“So, the elusive Delta has shown itself again,” Smith said.
“We gonna take them out for good this time. Skip?”
“Just give me the word,” Richard Craig said, “and I’ll order Spencer to launch that SOW.”
Though Cooksey would have liked nothing better, his intuition cautioned him to wait.
“Callahan, is there any chance that we can get a more positive I.D. on them?”
After feeding the request into the computer, the sonar operator shook his head.
“Afraid not. Captain.
Results are the same as before. It’s this damn thermocline.
I’ve never seen one so defined.”
“What’s the problem. Skipper?” his exec asked.
Cooksey met Craig’s puzzled stare.
“I can’t say for sure. Rich, but something’s telling me to hold back just a little bit longer before risking that last SOW. I don’t know; this new signal could be a decoy. What do you think, Smitty?”
The big-boned navigator ran a hand through his spikey crew cut and thoughtfully replied, “As long as Big Brother tells us the odds are in our favor, I say go for it. The course makes sense. Most probably that Ruskie captain is merely tryin’ to hightail it to safer waters.
Once they hit their launch depth, it won’t take long for them to empty their hold, and then we might as well pack up to see if there’s anything left at home.”
“I agree with Smitty,” the exec chimed in.
“We’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”
Taking in this advice, Cooksey knew that the decision was ultimately his. Minutes ago he had been begging for this second chance, yet something about the situation struck him as not right.
What he feared most was a decoy. If that were the case, and he committed the Triton to attack it, the real Vulkan would be speeding in the opposite direction.
The handful of minutes that it would take for them to initiate a strike would give the real bogey ample opportunity to proceed with its mission. Of course, if this wasn’t a decoy, he could be foolishly jeopardizing everything by not immediately launching the SOW.
Conscious of a steady, pounding ache in his temples, Cooksey strained to come up with a firm decision.
As his officers waited anxiously beside him, Callahan monitored the bogey’s continued progress away from them.
The captain closed his eyes and vainly attempted to clear his cluttered mind. As he sucked in a series of deep breaths, he willed away the distractions that were keeping him from total concentration. Filtering out the hushed conversation of the control room’s crew and the distant whine of the engines beyond, Cooksey called for the wisdom to make the right choice. In response, a single, unexpected vision dawned in his mind’s eye.
In a heartbeat, he returned to Kauai’s Kalalau Beach and the night in which he had experienced his strange, passion-filled dream. Not knowing if it was fantasy or reality, he envisioned the beautiful, brownskinned native girl who had come to him so willingly.
Remembering her sweat scent and the smooth touch of her lips, Cooksey recreated that magical moment as if it had just happened. He remembered the line of mysterious little people who had watched their lovemaking, the purple lei she had left behind, and the all-important lesson he had learned that evening. In order to tap his true self he must be relaxed and, above all, trust his instincts. Suddenly he broke from his reverie. As his eyes blinked open and his ears again filled with the normal sounds of the Triton, he knew just what their course of action would be:
“Rich, call Spencer and have him ready an Mk-70!”
The XO, who had been watching his captain’s plunge into meditation with a bit of concern, hesitantly said, “But Skipper, that’s our last MOSS decoy. We’ll be practically defenseless without it.”
Cooksey remained firm.
“Then that’s just the chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Craig. I’m not going to order an attack until we know exactly what we’re facing. If that sound out there is coming from a decoy, then we can fool the Vulkan into thinking that we took the bait by shooting our Mk-70 at it.
The second that we pick them up ascending to launch depth, well release our remaining SOW.”
“And if it’s not a decoy?” Craig asked.
Cooksey didn’t flinch.
“Let’s just pray that my gut is calling it as it is. Rich. Now, will you get on the horn to Spencer? The sooner we get this whole damned thing over with, the better it’s going to be for all of us.”
The captain turned back to the sonar screen.
There, on the green-tinted glass of the monitor, the success or failure of his desperate ploy would now be revealed.
Important as his responsibilities may have been, Lev Zinyakin knew that he was fighting a losing battle to stay alert. Not only were his eyelids heavy, his entire body was weary and pleading for sleep. When the senior Lieutenant had first come to him and asked him to transfer to the attack center, he had taken it as a compliment. Not really thinking about what he was doing, he had too readily accepted. Now, allowed a brief break, he rushed to the head and gratefully relieved himself, then splashed some cool water on his face. He barely recognized the bloodshot eyes and beard-stub bled face that was reflected in the mirror.
After a quick, tasteless sandwich and a mug of lukewarm tea, he was soon back at the sonar station, headphones clamped tightly over his ears.
Stimulated by the tea, and the recent approach of the presumed homing torpedo, Zinyakin managed to stay alert. But as the seconds continued to tick away, he seriously doubted that he would hold out much longer.
Whenever he found himself drifting off, he did his best to sit up straight and force more oxygen into his exhausted body. He constantly reminded himself how fatal it could be if he surrendered to his fatigue. The recent incident with the hovering helicopter had proved just how perilous falling asleep on duty could be. It was a minor miracle that he had awakened from his short slumber in time to pick out the sounds of the chopper’s engines.
To make matters worse, his present duty was far from stimulating. In the process of monitoring the decoy that had just been launched from their stem tubes, Zinyakin found himself being lulled to sleep by the constant, buzzing drone of the simulator’s dual propellers. Because of the Vulkan’s silence, and the lack of other audible traffic in the area, this monotonous sound was all that filled his headphones. As he listened to the decoy racing off into the distance, his leaden eyelids gradually closed. No sooner had they shut completely, when the harsh sounds of a sudden argument broke out right behind him. Snapping awake, Zinyakin clearly heard the whining voice of the zampolit.
“Now what are you waiting for, Comrade Leonov?
Since no Americans have yet shown themselves, let’s ascend and get on with the launch!”
“We will break our silence when I command us to!” the angry senior lieutenant said.
“In my opinion it’s still too soon to make any abrupt moves.”
“Too soon!” Novikov cried.
“We’ve been sitting here long enough. You’ve launched your decoy; now, where is this phantom enemy?”
“Comrade Novikov, are you questioning my ability to command this ship?”
Zinyakin failed to hear the political officer’s response, for a burst of alien noise echoed in his left headphone. Fully awake now, he activated the computer to determine the sound’s source and point of origin. When the answer appeared on his screen, he swiveled around and shouted, “Bogey hydrophone contact, sir! Range approximately four-eight kilometers; heading to the southeast at flank speed. We show a sixty-seven percent probability that it’s a Los Angeles-class attack sub!”