“Belay that order to blow the main tanks!” directed Sergei Markova.
“Senior Lieutenant, what’s the best course available to see us out of this trap?”
Before Viktor Belenko could answer, the Admiral of the Fleet found himself crying out in protest.
“You can’t be serious, Captain? This is no time to be fainthearted. If this vessel is the Yankee Sturgeon that we paid our respects to earlier, now is the time to finish them off for good.”
This remark was given some substance by the sonar operator’s next report.
“The computer shows a seventy-three percent probability that this contact is an American Sturgeon class submarine. Captain.”
“We’ve got clear water ahead of us on course three-four-zero, Captain,” offered the senior lieutenant firmly.
“That’s the coward’s way!” spat the white-haired veteran. “If we stand a chance of successfully completing this mission, we must make our stand here and now. Flood those torpedo tubes. Captain Markova, and rid the seas of this Imperialist menace once and for all!”
For one brief confusing moment, Sergei Markova found himself vacillating between two drastically different choices. Under normal circumstances, he would not hesitate to send the Neva running for the cover of open water. The alternative was to launch a torpedo attack. In his relatively short but full career, he had never before given such a drastic order. As a veteran cold-warrior, he was well aware of how much one could get away with before crossing that thin line leading to the unthinkable — a global nuclear exchange.
A set of unwritten rules existed that regulated the degree of escalation in the undersea realm. Each side probed deep into the other’s territory, and even such potentially dangerous practices as ramming were unofficially condoned. Yet an actual torpedo attack was definitely out of the question.
“The contact continues on course, and is reaching our offensive threshold, Captain,” reported the sonar operator.
“For the sake of the Motherland, launch those torpedoes. Captain! Don’t you see? We have no other choice in this matter.”
Sergei turned to directly face Kharkov as the white-haired veteran continued his impassioned plea.
“I realize such an attack is unprecedented in this time of fragile peace, Captain. But the moment the Imperialists shot down the Flying Kremlin, a new and violent stage of this so-called cold war came into being.
“Don’t forget about that squadron of F-15 Eagles we monitored closing in on our Il–76 with their afterburners ignited. And how can you ignore the disruptive electronic interference sent skyward from their Polestar DEW line installation? The Soviet Union might have lost a beloved leader in the dastardly missile attack that followed, but I can guarantee you that we haven’t lost our resolve. So for the sake of Alexander Suratov’s memory, now is the time to start evening the score. And once the black box is ours you’ll realize the validity of these words, and the whole world will cry out for justice!”
“Captain, the contact has entered our defensive zone,” interrupted the unemotional sonar operator. “From this point onward, the Neva is well within the range of the Sturgeon’s Mk-48 torpedoes.”
“Shall I initiate immediate evasive maneuvers, Captain?” quizzed the concerned senior lieutenant. “A launch by the Sturgeon now would most likely prove fatal.”
His gaze still locked on the distinguished face of the Admiral of the Fleet, Sergei felt the old-timer will him onward, and the young officer reluctantly nodded.
“There will be no evasive maneuvers. Senior Lieutenant, until we first launch a salvo of our own,” declared the captain. “Such a drastic decision is necessitated by a single concern. As long as that Sturgeon remains in these waters, our ultimate mission is compromised. So we have no choice but to eliminate it.”
A relieved grin broke upon Mikhail Kharkov’s face as he listened to the young captain call out forcefully.
“Prepare tubes one and three for firing. Sonar, we’re going to need a sonic interface between the target’s signature and those warheads. And for our very lives, make it a secure one!”
Helping tag the suspected Soviet submarine as it attempted to smash its way through the ice, was just the kind of thing that Seaman Lester Warren needed to snap him out of his doldrums. A new spirit of self-confidence infused the junior sonar technician as this contact was confirmed and the Defiance moved in to intercept it.
Any thoughts of abandoning his console to fill his empty stomach were far from the Texan’s mind. Instead he was very content to remain right at his duty station, with his veteran shipmate manning the terminal on his right.
Since initially picking up the enemies’ signature, they had monitored them making yet another futile attempt to smash their way to the surface. Currently headed downward for what appeared to be one last effort, the Russians had just taken on additional ballast. Even at a range of thirty miles, this distinctive racket was clearly audible.
One of the unusual features of under-ice operations was the manner in which such signatures traveled. Because the sound waves were reflected upward by the seabed and downward by the ice cover, man-made signatures could be heard for a great distance. This would be particularly significant if the ambient sounds of the ice itself could be filtered out.
Yet since this was extremely difficult to achieve, Warren was quite content to receive startlingly clear readings at their present range.
They were rapidly approaching the point where the Defiance could initiate a torpedo attack if it so desired. Though Lester Warren thought such a response was more than appropriate considering the scare Ivan had given them, it was Captain Colter’s decision. However, anxious to know if this was indeed the course they would next take. Warren sat forward expectantly when Stan Roth hung up the intercom handset on which he had been talking.
“You’ll never guess who I just got off the horn with, Les? That was none other than Lieutenant Commander Layman, and he wanted to personally convey to you a job well done.”
Though this was certainly better than another censure, the Texan still found such a remark unnecessary.
“That’s all very well and good, Stanley. But what did he say about the Russkies? Are we going to take them out, or what?”
Noting his shipmate’s impatience, Stanley Roth snickered.
“My, aren’t you the eager one. Since when did you become such a hawk?”
“To tell you the truth, Stan, I always thought I had a pretty good understanding of the Soviet people. They impressed me as a levelheaded sort, who wanted peace just as much as we did. But my opinion abruptly changed the moment they rammed us.”
“I hear you, Les. And you’ll be happy to know that the captain happens to feel likewise. In fact, the XO just told me to lock Ivan’s sound signature into the Mk-48’s in tubes one through three.”
“All right! We’re finally going to play hardball,” exclaimed the Texan as he watched his shipmate hit the switches that would feed the Russian sub’s sound signature directly into the computers mounted inside their torpedoes.
Yet as the reality of this bold new step sunk in, Lester’s tone suddenly revealed concern.
“Do you think this will mean war, Stan?”
Only after he had successfully completed the interface did the senior technician answer.
“That’s hard to say, Les. But where I’m sitting, the prospects for detente sure don’t look very promising.”
This statement was punctuated by a distant muted whirring sound that flowed into their headphones from the direction of their target. In all his years of service, Stanley Roth had only heard this distinctive racket during sea trials with the fleet. Yet this certainly wasn’t an exercise. A look of pure disbelief came on the veteran’s face as he cried out in horror.