"Get aboard the helicopters, Valery! you must transfer to the Karpaty now!"
"Sir, I'd really like you to have a word with one of the pilots — " Ardenyev's voice seemed more distant still, the storm smearing his words mockingly.
"No! It is too late for words! The traces are piling up. We're almost there." Dolohov looked round at Sergei, who stood obediently and silently at his elbow as he hunched over the table in front of the telephone amplifier. To Sergei, it seemed that the admiral was losing control, was dangerously elated by events, by the slipping, chasing minutes that passed and the sightings or partial and unconfirmable reports of the British submarine that kept coming in. The old man was racking them up like a score, mere multiplication stimulating his confidence and his arrogance. "We have them, Valery, in the palm of our hand. They're ours!"
"Sir, you don't seem to understand. It's a question of whether they can put us down on the deck of the rescue ship —"
"Don't argue with me, boy!" Dolohov thundered, his fist beating a counterpoint to his words on the surface of the table. "You have your orders — the pilots have their orders. You will board the helicopters at once and set course for the rescue ship. Understand?" There was a gap, then, of space and silence in which the storm hissed. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Your orders will be carried out, to the best of my abilities."
Dolohov was suddenly, manically expansive and generous. "Good boy, good boy. Good luck and good hunting. Over and out." The old man flicked off the telephone amplifier and stood up. He moved with some of the robotic jerkiness of arthritis battled and temporarily overcome; or the driven, muscular awkwardness of someone possessed of an unquenchable desire. He slapped his hand on Sergei's shoulder and the young man hoped that his smile did not appear too artificial. Dolohov looked at him, however, with eyes that had little perception in them. Not glazed or dulled, rather fierce and inward-looking. "The end-game, Sergei — the end-game," he murmured in a strange, ugly, caressing voice.
The rear-admiral was punctilious, almost smirking, full of a bustle that had previously been absent. "Final positions, Admiral," he offered, indicating the computer print-out sheets in his hand.
"Good, good — come, let me see." He took the rear-admiral's arm, ushering him to the window, clutching the sheets with his other hand. Sergei realised that the rear-admiral had cast aside all doubts and reservations; whether from self-interest or because he had contracted the admiral's current illness, Sergei could not decide. Probably both. "Where?" They were at the window.
"There," the rear-admiral proclaimed, histrionically waving his hand down towards the map-table. “Kiev, Karpaty on station waiting for Ardenyev, Grishka and the other submarines — see? There, there, there, there, there —" The finger jabbed out at each of the lights below. 'the other units of the fleet in back-up positions, or sailing on deception courses." He looked at Dolohov. "It's up to them now. They have their orders. All they need is a positive ident on the British submarine."
Dolohov's face possessed a beatific expression His eyes were almost closed. Sergei, embarrassed and disturbed, realised that it was a moment of love. The cold, stern, paternal admiral was unrecognisable. Sergei did not know, however, what it was that Dolohov embraced — this challenge, the drama of the moment, the prize, or the winning of the game. Perhaps even the game itself?
"Good, good," the old man murmured again. Then, suddenly, his eyes opened and all his attention was concentrated on the voice of one of the officers behind him in the control room.
"Submarine unit Frunze reports a magnetic contact —"
Dolohov was across the room and at the officer's shoulder with the speed and physical grace of a younger man. "Where?" he demanded. "What range?" Then, before the man could answer: "Can they lock on to her course?"
The communications officer listened to his headphones after repeating Dolohov's questions, and the old man could see his head begin to shake. "No, sir — they" ve lost it. Could have been sea temperature —"
"Rubbish. It was a magnetic contact, not infra-red! It was them, you idiot!" He turned to the rear-admiral. "Order all submarine units to converge on the Frunze at once!"
"Admiral, is that —?"
"Do it."
"Very well, Admiral."
Dolohov walked aimlessly yet intently back to the window. He appeared to have little interest in the glowing map below him. The situation had been ingested in its entirety or — here Sergei corrected himself— perhaps it had always been in his head. Sergei half-listened to the rear-admiral issuing a stream of orders, half-watched Dolohov, principally being aware of himself as an unimportant cipher, something like a parcel left in one corner of the room.
Then: "Submarine unit Grishka reports another magnetic trace —"
"Magnetic trace fading, Captain."
"Thermal trace fading, Captain."
"Planesman — ten degrees down, level at eight hundred feet."
"Sir."
"Steer twelve degrees to starboard."
"Sir."
There was silence in the control room of the Grishka. The bow sonars were blank and silent, their sensors absorbed or deflected by the British anti-sonar equipment. The infrared trace was decaying, was already almost non-existent, illusory. The magnetic anomaly detection equipment was already inducing a frustrated hunching of the shoulders in its operator. The advanced, delicate, heat-sensitive "nose" was sniffing cold ocean water without trace of the British submarine. Every trail was cold, or growing cold.
"Steer fifteen degrees to port."
"Sir."
Guesswork, the captain of the Grishka admitted. A blind dog with a cold in its nose seeking an elusive scent. No prop wash even, not a trace of the trail she ought to be leaving in the sea from her movement and her turning propeller. They had picked that up once before, then lost it again.
"Nine knots."
"Sir."
Silence.
"Weak magnetic trace, sir. Bearing green four-oh, range six thousand."
"We're almost on top of her — don't lose it. Steer starboard thirty."
"Starboard thirty, sir."
"No thermal trace, sir."
"Magnetic trace fading again, sir."
"Stand by, torpedo room. Any sign of prop wash?"
"Negative, sir."
"Steer starboard five, speed ten knots."
"Magnetic trace lost, sir."
"Damn!"
"Steer port four-five."
"Port four-five it is, sir."
There was silence then in the control room of the Proteus. Whispered orders, like the rustling voices of old men, lacking authority. The sonars which, in their passive mode, were difficult for any enemy to detect with his electronic sensors, registered the movements of the Russian submarine; demonstrating the proximity of the hunter.
"Computer ident, Number One?"
"A “Victor-H”-class submarine, sir. Our friend is back."
"Range and bearing?"
"Moving away, sir. Speed approximately nine knots, range eight thousand, bearing green one-seven-oh. She's passing behind us."
"Other activity, John?"
" “Kashin”-class destroyer, range eleven thousand. “Alpha”-class attack submarine, range fourteen thousand, bearing red six-five, and closing. Kiev at range sixteen thousand, and increasing. The submarine rescue ship is holding station, sir."