Snow studied the picture cautiously. He had to avoid the snap decision he had almost made. Contact could have been lost for any number of reasons. The Soviet could be exactly where he was projected… or he could have gone dead in the water, deciding silence was the best of all possible worlds. He couldn’t have continued at the same speed or they wouldn’t have lost contact at that range.
There was no indication of equipment casualties. The Russian must have understood what awaited him. If it was my decision, Snow concluded, I’d let my enemy come to me.
Carol studied Snow’s face closely. His facial expression, which had been so animated by anger moments before, recovered its original perspective. The muscles in his face relaxed, his features softened, and his eyes grew distant as he attempted to project his mind into that of the Soviet skipper. Caesar could not think for him. The computer would again become irreplaceable if contact was regained — but for the moment they depended on a single human being.
“Put him back,” Snow requested softly. “The Russian submarine… instruct Caesar to move him back to the last known position. I think… that’s where he is,” he concluded more firmly. “What would his range be when we’re on his beam… if he remained in position?”
Carol read figures from the screen: “Ten thousand three hundred.”
“Too close.” Snow turned to his OOD. “I don’t want to get too far inside his torpedo range. At about twenty thousand yards, let’s start a wide swing to starboard. Then we’ll double back. I’ll keep an eye on it.” He smiled guiltily. “I promise.”
Carol had been observing Snow with interest. He was becoming the perfect example of a split personality, one minute a captain closely integrated with his crew, the next reverting to his own image of a warrior who thoroughly enjoyed the killing. It was a new side, one that had appeared only after departing the fishbowl. Andy Reed had once explained to her that the consortium had decided on Snow because of his consistency. With all his problems in managing his personal affairs, his ability to captain a naval vessel remained constant. A shudder coursed slowly down her spine as she considered what might have altered this uniformity that had been such a strong part of his career.
Then she trembled involuntarily, aware his eyes were suddenly holding her own. He’d caught her staring! She was unable to look away, yet she was scared for some reason to hold his gaze for too long.
Snow solved her problem. “We’ll get him, just like the others. But I don’t want to take any chances. Imperator’s tough, but we’re not totally invincible. Every once in a while, these man-made wonders need a little help from their masters.”
Ryazan’s captain waited and watched. His own sonar team recorded an accurate picture not only of Imperator as she neared them, but of Poltava’s anticipated execution astern of them. What the captain desired was the impossible — some action, some sound, some natural occurrence that would distract Imperator for just long enough so that he could empty his tubes. He had no idea of what that miracle might be, but his patience was superb — he had no other option.
Though he had never before participated in an attack that would result in only one winner, he did understand that there was no such thing as creeping into an attack. Success came only to those who pressed home their attack with ferocity, and that would eventually mean revealing Ryazan’s presence to Imperator.
He wished there was an opportunity to write a last letter to his wife — even though there would never be an opportunity to post it. It would have made him feel better.
There was nothing left to chance, nothing that might give them away. Captain Lozak enjoyed the confidence and loyalty of his men and they performed flawlessly as Seratov made preparations for emerging from her hiding place. Lozak beamed with pride when Admiral Danilov commented on it.
“If your crew can continue to operate in this method, I… I just might be home in time,” Danilov said. The remark was more to himself.
Neither Sergoff nor Lozak responded. It was a personal comment that had escaped his lips quite by accident.
“Rudder amidships,” the helmsman responded to Lozak’s query.
“Make revolutions for three knots,” Lozak ordered. There was the slightest shudder as the propeller pushed against the icy water, gradually increasing the number of turns until Seratov eased away from the protection of the pressure ridge. “Left ten degrees rudder. Hold it there,” he added. “I’ll tell you when to bring it amidships.” He would wait until sonar had obtained reasonable contact with Imperator and Houston.
“We’ve got a good picture down here, Captain,” sonar reported shortly.
“Rudder amidships. All stop.” To the diving officer, he added, “Sound off if you have any trouble holding depth.”
Danilov smiled and nodded when Lozak turned in his direction. To Stevan Lozak, that was a great improvement over being lectured to with his elbow in that iron grip.
“Range fourteen thousand, Admiral.”
Reed was leaning against the stanchion by the number one periscope, his arms folded. “Move in closer so there’s no doubt. Even cripples have a way of fighting back.” The tubes had been flooded, the muzzle doors opened, the torpedoes prepared, when sonar reported, “She’s picking up speed… must’ve added at least three or four knots in the last thirty seconds.”
“You’re sure?”
“Hell, yes. With the racket she’s making with that busted pressure hull, that bucket of bolts sounds like a whole bathtub full now. You can’t hear anything else.”
“Nothing?” A note of concern crept into Reed’s voice. “Not a damn thing. Sounds like a herd of elephants.”
“Speed up the firing, Ross. I don’t know how the hell she’s doing it, but I’ll put money down that the son of a bitch is attacking.”
In less than thirty seconds, Houston’s first torpedo was on its way. A second followed shortly afterward. With the Russian slightly less than ten thousand yards away, both torpedoes were running properly.
“Turn away, Ross.” There was something very wrong with the Russian’s last moves. “That all made me very unhappy.” Reed called down to sonar: “You got anything else out there besides our own torpedoes?”
“Admiral, if there was, we’d have a hell of a time sorting it out right now. She’s covering that entire bearing — hell, it looks like ten degrees either side of the bearing with all that racket. I don’t know what she can hear from us with all the problems she’s probably having with her own noise, but she hasn’t reacted to our fish yet.”
“Goose it, Ross. I don’t care if Seratov’s sitting on our tail.” He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder as if he could see something approaching behind Houston. “And let’s add some depth, too.”
Reed was still pacing the control room when, thirty seconds later: “Contact… contact… breaking away from the same bearing.” Then, “Yeah, there is something out there.” Everything from sonar could be heard in the control room. “No… no… isolate… see if you can squelch the background… sounds like screws to me… high speed.” Then a voice was heard above all the rest. “Torpedo in the water… two of them… both torpedoes range gating in a three-second interval…” The reports continued in a staccato fashion.
“Pull the plug,” Ross howled. At this range it was more a matter of luck than technique. Houston dived. Her speed increased as fast as possible. The diving officer fought to avoid too steep an angle. Ross used his rudder to alter courses. The objective in such close quarters was to confuse the torpedo’s homing device enough to send it off after the decoys now in the water.