Those “higher-ups” in the party had great influence in furthering the careers of captains when they became too senior to stay aboard submarines. It was worthwhile letting the political officer participate.
“Do you assume it is an American?” the political officer inquired. He had already determined in his own mind that it must be. but he never committed himself without first discussing the matter with the captain.
“None of our own boats are in this area. Nothing can travel on the surface. The Canadians operate nothing here.” He traced a lightly penciled line on the chart representing the rough bearing from Novgorod that sonar had reported. There was nothing in that direction. The pencil passed into the wilderness of Canada’s Northwest Territory. “If there is a true submarine contact on that bearing, it has to be an American.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything other than that myself. My recommendations would be to attack as soon as identification is conclusive.”
“Thank you.” The captain might have been sarcastic but political officers were meant to be humored. He paid little attention to a report that sonar had lost the contact momentarily.
A small, dangerous fire in Olympia had been controlled quickly. It was an accident. The cooks normally kept a tin of oil near the grill, a practice approved by the executive officer during sea trials, but in this case, one of the copper kettles had been balanced precariously on a shelf above the grill by one of the mess cooks. When another had been shoved onto the same shelf, the first one slipped off. A frantic grab for it dislodged a third kettle which had tipped the fat onto a red-hot burner. Luckily, no one was injured. They’d all been through the drill so many times that the fire was controlled within moments. But in that time, the most precious item in a submarine — air — had been consumed beyond the ability of the equipment to replace it quickly. A most dangerous addition to the environment had also been added — smoke.
The precipitators had worked overtime to remove particulate. Oxygen had been regulated quickly, but the stench hung heavily in the air. Eventually the submarine would cleanse itself — it was designed to do so — but there was nothing like fresh air and the captain decided that he would poke the sail above the surface in a nearby polynya.
It took no more than half an hour to retrace their steps to an opening in the ice. Olympia’s sail stuck just above the ice, enough to satisfy their needs. The captain was alone on the bridge, wrapped in arctic foul-weather gear, when a call came from the control room. “Captain, we’ve picked up an unusual signal on the ESM gear off to the northwest.”
“Any idea what it is?”
“Hard to be absolutely sure. A couple of the technicians claim they’ve listened to similar recordings in school. They seem to think it’s one of those high-speed transmission buoys the Russians pop up to the surface to send messages.”
“Aren’t those directional? Straight up to a satellite?”
“Right, Captain, but they do bob around a little bit. There’s some spillage and we’re damn sure down here we got the right reading…”
“And,” the captain responded to the pause.
“And if it’s a Soviet submarine taking a normal message break, then he can’t be that far away. The technician on the set says he doubts that we could have picked that up much more than thirty miles away from the transmitter.”
“What else could it be?”
“Nothing else, I’m told.” Some louder voices echoed in the background. “Out here, Captain, there’s practically nothing else they pick up on the ESM gear to begin with. When they get a signal, these guys move pretty fast… and they said that was strong enough so that it had to be pretty close. Nothing on that frequency travels any distance horizontally, even under the weirdest of conditions.” They pretty sure they got a live one then?” He was sure, but he wanted to hear it confirmed first.
“Stake their lives on it, Captain.”
The hell with airing the wash. Prepare to submerge.
And man battle stations.” He leaped through the first hatch. There had been nothing to secure on the bridge.
Abe Danilov was increasingly displeased with himself. Before departing Polyarnyy, he’d understood how vital his mission was, but he had also seen it as one in which he would quickly finish off anything allowed to transit the Bering Strait into the Chukchi Sea. It was hard to imagine that a submarine, regardless of its size or impressive capabilities, could not be destroyed within the first few days by Soviet forces. The methods of terminating its voyage had been planned well ahead of time in the Kremlin, so he was not as yet sure why each of their carefully planned attempts had failed. He was willing to give Imperator credit for being a magnificent instrument, but he gave even more credit where he felt it was due — to Admiral Reed for seeing that his charge was safely protected.
Scant days before, Danilov had envisioned a one-on-one situation as he lay in his bunk. He admitted that his speculations were somewhat childlike, for he was imagining great feats that he would perform to the adulation of his peers. What he now faced were men equally as able as he and a machine that possessed capabilities yet to be tested.
He was sure that Houston was still with Imperator, and also suspected that his earlier assumption had been correct — that there was one American submarine heading east to guard the Northwest Passage. That alone justified sending Novgorod there. While he couldn’t imagine navigating something the size of Imperator through those narrow, ice-jammed stretches that time of year, this move would also prevent any sweep of an American submarine behind his own forces.
Now, Abe Danilov found himself in the position he might have dreamed about just a few short nights before. Seratov was alone now, maneuvering to interpose herself between the oncoming American behemoth and the homeland. Houston was still escorting her charge while Seratov was at a slight disadvantage after the loss of Smolensk.
Danilov rarely, if ever, weighed the odds for or against him. While most naval experts would give a Los Angeles-class submarine like Houston the nod over a Russian Alfa, Danilov felt perfectly comfortable facing one at any time. Even against the formidable Imperator, he wouldn’t have bothered himself over rumored superior abilities. But against the two of them, and considering the talent commanding them. Danilov was wisely reassessing the situation.
There were another half dozen Soviet attack submarines racing under the icepack to support him. They would be able to provide aid by the end of the next day. It made excellent sense to accept the advantage of numbers — even though he ached for the opportunity to personally destroy Imperator.
But, too often now, as he considered his situation, another factor intruded to curtail his planning — Anna, his wife. Her patient endurance would be considerably shortened if he could dispatch this invader now and return to their cozy apartment in Moscow.
He was interrupted by a burst message just arrived from Novgorod—she had what must be an American submarine under surveillance; they would evaluate the contact and prosecute as necessary. Providing the American was sunk, Novgorod could rejoin him by the next day. Danilov was reluctant to lose any precious moments with Anna, but a wiser mind would wait for backup.