Danilov would let Novgorod keep Houston busy on her return.
The decision to wait, to be cautious, won out for the time being over the childish dream of facing the dragon — slaying Imperator.
Novgorod’s captain relished his haughty position on the raised platform in the center of the control room. He glanced for a moment at the political officer who stood next to him, then glared back down at the navigation officer as if he’d broken a cardinal rule.
Just minutes before, the navigation officer had asked for and received permission to utilize the forward-looking sonar. Traveling as close to the ice as they were, it was standard navigating procedure to activate that sonar for several sweeps every ten minutes to ascertain the likelihood of any ice keels in their path. The last time, approximately eight minutes ago, they’d had a return almost two thousand yards dead ahead. At six knots, they would cover that distance in ten minutes. “I reduced speed when you first identified it,” the captain finally responded. “We shouldn’t be there yet.”
“Captain, sonar has reported numerous times that the ice is shifting around us. We are almost on top of that contact. It could be a deep pressure ridge.” When ice floes ground together, one piece would inevitably ride up on another. Current and wind could play havoc with the process, forcing tons of ice downward to create a hazard to any submarine just below the ice pack.
The captain turned to the political officer, who nodded his agreement, though he never stopped glaring at the navigating officer. “Very well… one ping.”
“Thank you, sir.” The navigating officer gave the order and the forward-looking sonar was activated for one ping. The result was a solid mass across the scope.
“Two hundred yards… dead ahead… recommend—” began the navigating officer.
“All stop,” the captain ordered.
“Recommend all back, sir. There appears to be a major ridge close on the bow.”
“All back one-third,” the captain responded. “Give me a new course,” he growled quietly.
“I… I’m not sure, Captain. It covered the scope. Recommend coming right about ninety degrees… but we must then activate the sonar again… just once,” he stammered, “to make sure…” He was unused to this type of badgering and assumed that it was caused by the political officer. The navigating officer was never hesitant working directly with the captain.
The captain gave the necessary orders, followed by a final warning to the navigating officer: “Just once… just to make sure. The next time I prefer to go deeper rather than use sonar. I don’t want to broadcast our position to the Americans.”
The sonar made one final ping. A clear track lay ahead. The navigating officer recommended a revised course toward the target and was relieved that he had another ten minutes before he was required to interrupt the captain and the political officer again.
The captain called into the sonar room, “Nothing more on that contact?”
“No, Captain,” the sonar officer reported. They had picked up enough sporadically on tape to identify the contact as a Los Angeles-class submarine. There had been other sounds, an alarm of some kind in the interior of the contact — maybe for an exercise but that was foolish in these waters unless it was an emergency. Then the contact had apparently reversed course. That was followed by sounds of surfacing a short time later. The operations officer had discussed the events with the captain, both men coming to the same conclusion. It was quite probable an exercise had been conducted in which the American was required to find a polynya and surface. Since there was no reason for patrolling this particular area, they assumed it would resume its course toward Lands End on Prince Patrick Island. They laid off its projected path on the chart.
The captain turned to his operations officer. “Where should he be now?”
“Almost thirty points off the starboard bow. Captain, perhaps twenty kilometers distant.”
The political officer looked at the captain with apprehension. Neither one could imagine why nothing more had been heard, especially at that range, unless somehow they had been heard…
A hush of anticipation spread through each space in Olympia. This crew had destroyed a Soviet submarine just days before in the Pacific, yet they also knew their limitations. They had almost been sunk themselves and the realization was sobering. There was no direct order, nothing passed by word of mouth, that silenced them. Rather, it was a return of excitement and terror coupled with mature understanding after their first experience. And there was that feeling common among submariners that allowed no room for a mistake. Another few yards on that last Soviet torpedo, and they might all be dead now! Luck certainly wouldn’t visit them twice.
“Got ’em!” The chief sonarman seemed to whisper the contact report under his breath. “Port bow…”
The captain moved the short distance into the sonar room, leaning over the chief’s shoulder. “What have you got, Chief?”
“Ice did it.” His voice was still a whisper. “Got ’em twice. Once when they were boxed in by a pressure ridge. They turned… clear sailing… if we’d been closer they might have picked us up.”
“Any range?” Now the captain’s voice had become a whisper to match the chief’s.
“Hard to say, sir. I know it’s one of their forward-looking sonars… heard ’em before… don’t quite know their range… maybe twenty thousand yards… maybe a bit more… no less.”
“No machinery noise, Chief?”
“Quiet as hell, Captain. Must know we’re out here.” He looked up to catch the captain’s eye. “They’re getting better, sir. When they get this quiet, they’re hunting.”
The captain stroked his chin for a moment before looking down at the chief “Would he pick us up if I took her up another four or five knots?”
The chief nodded without hesitation. “Like I said, sir, he’s probably hunting. If he knows roughly where we are, he’ll be listening right around our bearing.” He spread his hands, and shrugged. “Hell, Captain, there’s nothing else out here but us… no sea life… nothing. Anything that makes a sound is going to be us as far as he’s concerned.” The captain clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what I figured.” He turned back as he was leaving the darkened room. “I promise I’ll stay just as quiet.”
Olympia’s captain went directly to the weapons control coordinator. “I want you to prepare for an attack now. They tell me in there”—he jerked his head in the direction of sonar—“that the other guy knows where we are, but he’s not about to give us another chance to hear him, either. Do everything you have to do now — warm up two torpedoes, flood the tubes slowly, open the doors… and see if you can get sonar to help you. That ice upstairs is making some noise. Wait until we’ve got a growler if you can, especially when you open the muzzle doors. Let’s try to keep all that racket to ourselves.”
Then the captain moved over to the plotting table, beckoning the executive officer with him. A quartermaster was already making a paper overlay with the approximate position of the Soviet submarine in relation to the lighted bug representing Olympia. The two men studied the relative position of their vessels, the XO waiting for the captain to speak.
“He heard us first. Maybe he got enough to get some sort of course before we went completely silent.” He nodded to the quartermaster. “Why don’t you lay off a projected course for us for about fifty or sixty minutes… same speed as now,” he added.