There were indeed six Soviet submarines that had received orders from Danilov and they had spread themselves across a wide range. But they were not exactly in a half moon. While two were well out on the flanks, two others were assigned to stations between the flanking submarines and the last two, who remained a good distance from Seratov. The latter two were almost a hundred miles astern of Danilov, and they had gone silent. Their orders were to wait until an unidentified submarine came in contact. Beyond positioning themselves they would do nothing to give away their location. While a pincer was in effect, there was also a box into which Danilov hoped to draw Imperator. There would be five submarines surrounding the giant sub within hours after she passed by Seratov.
Abe Danilov depressed the button on the side of his watch, just as he had done innumerable times that day to assure himself of the date. If he could dispose of Imperator before this day was through, he would be able to keep his promise to Anna. He would be home on the tenth day.
Hal Snow fidgeted with the instruments on the chart table, then paced from station to station around the control room, peering over the shoulder of each man. Since that initial contact, that single faint indication that Seratov was somewhere ahead of them, there had been nothing.
He came to the sliding screen that separated sonar from the control room, stared at it for a moment, then slid it open a few inches. Hesitating, he glanced at the men hunched over the equipment, headphones dwarfing their heads, taking no notice of his presence. His sonar officer looked over, squinted against the glare, trying to recognize the intruder, then put his index finger to his lips for silence. Snow slid the door shut.
Striding over to the sound-powered phone, he buzzed the computer room. “Come on, what’s wrong with that computer of yours,” he asked before Carol Petersen could speak. “First you think you got him — then nothing. Either he’s out there, or you were imagining it.”
“Caesar has no imagination, Captain,” she responded calmly. “Remember, I explained to you once that we couldn’t program human qualities… and he can’t develop them himself,” she added, hoping to shield the unpleasant inflection in her voice.
“There was a submarine out there—” Snow began. “There did seem to be one, Captain. We held a man-made sound for a very short time, though it could not be firmly identified. Since that report, we have identified nothing similar.”
“Maybe you’re experiencing an electronic casualty.”
“If there was any electronic gear inoperative, Caesar would report it automatically. Everything is working. Captain,” she began, “it’s possible for a submarine to go silent and nothing could pick it up at long ranges or under certain conditions if it didn’t want to be heard—”
“So much for engineering marvels,” Snow interrupted sarcastically.
“Captain, sound does strange things in cold regions. What we heard could have been something very loud and very definite that traveled over a long distance. That’s possible. Sound waves also bend in this region. What we had could have been attenuated after a second. There are too many possibilities to begin to consider.”
“Okay, okay. I’m not patient. Forget it. I’ll just wait here,” Snow finished with exasperation as he hung up the phone.
Beyond Imperator, in the icy arctic waters, the only sounds that sonar could identify clearly were those of the ice itself, cracking, sliding, fizzing. Sea life was almost nonexistent beneath the pole.
“Range twenty-one thousand yards.”
Reed’s hand rose involuntarily in the air. “Stop,” he murmured softly to the captain, almost as if he might be heard by the approaching submarine.
Houston glided to a halt. “Sound off if you have trouble holding trim,” the captain said to the diving officer. “Any change in the contact?” he asked the fire control officer.
“I don’t think he’s about to change anything now. He seems to have increased depth.” The Soviet had secured his navigating sonar, which likely meant he’d lowered his depth at least 150 feet. “He’s still moving at about five knots… and you can be damn sure he’s straining to hear us. We could take him now, Captain.”
The captain turned to Reed, eyebrows raised in question. “Negative, Ross. Give him maybe… another twenty-five minutes. At eight thousand yards, he shouldn’t be able to dodge any torpedoes no matter what he hears. And when he turns on the horses to run and makes all that racket, the better for your fish.”
Minutes ticked by more slowly, each one seeming longer as the Soviet Alfa closed them. What if he’d tracked Houston before they were silent, each man wondered privately. Just enough data to plug into a torpedo? Maybe he’ll fire half a minute ahead of us and turn tail before we have a chance to put our fish in the water. Then we’ll be on the defensive…
The torpedoes were warm, their tubes flooded, pressure equalized, muzzle doors open, when Reed said to the captain. “Don’t let a soul make any noise, Ross. Just take her through the steps until the solution is ready, nice and easy… let your crew feel this is the easiest thing in the world… there’s going to be more…” He was whispering.
The captain silently registered the reports through to torpedo presets, checked to ensure that his target appeared to remain at the same depth, made sure that Houston was at the right.angle to the target, and finally turned to Reed. “We’re ready, sir. Request permission to shoot.”
“Your discretion, Ross.”
The captain glanced over at the fire control coordinator, who gave him the thumbs-up sign. “Shoot on generated bearings.” The sound and sensation of the water slug as the firing key was depressed was felt in every corner of the submarine. The second torpedo was no different.
“Standby decoys,” the captain ordered. It was second nature to anticipate return fire.
“Torpedoes running… wire continuity good.”
There was no time at this range for the Russian to initiate a firing sequence. Escape was the single, vital requirement of the moment. Just in the time that it took for the Russian to achieve enough speed to increase his turning angle, the American torpedoes had covered that much more ground — while the Soviet forward motion brought them even closer.
“Hull popping,” sonar reported. The creaking, crackling sound of hull compression was clear as the Soviet boat increased depth rapidly. “And she’s really turned on the horses. Her aspect’s changing fast.”
Reed watched with a professional eye as the technicians aboard Houston continued their individual functions. The attack did not cease after firing. The wire attached to each torpedo was an umbilical still connecting it to the womb, the fire control computer. Changes in the target’s actions could be transmitted to the torpedoes to avoid a programmed search pattern before they were within acquisition range. The operation ran smoothly, sonar reporting the Alfa’s evasive actions while continuous data was transferred to the miniature computers within the torpedoes.
Houston had succeeded beyond even Reed’s expectations, waiting until the ultimate moment. Their enemy had been unable to pause long enough to develop a target solution. There was no need for evasive action.
“She’s got decoys in the water… one… two… three… four of them… all running off in different directions… torpedoes still operating normally.”
Reed nudged Houston’s captain. “Looks like a good shot, Ross.”
The captain smiled. “Seems to happen whenever we have an admiral on board.” He was in awe of Reed’s tactics and could think of nothing else to say.