“Don’t look so worried. Comrade. We are only thirty minutes away from this position. And as for that American attack sub, I think we are more than capable of handling it ourselves.”
Turning from the concerned political officer, Leonov issued a solitary command.
“Comrade Zinyakin, release the external buoyant thermometer and find me the location of a thermocline.”
Then, turning back to the sulking zampolit, Leonov said, “Your lack of confidence disturbs me, Comrade Novikov. Don’t you think I’m capable of handling our present situation?”
“With the Cheka gone, I doubt if even Admiral Sorokin could escape the grasp of the Americans,” Novikov replied, his voice heavy with defeat.
“Oh, come now, you continue to disappoint me.
This is far from the confident spirit that you showed me in Petropavlovsk. Don’t forget, it wasn’t so long ago that I was the one who was ready to give up. I’ll never forget that it was you who saved me.”
The unexpected comment snapped Novikov out of his foul mood.
“You are right, Vasili Leonov. I am acting like a foolish crybaby.
Please accept my sincere apologies.”
From behind them, Zinyakin called, “I’ve found a thermocline, sir.
There seems to be a pronounced band of significantly warmer waters stretching some forty-three meters from the ocean’s surface. From that point down it cools abruptly.”
“Wonderful news, my friend,” the senior lieutenant said as he did some hasty mental calculations.
Puzzled, Novikov asked, “But what does a band of warmer water have to do with escaping the reach of the enemy?” Leonov winked and said, “Everything, Comrade.
By bringing the Vulkan up into this layer, the Los Angeles-class sub will be unable to use its sonar to detect us. Because the warmer water is more dense, their sensors will be reflected back into the cold layer, and they will be unable to locate us. In effect, we will be invisible!”
Inspired by the simple logic of this tactic, the zampolit managed a smile of his own.
“That’s more like it. Comrade Novikov! Now-how about going up there and winning ourselves a war!
Chapter Thirteen
Captain Robert Powell of the destroyer USS Eagle knew how rare it was to receive a personal call from the commander of the entire Third Fleet. Of course, he was currently on the strangest mission he had ever been involved with in his twenty-five-year naval career, so the call really wasn’t that unexpected.
Admiral Miller had been most firm. With time rapidly running out, he had pleaded, begged, then finally demanded that the captain tag the bogey Soviet sub within the next thirty minutes. Aware of the tragic proportions of the crisis they faced, Powell had assured the admiral that he would do all that he could.
The captain coordinated his efforts from the Eagle’s combat information center. This equipment packed compartment was buzzing with intense activity as he made the rounds of its various stations.
Satisfied that the ship’s sonar and other underwater sensors were working properly, he joined his XO beside the clear plastic plotting board. On it was a detailed representation of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain.
“What’s the matter. Skipper? You look a bit peaked,” said the exec.
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
Powell responded flatly, “Mr. Morley, what ails me isn’t of a physical origin. I just got off the horn with Admiral Miller. Things don’t look good, my friend.”
The XO circled the waters to the immediate east of the subterranean mountain range.
“If they’re out here. Skipper, I don’t understand how we could have missed them. Between our own efforts and that of the task force, we’ve got this sector completely saturated.
I’ve got a feeling that the Vulkan is in an altogether different portion of the Pacific.”
With both hands on the edge of the plotting table, the captain studied the map intently.
“We’re going by what the boys in intelligence tell us, lieutenant. With our present time limitations, we’ve just got to pray that their info is correct. There’s certainly no time left to start a new search. What’s the status of our choppers?”
The XO pointed to the northern portion of the map.
“Bravo team is one hour into its present patrol.
They’re in the process of’re saturating this sector with sonobuoys.
We’ve also got them working their MAD system, dunking hydrophones, and turbulence-wake detector.”
“What about Delta team?”
“They came in about fifteen minutes ago. Captain.
Not only did they need fuel and oil, but the crew is totally exhausted.
After all, they’ve already completed two full sorties.”
“Well, make it three. Lieutenant,” the captain replied caustically.
“Everyone of us is beat; but as long as that equipment remains operational, we’ve got to keep it in use. Have them take the southern sector.
Of all the remaining areas, that one has been covered the least.” “Aye, aye, Skipper,” the exec said, then he went to make the call that would scramble the weary chopper crew.
Captain Powell continued to study the plotting board. Taking in the positions of the Eagle and the other ships in the task force, he wondered if his exec’s observation could be correct. Between the Eagle, the cruiser Ticonderoga, the frigate Gatewater and the John F. Kennedy, these waters were certainly well covered. The Kennedy alone held over eighty planes and helicopters, many of which were specifically designed for anti-submarine operations. And then, of course, there was the USS Triton. Commanded by his old schoolmate Michael Cooksey, the Los Angeles-class attack sub was a potent ASW platform. Unsure of their current location, Powell still felt that the Triton had the best chance of ridding the seas of the Soviet threat with a single shot.
Balancing himself on the sides of the table as the Eagle’s bow bit into a large swell, Powell closed his eyes and offered a single prayer. A little divine help-and a lot of luck — sure would be appreciated.
Two floors beneath the Eagle’s CIC, Air Tactical Officer Gerald Grodsky was seated in the destroyer’s galley, wolfing down a hearty breakfast. Though he was bleary-eyed and looking forward to a nice long sleep, he had decided on appeasing his appetite before surrendering to the solace of his bunk.
Deserted except for a handful of fellow sailors, the brightly colored galley was Grodsky’s second home.
Never one to miss a meal, the ATO’s full figure was flourishing on the navy’s simple yet tasty chow. His present feast was comprised of half a grapefruit, a bowl of oatmeal, a cheese omelette, bacon, sausage, and a trio of thick brown biscuits for good measure.
And a mug of steaming hot, black coffee to wash it all down.
Seated opposite him was the Seasprite’s diver. Satisfied with only oatmeal and a cup of decaffeinated tea, Wally Simpson shook his head as he watched his shipmate devour the full tray of food.
“I don’t know where you put it, Grodsky. If I ate like that, I’d never be able to fit into my wet suit.”
“It’s all in the genes,” the ATO said between bites of sausage.
“Some of us Just burn food more quickly than others. My pop was just like me. That guy would put away his three squares a day and never leave out a midnight snack, and you know, he fit into the same pair of pants for twenty years straight.”
“That’s not the way it is in my family,” Simpson replied.
“My folks always seem to be on a diet. It’s fine with me — I’ll most likely live a lot longer without all that sugar and fat anyway.”
“Yeah, but it sure as hell tastes good,” Grodsky said as he delicately buttered a biscuit. As he took a bite of the bottom half, he looked down and saw his tray shift hard to the right. It stayed on the table because of a protruding steel edge, mounted for that very reason.