“Sonar’s an art form all its own.”
“Contact, Chief,” interrupted the seaman monitoring the broad band screen.
“Bearing two-two-eight, designate Sierra eleven, merchant.”
“Thata way, babe,” responded Lacey, who relayed this information to the Conn, then reached up into a hole cut into the overhead air vent.
Moore watched as Lacey proceeded to pull out a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Like a mother bird feeding her chicks, he handed each of his men a handful of candies, making certain to include Moore.
“I always take care of my boys, when they take care of me,” added Lacey, who bit into a candy himself.
“You never did say why you call this room the house of pain,” remarked Moore.
Lacey shook his head.
“Stop by and see us if we should happen to cross paths with an unfriendly, and trade a sonar lashing,” he explained.
“Then the answer to your question will be all too obvious.”
Moore watched the sonar team at work for another half hour. In that time period they tagged a number of biologicals, and tracked a trawler that passed almost directly overhead. The Rickover was on its way to periscope depth when Moore fought back a yawn and decided to turn in.
He left the hushed confines of the dimly lit control room, and exited by way of the aft access way This brought him directly down into the crew’s mess. The atmosphere on the deck above had been tense, but to enter the brightly lit mess was like arriving at the neighborhood malt shop. Mid-rats were in the process of being served, and Moore passed by a line of hungry enlisted men waiting to fill their plates with freshly cooked hamburgers and french fries. The smell was enticing, and the overweight investigator had to fight the temptation to fill up a plate.
His bunk was awaiting him in the adjoining corridor.
The berthing compartment was dark, and most of the bunks had their curtains closed. Moore did his best to make as little noise as possible. He slid open his own curtain, and decided that it would be easier to sleep right in his coveralls.
It took him several tries to maneuver himself into his bunk. He awkwardly tucked himself beneath the blanket, and after resealing the curtain, did his best to stretch out on his back. His feet just touched the narrow bulkhead, and without bothering to switch on his overhead light, he tucked his wristwatch under the edge of his mattress and closed his eyes.
One of his bunkmates was contentedly snoring, and in the distance he could just hear two sailors talking in the hallway. Hop had mentioned earlier that the compartment had been designed to hold computer equipment.
A special ventilation system had been installed to keep this machinery cool. Yet when it was decided to fill the space with bunks instead, the ventilation system remained, resulting in ideal sleeping conditions.
Thankful for the warmth of his blanket, Moore drifted off into a dreamless slumber.
Boris Dubrinin couldn’t believe their good fortune.
For well over twenty-four hours now, the Pantera had been able to follow in the unsuspecting American attack sub’s baffles. This was a great accomplishment, considering that sonar confirmed this vessel to be one of the top-of-the-line 688 class vessels, and that the pursuit was taking place practically right off the U.S. coastline.
The zampolit knew that this only served to prove the excellence of the Pantera’s sensors and of the noise abatement systems. At long last, the people’s Navy could field a submarine that could rival the best underwater warship of the capitalist fleet.
In the past, Russia’s nuclear-powered submarines had been notoriously noisy and prone to frequent accidents.
To rectify these faults, great efforts had been made to acquire the latest technologies. Many of these hightech advances came out of the rodina’s own labs and research facilities, the byproduct of hard, exhausting work and great monetary sacrifice. Other technology was acquired abroad, through legitimate purchase, and when this avenue was blocked, through industrial espionage. A well-placed spy could save the rodina billions of rubles in research and development expense. Spies could also reveal what the competition was up to.
The Pantera class was proof that Russian industry could compete with the very best that the West had to offer. But how long would this state of parity exist?
This question was especially relevant now that the new Seawolf was about to enter the American fleet.
Economic conditions inside what was left of the Soviet Union made it all but impossible for them to produce a next-generation platform equivalent to the SSN-21. The great social upheavals of the 1990s signaled the end of the socialist state, with the USSR being replaced by a group of separate republics, alienated by ethnic rivalries and a loss of direction. Such a weakened coalition could never hope to muster the resources needed to produce a rival to Seawolf, meaning that they would have to accept a future position of undersea inferiority. This was the greatest tragedy of all, to work so hard and sacrifice so much, and have all this effort be in vain.
Thankfully, several key members of the red banner fleet would not allow such a dangerous imbalance to come into being. Boris had the privilege of meeting this group’s ringleader, in the days before the Pantera put to sea on their current patrol. Admiral Igor Val erian was a decorated hero of the Great Patriotic War, and Boris was pleasantly surprised upon receiving an invitation to meet with the legendary, one-eyed veteran during his visit to the Pantera’s home port in Polyarny.
The political officer supposed that this meeting had something to do with his outspoken views concerning the rodina’s current course. As far as Boris was concerned, the decision to abandon communism and convert the economy to a free-market system signaled the beginning of the end of Lenin’s dream. Stripped of its power, the Party could no longer insure the motherland’s integrity, and Boris feared for their future security.
When the Komsomol was banned from Russian warships, Boris dared to speak up. He bravely challenged this decision in a series of blistering memos sent directly to fleet headquarters. The Komsomol was an official Party organization, created as a forum for political discussion and debate. It was an integral part of every ship in the Russian Navy, with the zampolit acting as its official head.
In the recent past, over ninety percent of all naval officers were members of the Komsomol. Demonstrating one’s Party loyalty had always been essential to a successful Navy career, and few non-Party officers ever obtained their own commands.
Soon after the October Revolution, it was decided to assign each Soviet warship a political officer. The zampolit’s duties included monitoring the political reliability of the crew, directing their ideological indoctrination, and insuring that Party decisions were properly carried out. The political officer also enforced discipline and promoted morale by assuming the dual roles of social worker and chaplain.
The decision to abandon the Komsomol could only mean that the ship-borne zampolit would also soon be a thing of the past. This had dangerous implications, for without the strict supervision of the political officer, the Navy would no longer be completely subordinate to the state, and would be in a position to exercise military power for its own political ends.
Boris’s thoughts came to the attention of a group of high-ranking flag officers who shared similar beliefs.
Much to his relief, these officers were able successfully to convey their fears to Moscow, and a decision was made temporarily to continue deploying zampolits to the ships of the fleet, with one major condition — each political officer would need to have had practical experience as a line officer as well.
Because Boris had previous training as a navigator, he was spared the indignity of having to go back to technical school. His assignment to the Pantera was a great honor, and he wondered if his outspokenness had something to do with this high-profile assignment.