Through all of the day’s action, he was as tempted as Lozak to venture forth to assist his sheep. Yet Admiral Danilov remained aloof to their needs. He was in sole command and his orders were to destroy Imperator. He had not been expected to return with every man and submarine under his command… only to destroy what appeared to be the greatest threat to his country. He was doing it the best way he knew how.
Carol Petersen, curiosity piqued, remained in the control room, but well away from Hal Snow. Though Caesar continued to provide data to all weapons systems, Snow retained control. There wasn’t a trace of doubt in anyone’s mind that he would now show that he could complete the next attack as efficiently as the computer.
Snow was again perched on his stool before the imager. The representation of Tambov was vague, almost to the point of fading. Sonar no longer held contact, and only Caesar’s memory bank provided an image of the Soviet’s last known position. A series of pressure ridges had formed in that location, deep clefts of ice forced downward by the clash of immense floes above — tons of ice temporarily forced fifty, seventy-five, sometimes more than a hundred feet below the surface by unimaginable pressure.
It was a dangerous retreat at best, but worth a chance after the harsh destruction of Orel. Her captain was sure that there was no passive sonar able to detect him amidst the crush of these untold tons of ice. He had no doubt of Imperator’s intentions. She had turned at high speed from her destruction of Orel and headed immediately in his direction. Revised target data were continually inserted into his torpedoes. Once the range was right, he would increase his depth, maneuvering for a proper angle on his target to empty his tubes. He was sure that lurking between the pressure ridges vastly increased his odds.
Glancing out of the comer of his eye, Snow noticed Carol hovering in the background. He motioned her forward with a wave of his arm. “Grab a stool. More than enough room to watch the fun from here.”
She’d been hoping he would notice her, hoping his mood would remain positive. She made a concerted effort to be as casual as she could. “You and Imperator are finally getting a chance to—”
“Oh, no bother about the ship. We both knew she could do it.” He was totally engrossed in what they were doing, yet seemed quite pleased she was there. “See… the Sierra, right there.” He pointed toward the pressure ridges.
“If that’s where Caesar left him. I’ll go along with you.”
Snow frowned momentarily. “He’s there,” he repeated conclusively.
“What do you think he’s planning?” The question sounded stupid when it came out.
“He’s hoping we don’t know where the hell he is… just snuggled in there waiting for us to come looking… waiting until we’re in range,” he mused, almost to himself. Then he added with more certainty, “It’s a damn good idea. I’d do the same. All the racket up there from the ice would give the average sonar fits. But, then, you know your equipment.” He grinned, patting her shoulder without looking away from the imager. “It was designed to do just what it’s doing now. Even though we don’t hold him on sonar, the memory has him in the last known position… and it’s one hell of a good one.”
Carol nodded. She’d programmed Caesar, first attending all the courses on tactics that the navy offered. Then she spent time with the war games people so she could understand how battles evolved in the past and how today’s warriors studied them in relation to modern weapons.
Snow spoke before she asked the inevitable. “Of course, I’m not going to let him come out and take a shot at us. We’re going to remove his hiding place instead.” This time he held her eyes with a satisfied grin. “We get to try those new fish, the ones with the sodium heads.” When sodium came in contact with water, it almost exploded with a violent reaction of hydrogen bubbles, burning with an intense yellow heat. It had been designed specifically for under-ice warfare.
“Remove the walls he’s built…”
“Mirrors,” Snow responded quietly. “It’s just like a mirror up there. We’re just going to shatter his mirrors so he’s standing there naked.”
When Imperator came within range, which remained beyond the effective range of the Soviet submarine’s torpedoes, both Washington and Moscow soon understood that a violent confrontation was taking place on the Russian side of the North Pole. Infrared satellites detected tremendous amounts of heat. Boiling water roared skyward through fissures in the ice pack from the explosive contact of sodium and water. Nine separate blasts were recorded, the last four tracing the outline of Tambov as she frantically attempted to escape from the plunging cakes of ice ricocheting off her hull.
The “eye in the sky” satellites — the ones that could identify a postage stamp in the snow — relayed photographs that could have been taken at Yellowstone. Tall geysers of steaming water continued to burst into the arctic air, propelled through ice fissures by the violent reaction of the sodium as the warheads burst open against the pressure ridges. Icebergs the size of churches leaped skyward as they were released by the pressure of overriding ice floes, their pinnacles magnificent spires reaching for the heavens.
The satellites could record only what existed within their capabilities. They could not see what happened to the Sierra-class submarine that had been nestled between these pressure ridges. Tambov reared upward from the initial blasts, three at about the same time. Her captain had made no effort to evade the approaching torpedoes because he assumed there was no way a homing torpedo could seek them out—Tambov was secure and silent behind the protective ice.
Not until the final seconds did her captain become concerned with their true purpose. His suspicions, though well founded, were too late. Not a soul aboard Tambov understood what was happening to them. They hadn’t been hit by a torpedo, nor was there any explosion near enough to cause them damage. Yet they found their craft leaping uncontrollably upward from a force beneath them.
A combination of pressure and immense broken chunks of ice keels attacked from beneath. Other bursts to either side rocked their craft. Beyond the impact of the blasts, the sound rolled through Tambov as if they were locked inside a bass drum. Ice breaking, ice grinding against other suddenly free chunks, ice leaping beyond the surface only to crash down again, the millions of bubbles created by the constant reaction of sodium and water — all this perpetual sound created a waking nightmare within Tambov. So horrifying was this experience that each man seemed driven within himself by an unnatural fear — the terror of the unseen! Not a one seemed capable of moving. They could neither hear nor follow orders. The unknown encased them in a living hell.
Above and around them, the Arctic became a boiling cauldron. The sudden geysers of water created by new fissures were followed by immense waves that leaped into the air as great chunks of ice tumbled back to the sea, driven deep by their own weight. Icy water ran across the broad white expanse of the ice pack, puddling in depressions that increased to pond size until the ice broke away from the weight of the water.
One huge mound of ice pitched across Tambov’s bow, scraping heavily down one side, twisting the bow plane closure into a sealed compartment. Another fell against the sail structure, crushing the periscope opening and ripping the upper bridge access hatch away. The outer hull had been rent with dents and jagged holes from bow to stern.