“Conn, sonar, I got Jonesy on the gertrude.”
Chambers lifted the control room gertrude phone. “Jones, this is Chambers. What is your condition?”
Mancuso took the mike away from his man. “Wally, this is Bart,” he said. “We took one midships, but she’s holding together. Can you run interference for us?”
“Aye aye! Starting right now, out.” Chambers replaced the phone. “Goodman, flood the MOSS tube. Okay, we’ll go in behind the MOSS. If the Alfa shoots at it, we take her out. Set it to run straight for two thousand yards, then turn south.”
“Done. Outer door open, sir.”
“Launch.”
“MOSS away, sir.”
The decoy ran forward at twenty knots for two minutes to clear the Dallas, then slowed. It had a torpedo body whose forward portion carried a powerful sonar transducer that ran off a tape recorder and broadcast the recorded sounds of a 688-class submarine. Every four minutes it changed over from loud operation to silent. The Dallas trailed a thousand yards behind the decoy, dropping several hundred feet below its course track.
The Konovalov approached the wall of bubbles carefully, with the Pogy trailing to the north.
“Shoot at the decoy, you son of a bitch,” Chambers said quietly. The attack center crew heard him and nodded grim agreement.
Ramius judged that the ensonified zone was now between him and the Alfa. He ordered the engines turned back on, and the Red October proceeded on a north-easterly course.
“Left ten degrees rudder,” Tupolev ordered quietly. “We’ll come around the dead zone to the north and see if he is still alive when we turn back. First we must clear the noise.”
“Still nothing,” the michman reported. “No bottom impact, no collapse noises…New contact, bearing one-seven-zero…Different sound, Comrade Captain, one propeller…Sounds like an American.”
“What heading?”
“South, I think. Yes, south…The sound’s changing. It is American.”
“An American sub is decoying. We ignore it.”
“Ignore it?” the zampolit said.
“Comrade, if you were heading north and were torpedoed, would you then head south? Yes, you would — but not Marko. It is too obvious. This American is decoying to try to take us away from him. Not too clever, this one. Marko would do better. And he would go north. I know him, I know how he thinks. He is now heading north, perhaps northeast. They would not decoy if he was dead. Now we know that he is alive but crippled. We will find him, and finish him,” Tupolev said calmly, fully caught up in the hunt for Red October, remembering all he had been taught. He would prove now that he was the new master. His conscience was still. Tupolev was fulfilling his destiny.
“But the Americans—”
“Will not shoot, Comrade,” the captain said with a thin smile. “If they could shoot, we would already be dead from the one to the north. They cannot shoot without permission. They must ask for permission, as we must — but we already have the permission, and the advantage. We are now where the torpedo struck him, and when we clear the disturbance we will find him again. Then we will have him.”
They couldn’t use the caterpillar. One side was smashed by the torpedo hit. The October was moving at six knots, driven by her propellers, which made more noise than the other system. This was much like the normal drill of protecting a boomer. But the exercise always presupposed that the escorting attack boats could shoot to make the bad guy go away…
“Left rudder, reverse course,” Ramius ordered.
“What?” Mancuso was astounded.
“Think, Mancuso,” Ramius said, looking to be sure that Ryan carried out the order. Ryan did, not knowing why.
“Think, Commander Mancuso,” Ramius repeated. “What has happened? Moskva ordered a hunter sub to remain behind, probably a Politovskiy-class boat, the Alfa you call him. I know all their captains. All young, all, ah, aggressive? Yes, aggressive. He must know we are not dead. If he knows this, he will pursue us. So, we go back like a fox and let him pass.”
Mancuso didn’t like this. Ryan could tell without looking.
“We cannot shoot. Your men cannot shoot. We cannot run from him — he is faster. We cannot hide — his sonar is better. He will move east, use his speed to contain us and his sonar to locate us. By moving west, we have the best chance to escape. This he will not expect.”
Mancuso still didn’t like it, but he had to admit it was clever. Too damned clever. He looked back down at the chart. It wasn’t his boat.
“The bastard went right past. Either ignored the decoy or flat didn’t hear it. He’s abeam of us, we’ll be in his baffles soon,” Chief Laval reported.
Chambers swore quietly. “So much for that idea. Right fifteen degrees rudder.” At least the Dallas had not been heard. The submarine responded rapidly to the controls. “Let’s get behind him.”
The Pogy was now a mile off the Alfa’s port quarter. She had the Dallas on sonar and noted her change of course. Commander Wood simply did not know what to do next. The easiest solution was to shoot, but he couldn’t. He contemplated shooting on his own. His every instinct told him to do just this. The Alfa was hunting Americans…But he couldn’t give in to his instinct. Duty came first.
There was nothing worse than overconfidence, he reflected bitterly. The assumption behind this operation had been that there wouldn’t be anybody around, and even if there were the attack subs would be able to warn the boomer off well in advance. There was a lesson in this, but Wood didn’t care to think about it just now.
“Contact,” the michman said into the microphone. “Ahead, almost dead ahead. Using propellers and going at slow speed. Bearing zero-four-four, range unknown.’
“Is it Red October?” Tupolev asked.
“I cannot say, Comrade Captain. It could be an American. He’s coming this way, I think.”
“Damn!” Tupolev looked around the control room. Could they have passed the Red October? Might they already have killed him?
“Does he know we’re here, Frenchie?” Chambers asked, back in sonar.
“No way, sir.” Laval shook his head. “We’re directly behind him. Wait a minute…” The chief frowned. “Another contact, far side of the Alfa. That’s gotta be our friend, sir. Jesus! I think he’s heading this way. Using his wheels, not that funny thing.”
“Range to the Alfa?”
“Under three thousand yards, sir.”
“All ahead two thirds! Come left ten degrees!” Chambers ordered. “Frenchie, ping, but use the under-ice sonar. He may not know what that is. Make him think we’re the boomer.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“High-frequency pinging aft!” the michman called out. “Does not sound like an American sonar, Comrade.”
Tupolev was suddenly puzzled. Was it an American to seaward? The other one on his port quarter was certainly American. It had to be the October. Marko was still the fox. He had lain still, letting them go past, so that he could shoot at them!