Viktor Dubrynin was, without question, one of the best of the Russian submarine commanders, best of an elite brotherhood. He took extreme pride in everything he did, in each mission, in each deployment.
His orders this time were passing strange, almost bewildering, in fact, though he was a good enough naval officer and a good enough communist to know that orders, even strange ones — perhaps even especially strange ones — were to be obeyed without question. And these orders came direct from the headquarters of the Red Banner Fleet itself, bearing the name of none other than Admiral of the Fleet V.N. Chernavin, the Union's Deputy Minister of Defense and Commander in Chief of the Navy, and it was countersigned by Admiral of the Fleet V.V. Sidorov, commander of the Pacific Fleet.
The orders, when boiled free of the flowery language, were to intercept any American submarines exiting San Francisco Bay and follow them without revealing Ivan Rogov's presence. The American submarine was expected to cross the Pacific Ocean by a great circle route and attempt to enter Soviet waters somewhere along the Kuril Islands.
Dubrynin was to maintain surveillance contact with the American sub, to report its position at periodic intervals, and to assist in the vessel's capture when it was forced to the surface.
Assist in its capture!..
He wondered, of course, where the intelligence came from behind this mission. Someone had a pretty clear picture, it seemed, of at least part of current American submarine espionage activities, clear enough to know that a penetration of the Sea of Okhotsk was being planned. Dubrynin had heard about the debacle a few weeks ago when an American submarine, a Los Angeles class and just possibly the very submarine he was now trailing, had entered the Sea of Okhotsk, been spotted by regional fleet elements, and somehow managed to escape just as ASW units were closing in for the kill. An embarrassing situation all around, and not one promising long or honored naval careers for some.
So far, the mission had been almost absurdly easy. The two weeks of waiting had been tediously boring, of course, but most submarine deployments were like that … endless tedium capped, sometimes, by a few minutes of stark terror.
"Captain, Sonar!" The Sonar Officer was a young leytenant, Vladimir Krychkov, reputed to be one of the best sonar listeners in the Fleet.
"What is it, Krychkov?"
"Aspect change on target, Captain. He appears to be turning to port."
"Da. Clearing his baffles, then." Or… "Sonar! Is there any indication that he has spotted us?"
"Negative, Captain. Not at this time. The maneuver is being carried out slowly, almost leisurely. There are no sounds of torpedo doors being opened, or of machinery."
"Helm. All stop."
"Da, Comrade Captain. All stop." Both Russian and American submarines went through the routine, every so often, of "clearing the baffles," turning in a large circle and taking a careful listen with hull and bow sonars for any unwanted guests in the area, especially astern, in the baffles, where a vessel's sonar was notoriously hard of hearing.
But the Ivan Rogov was an unusually quiet boat, for a Russian. Using quieting technology only recently obtained through intelligence sources, the Barrakuda class boats were widely regarded as the most silent submarines yet launched by the Soviet Navy, at least the equivalent of their Sturgeon class… and quite possibly as silent as their early Los Angeles boats.
With his engines off, with all machinery that might communicate vibrations to the surrounding ocean off or isolated on special, insulated pallets, the Rogov drifted in near-perfect silence, a "hole in the water," as his American playmates sometimes called it.
"Sonar, Captain. Report on target."
"Target aspect continues to change. He is now forty degrees to port of original bearing, still turning. Now forty-five … fifty degrees."
"Range to target!"
"Estimate six hundred meters, Captain. Captain… he is turning very sharply. Engine now making turns for twenty knots… no… twenty-five. Sir! He is accelerating!"
"Helm! Come left forty-five degrees!" He would turn into the American's turn, positioning himself so that he could remain bow-on to the target. This would keep his own sonar profile narrow… and would give him the edge if torpedoes began to swim.
Dubrynin was torn. He wanted to be in sonar, listening to the American's antics for himself… yet he had to stay here, when the situation could turn deadly at any instant.
"Captain! Sonar! The target… "
"What is it Krychkov? Sonar! Report!"
"The target appears to be bow-on and coming straight toward us, making turns now for twenty knots! Target may be descending…. "
"May be? Tell me!"
"Target appears to be descending. Making turns for thirty-three knots. Range now estimated at three hundred yards… and closing!.. "
"Great God…. "
He hoped Rogovs political officer hadn't heard that peculiarly uncommunist exclamation. Then he decided it didn't matter. The American captain must be crazy, deliberately risking a high-speed collision at sea.
"Helm! Come hard left! Up diving planes fifteen degrees!"
The Rogov responded, but slowly … slowly….
What the hell was the American doing?
This wasn't the way the game was supposed to be played….
"Sonar, Conn! Can you hear him?"
"Negative, Captain! We're deaf at this speed!"
"Stand by, then."
What Gordon was trying to do was dangerous, though not, he thought, excessively so. While it was always a bit hairy with more than one boat making unexpected maneuvers in the same area, it was a big ocean, and five hundred yards was over four times Pittsburgh's length overall. Lots of room…
"Passing one-five-zero feet!" the planesman called out. Moments before, Gordon had ordered the diving planes set to eighteen degrees down bubble, and the deck was canting beneath his feet. They needed to go deep….
The scary part about playing chicken was not knowing what the Russian captain would do. If he zigged when the Pittsburgh zagged — or dove when she dove — there could be a very expensive debris field scattered across this part of the Pacific seabed.
Stepping up onto the stage beneath the two side-by-side periscope housings, Gordon moved to the starboard scope and hit the control that activated its low-light optics.
The port-side periscope was a Type 2 attack scope, capable only of daylight optical resolution. The starboard scope, however, was a Mark 18 search scope, a wonder of optical and electronic technology capable of a wide variety of tasks. It included low-light settings that could be projected onto TV monitors throughout the boat, and a 20mm camera for taking either still or motion pictures through the scope.
The Mark 18's head could be angled up, allowing either air searches or, when submerged, it could be used to watch the bottom of the ice when the boat was maneuvering in Arctic waters. At times, it had been used to film the bottoms of Soviet warships at close range, and even inspect the hulls of Russian submarines.