Even with this additional volume, he shook his head disappointedly.
“I don’t understand it, Captain. We were copying them as plain as day a few seconds ago. I even had a definite on the increased propeller whine of our torpedo as it was beginning to close in for the kill.
Now, all I’m picking up is a homing pattern, while the REGAL searches out the Vulkan once again. It’s like the Russians just disappeared!” “Damn it all!” said Cooksey.
“I was wondering if that darn contraption would work or not.”
Callahan was quick to defend their high-tech equipment.
“It’s not the SOW’S fault, sir. If that was the case, it would mean our sensors had failed as well.
Right now I’m picking up absolutely nothing on the Vulkan, while just seconds ago they were churning up the water something fierce.”
“Sounds to me like they’ve scrammed their reactor,” the XO observed.
“But still, that active sonar array should have pinged them easily enough.”
Michael Cooksey rubbed his forehead where a throbbing ache had developed.
“The Ruskies could be playing with some sort of anechoic device that somehow deflects our sonar. Although, I don’t see why they wouldn’t have tried such a trick earlier. All we know for certain is that they’re out there, sure enough. If they have scrammed, and in the process of running from our missile have dived below their launch depth, this merely gives us a reprieve, gentlemen.
We’ve got to keep on closing the gap and pray that they eventually show themselves.”
Richard Craig nodded and checked his watch: it was 2147 hours.
Seventeen minutes ago, the Soviets had been scheduled to empty their missile magazine.
By luck and the grace of God, they had so far been unable to complete their mission. Hopeful that good fortune would remain with them, the exec followed his captain over to the plotting table to formulate a final strategy for keeping the SS-N-18s bound to the sea.
Chapter Fifteen
A wave of hushed jubilation sounded through the Vulkan’s attack center when Lev Zinyakin reported that the enemy homing torpedo had spent its fuel.
Relieved of this threat, the crew returned to their stations and awaited the senior lieutenant’s next order.
From his position behind the sonar console, Vasili Leonov grinned in triumph. Beside him, the zampolit was as impatient as ever.
“At last we can return to launch depth and complete our mission,” Novikov said emphatically.
“We must still wait to hear from Yuri Chuchkin,” Leonov said.
“And besides, we still have to determine where that infernal homing torpedo came from.”
Lev Zinyakin offered an opinion.
“It could be from that American attack sub, sir, even though we are no longer picking them up on our sensors. Maybe it’s because of our crash dive, which sent us below the thermocline. If the Americans had also ascended into the warmer waters, that could account for our failure to pick them up.”
“But surely, we were far enough away from them to be well beyond the range of their Harpoon torpedo.”
Leonov reasoned.
“Then perhaps it didn’t come from a submarine at all,” Novikov interjected.
“Isn’t it possible that the device was dropped from the air?”
As Leonov considered this the intercom chimed. It was the weapons chief.
“Excellent work. Comrade Chuchkin,” Leonov said.
“Please be so good as to return to your station to await my further orders.”
He hung up the handset and informed his two shipmates that their gyrocompass was repaired. The zampolit was the first to respond.
“Well, it’s about time. All this endless delay is the hardest part to cope with. Well, what are you waiting for now, Senior Lieutenant?
Shall we get on with the launch?”
Leonov balked, still bothered by the unknown source of the attack they had just thwarted.
“I don’t have to tell you how lucky we were to escape that torpedo.
Though ingenious, the Zu-23 dye has been shown to be effective less than fifty percent of the time. We still risk divulging our present location if we break from silent running and ascend to launch depth.”
It was clear from the clouded look on his face that Novikov didn’t like this response.
“Come now, Senior Lieutenant, aren’t you being a little too overly cautious?
Look at the time. Comrade! Over half an hour has passed since our mission was to have been completed.
We are accomplishing absolutely nothing by just sitting here with a full load of missiles in our magazine. It we don’t act soon, our strike will be completely ineffective. The Motherland is counting on us. Comrade!”
The political officer strained to control himself. He had to be careful not to alienate the senior lieutenant, for without Leonov’s aid he would be practically helpless. Aware of no rational reason why they should delay any longer, he knew that with each passing second the risk of failure increased. No longer was he concerned merely with the Americans. Sooner or later, Viktor Rodin would find out about their little group. Until Counterforce was successfully completed, the Premier still held the reigns of power.
Intervention on Rodin’s part could be fatal. Not wanting to voice this concern in front of the sonar officer, Novikov could only silently implore his coconspirator to see things his way.
He watched Leonov check the sonar screen and then the console’s digital clock. He listened hopefully as Leonov turned slowly to address him.
“I must admit that the minutes do have a way of flying by. Though I still hate to needlessly expose us, there is a maneuver that I know of … that could possibly see us out of our current dilemma. One of my instructors at the Sevastopol Higher Naval School is said to have formulated it.
“In a war situation, when a missile boat must release its load of warheads, survival can be greatly enhanced by first launching a decoy.
Directed on an opposite course, this specially designed device, which imitates our sound signature exactly, will draw the attention of the stalking enemy. Then we merely have to blow our ballast, ascend to launch depth, and fire away.”
These were just the words that Novikov wanted to hear, and he responded accordingly.
“Well then. Comrade, what are we waiting for?”
Conscious of the zampolit’s expectant grin, Leonov reached for the intercom and ordered the weapons chief to prepare a decoy.
Thirty-three miles away, the sound of this device’s activation was clearly audible to Charles Callahan.
The signal was being relayed from their towed sensor sled, which dipped below the warmer layer of water through which the Triton was traveling.
After hurriedly requesting the computer to analyze the new signal, Callahan turned to inform Michael Cooksey.
“Captain — I think we’ve got ‘em again!”
Cooksey was instantly at Callahan’s side. Clipping on the auxiliary headphones, his tense mood lightened.
“That’s music to my ears, gentlemen. Get us an exact I.D. and a decent targeting vector.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” returned the sonar operator as he expertly manipulated the computer keyboard.
While waiting for the requested data, the XO sighed, “Well, Skipper, it looks like you’ve got that other shot you’ve been praying for. Shall I inform Spencer?” Eyes locked on the blank monitor screen, Cooksey said, “Let’s wait for Big Brother to do his thing. Once we get a definite, good-bye Vulkan”
The monitor had begun filling with information as Chief Petty Officer Warren Smith, the Tritons navigator, joined them. Callahan interpreted the data for his growing audience.
“There’s a little better than a fifty percent probability that it’s the Vulkan. This thermocline is playing havoc with our sensors, but they can’t be more than thirty-five miles distant, and moving to the southeast with their pants on fire.”