“What do you make of this, Madam First?” Alexeyev asked Ania Lebedev, leaning back in his command chair at the end of the table in his stateroom. Lebedev looked vaguely disturbed. Sergei Kovalov was absorbed in reading and rereading the reply message from Northern Fleet HQ.
She looked up at Alexeyev. “We’re to employ Gigantskiy unit one against the ice wall. They gave us the unlock codes. Then they said to reserve unit two in case of tactical contingencies and they gave us unit two’s unlock codes. And they authorized use of unit two as required by Belgorod’s commanding officer. What the hell does HQ mean by, quote, tactical contingencies, unquote?”
“Sergei?” Alexeyev said. “What do you think?”
Kovalov nodded. “They think we may have to shoot at someone,” he said.
“I notice they said nothing about the alternative course to hug the Russian coastline,” Lebedev said. “Or about reversing course to the west.”
“I imagine Zhigunov wants to see how we do with the assault on the ice wall,” Alexeyev said. “Madam First, pass the word for action stations for tactical launch. I’ll meet you in central.”
When the officers left but for Kovalov, Alexeyev put out his cigarette and said, “How far do you think safe standoff is for shooting a nuke at the ice?”
“Did Northern Fleet and Sevmash ever figure out how far Voronezh and Novosibirsk were from the ground zero of the American nuclear detonations?”
“No, they didn’t,” Alexeyev said. “They guessed the blast was probably five kilometers from Novosibirsk. Less for Voronezh—she was vaporized. One of the depth charges must have gone off right on top of her. But the depth of the blast was different and the yield of the weapon different. Our ice target is shallower but our nuclear yield is four or five times bigger than the American tactical nukes. So we’re going to have to guess.”
“The weapon safety settings for standoff are ten nautical miles,” Kovalov said. “Any closer and we’ll have to switch off that safety. So I guess I’d say anything less than ten miles is risky.”
“You actually read the Gigantskiy torpedo operation manual, Sergei?”
“I was bored.”
Alexeyev laughed. “Our standoff distance is going to have to depend on the maximum straight-line distance we can get from the ice wall target point. The torpedo will have to go straight. It can’t be maneuvered around ice obstacles on the way. And it’s not smart enough to navigate itself through an ice maze.”
“Are you setting it up for a contact detonation or a command detonate at a point in space?”
“Both. Whichever comes first.”
“You know, to find the best and longest straight-line path from the ice target point,” Kovalov said. “You will have to survey the sea with active sonar. The under-ice unit is for close-in obstacles.”
“Agreed. Will you come to central for this war shot launch?”
“I wouldn’t miss it, Georgy,” Kovalov said.
“Master One is shut down again,” Sonarman Senior Chief Albanese reported. “I’ve got thruster noise, Officer of the Deck.”
“Very well, Sonar,” Lieutenant Anthony Pacino replied from the command console. “Pilot, all stop. Hover at present depth.”
“All stop, Pilot, aye,” Dankleff said. “Speed two knots, depth two one zero, speed one knot.”
Pacino squinted at the command console display. Master One, the BUFF, was visible on IR on the periscope display — or more accurately, his reactor and engineroom components were. The rest of his outline was a blurry cloud generated by the slight difference in his skin temperature from the surrounding icy waters.
“Speed zero, hovering, depth two one zero feet,” Dankleff called.
“What the hell is he doing?” Seagraves asked Pacino and Quinnivan. Lieutenant Commander Lewinsky joined them as they crowded the command console. Lieutenant Commander Styxx at the weapon control console to starboard was listening intently to their conversation.
“He’s spinning, sir,” Pacino said. “I’d say to his left. He’ll be seeing us soon on his under-ice sonar.”
“Range guess, Coordinator?” Seagraves asked Quinnivan, who at battlestations was the firecontrol coordinator.
“Close, Captain. Inside five hundred yards.”
“Do you want to take her to the bottom again, Captain?” Pacino asked.
“Sounding?” Seagraves seemed deep in thought.
“Nav-E.T., take a secure sounding,” Pacino called.
“Sir, ninety fathoms. Five hundred forty feet,” the navigation electronics technician reported.
“Take us down slowly, Officer of the Deck,” Seagraves said. “I want to minimize our transients from the depth excursion.”
“Pilot, negative rate, twenty feet per second,” Pacino ordered.
“Negative twenty, Pilot, aye.”
“Sonar, is he still thrusting?” Pacino asked Albanese. He stared at his periscope display, trying to make sense of the red shapes of the hotspots of the Belgorod’s interior.
“Thrusters still on, OOD.”
“Report the second his thrusters shut down,” Pacino said.
“Depth four hundred,” Dankleff reported.
“OOD, thrusters have stopped. Master One may be hovering,” Albanese reported.
It was then the piercing shriek blasted through the hull.
“Captain, ship’s heading now two seven zero, west,” the boatswain reported from the ship control console.
“Boatswain, secure thrusters and hover,” Alexeyev said. “Sonar, do you have any obstructions directly in front of us on this bearing?”
“No, Captain,” Sonar Officer Palinkova said, still intensely staring at her under-ice sonar display.
“Weapons Officer,” Alexeyev said to Captain Lieutenant Sobol at the port side sonar console, “are you lined up for an active sonar ping?” With the sonar officer at the under-ice sonar set, it fell to the weapons officer to run the active sonar suite with her senior enlisted technician.
“Active sonar is ready, Captain,” Sobol said in her high-pitched cartoon character voice. Alexeyev shared a momentary glance with Kovalov, who smirked. Behind closed doors, they’d both marveled at that odd voice.
“Transmit active,” Alexeyev ordered. “High frequency first, then low.”
“Ping active, aye, sir, high frequency first, then low.”
Sobol lifted a protective cover over the sonar mode selector switch for the spherical array and twisted it to the “ACTIVE” position. She lifted a second protective cover over the transmit button for high frequency, then one over the low frequency button. She mashed the high frequency button, and a piercing high-pitched scream reverberated through the room. The high frequency radar-style circular plot of bearing versus range glowed green, a bright green circle growing outward from the center. She hit the low frequency key, and a roaring low-pitched growl shook the room. As she released her finger, the noise stopped. A similar plot for the low frequency sonar lit up, a blue circle growing from the center and moving outward.
“Captain!” Sobol squealed. “I have a submerged contact! Bearing west, range close, a quarter nautical mile!”
“What?” Alexeyev said, hurrying to the active sonar display in front of Sobol. The contact flashed in both high frequency and low frequency plots. “Do you have broadband contact?”
“No, Captain, but we’ve been searching all through the azimuth. I can train the spherical array beam to center on west with a narrow search cone.”
“Do it. Do you have narrowband contact?”