“One’s locked on… no doubt on that.”
While sonar recorded the dual blasts from their own torpedoes that finished off Poltava, a frightened voice continued to reel off the shortening ping intervals as the Soviet torpedo bore relentlessly down on them.
In a last-ditch attempt, Ross threw the rudder sharply in the opposite direction at the same moment more decoys were released. It seemed futile to him at the time. Houston was at flank speed, making more noise than any decoys could ever hope to imitate, but it may have saved them.
“Still on us,” came the detached voice from sonar. “Closing hard… stand by…”
A deafening explosion rocked Houston. Darkness followed instantly combining with the crash of equipment and glass and frightened shouts of her crew.
The emergency lights revealed a tangle of men on the port side of the control room. Reed still grasped one of the support stanchions, but he had been thrown against the periscope and his forehead was covered with blood. Only one thing was certain — the lights proved they hadn’t yet sunk.
Damage control reports streamed into the control room. Forward spaces were still secure, with minor flooding from cracked pipes. Sonar was still functioning forward; the towed array wasn’t responding. The control area had experienced normal shock damage. The torpedo had detonated aft, somewhere off the stem — probably caused by one of the decoys. The hull remained solid, though cracked pipes in the engineering spaces were causing minor interior flooding. The engineering report was more critical — there seemed to be external damage to the propeller. Houston’s speed would be under fifteen knots. Steering problems cropped up a few minutes after and it was assumed they were likely the result of bent or broken control surfaces.
Reed tied a handkerchief around his bleeding head. “Run her through her paces, Ross. See what we can get out of her if we use a little force. Maybe if we wind her up, everything’ll straighten out.”
The planes worked properly and the trim system remained solid. But Houston literally shook herself apart at any speed beyond fourteen knots and the rudder responded only to wide, gentle turns. There would be no chance for her to maneuver under attack again. While she could still fire torpedoes, any attack on her would prove fatal.
“What’s the range to Imperator?” Reed asked unhappily.
“A little over thirty miles.”
“Steer for her,” he ordered.
Ryazan’s political officer had to say something. The tension was proving too much. Words, any words — they didn’t have to make sense — would release the pressure. He stated in a much louder voice than anticipated, “They know we’re out here.” He then felt much better. He also felt stupid for having uttered it.
“Of course they do,” the captain growled. “Submarines don’t evaporate. The American knows that as well as you do. He’s already isolated a patch of ocean, and you can be sure we’re in it.” He knew the reason for Imperator’s wide circle around their position was to remain on the outer limits of their torpedo range. He experienced a brief sense of futility — his back was against a cliff and the wolf was circling, sniffing the air… inching closer.
“Perhaps he’s had a sonar casualty,” the political officer commented.
“Perhaps.” the captain responded, without really paying attention to his answer. He was sure Imperator was functioning normally. No, there was no outside chance that they could advance on the American and fire without knowledge of their approach.
Ryazan was able to identify every sound emitted by their nemesis. They knew Imperator’s tubes had been flooded… they knew the muzzle doors lay open now as the American craft closed the half circle cautiously.
The captain was increasingly impressed with his own patience. Never before had he exhibited such calm. He had often hoped to be an example for his crew, the single thin thread that maintained discipline in the face of certain death. The captain marveled at this new side of himself and wondered if he would ever have discovered it under normal conditions. Or was it something that surfaced in a man only when he faced death? Or was it perhaps a condition that was reserved for those who had the opportunity to prepare themselves for it? After all, most men in his position never experienced the luxury of preparing for their fate; it came suddenly for most.
Like the letter he wished he could write to his wife, this was another discovery that he should have been able to relate to someone — this discovery of inner peace. No, he concluded, this is all foolishness. No man waits bravely to die. He may know that he must die, but he waits to get even!
And that is what Ryazan’s captain really desired more than anything else, more than the chance to see his family once more — he wanted to get even with the object that was taking all that he loved away from him forever.
So he was willing to tarry as long as he had to for an opportunity that might never appear. He was hoping for that unanticipated distraction that would give him an advantage over Imperator—just enough time to strike a blow before Ryazan was destroyed.
The mood in Imperator’s control room couldn’t have been more jovial. Everything in their path had been wiped out. Now, the remaining Soviet submarine in the imager was within their grasp. True, it was a projection from Caesar’s memory indicating that vessel’s last known position, but Snow knew that if they hadn’t heard it, it hadn’t gone far. Target solutions based on that memory had already been inserted in the torpedoes. The fish were warm, the tubes flooded, muzzle doors open. All that remained was to shoot at the first confirming sound.
“Captain.” It was sonar. “We’ve got something coming from Houston’s bearing. Can’t figure it out yet.”
“Computer’s working on it, too,” Carol Petersen echoed.
They already knew the alteration in her sound signature indicated damage. But she seemed able to move at a sustained speed — somewhat lower than normal — in their direction. It had just been a matter of carelessness, Snow said. Otherwise Houston would be rejoining without a scratch.
“What’s the problem?” Snow inquired irritably. “How far away is she?”
“A good twenty miles, sir… and she’s making a lot of noise with that screwed-up prop—”
“Captain,” Carol interrupted. “Caesar holds that new sound as a voice print. Houston’s trying to contact us.”
“Christ, you can’t transmit voice at that distance. Andy Reed knows that.” He didn’t want to break off the attack now.
“Must be some kind of emergency,” the XO commented. “What can the computer do with it?” Snow asked. “Caesar’s working at it, but I’m afraid…” Her voice drifted off as she waited for a response on the screen. Then, “…nothing… still too far off… too much interference from our own ship’s noise. We’ve got to close her a bit more.”
“I thought Houston was coming right toward us,” Snow retorted.
“Negative. She was on a sort of intercept course but now she seems to be drifting off… or else we’re… yeah, we’re still in a wide circle around that target, and now we’re going slightly away from that intercept point. Houston’s course is steady.”