“Lots of noise from the bearing to Vladivostok, Captain,” said Trent. “Looks like the Russians are surging a significant portion of their surface fleet.”
Castillo shook his head. “I’m not worried about the skimmers. What I want to know about is their submarines.”
Trent and Glazer shared a look.
“What is it?” asked Castillo, irritated.
“We haven’t detected any subsurface contacts,” said Trent. “None.”
Which was beyond strange. And Trent and Glazer were too smart to trust good news they didn’t understand. Unless Russians attack boats were needed elsewhere for some other reason. Why had the boomer been transiting without an escort? Castillo could just see the hint of something, a blurry shape, if only he could¼
Damn it, he would have to act on what he knew.
And hope for the best.
“All right,” he said, “for all intents and purposes we’ll ignore the surface contacts. But if Sonar detects a Russian submarine, any submarine, I want to know about it immediately.”
“Yessir,” answered Glazer crisply.
“We’ll go in slow and quiet and contact the Victor. That part shouldn’t be too hard. Our goal is to get Volkov to request assistance. The next part is trickier — we’ll have to relay that request to the Kirishima without surfacing and without using the growler. We can’t risk Zhakov or any of the Russian’s surface fleet breaking our message.”
Glazer frowned. “So how will we— Oh, flashing light.”
Castillo nodded. “We’ll come to pee dee and flash a message. Kirishima’s signal bridge will relay to Captain Kagawa who will contact Chihaya.”
“That’s a lot of steps, Captain,” said Trent.
Castillo sighed. “You’re not kidding, XO.”
“Steady at nine hundred feet. At ordered depth.”
Glazer turned back to look at the helmsman. “Very well, helm. Left standard rudder. Come to new course three four seven. All ahead one-third.”
Castillo stepped over to the quartermaster’s table and watched his submarine track across the chart, moving towards the position of the downed Victor. When the little pencil triangles reached the line that indicated the end of international waters, he raised his voice. “All stop. All back one-third.”
“Captain has the conn,” called Glazer.
Castillo waited until the backing bell completely arrested Pasadena’s forward motion and then he called, “All stop.”
“All stop, aye, aye,” answered the helmsman, reaching forward and twisting the engine order telegraph. A second later: “Maneuvering answers all stop.”
This time Castillo was certain that he was in international waters. He stepped over to the growler and pulled down the handset. “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena, over.”
Nothing.
The growler wouldn’t work without power and Castillo knew the Victor was already drawing down its battery just to keep the lights and heat on. If the battery was running out of juice they wouldn’t be able to communicate.
And if they couldn’t communicate he would have no pretext to rescue the Russian crew.
“Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena. Are you receiving?”
He heard a distant whisper of sound over the speaker — just enough to convince him that the Russians were trying to answer up.
He glanced at Trent. The XO ran his hand through his blond buzz cut and then said what Castillo was thinking. “If they’re having power drain¼” He shook his head. “We’re going to have to move closer to hear them.”
Castillo clutched the phone so hard that pain stabbed through his knuckles. There was a big difference in willfully violating Russian waters and coming to the aid of a desperate submarine captain who was watching the cold and darkness claim his men one by one. But there was only so much CYA he could do. Sooner or later he was going to have to make a decision.
And Castillo wasn’t a big fan of waiting around to see what happens.
He drew a deep breath. “In my judgment as captain of the Pasadena it is necessary to enter Russian waters in order to carry out our duty under maritime law to assist a vessel in distress. This is my decision and mine alone.” He turned to the quartermaster of the watch. “QM3, please enter that in the deck log.”
“Yessir,” said Williams crisply.
“Helm,” said Castillo, “make turns for five knots.”
“Make turns for five knots,” answered the fireman on the bow planes. “Sir, Maneuvering answers turns for five knots.”
Castillo looked at his watch. Five knots. One hundred sixty-seven yards per minute. At 36 seconds he looked up and called out, “All stop.”
“All stop,” answered the helmsman. “Maneuvering answers all stops.”
One hundred yards, Castillo thought. I’ve violated Russian waters — and my orders — by hundred yards. I hope to hell it’s worth it.
He picked up the growler handset. “Daniil Moskovskiy, this is Pasadena, over. Are you receiving?”
This time he heard a tiny whisper of sound. “Pasadena, this—” Static. “—Moskovskiy, over. Running low—” Static. “—ower.”
This was never going to work. Castillo already had his hand in the cookie jar, but if he was going to pull those men out he was going to have to reach deeper.
Maybe all the way to the bottom.
He glanced down at the surface plot. The two patrol boats orbiting overhead weren’t really ASW platforms. They weren’t going to overhear the growler conversation — and there wasn’t anyone else out here. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Castillo muttered under his breath.
“Excuse me, Captain?” said Glazer.
“Mr. Glazer, take the conn and give me a hundred more yards.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Castillo raised the phone to his face. “Moskovskiy, please report status.” He closed his eyes. No, no that wasn’t right. “Martyn Leonidovich,” he said gently. “Please tell me how you are.”
There was a pause.
“We do not have much time, Pasadena.” The sound volume was still low, but at least Castillo could hear Volkov clearly. “My men are brave and faithful to the Rodina to the end. All but a few lights have flickered out. Our battery power is nearly expended. The sea seeps in, Pasadena. It has climbed to our waists. I–I can no longer feel my legs.”
The words wrenched Castillo’s heart.
“Please,” said Volkov, “please.”
The man had the strength of a ship’s captain — but he was also begging for his life, for the life of his men. That combination— Well, it was the most horrible thing Castillo had ever heard in his life.
“Is there nothing you can do for us, Mark Castillo?”
“Hold on, Martyn Leonidovich. Hold on. Help is on the way. The Japanese DSRV is almost—”
“Nyet, my friend. It must be Russian rescue submarine, not Japanese.”
Castillo’s guts turned to ice. He had expected Volkov to ask for help. But if Volkov insisted on Russian rescuers there was nothing Castillo could do.
“Captain, the Russian vessel Keet, it’s still sixteen hours out at least.”
“Sixteen hours,” Volkov whispered. “My God!”