The question was… would they open fire? How determined were they to nail themselves an LA-class sub?
"Conn, Sonar! I'm getting splashes on the surface! Repeat, multiple splashes!"
Gordon locked eyes with Latham, horrified. Splashes meant the Russians were dropping something on them … torpedoes, depth charges, RBU warheads, something.
"Hey! Those guys are shooting at us!" the QM of the Watch said, looking at the control room overhead with something like stunned amazement.
"And you find that surprising… how, Mr. Dandridge?" Latham asked.
"Sonar, Conn. Any follow-up sounds from those splashes?"
"Conn, Sonar. Negative. Whatever they are, they're not torpedoes."
Torpedoes would have fired up their engines as soon as they entered the water, and probably gone active with their search sonar as well. Silence meant that the weapons, whatever they were, must be unguided warheads, and that was about as good a break as the Pittsburgh could have hoped for.
"Helm! Come right five degrees!"
"Right five degrees, aye aye, sir."
Depth charges or RBU rockets would have been fired in a pattern based on Pittsburgh's last-known course and speed. She could complicate things by changing her course slightly after the warheads had hit the water.
Explosions thundered outside, a jarring crash that sent the Pittsburgh lurching to starboard, then back to port. The detonations… at least twelve of them, occurred in a rippling cascade of thunderclaps well astern and to port of the boat. The control-room lights flickered, dimmed briefly, then came back to full brilliance.
"My God!" someone in the compartment cried.
"RBUs," Latham said. Gordon nodded.
"RBU" stood for Raketnaya Bombometmaya Ustanovka, and it was a weapon little changed from the "hedgehog" launchers of World War II. The RBU-6000 was a twelve-barreled launcher arranged in a horseshoe shape on its mounting, firing 250mm projectiles, each with a 46-pound warhead. The RBU-1000 consisted of six tubes paired and stacked three high, firing 300mm projectiles with 198-pound warheads. Either type could be fused for depth, for contact, or for influence… passing through a submarine's magnetic signature, for instance. Since they were essentially free-fall weapons, they couldn't be foxed by countermeasures.
The barrage of twelve suggested that the attack had been carried out by the smaller RBU-6000, with depth-triggered warheads. The explosions had fallen well astern, however.
Moments later, Pittsburgh swept beneath the Kresta, untouched.
A third sonar ping illuminated the fleeing sub, but as soon as the pulse echoed back, Gordon ordered another change of course, coming around to a southerly heading paralleling the Kresta. A second barrage of RBU projectiles was fired, this time off the Kresta's port side… and again none of the warheads came close to her.
But Gordon was painfully aware that he couldn't keep this game up for long….
"Explosions, Comrade Captain!" Starpom Vasily Alesandjan, the Krasnoyarskiy's sonar officer, cried out. "Multiple explosions, bearing one-five-nine, range forty thousand meters!"
"Damn it to hell!" Vetrov said. "Someone else has found them!"
"It does not sound as though the target was damaged," Alesandjan said. "I hear no breakup noises… no damage."
"Helm! Come to one-five-nine! Maneuvering! Give me all possible speed!"
"Sir," his Exec said, concerned. "Wouldn't it be better to move in carefully, to study the situation before charging in blindly?"
"You are a fool, Felix! Or a coward! Only the daring win!"
"I resent that, Captain!" Salekhov flared back. "You have no right—"
Vetrov waved him to silence. He had no time for this now. The American sub was there… and quite possibly on the verge of escaping.
"Maneuvering! I want full speed now!.. "
"Captain! Sonar!"
"Go ahead, Rodriguez."
"Sierra One has the pedal to the metal, sir. They're coming after us hot. Sounds of outer torpedo doors opening."
"Very well."
"Splashes astern and to port, Captain."
"Very well. Helm! Come starboard ten degrees!"
"Helm to starboard, ten degrees, aye aye, sir."
For most of the men, Gordon thought, this was their first time under fire. They appeared to be taking it well, calmly, deliberately, professionally. It spoke well of Mike Chase… and of the training these men had received at New London.
Explosions rocked the boat, tipping her nose down and rolling her to starboard.
"COB! Adjust trim!"
"On it, Skipper!"
"Release countermeasures!"
"Countermeasures away, aye, sir!"
CM bubbles wouldn't fool an incoming RBU projectile, but they just might mask the Pittsburgh from the next active sonar pulse which was due any—
Ping!
… moment now. "Helm, come left one-five degrees! What's our speed?"
"Helm coming left one-five degrees, aye."
"Conn, Maneuvering. Turns for three-eight knots."
The RBU-6000 had a range of six thousand meters … over three and a half miles. Somehow, the Pittsburgh had to get outside of that radius.
Unfortunately, a Kresta II was almost as fast as a Los Angeles boat, and with twin screws she could make tighter turns, was more maneuverable.
"Conn, Sonar. Sierra Five-zero is coming to new heading, two-zero-zero. Looks like he's firing up the boilers, too. Speed now fifteen knots."
"Sonar, Conn. Acknowledged."
He looked at the plot board, where the TMA watch was updating positions and headings. Gordon smiled. There was an opportunity here….
"Helm! Hard left rudder! Come to new course zero-eight-zero! Make depth six-zero feet!"
"Come to new course zero-eight-zero, aye!"
"Make depth six-zero feet, aye!"
"Conn, Sonar! Splashes ahead and to port!"
Shit! "Helm! Belay left rudder! Right full rudder!"
He'd just unwittingly turned into the next barrage….
O'Brien stood with one hand on one of the bunk supports, with Chief Allison and Benson and the rest of his torpedo-room watch, all of them silently waiting for orders, all waiting for the next barrage. The three SEALs sat on two of the lower racks, staying out of the way.
Every eye was turned upward, toward the overhead, waiting….
"Don't like this waiting, man," Fitch said.
"A little easier to dish it out than take it, huh?" McCluskey asked.
"They're shooting at us," O'Brien said. "They're actually shooting at us!"
"Yeah, well, shit happens, son," Randall said.
The deck tilted alarmingly toward the left, as it tipped high forward. "Skipper's bringing us hard to port," Chief Allison said. "And running us shallow. I wonder—"
And then the deck tilted back the other way, sharply enough that O'Brien had to cling hard to keep his feet under him.
"Uh-oh," Allison said. "Everybody grab hold!.. "