Admiral Reed sat disdainfully before the computer console eyeing the blank screen. He had been intent on playing the game “what if” when he sat down, but never touched a key after switching on the terminal. Instead, he readily acknowledged that they were beyond the war-games stage. They were no longer struggling for position. It was now a matter of who would fire the first shot and which submarine would be the first to plunge to the bottom of the Arctic Ocean.
It had become apparent to Reed from the messages directed to him, and what little he could garner of the political situation that existed, that both Washington and the Kremlin were willing to settle things beneath the arctic ice. At this stage, the threats and counterthreats would continue on the international level. The United Nations, and those countries who understood the stakes involved if either country dug in its heels, would attempt to mediate by keeping the conflict on a shouting level.
Since the sinking of Fahrion, Reed and Danilov knew that they were not really pawns being moved about on an international set. Few people in their own countries — none among their allies — were aware of the scene evolving under the arctic ice pack. Andy Reed understood that it was being left to him and to Abe Danilov, two men who had met twice before, to settle matters. If Imperator was able to complete her journey beneath the ice and surface off Norway, the United States would have succeeded in supporting NATO and maintaining a hazardous neutrality on Europe’s Northern Flank. If she did not, the Soviet Union would control what she considered rightfully hers — the arctic seas — and she would be able to maintain her tenuous threat to America by keeping her missile submarines beneath the ice pack.
By nature, submarines and their commanders were given sanctions that other leaders with more powerful forces never entertained — once submerged, their decisions were their own. Whether they eventually were right or wrong would be determined long after they had been made and ships and men lay on the ocean bottom. Andy Reed and Abe Danilov, and each of the men who commanded the submarines under them, would settle the international squabbles taking place above them over the next thirty-six hours.
Danilov had wisely removed himself from the scene north of the Bering Strait when he realized that his odds were unsatisfactory. Now he had reached the depths near the pole, intent on a fight. Having reacted prudently before, there was no reason to believe that he now was throwing caution to the winds. He must feel that the odds were back on his side and that could mean only one thing — his reinforcements were nearby.
Six additional attack submarines had been sent out to assist him. There was no logical reason to imagine they would remain together. Sometime during the past twenty-four hours Danilov must have been in contact with them. A plan would have been formulated, a loose one because submarine warfare was an individual game — but it had to be taking shape as Reed sat staring at the console. No, there was no way to insert Danilov’s mind into a machine and expect to have definitive answers. Submarine warfare was conducted on experience and instinct. With the possible exception of an outrageous mistake, the best man won.
Reed picked up the sound-powered phone and pressed the button for the control room. When the captain came on, he said, “Turn ninety degrees to port and stop engines. Concentrate sonar on an arc about thirty degrees either side of the bow. I’m willing to buy a round for every man aboard if we aren’t being flanked ourselves right this minute. I’ll be up shortly.”
The concept had come to Reed as cleanly as if he had planned it himself. Of course — if he had six submarines coming in as a backup he’d form them in a rough half moon to avoid being flanked.
Andy Reed considered Danilov’s tactical ability equal to his own, and that’s essentially what he would have done. No matter what flank the American 688 class was on, he would be caught in a pincer. So the thing to do was to pick off the outboard submarines one by one. Using the North Pole and Danilov as the center of a rough maneuvering board, Reed devised probable positions for each of the six Russian submarines. When he was satisfied with what he had done, he left for Houston’s control room.
“Ross.” He beckoned the captain over to his side, laying out his projection. “This is the pole, right here. How about inserting a current position for Houston on my chart?”
The captain noted their position on the navigation gear, measured it off on a nearby chart, and came back to mark the same spot for Reed. “Those your Soviet subs?” he inquired, pointing at the six marks forming the half moon.
“No doubt in my mind — attack subs, each looking for us right now.”
“That one’s pretty close.” He winked at Reed. “Could be within sonar range, I’d say.”
“Want to bet on thirty degrees either side of the bow?”
“Wouldn’t touch that bet for the life of me.” Then he added, “Unless he had us before we were silent, he could end up on top of us before he knew what hit him.”
“Come on,” Reed said. “We’re not doing ourselves any good standing here staring at the watch. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
There were freshly made doughnuts on the wardroom table. They were almost finished with the second, after a short discussion on waistlines, when the wardroom phone buzzed. The captain conversed briefly in monosyllables with the OOD, then replaced the phone, explaining, “Looks like they got an Alfa on the starboard bow, Admiral. Nothing certain for range yet, but they’re maneuvering and ought to have something by the time we put away the last of these doughnuts.” He winked again and grinned. “Glad I’m not a betting man.” He glanced down at his watch, “It’s less than an hour since you told us where we’d find ’em.”
Back in the control room, the fire control tracking team was already set. “It looks like he’s about thirty miles away,” noted the executive officer. “That’s an early mark. Give them a little more time to confirm. Seems to be heading toward us at a little more than five knots — trying to be quiet, but those Alfas just seem to broadcast over three knots. His aspect has him passing somewhere on the starboard beam if he holds course.”
Reed nodded, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “He wouldn’t be so quiet if he didn’t expect we might be nearby, Danilov figured exactly what I’d do.”
“We’ve got enough time, Admiral, but I’m going to initiate the attack sequence. No telling how he might change in the next hour or so.”
Reed nodded. “The best idea would probably be to just sit here and wait for him. But that takes time and I don’t want his buddies to think we’re easy. Now that we know where he is, let’s close him very slowly on a reciprocal course. He’s not going to hear us yet and I want to get up closer to the ice. No need to be firing at the entire ice pack from down here. Let’s take away any advantage he has.”
Abe Danilov had done much of what Hal Snow anticipated from Imperator. The scenario that Snow expected with Seratov hiding silently was correct, except that Danilov had no intention of firing a torpedo. As Seratov nestled behind the pressure ridge, the admiral explained exactly what he intended to do to Stevan Lozak, then asked the captain to pass the word through every compartment that he expected absolute quiet. Every piece of machinery that could possibly be secured was silenced. Even if Snow’s sonar had heard them, the Russian submarine would now essentially disappear from the Arctic. The only possible way they could be detected would require that Imperator come around the pressure ridge and either run down the Alfa or locate them with active sonar, and Danilov knew that the Americans wouldn’t be using that.