning to wonder if he had chosen the wrong tanker. But at the time, it had seemed like the logical choice. The Type 212A reported by Marshon Chappelle had vanished while approaching three massive baffles, so logic suggested it had followed the closest one.
But after following it from a respectful distance for nearly twenty-four hours, he was starting to wonder if requesting this deviation from his orders to escort Stennis to Honolulu had been the smartest choice.
“What do you think, Bobby?”
Lt. Cmdr. Robert Giannotti shrugged. “Chappy? Anything?”
“Negative, sir. Just the tanker. No other contacts.”
“Well, crap,” the XO said, crossing his arms. “Now what?”
Glancing at his watch, Kelly replied, “Stay the course for three more hours, then we call it a day and join Stennis.”
“So much for our little hunting party,” his XO said.
“Yeah,” Kelly said. “It was a long shot, anyway.”
The captain headed aft, toward the crew’s living space. A set of metal steps took him down to the ship’s galley, mess hall, and ward room, and just past it, the junior officer’s quarters right across the narrow hallway from the XO’s and CO’s cabins. He went inside the latter, a room just barely large enough to accommodate a bed, a small desk and chair beneath a pair of metal bookcases, and a built-in cabinet containing his clothes, a few personal items, and a safe.
Lying down, Kelly tried to get some shut-eye, but he couldn’t get the damn ghost sub out of his mind. And besides, every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the final scream of his nephew and the rest of the sailors as their bodies were crushed by the catastrophic change in pressure when North Dakota’s hull broke up.
He sighed, somehow taking solace in the fact that it had happened suddenly.
Still… by now the news would have reached his brother living in Danbury, Connecticut. And the thought made him glance over at the five-by-seven framed photo on his desk of his twin girls, now sophomores at UConn.
How do you recover from something like that?
And how the hell did it fool us? he thought before trying to put himself in the shoes of its captain.
“What would you do?” he mumbled at the overhead pipes and wires lining the ceiling. After severely damaging an enemy aircraft carrier, evading ASW assets, and escaping out to sea, would Kelly have sailed back to his home base and keep his head down until things cooled off? Or…
He frowned. Would its captain be greedy enough to attempt another strike?
The report from COMSUBPAC indicated that the ghost sub had fired six torpedoes at Stennis, and the Type 212A could carry a maximum of twelve, meaning its captain still had half its load — enough to take on another carrier.
But if so, which one?
The Theodore Roosevelt Carrier Strike Group was up in the Sea of Japan, Vinson was headed for the strait, Lincoln was trying to make it to the Arabian Sea, and Stennis was limping toward Honolulu.
He shook his head, deciding that he’d leave Stennis alone and focus his remaining ordnance on the closest ones: Vinson or Roosevelt. To do so, he’d have to accelerate to at least at two-thirds speed to catch them. And that meant enough noise for Chappy to pick him up.
Kelly sat up and reached for the intercom phone next to his desk.
“Boss?” Giannotti said.
“Put us on a racetrack pattern, Bobby. Bearing one-four-zero. A hundred and fifty miles long, ten miles wide.”
“But… that’s going to take us down toward Manila. I thought we’re supposed to be heading toward Honolulu to escort Stennis.”
“Not yet, Bobby. I’ll square off with the COMSUBPAC on our next cycle. Meanwhile, get Chappy and his crew to pull a double shift. Bastard gotta be out there somewhere. Find him.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lying back down, Kelly exhaled heavily as his eyes drifted back to the five-by-seven framed photo.
He sighed. The good Lord had indeed been merciful, blessing them with their mother’s looks. His ex was one classy lady, and Kelly was glad they’d remained friends after the divorce ten years before, if anything for the sake of the girls. Marisol and Kelly may have not always agreed on certain aspects of their marriage, especially on his long absences, but they’d always agreed when it came to protecting the girls.
Protecting the girls.
The commander of the Mighty Mo closed his eyes, thinking of them, picturing his last visit with them. They’d played touch football, and he remembered them chasing him down, two on one. No mercy for the old man. How many birthdays had he missed? How many school plays? How many swim meets?
He had spent his entire adult life in service to his country. He’d missed so much at home. But so had many others. And now so many of his brothers and sisters were gone. They would never have the chance to see their families again.
Right now, at this moment, seeing his girls again would be his greatest joy. But first he had to do his job. Not just protecting his girls, but every American. So for his girls, and his brothers and sisters, and their families, he and his crew were going to find this ghost submarine.
And kill it.