“Very well,” Reinauer said. “Helm, come left to three zero zero.” He looked at the video screen.
“That puts us on a closing course with him,” he said to Eckert. He turned to Lieutenant Bill Reiss, the weapons officer.
“Give me a time of direct closing,” he said quietly. Reiss punched the keys on his computer console.
“At this speed, twenty knots, we’ll be at collision point in three minutes, sir,” Reiss said. “He’s running at two hundred feet, sir. Devilfish is on his starboard beam at the same depth.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. “Maintain present speed.”
“What do you intend to do?” Eckert said.
Captain Reinauer grinned, his white teeth showing in his thick black beard.
“We’ve got a reinforced sail on this lovely baby of ours. We can break through six feet of pack ice if we have to. I’m going to try and slide up underneath that bastard and give him a nudge. ComSubLant said to do a bump and run if possible. We’ll bump the bastard!” He held down the talk button on his telephone.
“Sonar, this is the Captain. You think there’s any chance either of those targets out there can hear us?”
“Not a chance, sir. They’re making so much noise I don’t think they can hear anything at all, sir.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. He looked at the screen again and raised his eyes to Bill Reiss.
“Go to computer navigation to close on the nearest target. I want to come up underneath him and do it at dead slow.” The helmsman leaned back in his padded chair as three lights flared on his console, indicating that depth, course and speed were now being controlled by the computers. Reinauer and Eckert watched the video screen as the white dot that was the Orca closed rapidly on the nearest of the other two white dots.
“Depth is three hundred feet, sir,” the helmsman said. “Up bubble of five degrees. Speed slowing to five knots, sir. Up bubble now two degrees, sir.”
“Very well,” Reinauer said. He looked upward instinctively as the sound of the Soviet submarine’s screw echoed through the hull of his ship.
“Relative positions,” Reinauer snapped.
“We’re coming into him just aft of his bow,” Reiss said. “Eighty degree port angle on the bow for us.”
“Give me a vertical range!” Reinauer snapped.
“Target is fifty, repeat five zero feet above us, sir!” The sonar operator’s voice was cracking with excitement.
“Close on a collision course!” Reinauer ordered. “One bump and then flood down and come hard left rudder after the bump.” He turned to Eckert.
“I hope that bastard’s got a solid keel, I don’t want the son of a bitch draped around our neck!” He pressed the button on his telephone set.
“All hands, stand by for a collision. Helm, stand by for hard left rudder and turn for forty knots as soon as we hit. Flood manifold, stand by for quick flood and deep depth after the bump.” He waited, watching the two white dots merge on the screen. Bill Reiss, standing in front of his computer console keyboards, cleared his throat.
“Expect collision in twenty-one seconds, sir. Override for helm on speed and depth is go, sir.”
The Orca closed relentlessly on its target. The American submarine’s bow slid just beneath the hull of the Soviet submarine and the heavily reinforced top of the Orca’s sail slammed into the Soviet submarine’s keel with a loud crash. The crew members on watch in the forward section of the Soviet submarine were thrown off their feet by the force of the collision and amidships, in the Command Center, Captain Malenkov went to his knees, clutching at the work table in front of him to keep from falling.
“Collision!” the Navigator screamed. “Rig all compartments for collision! Make a report on damage!”
Aboard the Devilfish Captain Miller ordered his Sonar Room to stop ranging on the Soviet submarine.
“Ranging stopped, Control,” the Sonar Room reported. “The target has stopped ranging, sir.”
Captain Miller studied his video screens. John Carmichael, standing beside him, pointed at the screen. “That second blip, that must be the Orca. What the hell did he do? Look, he’s turning away, going deep, increasing speed. Both the damn blips were one piece when I looked at it the first time.”
“I think that son of a bitchin’ Reinauer sneaked in on the Russian while all the noise was going on and gave him a bump and run,” Captain Miller said. “Bastard never did tell me what he intended to do if we caught up with the Soviet sub. All he asked me to do was to get on its starboard side if we were both to port when we picked up the Soviet sub and to make a lot of noise. Bastard!” There was a tone of admiration in his voice. “Look, he’s well clear of the Soviet now and he’s turning back, coming up to depth.” He winced as the loudspeakers on the bulkhead blared with the sound of the Orca’s echo-ranging transmitters.
“He’s giving him hell from the other side. Commence full decibel ranging on the target. We’ll make that bastard go out of his mind with noise!”
The initial confusion aboard the Soviet submarine was over in less than a minute as the crew, meticulously trained for emergencies, found that there were no leaks and that the ship was still answering its helm. Captain Malenkov looked at his Navigator.
“Two submarines after us,” he said. “One deliberately came up underneath us and hit us! They’re madmen! What in the hell is going on? We’ve done nothing wrong. Are these bastards going to risk an international incident?” He jumped as the Orcas’s sound transmitters hit the port side of his ship with a devastating roar of noise. Seconds later the noise doubled as the Devilfish joined in from the starboard side with its own shattering sound waves.
“Surface!” Captain Malenkov ordered. “I’m not going to stay down here with two madmen on each side of us. We’ll go up and if they come up we’ll find out what the hell they’re up to.” He grabbed at the work table for support as the submarine slanted upward sharply.
“He’s going up,” Orca’s Sonar Room reported. “He’s blowing ballast tanks, Control. He’s at one hundred feet and going up, sir.”
“Surface,” Captain Reinauer ordered. “Let’s go up with him and see what happens. Tell Devilfish we’re surfacing and suggest they do the same.”
The Soviet submarine broke through the surface of the Atlantic and wallowed in the long deep-water swells, its rounded hull almost submerged. On either side of it the smaller American attack submarines burst through the surface, throwing spray as the sleek hulls reared half out of the water and then settled back. Captain Malenkov climbed into the upper part of his submarine’s sail and took a bullhorn from his quartermaster. He watched and saw figures come into view in the top part of the sails on the two submarines that were now stationed on his port and starboard beams, less than one hundred yards away.
“What is the meaning of this madness?” Malenkov said into the bullhorn mouthpiece. “This is Captain Malenkov of the Soviet Navy. I demand to know why you are interfering with my ship in international waters.”
Captain Reinauer raised his bullhorn to his mouth. “No one has interfered with you, Captain. We were trying to protect you from some American whales that make their home in these waters.”
“Whales?” Captain Malenkov’s voice was almost a scream. “You rammed my ship! You may have damaged my hull. I’ll have you before an international court of inquiry! Who am I speaking to?”
“Captain Richard Reinauer, United States Navy, commanding the U.S.S. Orca, Fleet Attack Submarine. The ship on your starboard hand is the U.S.S. Devilfish, commanded by Captain Robert Miller, United States Navy.