“We’re moving into the endgame phase,” Jeffrey said out loud, to no one in particular. He gulped down the last of what he thought must be his twentieth mug of coffee since reboarding Challenger; he used it to wash down the last of a ham and cheese sandwich, one of his favorite snacks when he was in the throes of deep fatigue during combat.
But he’d never pushed himself this hard for so long.
I’m too wired out, and stretched too thin. I need to wrap this chase up soon and send the Russians home happy. The only problem is, I haven’t figured out yet how to pull the rabbit out of the hat, and make the Amethyste sink while Carter escapes.
Jeffrey stood in the aisle next to Bell and stared at the pair of tactical plots.
“Commodore,” Bell said, “the assistant nav reports that at present speed, assuming no further misbehavior by the Russians, we’ll reach the location of the genuine Amethyste’s wreck in two hours. May I ask your intentions?”
“If I knew them, I’d tell you.”
Bell frowned. “Sir, with respect, if we just keep running east we’ll hit the line of Canadian islands and whatever friendly subs could get in position. If Carter keeps on going, and the waiting American and Canadian boats don’t open fire, the Russians will know something’s up. The distances are too great, and the closing speeds too high, for the submarines out in front of us to coordinate something with Carter fast enough to be effective and put one over on the Akulas.”
“I know. I asked for those subs to keep Meredov and his cronies from getting suspicious, since if I really wanted the German destroyed that’s one order I’d certainly give. It’s what Commander, U.S. Pacific Fleet would tell Commander, Submarines, Pacific to do anyway.”
“Concur.”
“But it’s up to us to fool the Russians.”
“Sir, I know you do your best work under pressure, but the margins in time and space are getting narrow.”
“Yup. They sure are.”
“Do you want to order Harley to make another feint north? If we add some zigs and zags now, it could buy you an extra hour, maybe more.”
“No. Good idea, but it only postpones the inevitable.”
“Then what do you intend?”
“Let me think.”
“Yes, Commodore. Of course.”
Jeffrey looked at the tactical plots, the two different versions of reality displayed side by side, just as Meltzer had suggested so many mugs of coffee ago. The plots faded in and out of focus again. Jeffrey began to zone out altogether. Then he realized that he’d induced a state of near self-hypnosis.
Schizophrenia. That’s what I told myself at the start. If I stared at these two plots long enough I’d give myself schizophrenia.
Jeffrey was feeling mentally punch-drunk. What the hell does schizophrenia have to do with submarines?
An hour went by, then more. And then he saw it. The win-or-lose gambit that would determine now and forever who won this crazy endgame — America or Germany, the truth or a very big lie. Just about the biggest big lie in military history.
He cleared his throat and spoke with new vigor. “Captain, man silent battle stations.”
“Man silent battle stations, aye, sir. Chief of the Watch, on the sound-powered phones, man silent battle stations.”
“Man silent battle stations, aye,” the senior chief acknowledged. He spoke to the phone talker, and the order was relayed throughout the ship. Bell’s control room first team began to arrive. COB looked like he’d been showering — his hair was still wet and his Latino skin had a rosy tinge from vigorous use of a scrub brush. Patel appeared, his facial features softened as if by sleep, but he sharpened up quickly. Meltzer and Torelli dashed in together, brushing crumbs off their clothes and still chewing the last bites of food — they’d been snacking in the wardroom. Finch, O’Hanlon, Sessions, and over a dozen technicians and chiefs arrived in a flood. Soon COB reported that the ship was at battle stations.
“Make signal to Carter, ‘Man silent battle stations. Prepare to receive my orders for final melee.’ ”
Sessions acknowledged, typed, and reported that Harley had received and understood the message.
Jeffrey turned to the Ru-ling. “Make signal to Wild Boar and Cheetah. ‘Man silent battle stations. Prepare to receive my orders for final melee.’ ”
The Ru-ling acknowledged, then the Russian captains did.
“I think we’ve worn down and lulled the Amethyste’s poor German skipper long enough. Captain Bell, the key to beating an opponent who might go nuclear, using only high-explosive ordnance ourselves, is to stick to the fundamentals.”
“Commodore?”
“Surprise, and overwhelming firepower.”
A half-hour later, all the orders were relayed and acknowledged. All the torpedo tubes and weapons in them were ready.
“Make signal to Carter,” Jeffrey ordered, “ ‘Implement. Repeat, implement.’ ”
On both tactical plots, Carter-Amethyste continued to behave as before, steaming east at twenty-five knots just below the reach of summer ice keels. But for the first time in two days, the tactical plots showed very different symbols.
On the real plot, the icon that was Carter stayed on track but changed into the icon representing a brilliant decoy, programmed to act and sound like the Amethyste. The icon for Carter split off and turned south, slowed to fifteen knots to stay quiet while getting out of the way, steaming south toward distant Alaskan territorial waters. On the fake plot, the one from the combined task force perspective — the Russian point of view — the icon steaming east continued to show the actual Amethyste. There was no icon there for Carter.
“Ru-ling, make signal to Wild Boar and Cheetah. ‘Prepare to open fire.’ ”
Both Akula-IIs acknowledged quickly, their captains eager to go into action and share credit for an actual combat kill — not just a paper score in some training exercise.
Jeffrey kept a careful eye on the chronometer. Everything had to be coordinated to the second.
Now. “Ru-ling, make signal to Wild Boar and Cheetah, ‘Open fire. Repeat, open fire.’ ”
The Ru-ling typed. The Russian captains didn’t even bother acknowledging.
“Hydrophone effects!” O’Hanlon shouted. “Multiple torpedoes in the water! UGSTs!”
“Captain Bell, open fire. Launch the decoys in tubes seven and eight.”
Bell began to issue his orders. Soon Challenger had eight units in the water, rising toward shallow depth from below the twenty high-explosive UGSTs launched by the Russians — a full salvo from each Akula-II.
Jeffrey watched the tactical plots. As he’d ordered, everything was targeted at the Amethyste. The Russian torpedoes began to spread out, horizontally and vertically, to leave the German no room to run — even accounting for several inevitable Russian torpedo malfunctions.
Not much longer. His heart raced. If the timing was off, if the coordination between Carter’s and Challenger’s decoys wasn’t precise enough, if any of them broke down or had a programming input error or a software bug — or if Bell’s units from tubes seven and eight were destroyed by shocks from the real weapons that they absolutely had to stay near — the whole grand deception scheme would collapse. If so, the next overwhelming Russian salvo would be aimed at Challenger, and would be nuclear.