"Passing two-zero-zero feet, Captain."
Periscopes normally were useless underwater; below a very few hundred feet, no light at all penetrated the depths. Even at the Pittsburgh's current depth and using low-light optics the surface was little more than a featureless, green glow. Gordon pressed his eyes against the plastic shield, however, watching for…
There! A shadow fell across the Mark 18's field of view, just for an instant. Briefly, Gordon cursed himself for not engaging the camera … but the other boat was far enough above that any pictures he'd gotten would have been uselessly fuzzy and distance-blurred.
Catching a glimpse of the other boat was sheer luck, but proved his instincts as to where the Russian would be were accurate. He could also tell from the angle of the other boat as Pittsburgh slid beneath its keel that the Russian skipper was now turned hard to port, trying to meet the 'Burgh's sudden turn and sprint.
"Helm! Hard right rudder! Come to zero-zero-five degrees. Continue descent to six hundred feet!"
"Hard right rudder to zero-zero-five degrees, aye. Make depth six-zero-zero feet, aye."
He grabbed the periscope housing as the hull groaned in protest.
14
"Michman Antonov!! Stand ready by the ballast lever!" Unless he could be sure the American was diving, he wanted to be ready to blow ballast and surface.
"Helm! What's happening?"
"Responding, Comrade Captain… but he's as sluggish as a pig…. "
"Engine room! Increase revolutions to twenty knots!"
"Make revolutions for twenty knots, yes, Captain!"
He could actually hear the other vessel now, a steady throbbing pulse transmitted through the bulkheads. Rogov's deck heeled over to port as the Barrakuda class submarine turned hard away from the oncoming American.
"Sonar! Give me bearing and estimated range to the American!"
"Sir, we're deaf. At this speed, I couldn't hear an explosion outside the hull!"
Damn, and damn again!
"Helm! Maintain this turn. I want to come back parallel with the American's new course."
"Da, Comrade Captain!"
The rumbling of the other vessel was much nearer now. He could feel it beneath his boots through the Rogov's steel decking. Jesus Christ… he was passing directly beneath the Ivan Rogov!
The maneuver was easily the match of any pulled earlier that morning during the angles and dangles evolution, a hard left turn at high speed. The hull shuddered, and gave an ominous creaking sound, as the deck tilted sharply underfoot.
Had he guessed right?
"Depth reading, Mr. Carver."
"Eight-five-zero feet beneath the keel, Captain," the Diving Officer reported. "We are now passing two-five-zero feet…."
"Now on course zero-zero-five, Captain."
"Maneuvering! Engine to dead slow. Just give us enough revs to keep us moving."
"Engine ahead dead slow, aye, sir."
Silently the Pittsburgh continued to nose ahead, on a new heading, now, her screw just turning over as she descended into the inky depths northwest of the continental shelf dropoff.
And then… the rumble of the other submarine faded off astern and to starboard, as the Rogov continued his hard, high-speed turn. Dubrynin saw at once what the American had done… lose himself within Rogovs baffles, then change course. He would maintain his sprint for a few moments to get clear… and then…
"Engine room! Slow to eight knots!" Faster than that and they would remain deaf. Damn it all, he needed to hear….
"Eight knots, aye, Captain."
"Sonar! Do you have him?"
"Wait one, please, Comrade Captain."
Seconds dragged on, interminable. Dubrynin found he was sweating heavily, his uniform shirt drenched. "Sonar!"
"Sir, I fear we have lost the American. I cannot register him on any of my screens."
"Lost him! How?"
"Sir, it is only conjecture, but I believe he made another hard, high-speed turn either beneath us or just astern, moving onto a new heading when we could not hear the course change. He then cut his engine and is drifting."
"You mean… you mean he is still close by?"
"Da, Comrade Captain. But close by… where?"
Where indeed? It was a terribly large ocean, and a submarine was a very small chip adrift in all that water.
There seemed to be nothing to do but to break off the pursuit… or to rift and wait, listening.
Dubrynin knew he would never be able to adequately explain simply breaking off the chase.
"Helm, all stop!"
"All stop, da!"
"Maintain current attitude and course. We will drift. Sonar room!"
"Da, Captain!"
"Find the bastard. Find him!"
"Yes, Comrade Captain. We will do our best."
"Never mind your best. Just find him!.. "
"Conn, Sonar."
"Go ahead Sonar."
"Conn, we've just dropped through a thermal. I can't hear Sierra One at all now."
"Very well. Keep listening."
Pittsburgh continued her downward course, sliding now past four hundred feet. The thermal the sonar watch had just reported was a boundary layer between warmer, upper waters and the much colder and less salty waters beneath. Such thermals reflected and bent sound waves in odd ways, creating deep channels that allowed sonar signals to be picked up across hundreds of miles … but also forming shields that allowed a submarine on one side of the layer to remain perfectly invisible to a searching boat on the other. At six hundred feet, she leveled off, continuing to move gently north.
"Sonar, Conn. Did you get anything during our pass?"
"Just a little, Captain," Rodriguez replied, "just before you put the pedal to the metal. Got enough to get a make on him from the library. He's a Sierra II, probably number three in the class."
"Pretty good work, pegging him as a Sierra from the initial contact!"
It was a weak joke. All initial sonar contacts were identified as "Sierra," with a sequential number listing the number of contacts through the course of the mission. It was pure coincidence that the boat following them was also a
Sierra… in NATO's international signal alphabet nomenclature for Soviet submarines.
But he heard Rodriguez chuckle. "Actually, I heard her skipper jingling loose change in his pocket. Only Sierra skippers do that…. "
"Okay, Rodriguez. You tell me if you so much as hear anyone sneeze back there."
"Aye aye, sir. We are commencing sneeze watch."
An hour passed, dragging by slowly, with nothing to break the monotony, though in this case, nonevent was definitely good. The longer they eluded the Sierra's questing ears, the more likely they were to get away unheard.