The monitor peeped and displayed a match: overlapping green on blue spikes.
“Oslo-class frigate, Kapitan. The KNM Narvik, F-304.”
“Periscope up. Let’s have another look.”
As the K-363 slowly pulled away from the coast, Litvanov kept the scope planted on the Royal Norwegian Navy frigate. Her convergence onto the K-363’s track, whether by design or accident, prompted Litvanov to offer a running commentary.
“She’s one of those older ASW frigates, probably equipped with variable depth sonar. ASW rockets.
She’s either heading out on an exercise or—” He didn’t finish his thought.
“Kapitan — new contact. Bearing one-eight-zero, also converging. Sounds close.”
The sonar repeater recycled to the new contact.
A minute later: “Oslo-class frigate, Kapitan. The KNM Trondheim, F-302. She still has that nicked prop blade on the port shaft.”
Litvanov put the periscope on 180. “I’ve seen her before. She’s in trail with the Narvik. Periscope down!”
“How could the Norwegians know we’re here?” Zakayev said.
“They have a SOSUS — Sound Surveillance System, an underwater linked hydrophone system developed by the Americans to track our submarines. The information from the Norwegian system goes to a central operations headquarters in Stavanger, where they identify submarines from recordings of their machinery and propeller noises. The American SOSUS arrays used to be strung out on the sea bottom across choke points near Greenland, Iceland, and the U.K. Also the mid-Atlantic ridge. Even in the Barents. But we cut the cables and destroyed the arrays. The Americans finally gave up repairing them and shut down the system.
“The Norwegian system is no longer fully operational. Luckily for us, their coastal waters are strewn with rock and bottom heaves. Also, the salinity varies. Temperature layers too. Sonar is unreliable under those conditions and often gives off false alarms. This may be one. We’ll soon see.” Litvanov consulted the navigation chart. “We’re here, just north of these two groups of small islands off the tip of Lofoten.”
Veroshilov had monitored the automatic plotter responding to inputs from the ship’s inertial guidance system. The plotter’s stylus mounted under the backlit plotting table had recorded the K-363’s track, now an open-ended C on the acetate overlay marked with grid lines.
“We’ll turn ninety degrees off our present track and rig for ultraquiet. If the frigates turn west, they’ve probably been vectored into our area.”
Litvanov issued the necessary orders. One turbogenerator went offline to reduce the K-363’s already minimal sound signature, as did machinery and equipment not essential to her operation, such as ventilation fans and the oxygen generator that broke water down into hydrogen and oxygen.
“Will they find us?” the girl whispered to Zakayev. He put an arm around her shoulders and felt a shiver. He whispered back, “Don’t worry. Litvanov knows what he’s doing.”
In the Combat Information Center aboard the frigate KNM Trondheim, Royal Norwegian Navy Kaptein Löytnant Gunnar Dass paced the deck. He tore open a fresh pack of cigarettes and tamped one out.
“Commander — incoming Priority.”
Dass turned on his heel and strode to the twittering Multex terminal. He seized the message after it had finished rolling out of the teleprinter, scanned it, then headed for the bridge. The Trondheim’s skipper, Orlogs Kaptein Harald Bayer, broke off his conversation with another officer and motioned Dass to follow him into the wheelhouse out of the wind’s cold fury.
“ComInC FOHK Stavanger, Captain.”
Bayer read the message under a red-lit battle lamp. “So, a possible second submarine contact.”
He summoned the signals yeoman, who had a clipboard with recently decoded messages. The one Bayer wanted had arrived less than an hour earlier and he gave it a quick review, then reread the message Dass had collected from the Multex.
“Perhaps this latest one is a genuine contact. Any thoughts, Mr. Dass?”
“The Russians again, trying to prove something? But what? That they can elude us?”
Bayer looked seaward, where a sliver of dawn had arrived over the coast of Norway. “The Russians tried it years ago off Sweden. The Swedes couldn’t find them and were ready to admit it when the Russian sub ran aground in the Skagerrak. I don’t think the Russians would risk embarrassing themselves again.”
Dass looked blankly at his captain’s profile. Bundled in a heavy khaki-colored bridge coat with the collar turned up, a white silk scarf at his throat, binocular shanging from his neck on a strap, Bayer faintly resembled a European film star whose name Dass couldn’t recall.
“There was an earlier advisory from Operational Headquarters that the Russians were planning an exercise,” Bayer said. He thumbed the dispatches. “Yes, here it is.”
“I suppose it’s possible, sir, that it could be one of theirs.”
“Supposing won’t do, Mr. Dass. Stavanger wants us to find out.”
Bayer underlined with a pen the contact coordinates in the latest message from ComInC.
“Quartermaster!”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Plot a course to commence a search of this area. I want an ETA.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Signals.”
“Aye, Captain,” said the yeoman.
“Stand by to send a visual to Narvik: ‘Have second unconfirmed contact. Stop. I will lead. Stop.
Coordinates, course, speed, the rest….’ ”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” said the yeoman sketching notes.
Bayer paced the wheelhouse. The steel deck under foot throbbed with the rhythm of the Trondheim’s Laval-Ljungstrom PN 20 geared steam turbines. The sea, now dark gray, splashed and hissed along the frigate’s oil canned sides. It was going to be a gunmetal day.
Impatient, Bayer rounded. “Quartermaster?”
“Sir. Recommend course three-two-zero for ten minutes, then zero-four-one for twelve minutes.
Estimated time of arrival at twenty knots is zero-five-one-zero hours.”
“Very well,” Bayer said. “Send it, Signals.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Then, “New course: Steer three-two-zero degrees. Both engines, turns for twenty knots. Mr. Dass.”
“Sir?”
“Stand by to launch VDS arrays. Let’s see if we can locate this intruder and force him to the surface.”
Abakov, looking a little shocked, held a message form in one hand and with the other rubbed his bald pate. “They found the missing FSB officer in St. Petersburg.”
They were seated in the wardroom. The ZEVS summons had been followed by a burst message transmitted via Northern Fleet to the K-480 from FSB Headquarters in Moscow. Abakov sat there looking shocked.
“His body was buried behind a car repair shop in St. Petersburg. Zakayev and his men had used it as a headquarters. The man was tortured, burned. He didn’t deserve that.”
“I’m sorry, Yuri,” Alex said, her hand on his arm.
Abakov stroked his mustache, then his bald head. “Bastards.”
“How did they find him?” Scott said.
“One of Zakayev’s men was spotted getting on a train in St. Petersburg and was stopped and questioned. He told them about the officer and about the shoot-out with Ivan Serov in St. Petersburg.”
“Did he know anything about the plan to attack St. Petersburg?”
“No. According to this message, he expired during the interrogation and before they had a chance to ask him.”
Abakov didn’t explain what that meant, to “expire during interrogation,” but Alex bit her lower lip and made a face.