“Thank you,” Kovitz said. “I think we can do this,” he said to his Navigator. “I don’t like running from anyone but the odds of two to one are not to my liking. Too bad we don’t have any long-range torpedoes aboard or we could make those two bastards think twice.”
“Range to the first contact is opening slightly,” the loudspeaker said. “Range to the second contact is holding steady, sir. It is very hard to get accurate ranges at this speed, sir.”
“Understood,” Kovitz said. He smiled at the Navigator. “We are faster than they are. It will be all right.”
“Torpedoes! Second contact has fired two torpedoes! The torpedoes are coming this way!”
“Left rudder, left full rudder, make course one one eight!” Kovitz ordered. “He’s a fool. The Americans don’t have torpedoes that will reach out that far. We’ll show our ass to him and let his torpedoes run out of fuel and sink. Sonar! Keep one ear on those torpedoes. Let me know the second they stop running.” He turned to the Navigator, who was noting the change of course on the chart.
“This delays us a little but as soon as his torpedoes stop running we’ll get back on course.” His Navigator forced a smile.
“The stag and two wolves and the stag is the cleverer of the three,” he said in a low voice.
In the Orca’s Attack Center Captain Reinauer was studying the plot on the computer video screen. He traced the line of the Soviet submarine’s course with a forefinger.
“Like we figured. Miller turned him away from a run toward Portugal. Now it looks as if he’s trying to get back to the Strait. Bastard might make it, too, he’s damned fast. Faster than we are, I think. We aren’t closing range at all.” He spoke into the battle telephone that hung around his neck.
“Sonar, can you get me anything on the lateral at this speed, can you pick up the Devilfish?”
“Affirmative, sir. We have the Devilfish now. He’s way out there on our port side, bearing is three one seven, sir.” Reinauer watched as Lieutenant Bill Reiss, the Weapons Officer, typed in the bearing of the Devilfish on the computer keyboard. A small white dot appeared on the video screen indicating the position of the Devilfish.
“Very well,” Reinauer said. He unsnapped the tape that held the telephone set around his neck and laid it on the table. “I’m going down to the torpedo room, XO. Be back in a minute or two.”
Turk Raynor turned as Captain Reinauer walked into the torpedo room.
“I think we’ll be firing in ten minutes or less,” Reinauer said. “I want to use two SUBROCs, one from each side of the room. What burn separation do you have cranked into the missiles, Turk?”
“Max range, Captain,” Raynor said. “We’ve got one SUBROC and one Mark Thirty-Seven, Mod Two in the tubes starboard. Same on the port side, sir.”
“Shift from manual burn time separation to computer separation,” Reinauer ordered.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Raynor said. “Gonna take the target out before Devilfish gets into torpedo range, sir?”
“That’s what we’re going to try,” Reinauer said. “That is, if the missiles work. Stingray fired two a couple of weeks ago and they came out of the tubes and sank.”
“That’s Stingray,” Raynor growled. “Every missile, every fish I’m responsible for on Orca will work, Captain.”
“That’s all anyone can ask for,” Reinauer said, his voice mild. He climbed the stairs to the Attack Center and heard the loudspeaker.
“Devilfish has fired two torpedoes!”
“All ahead one-third,” Reinauer snapped. “Sonar, nail down that target for me! Engine Room, stand by to give me every pound of steam that plant will put out. Right ten degrees rudder.” He waited, looking at the computer video screens, watching the white circle on the screen shifting, trying to put himself inside the mind of the Soviet submarine captain, trying to reason out what the other man would do when he heard the torpedoes running toward him.
“Rudder amidships,” he ordered.
“Captain Miller fired from too far out,” Eckert, standing at his shoulder, spoke in a whisper. “If the target turns and runs away from the fish he’ll be able to outrun them.” He nudged Reinauer’s shoulder. “That’s what he’s doing now!” Captain Reinauer looked at the changing circles on the video screen, his teeth showing in a smile in his black beard.
“Precisely!” he whispered to Eckert. He raised his voice. “Damn it, Sonar, lock in on that target!”
“Target is changing course to starboard. He’s making lots of knots, we’re getting a turn count a lot higher than he ran at before. He’s going fast!”
“All ahead emergency!” Reinauer ordered. “Come to course one nine eight. Bill, I want a computer solution of the attack problem.” He watched as the computer video screens changed radically and then showed the three ships.
“Firing range, sir?” Reiss said calmly, his fingers poised above the computer keyboards.
“Forty thousand yards. Co-ordinate sonar and fire control computers. I want to fire two, shallow parabola. I want one missile on each side of the target.” Reiss’s fingers flew over the computer keyboards.
“Burn separation of rocket and missile warheads will be at thirty-eight thousand yards, Captain,” Reiss said. “Computer indicates a free fall arc of two thousand yards for the warheads. Burn separation times have been cranked into the missiles, sir.
“Very well,” Reinauer answered.
“Target is turning to its port,” the loudspeaker said. “Torpedoes fired by Devilfish ran down just before he made his turn. Bearing on the target is now zero two zero, sir.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. “All hands stand by. This will be a firing run.” He studied the main video display screen. Two dotted white lines ran from the Orca’s position to each side of the target on the screen. A figure appeared beside the target’s position: range 39,000 yards.
“One hundred feet,” Reinauer ordered. “Make turns for one-third speed at one hundred and fifty feet. Open tube doors at one hundred twenty-five feet. Stand by in the torpedo rooms for manual firing if automatic fails.”
The firing problem was now committed to the computers. The sonar transmitters were sending out a steady barrage of sonar beams. The receivers picked up the return echoes and the computers analyzed the time interval and changed it into yards from the target and then fed the bearings and the distance to the target into the fire control computers which in turn sent commands to the electronics within the SUBROC missiles. The main display screen showed the target beginning to turn to starboard and then coming back to port. The two dotted white lines that straddled the target shifted with the target’s movements.
“That’s one hell of a sophisticated device out there,” Lieutenant Reiss said. “It’s jinking from one side to the other, just like a submarine would if it were being hit with a ranging sonar beam.”
“You can’t tell what those electronic people will come up with,” Reinauer said.
“One hundred feet, steady platform,” the helmsman said.
The figure beside the target on the display screen began to change to reflect the Orca’s decreased speed. Lieutenant Reiss punched two keys on the firing console.
“Weapons are on automatic firing mode, sir,” he said.
“Very well,” Reinauer answered. As the figure on the screen changed to 40,000 yards Reinauer felt the slight jar under his feet as the air and water rams hurled the SUBROC missiles out of the torpedo tubes. He waited, feeling strangely at peace. The worry he had felt during the chase had fallen away. The doubts that had crowded his mind were gone.