I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Vasiliy thought. Submariners must be resourceful to survive, including those of our enemy. He wasn’t quite certain how it could be done, but if Zhukov sustained damage off the American coast, much scheming and trying to make repairs would precede giving up before making the forty-five hundred mile voyage home.
The briefer droned on, “Actually, our dense field of small mines does not work as expected. There are many false alarms. Explosions are investigated by patrolling Tangos, but zeal to make a kill has already resulted in two of them striking mines themselves. We suspect this is the case now.”
Again, the briefer smiled and said, “Our young Tango commanders are reluctant to report self-sustained damage.”
Quiet laughter ensued.
Next, he presented the current weather and the seventy-two hour forecast then asked, “Questions, comrades?”
Vasiliy spoke up, “Yes, sir. What is the contact approaching La Perouse Strait?”
“It is a reydny traishchik.” (Russian for roadstead minesweeper.) “He has apparent radio problems and is returning for repairs. Other questions? No? Very well then, this concludes the morning briefing.”
More than two days had passed with no Soviet warship in the area making a report and Vasiliy felt uncomfortable over lack of concern shown for the explosions. He thought, Very unusual.
Recognizing Sherensky among the departing officers, Vasiliy, said, “Good morning, Captain.”
Sherensky replied, “Ah Vasiliy. Good morning to you. And what brings you here? I believed you would be with the others enjoying shore leave this last week in port.”
“I thought the same of you, sir.”
“Perhaps we two are the only worriers. This must be so. I don’t even see our learned zampolit among this morning’s assembly.”
“Comrade Captain, do you believe our waters are clear of American submarines as Intelligence seems to think?”
“Frankly, no. But if they’re present, it is in extremely low numbers. Insufficient to impact our current plan. It means simply we must be alert when we leave Vladivostok. It will be good training for us and peak our readiness before we reach station.”
“Might it not be wise for Victor IIIs, or perhaps an Akula, to conduct a search of our home waters? Those wild men with their mine fields are ineffective and our Tangos no match for a 688.”
Zhukov’s captain changed the subject. “Vasiliy, your enquiring mind pleases me. I know this will accrue much benefit to us before this war is over. But caution … our zampolit, shall we say, is no giant when it comes to wisdom, and you give him much cause to be alarmed. He considers … well, he believes your father’s defection counts against you. He looks for reasons to report you to the party, not because you are disloyal, but because it gives the impression that nothing escapes his scrutiny. These observations and subsequent reports strengthen his reputation … if you follow my meaning.”
The captain’s comment about his father made Vasiliy furious, but he masked his feelings. No one hated his father more than he, but the Zampolit Poplavich held this over his head.
“I understand, Comrade Captain, and I thank you. I will exercise greater care.”
Vasiliy sought revenge against those ultimately responsible for his continuous anger, the Americans. Find and kill a 688. He knew only those fortunate enough to find them before being found would harvest these fine ripe plums. The 688 peacetime exercises had shown this many times over.
Killing the first 688 delivers a crushing blow to fading American hopes. This attack submarine is vaunted as the finest warship in the world. When it too falls to the Soviet juggernaut, all will be lost and the paper walls that protect my father will collapse.
Vasiliy planned to play a major role in this Soviet victory.
Aboard Denver, the quartermaster reported to the conning officer, Dan Patrick, “Sounding two thousand fathoms.”
This depth matched the charted one and verified their position sixty miles east of La Perouse Strait, the last narrow passage before reaching their target area. Once clear of the Strait and in the Sea of Japan, they again become the needle in a haystack. Noise from the minesweeper masked their passage through the waters where implanted Soviet listening systems searched for them.
Dan reported via the 21MC, “Wardroom, Conn, pass to the captain we’ve crossed the two thousand fathom curve, three hundred fifty miles to the hunting ground. Add to that, I don’t think we need Ivan any longer.”
Bostwick replied over the 21MC, “Captain, aye, Conn.”
Brent, seated with the captain and the others in the wardroom for the evening meal, smiled. Another Mad Maddock scheme has paid off.
The captain instructed, “Dan, we’ll wait till after dark and torch her. This’ll give us the option of surfacing and doing the job manually if our remote doesn’t work.”
“Conn, aye, Captain,” Dan replied. “For Mr. Maddock, it’s warm and cozy in the Attack Center.”
Brent’s signal he had the next watch.
Bostwick’s response, “He’s right here and has the word.”
The seas rolled gently under a solid overcast, hence spotting Denver from the air would be highly improbable, and she held at periscope depth. Noise from the chugging diesel powered minesweeper masked all sounds from Denver but did the same for other contacts in the area. Periodic periscope sweeps ensured their path clear of surface contacts.
Dan filled the high power optics with the hapless minesweeper. He thought of her grisly cargo of deceased Soviet crewmen. They had fought bravely, but the advantage of surprise permitted the Denver raiders to prevail. The Soviet crewmen had been laid to dignified rest in their bunks. Jack Olsen then read a short memorial service for the dead of both sides over the 1MC before Denver submerged.
How sad, Dan thought. Hours before, alive and the hated enemy, but now harmless corpses. They deserved and got reverence from fellow human beings.
“Down scope,” Dan ordered.
The 21MC blurted a message, “Conn, Sonar, contact two-eight-zero, drawing right, closing, no ident.”
“Surface or submerged, Sonar?”
“Can’t tell. Never heard anything like this. Maybe a helo?”
“I’ll check it. Up number two for a look around.”
The quartermaster reported, “Two coming up,” as the shaft hissed from the well.
“Put me on zero-nine-zero,” Dan said. This bearing relative to the ships head coincided with the target’s reported position. “Bearing, mark,” then Dan yanked his head from beneath the yoke as the scope lowered. “Captain, Conn, helo inbound. Two-eight-zero true. Sonar, contact confirmed with visual.”
Jack Olsen responded, “Captain’s on the way, Conn.”
Dan gave the order to the ordnance crew standing by in the radio shack. “Radio, Conn, prepare the charge for firing.”
On his arrival, the captain demanded, “Chopper got us, Dan?”