Robert had her framed in the circle of his binoculars. She was standing alone on the dock, dwarfed by the hills, and he was afraid for her. The “charmers” aside, who the police had told him had never bothered any of the wives, it was still possible in this war that a Soviet rocket attack from as far away as the Russians’ Baltic bases could kill her as easily as a depth bomb could implode his sub, killing every man aboard in seconds.
Now fully provisional and reloaded with the latest D-5 Trident missiles, the Sea Wolf was passing through the aerial arrays of the degaussing station.
Beyond the few small surface craft of the Royal Navy that would run noise interference for him until he reached the more open water of the Firth of Clyde, the best way to avoid detection from either spy trawlers or satellites, which might pick up either the Roosevelt’s thermal patch, from even the minute heat exchange of the sub’s exhaust systems, or its surface bulge, not visible to the naked eye, was to go deep. As well as the Sea Wolf’s speed being greater beneath the water, because of the absence of roiling, depth was the best defense against aircraft with magnetic anomaly detectors looking for the sub and its lethal load of six missiles, each D-5 with a range of six-thousand-plus nautical miles and with fourteen MIRVs, independently targeted reentry vehicles, of 150 kilotons each.
Normally the crew’s scuttlebutt would have been alive with rumor of where they were going based on a word here and there around the dry dock. But this trip, it was different. Britain’s MI6—its secret services counterespionage branch — had discovered that a spy, a disc jockey on a Glasgow radio station, had, by using letter-for-letter code in his selection of record titles, been broadcasting departure times as well as the names of submarines egressing Holy Loch.
As a result, security at the base had been so tight that the base commander wouldn’t even risk verbal instructions to his captains for fear of parabolic directional mikes being beamed in from the hills around the loch. The result was that it was only now that Robert Brentwood, his sub’s food supplies the only factor limiting the normal war patrol of seventy-five days submerged, was going down below to Control, forward of the sail. As soon as he was clear of the firth, heading into the Irish Sea, he would dive, and only then would he open up the magnetic-tape-sealed heavy-gauge white plastic envelope to find out where he was going and what his mission was.
“Officer of the deck — last man down. Hatch secured.”
Zeldman took up his position as officer of the deck. “Last man down. Hatch secured, aye. Captain, the ship is rigged for dive, current depth one three two fathoms. Checks with the chart. Request permission to submerge the ship.”
“Very well, officer of the deck,” said Brentwood. “Submerge the ship.”
“Submerge the ship, aye, sir.” Zeldman turned to the diving console. “Diving officer, submerge the ship.”
“Submerge the ship, aye, sir. Dive — two blasts on the dive alarm. Dive, dive.”
The wheezing sound of the alarm followed, loud enough for the crew in Control to hear but not powerful enough to resonate through the hull. A seaman shut all the main ballast tanks. “All vents are shut.”
“Vents shut, aye.”
A seaman was reading off the depth. “Fifty… fifty-two… fifty-four…”
One of the chiefs of the boat was watching the angle of the dive, trim, and speed. “Officer of the deck, conditions normal on the dive.”
“Very well, diving officer,” confirmed Zeldman, turning to Brentwood. “Captain, at one-thirty feet, trim satisfactory.”
“Very well,” answered Brentwood. “Steer four hundred feet ahead standard.”
Zeldman turned to the helmsman. “Helm all ahead standard. Diving officer, make the depth four hundred feet.”
They were just flattening out at three ninety when Brentwood heard, “Sonar contact! Possible hostile surface warship, bearing two seven eight! Range, twenty-four miles.”
Brentwood turned calmly to the attack island. “Very well. Man battle stations.”
“Man battle stations, aye, sir,” repeated a seaman, pressing the yellow button, a pulsing F sharp, slurring to G, sounding throughout the ship.
Brentwood turned to the diving officer. “Diving officer, periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye, sir.”
Brentwood’s hand reached up, taking the mike from its cradle without him even looking. “This is the captain. I have the con. Commander Zeldman retains the deck.”
Beneath the purplish-blue light over the sonar consoles, the operator advised, “Range twenty-four point two miles. Possible surface hostile by nature of sound.”
“Up scope,” ordered Brentwood. “Ahead two-thirds.”
“Scope’s breaking,” said one of the watchmen. “Scope’s clear.”
Brentwood’s hands flicked down the scope’s arms, and, his eyes to the cups, he moved around with the scope. On the COMPAC screen Zeldman could see the dot, moving so fast at forty knots, it had to be a hydrofoil.
Brentwood stopped moving the scope. “Bearing. Mark! Range. Mark! Down scope.” Above the soft whine of the retracting periscope Brentwood reported, “I hold one visual contact. Range?”
“Twenty-two point three miles,” came the reply.
“Range every thousand yards,” ordered Brentwood.
“Range every thousand yards, aye, sir. Range forty-six thousand yards.”
“Forty-six thousand yards,” confirmed Brentwood. The possible hostile was almost within firing range. “Officer of the deck, confirm MOSS tube number.”
“MOSS in for’ard tube four, sir.”
“Very well. Angle on the bow,” said Brentwood. “Starboard three point two.”
“Check,” came the confirmation.
“Range?” asked Brentwood.
“Forty-five thousand yards.”
“Forty-five thousand yards,” repeated Brentwood. “Firing point procedures. Master four five. Tube one.”
“Firing point procedures, aye, sir. Master four five. Tube one, aye… solution ready… weapons ready… ship ready.”
“Con,” said Brentwood. “Not hostile. Repeat not hostile.”
It was a British E-boat with a similar noise signature, probably due to repairs on its prop, to that of a 180-foot-long Russian Nanuchka attack boat. It was the fact that the British E-boat had suddenly increased speed to sixty-seven kilometers, at least nine kilometers an hour faster than a Russian Nanuchka missile boat, that had saved her from being sunk by Roosevelt.
As he gave the order to stand down from battle stations and began tearing open the “orders” envelope, Robert Brentwood recalled that it was an NKA Nanuchka that had crippled his brother Ray’s fast-guided missile frigate off Korea.
With everyone still coming down from battle stations. Executive Officer Peter Zeldman kept a sharp eye on the planesmen and the other crew on watch, making sure the adrenaline didn’t find its way into overcompensation in the controls.
Brentwood tore open the envelope then, having read his instructions, spoke calmly, purposefully, into the PA.
“This is the captain speaking. USS Roosevelt has been ordered north through the GI Gap to hold stations beneath the ice cap. Duration will be seventy-five days unless otherwise ordered by SACLANT during rendezvous with TACAMO aircraft. This will mean that we’ll be in shallow waters part of the time, but we will have air cover from our bases in Greenland on our port flank as we head up, and some long-range ASW aircraft from Iceland on our starboard flank before we’re in the safety of Molly Malone and environs.” He paused, handing the envelope to Zeldman for countersignature. “Consequently, silent running is the order of the day. Soviets have been dropping buoy-attached hydrophone arrays all over the approaches whenever they can get through our air cover. Same as we do. I might as well tell you that there is no way we can completely avoid the arrays, which may send our signature to Soviet Hunter/Killers, but we can minimize the risk and could luck out. Once we’re under the ice, our safety margin increases. If, however, we cannot avoid being heard, we’ll be in a fight which we’re ready for. That is all.”