“COB, where are we going?” he asked.
“Your presence has been requested,” Farrington replied, and left it at that. He stopped in front of the wardroom and indicated that Tim should go inside.
Tim had never actually entered the wardroom before. It belonged to the officers, not the enlisted men. It was where they usually took their meals together and spent their downtime. The walls were wood paneled, just like the captain’s stateroom, and filled with storage cabinets and shelves full of notebook binders. A rectangular table, long enough to seat twelve, ran down the center of the room. Sitting around that table were all Roanoke’s department heads: Supply, Engineering, Navigation, Operations, and Weapons. He recognized many of the faces, including Lieutenant Abrams from the galley, Lieutenant Carr from Engineering, and Lieutenant Carl French, the weapons officer. Since sonar fell under the umbrella of the Weapons Department, French was technically Tim’s boss, although the two rarely interacted.
Tim paused in the doorway. There had to be some mistake. This didn’t look like a meeting an enlisted sonar tech should be in, but no one looked surprised to see him. Farrington waved him inside, but remained out in the corridor, shutting the door behind Tim.
Captain Weber sat at one end of the table, with Lieutenant Commander Jefferson beside him.
“Spicer, thank you for joining us,” Captain Weber said.
All eyes watched Tim expectantly. He felt his face grow hot. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention, especially not in a roomful of officers. He stood straight and cleared his throat.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“I need to know if the Soviets are aware of our presence,” the captain said. “Is the Victor shadowing us, or is it simply on the same course as us?”
“It’s impossible to know for sure, sir,” Tim said.
“Give me your best guess as an experienced sonar tech, Spicer,” the captain prodded. “Do you believe she knows we’re here?”
Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, sir. I believe she does.”
The officers around the table muttered in alarm.
“Sir, if I may?” Tim said over the noise.
“Go on, Spicer,” Captain Weber said. The conversation died down.
“Sir, we’re right at the edge of their passive sonar, but they haven’t pinged us yet. I get the feeling they think they’ve caught us unawares, sir.”
The captain sat forward in his seat. “Explain.”
“They’re running slow and quiet just like us, sir,” Tim said. “I think right now, aboard their boat, they’re having the same conversation we are. They’re asking themselves if we know they’re here. I’m convinced that’s why they’re still using passive sonar instead of active, sir. They’re reluctant to give away their position, in case we haven’t seen them yet.”
“Captain, we should come about hard and nail her,” said Lieutenant French. “They’ll never see it coming.”
Captain Weber glared at him. “Torpedoing a Soviet boat would be an act of war.”
“But, sir, we’re in international waters,” French said. “Following us could be viewed as an act of aggression. We would be defending ourselves.”
“Except, we won’t be in international waters for much longer,” the captain said.
That brought all conversation at the table to a halt. Everyone, including Tim, stared at the captain in surprise.
“Spicer, I’m going to ask you not to repeat anything you are about to hear—not to anyone. From now on, everything said in this room is classified information. The only reason I am allowing you to stay is because I need your help. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Tim said. The words “classified information” gave him an uneasy feeling.
“Gentlemen,” Captain Weber said, “at the start of this operation, I told you this would be a routine reconnaissance op and that we would remain in international waters off the Kamchatka Peninsula. I regret to tell you, that was a necessary half truth. I am not in the habit of keeping details from my officers, unless I believe there’s a good reason for it.
“In this case, due to the sensitive nature of the operation, I was ordered to keep the information on a need-to-know basis. But now, with the Soviets on our tail, I think you need to know. You’ve no doubt heard rumors that the Soviets are looking to replace their outdated Victors with a better class of submarine. What you likely do not know is that there is speculation, based on reliable intelligence, that a prototype of this new submarine already exists and is being tested in the waters near the Rybachiy Nuclear Submarine Base. It’s a sleeker, faster, quieter submarine with an advanced sonar system and, if the intelligence is to be believed, surface-to-air missile capability.”
Tim’s jaw fell in surprise as astonished murmurs went around the table.
“Our orders are to get confirmation of this submarine’s existence,” the captain continued. He looked at Tim. “That includes recording any sonar readings we take, Spicer.”
Tim nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Gentlemen, the point is this,” the captain went on. “To complete this operation, we have to enter Soviet waters.”
“All the more reason to take out that Victor before it can tell Moscow we’re here,” Lieutenant French persisted.
“I won’t take the risk of giving away our position, French,” the captain replied. “Spicer, am I correct in assuming the Victor is still below the thermocline?”
“Aye, sir, it is.”
“Then they can’t tell Moscow anything,” Captain Weber said. “They won’t dare rise to periscope depth and give away their position. Aside from that, attacking a Soviet submarine would be a sure way to draw the kind of attention we’re trying to avoid. I intend to slip by this Victor without leaving so much as a bubble for it to follow. For that, I will need to rely on your sonar expertise again, Spicer. I want your eyes on the Victor at all times. I don’t want you to so much as blink.”
“Aye, sir,” Tim said.
“Dismissed, Spicer. Farrington will return you to the sonar shack. And remember, Spicer, not a word.”
“Aye, sir,” Tim replied.
He opened the wardroom door and stepped out. Farrington was waiting for him in the corridor and led him back up to the control room. Tim could feel Jerry’s curious gaze on him when he entered, but he kept his eyes forward and went straight to the sonar shack, where he relieved Antopol and resumed his watch. The Victor was still there on the sonar screen, lagging probably four or five miles behind, just where he had left it.
The captain returned to the control room a few minutes later. “Officer of the Deck, rig for deep submergence.”
The OOD picked up the phonetalker and told the crew, “Rig boat for deep submergence.”
The crew had several duties to perform in preparation for deep submergence. All over Roanoke, the massive watertight hatches between compartments were shut and locked with clamps that sealed them tight, dividing the crew into small pockets of men throughout the sub. In the nuclear reactor compartment, engineers checked the seawater pipes for anything that looked abnormal, because if one of them broke and flooding occurred at deep-submergence depth, the intense water pressure would fill the compartment so quickly there would be no time to escape. The engineers would drown, the reactor would malfunction, and the added water weight would drag the sub down to the bottom of the ocean and either implode or trap them there.
Tim shivered at the thought. Sinking was every submariner’s worst nightmare. To die in the dark silence at the ocean floor, with oxygen and food supplies dwindling, knowing you would never see the sky again, never see the sun—nothing else frightened him like that. Not even the awful dark winters of Presque Isle.