That had been a time to cherish, he remembered with a sigh. As the cruiser’s hull bit into a large swell, Yerevan instinctively absorbed the brunt of the rolling shock with his knees and peered out at the endless ocean. Somewhere beneath these waters lay the goal of his current assignment.
Barely a quarter of an hour ago, the strange call had arrived from Seventh Fleet headquarters. The directive was short and puzzling. He was instructed to locate and make contact with a Delta Illclass submarine, the Vulkan. If this vessel was spotted, yet failed to respond to their transmission, they were ordered to launch a pair of SS-N-14s and blow the sub out of the water.
As confusing as this sounded, Yerevan was certain that it was all some sort of weird exercise. Most probably it was tied in with the experimental ASW tracking device presently stored beneath the Natya’s hull. Here a sophisticated blue-green laser was currently scanning the seas beneath them. Because such a frequency could effortlessly penetrate water, the oceans appeared virtually invisible. Though still a prototype, such an instrument could revolutionize anti-submarine warfare.
Promising as it looked, though, Yerevan wasn’t about to rely on that system alone. From the hull, a powerful low-frequency sonar unit pulsed its signals into the depths and awaited the distinctive plink of a return. In conjunction with this tested device, the Natya’s Ka-25 Hormone helicopter worked the surrounding waters with its dunking hydrophone array. Able to pick up even the most insignificant of sounds, the chopper would know the second a submarine entered the sector.
If the Vulkan was anywhere in this portion of the Pacific, the captain had no doubts that his ship would be the one to tag her. Then he would once again radio Petropavlovsk and get a clarification of the confusing orders received earlier.
Totally confident in his crew and the capabilities of his ship, Yerevan decided that it was time to go indoors. With dry lips longing for a taste of vodka, he turned to the entry hatch — just in time to see its steel length abruptly swing open. Out ducked the white-suited figure of his senior officer, a tall, thin Georgian whose high-pitched voice strained the captain’s nerves. He greeted Yerevan breathlessly.
“Sir, I have most exciting news. Our Ka-25 has picked up the sound signature of an approaching submarine. A computer analysis of its dual-screw pattern shows it to be one of ours — a Delta Illclass.
It is currently entering sector two-seven-zero, at a depth of one hundred meters.”
Yerevan allowed himself the barest of smiles.
“Excellent, Comrade. Be so good as to deploy the towed, variable-depth communications array. What is the depth of the thermocline here?”
“Approximately seventy-five meters. Captain,” the alert senior lieutenant, replied.
“Then set the depth of the array at eighty-five meters, and make it snappy!”
The Captain’s order was answered with a brisk salute as his second in command pivoted and reentered the bridge. Yerevan followed. The warm, stale air hit him full in the face. Unbuttoning his tunic collar, he strode over to the radio console and studied the various digital band selectors and power readouts.
When the panel indicated that the towed array had been deployed, he tapped the operator on the shoulder and addressed him.
“Lieutenant, I am temporarily relieving you of duty. Go get yourself a cup of tea, but be back here in fifteen minutes.”
Surprised, the junior officer looked into his captain’s eyes to see if this was all some sort of joke. One glance told him it wasn’t. Without further hesitation, he rose, handed Yerevan his headphones and turned to exit the bridge.
Yerevan hadn’t sat at such a post for much too long. As a cadet, communications had been his specialty, and though the equipment looked vastly different now, the theory was still the same. His orders from command had emphasized the fact that only he was to attempt to contact the sub. It took him several seconds to find and activate the switch that triggered the variable-depth unit. Once this was completed, he fingered the black plastic button of the code transmitter and began tapping out the prearranged message.
One hundred meters beneath the frigid Pacific, the Vulkan’s sonar officer, Lev Zinyakin, was busy scanning the surrounding waters using only passive arrays.
Though not as accurate as the active system, which sent a pulse of energy surging from their bow, this rig of powerful hydrophones was much quieter.
Silence was most important, now that the captain had ordered General Quarters. Though this alert might merely be another of the endless drills, he couldn’t ignore the tenseness that possessed the control room.
When Zinyakin focused the listening device on that portion of the sea immediately ahead, a distant, alien tapping sound became audible. Upon verifying that it did not emanate from a lovelorn whale or a hungry crab, he signaled Stefan Kuzmin, seated beside him, to monitor this particular frequency also.
The which man focused his hydrophones as indicated.
“It sounds like a hailing code! But where in the world is it coming from?”
Zinyakin pressed his own headphones to his ears and increased the amplification of the forward scan to its maximum.
“That could be the swish of a variable-depth towed array in the background, Comrade.”
The which man picked out this characteristic hiss.
“I think you’re right, Zinyakin. It’s at the limit of our range, yet if it is a towed device, there’s got to be a surface vessel responsible for it. I’d better inform the Captain.”
Petyr Valenko was working at the control room’s navigation table with his senior lieutenant when the which mans call reached him. Both men proceeded immediately to the sonar console. Lev Zinyakin provided the initial briefing.
“We believe we’ve picked up a signal that could be from a towed variable-depth communications array.
It’s signature is still too faint for full positive identification.
That would put it at the limit of our hydrophone range — about ninety kilometers off our port bow.”
Valenko put on a pair of auxiliary headphones. It didn’t take him long to pick out the distant tapping.
“That sounds like a hailing signal, all right. Senior Lieutenant, what do you think?”
Vasili Leonov took the headphones and placed them on his ears. His observations were voiced listlessly.
“That could be from another ship. Captain, but it’s much too distorted to tell for certain. What could we do about it, anyway?”
“For one, we could attempt to answer it,” Valenko said.
A high-pitched, raspy voice sounded behind them.
Valenko didn’t have to turn to identify its source.
“I think that would be most unwise, considering our current orders, Captain,” Ivan Novikov said coldly.
“You know as well as I that the Vulkan is to be involved with no outside communications, except on the authorized ELF bands.”
Valenko turned slowly and met the zampolit’s piercing gaze.
“As the ship’s line officer that decision is still mine to make, Comrade Political Officer.”
Ivan’s eyes narrowed.
“Come now. Captain. Both of us know the Vulkan’s current alert status. Limiting radio contact is standard procedure during such instances.”
“I understand that. Comrade. But suppose there is a problem with the ELF channels and a towed array is the only way to reach us. No — under the circumstances, I think a response on our part is most in order.
Comrade Kuzmin, I’d like you to see about getting us some more speed.
Senior Lieutenant, chart us an intercept point. Lieutenant Zinyakin, stay on those headphones and let me know the second a clear signal is received.”