Markov drew a sudden breath and double-checked the message’s authentication codes. They were absolutely correct. Then he compared the main body of the signal with the zampolit’s copy. They were identical.
The contents were electrifying. He’d seen orders like that before, dozens of times, in fact — but only during fleet exercises. Never in peacetime. He read it again, checking the decoding to be sure he hadn’t left out a crucial phrase. No, he’d been right the first time through. The Fleet’s signal did not say “simulate attack.” It demanded the real thing.
Koloskov seemed even more shocked. “Comrade Captain, are we at war?”
Markov paused before answering, “I do not think so, Andrei Nikolayev.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then ticked off his reasoning on his fingers. “First, there has been no general war message. And second, the Fleet has not instructed us to attack just any American ship. Only those in this amphibious task force of theirs. So I would guess that we have just been volunteered for limited service with the North Korean Navy.”
He paused again. “But whether the motherland itself is truly at war or not is unimportant, eh? We must behave as if we were. If the Americans find us sniffing around their carriers again, they will do their best to kill us. So we must kill them first, agreed?”
Koloskov nodded his agreement. Or was it merely his understanding? Markov wasn’t sure.
For the present he decided he didn’t care. He read through the message again. Real combat, considered and ordered, unbelievable. He’d prepared for this moment for years, ever since his first days as a snot-nosed cadet, but he’d never really thought it would ever happen. Why, Konstantin Dribinov would be the first submarine to make an attack since the Great Patriotic War, the first Soviet submarine ever to attack an American vessel. It was heady stuff.
And dangerous as well. Someone in Moscow was obviously willing to risk escalating this conflict to the superpower level. Markov hoped his superiors had correctly judged the risks they were running, but knew he couldn’t allow himself to second-guess them. He had his orders and they would have to be carried out.
Both he and Koloskov knew why he had been chosen. His experience, his past performance, had all been exemplary. Then, chosen to make that damned simulated attack based on his merits, he had failed. Now he was being given a second chance, a real chance.
He wouldn’t fail.
Brown studied the assembled faces of his staff for a moment before continuing. They still looked alert, despite the hour-long briefing, and now he saw eager anticipation as they absorbed its implications. He cleared his throat and put both hands on the lectern. “Gentlemen, you’ve just heard the details of what will undoubtedly be the single most crucial operation of this war. And though we may not be in line this time for the best actor award, I’ll be darned if I’m going to see anyone else walk away with the Oscar for best supporting role.”
There were chuckles at that, and Brown smiled. He half-suspected that, when the time came to haul down his admiral’s flag, he’d find that his power to move junior officers so easily to laughter would vanish along with his authority. In the meantime, however, he relished it.
He waited for the light laughter to fade and then continued, “Now, if we do our job right, we’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. A lot of hostile attention.” That sobered them up. “We’re going to get one chance at this, gentlemen. One chance. If we screw it up, we’re dead. A lot of our fellow sailors and Marines are dead. And a lot of U.S. and South Korean infantrymen and tankers are dead.”
Brown leaned forward on the lectern, towering over it. “So stay alert. Be ready for instant action. Remember that we’re at war and there aren’t any prizes for second place in this thing.”
He stepped back. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and good hunting.”
Markov knew his officers thought he was behaving in a most unusual manner. They couldn’t understand why he’d had his tracking party working for nearly twenty-four hours — more than twice as long as needed for a normal approach. The Dribinov’s approach, however, was anything but normal. The normal way of doing things, he wanted to remind them, had nearly gotten them all killed the last time they’d closed with an American force. This time it would be different. Much different.
The submarine’s track on the chart looked like a series of loops, approaching the formation from the side, slowing as it closed and letting it steam past. Then as soon as the American ships vanished over the horizon, Markov would angle away and increase speed to run parallel with them again.
Koloskov, the political officer, looked the most worried of all. As the sub’s zampolit, his duties included ensuring the political awareness and reliability of every crewmember, including the captain. And Markov knew that his caution might look like cowardice to the inexperienced political officer. It might also look like foolishness to a professional naval officer.
Every officer aboard seemed sure that their captain was taking a terrible risk. They thought these constant sprints were consuming too much of the Dribinov’s available battery power. They were certainly contrary to the Red Navy’s standard diesel boat doctrines.
Three weeks ago, Markov would never even have considered ignoring doctrine. After all, his standard approaches during exercises had always been models of classic technique. The pattern was simple — position the Dribinov in front of its prey and ghost through the water at one or two knots, just enough speed to control depth and direction. Use any available layer of colder water, a thermocline, to help block enemy sonar. And when the enemy vessels come within point-blank range, fire a spread of homing torpedoes and escape in the ensuing confusion. The classic approach had a single significant edge over other ways of doing the same thing — it used scarcely any battery power, leaving plenty of charge available for high-speed evasive maneuvering.
This time, though, Markov was using all his energy in ten- and twelve-knots bursts. He glanced at the charge indicator. It showed fifty-eight percent, and they were pulling away from the American task force again.
Out of the corner of his eye Markov saw the political officer following his gaze. “Don’t worry, comrade, our power is being well spent. That was our last sensor run. Next time we will attack. Look here.” He tapped the chart, enticing the man over.
Besides the looping line showing the sub’s track, the chart was covered with hundreds of other lines radiating out from the task force. Markov regarded the sheet with admiration, almost with love. The information it contained showed both a sleepless night’s work and the key to victory.
“We’ve been tracking the American formation for almost a full day now, and we’ve taken hundreds of sonar bearings to his ships, his helicopters, his sonobuoys. Our task has been simplified because he must use active sonar to find us, while we can remain passive and plot the direction of his pinging.” Markov smiled at his political officer. “So you see, Koloskov, I now know his formation, his patrol patterns, even where his patrol aircraft lay their sonobuoy lines.”
Markov pulled out a clean sheet of paper with an array of different-sized dots drawn on it. “Here is what we think his formation looks like. Valuable units in the center, escorts surrounding them. Here is a Spruance-class destroyer, here is a Knox-class frigate, and so on. I have our tactical team up plotting the exact sonar performance of each class, based on the water conditions.”