“We’ve only won the first round, gentlemen. Now it’s time to hurt the bastards responsible for this cheap shot and score a knockout punch. Chief Langfbrd, hit ‘em with active and cycle their signature through the computer. Then once we know who they are, interface this signature into the Mark 48s in tubes one and two.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned the sonar operator.
As the Bow/in prepared to take the offensive, the weapons officer took up his position at the console where Mac was standing. Mac watched him at work and was soon joined by the Scotsman.
“Who do you think is responsible for this attack, Major?” asked Mac.
“And do you think they’re in league with the group on the tug?”
Colin Stewart also watched the weapons officer at work.
“Though I seriously doubt the IRB has an attack sub in their inventory, it sure appears that way.
Who knows, maybe Ivan’s giving them support with this one.”
This supposition was apparently given substance when the chief sonar operator revealed the results of his scan.
“We’ve got that signature ID. Captain. Big Brother shows an eighty-seven-percent probability that we’re dealing with a Soviet India-class submarine.
They’re currently loitering beneath the waters south of us, at a relative rough range of three miles.”
As the captain prepared the Bowfm to do battle, Mac absorbed this astonishing news, for he had very recently encountered this same class of vessel almost halfway around the world, off the coast of San Clemente Island! He knew that the India-class wasn’t your average run-of-the-mill attack sub. It was specially designed with a purpose in mind, that being to transport the Russian equivalent of the DSRV. And though there was still no solid evidence, Mac was positive that the semi recessed wells that were cut into its aft deck could also carry vehicles such as the tracked mini-sub that had been his arch nemesis for almost a year now.
Mac shivered in awareness when a sudden thought came to mind. Did the India’s presence here mean that the tracked mini-sub was also currently deployed beneath the waters of the Firth? And if it was, was their mission in any way related to that of the tug? Well aware that if they found such a relationship to exist it would lead to a major East-West confrontation, Mac barely flinched when the powerful voice of the Bowfin’s captain called out commandingly.
“Fire one! Fire two!”
As the Ladoga’s senior sonar technician, warrant officer Pavel Zitomir was heartsick when he had to relay news of their attack’s failure to the captain. He was positively terrified when a signature of even greater consequence streamed through his headphones minutes after their last torpedo mysteriously parted from its guidance wire.
“Captain, we are under attack!” he cried at the top of his lungs.
“Our bow hydrophones show a salvo of two torpedoes headed our way on bearing zero-eight zero range 3,000 meters.”
Stunned by this unexpected report, Dmitri Zinyagin reacted instinctively.
“Get those throttles opened up, Chief Engineer. All ahead emergency! Helmsman, bring us around crisply to course two-two-zero. And if you value your life, Comrade Weapons Officer, you’ll prepare two decoys for an immediate launch.”
The captain watched how efficiently his men carried out these orders. There was no hesitation on their part, no signs of cowardice or reluctance to follow his command. Rather they were like a well-oiled machine whose thousands of hours of rote practice drills were at long last about to be tested for real.
The Ladoga began to pick up speed, and its deck canted hard on its right side as the vessel’s massive rudder bit into the cold water of the Firth’s black depths.
“Torpedo range is down to 2,500 meters. Captain.
And they’re continuing to close quickly.”
“Where’s that speed. Chief Engineer?” urged Dmitri Zinyagin.
“If you want to see that family of yours again, you’re going to have to do better than this pathetic pace.”
It seemed to take forever for them to break twenty knots, and since the American torpedoes were advancing at twice this velocity, speed alone wasn’t going to save them.
“Lieutenant Primorsk, are those decoys ready yet?”
asked Zinyagin impatiently.
The Ladoga’s weapons officer seemed perplexed as he pushed back his headphones.
“My men are trying, sir, but it seems that one of them is in the midst of some kind of fit. He’s climbed up onto the torpedo racks and is threatening to smash the loading rail mechanism.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Lieutenant,” cried the disbelieving CO.
“Make your men get this ridiculous situation under control before it causes the deaths of all of us!”
“Torpedo range is down to 2,000 meters,” reported the tense voice of Pavel Zitomir.
Still not satisfied with the figure on the knot indicator, Dmitri was all set to vent his rage when the zampolit came strutting into the attack center. Surprisingly enough, a half dozen brawny seamen accompanied him. Puzzled by this unauthorized appearance, the captain turned to them.
“What in the hell is this all about, Comrade Tartarov?”
As the seamen proceeded to take up positions throughout the compartment, the political officer re357 plied, “Captain Zinyagin, in the name of the Komsomol, I hereby order you to relinquish your command immediately. You have been charged with dereliction of duty, and will have an opportunity to present your case before a full naval tribunal once we return to Kronstadt.”
“Are you insane, Tartarov?” screamed the captain.
“We’ve got two Yankee torpedoes headed straight for us, and you pick this time for a mutiny.”
To this the zampolit shamefully shook his head.
“Your theatrics might work on the impressionable minds of the attack center’s crew, but they fall on deaf ears as far as I’m concerned.” Then, looking up to the seamen who accompanied him, he added, “Comrades, you may go ahead and take our disturbed captain into custody.”
As three of the largest sailors moved in to carry out this directive, Dmitri Zinyagin furiously shouted, “You fools! Don’t you realize that you’re signing your own death warrants by this groundless act of stupidity?”
Almost to emphasize this statement, the ship’s chief sonar technician frantically called out.
“The torpedoes have just broken the 1,000-meter threshold, Captain!”
For the first time since he entered the attack center Petyr Tartarov sensed the legitimacy of the crisis that he had unintentionally stumbled into. Still wary that this was but a clever trick by the captain to gain the confidence of his command team, the zampolit waddled over to Sonar. Without asking permission, he proceeded to rip the headphones off Pavel Zitomir and put the padded speakers up to his own ears. Though he was far from a qualified sonar operator, he knew enough to identify the distinctive grinding racket for what it was. This realization immediately expressed itself on his shocked, sweat-stained face.
“My heavens, we’re under attack! Captain Zinyagin, how did you ever allow such an unthinkable thing to happen?”
The Ladoga’s CO couldn’t help but smile as he watched the cowardly political officer’s flabby limbs begin shaking with fear.
“In a few more minutes, the answer to such a question will be irrelevant, Comrade Tartarov,” returned the captain.
“More important is the fact that your ill-timed mutiny has cost us valuable seconds that could have been much better spent attempting to escape this threat. Because as it looks now, the Ladoga is doomed!”
“But that can’t be. Captain! Please, forget about the charges that I made against you. Just do whatever you can to save our lives!”