“Hold back two of those P-3s and enough maintenance personnel to keep them up and ready to fly. And get a full load of sonobuoys and torpedoes on them.”
The operations officer turned back to him, and looked at him uncertainly. “You think that-“
“That the boat might have suffered a massive engineering casualty,” Tombstone said. “But based on my experience, the most common explanation for a surface ship sinking unexpectedly is a submarine. And if there’s one out there …”
He let the thought trail off. If the Soviets were deploying their submarines again — excuse me, the Russians, he thought bitterly — then it was the height of foolishness to pull this squadron back to CONUS. Now, more than ever, they might be needed at the westernmost point of America’s strategic envelope. He turned back to Pamela Drake. “Thank you for the information, Miss Drake,” he said. “We won’t be needing you here any longer.”
“Oh, but I think you will, Stoney,” she said softly. “Unless you want me to break the story of how ACN is now briefing Navy commanders on their operational responsibilities, I suggest you let me stay. And I’ll want full access to the crews of those P-3s when they return. Otherwise, you’re not gonna like my report when I file it.”
Tombstone groaned. In the span of ten minutes, Pamela Drake had gone from fond memory to nemesis.
CHAPTER 4
Two hours later, moving west at an undetectable eight knots, the Kilo approached the area where the explosion had occurred. Except for the chirping clicks of snapping shrimp and the low, plaintive calls of a pod of whales, the ocean around them was silent. The lack of noise told him what he needed to know. Had the Oscar truly suffered an engineering casualty, she would not have been so quiet.
“Colonel, sir!” The sonar technician swiveled around in his chair to face the center of the control room. “American surveillance aircraft in the area.” He pointed at a line on his waterfall display.
Rogov darted across the control room, a surprisingly quick movement for one so solidly built. “Classification?”
“A P-3 Orion — one of their ASW air-surface surveillance aircraft.”
“I know what a P-3 is, you fool.” Rogov laid one hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed in gently, finding the sensitive nerve endings embedded in the trapezium. “Tell me something useful.”
“Sir, it’s not very close,” the technician said rapidly. “Five miles, maybe more. So far I have detected no noise of sonobuoys entering the water.”
“No indication of helicopters? Or active sonobuoys?”
“No. All I can hear is the aircraft.”
“Circling?”
The technician pressed his hands over his ears, crushing the earphones down to eliminate every last vestige of noise inside the control center. He listened carefully, all too aware of how much his safety hung in balance. Finally, he shook his head. “No, Comra-Colonel, sir,” he said carefully. “They are maneuvering in the area, but they do not appear to be circling over a sonobuoy field or making MAD runs in the area.” That was all the technician knew, and he hoped it would be enough.
Rogov released his grasp on the man’s shoulder, and patted gently the very spot he’d been probing with his fingers just moments earlier. “Very good,” he said soothingly. “See — you can learn how to operate as I wish. In the future, pattern your reports on the questions I just asked.”
The sonar technician nodded nervously, wondering just how likely it was that he would survive the cruise after all.
“Set quiet ship,” Rogov ordered to the conning officer. The word was passed in whispers throughout the submarine. Unnecessary machinery was turned off, and the few crew members still wearing shoes slipped out of them, treading silently on the steel decks in thin cotton socks. Aft, in engineering, the engineers reset all of the machinery to its optimum quieting configuration, relying on the extensive shock mounting and sound isolation systems built into the propulsion plant to prevent any noise from radiating out through the hull into the sea. In the galley, the cooks quickly secured every bit of gear within reach, padding the edges of the braces holding large pots and utensils to ensure that no sudden shift inside the boat would cause noise to come out of their compartment. Based on the rumors that they’d heard floating back from the control room, disobeying one of their new commander’s orders would bring swift and serious consequences.
“The antiair missiles?” Rogov said, turning to the submarine’s executive officer. “When were they last tested?”
“Six months ago, Colonel,” the man said quickly. “We’ve detected some minor operating deficiencies in their performance. Whether or not they would work now, after having been-“
“Colonel! Colonel, sir,” the sonar technician said suddenly. “The antiair missiles and CODEYE radar were tested just three weeks ago, right before we deployed on this mission. The captain said,” the man paused and swallowed, then continued doggedly, “the captain said it performed within specifications.” The technician shuddered slightly, and leaned back against his chair, wondering whether or not he had just done a good job of following orders or had committed treason. The line seemed so very unclear anymore.
“Very well,” Rogov said quietly. He turned back to the executive officer. “You were perhaps not on board during that workup operation?”
The executive officer stood silent. Rogov leaned forward, and in a motion so quick that the executive officer barely had time to flinch, reached out and slapped the man across the face. “I need an answer,” Rogov said, in the same quiet tones. “I must know now whether or not I shall need to be constantly watching my back, or whether you will perform your duties. Make your choice.”
The executive officer took in the faces of the men standing behind Rogov, saw the pale, pleading eyes, the fearful yet supportive expressions. What he decided would make a difference in their lives — whether they lived, whether they died, and whether anyone with sufficient technical knowledge of the submarine remained on board to ensure their safe return home. The executive officer swallowed hard, then said, “My memory seems to have failed, Colonel. The technician is right. I had forgotten about that test.”
Rogov slipped behind the executive officer and thrust one meaty forearm around the man’s throat from behind. Pulling the XO’s head back, Rogov extracted his pistol from its holster. He placed the snub nose of the 9mm against the executive officer’s temple and said quietly, “it may be that I will need to kill you very soon, but it will be your decision, not mine. As I said, make your choice now. Will you follow my orders? On your word as a naval officer.”
The executive officer could barely breathe as the arm tightened down over his windpipe. He managed a hoarse gasp. “Yes.” The pressure ceased abruptly, and he felt the cold, hard barrel move away from his head.
As his vision cleared, he saw that the aura of fear in the crew’s face had turned to sheer terror. If Rogov had fired the pistol inside the submarine, there was a good chance it would have penetrated the hull, sending a fire-hose-hard stream of water into the most sensitive electronic gear on the submarine. Even if they’d been able to patch it, too much of their war-fighting capability might have been permanently damaged. Moreover, the ricochet might have killed someone else in the control room on its way to penetrating the hull.
“Get the system ready, then,” Rogov ordered. “We won’t use it unless they force us to.”
“Colonel, if we use the system, we’ve just given away our biggest tactical advantage — our invisibility. Seconds after we fire, every aircraft in the area will be dumping torpedoes into the water. And they’ll have our exact location based on the trajectory of the missile.”