“It seems there is no doubt on the President’s part that Pasadena is the cause,” the General Secretary announced, sitting down heavily. “I have no idea what his source of information might be.”
“They’re bluffing,” the head of the KGB commented with little vigor.
“Possibly.”
“But,” the Minister of Defense countered, “they also seem to have figured out the purpose behind SSV-516 and the satellite.”
“More bluff?” This time the KGB leader sounded even less sure of himself.
“Possibly.” The General Secretary had determined before the last phone conversation with Washington was completed that he wanted each member of the Defense Council to realize that they had talked themselves into the final decision. “There is also a possibility of both sides extricating themselves before we run out of choices.” How he wished his wife could join him now, see how he was turning their heads, see how he had taken control of the situation. “That high wire I mentioned has become a razor blade.”
The Chief of the Main Political Directorate was a dour individual who rarely spoke until he had a sense of how the others felt. “May I assume that each of you finds that a meeting of the minds is more advantageous than seeing this strategy through to its conclusion?” He was always formal and precise, a habit that maddened the head of the KGB, whom he now turned to. He had no intention of letting anyone respond to the first question. “May I assume that Soviet intelligence services made assumptions years ago that no longer have any bearing on this situation?”
The KGB head bristled for a moment, looked to the General Secretary for some support, found none, and finally said, “Predicting the future seems to be more difficult as each year passes.”
“One generation cannot think for the other?” the chief pressed.
“It is apparent that … this is the case.”
The Minister of Defense said, “They claim that Pasadena has been destroyed … that their missile submarines are all on alert and that Florida will destroy every military base west of the Urals if there is further indication of any aggression against their submarines.”
“What proof is there?”
“They intend to order her to launch a missile. The President says that’s all the proof required. The target will have little value. If we attempt to destroy the missile, if there is any indication from any of their satellites of launch preparation here, they will launch a massive strike. They are prepared,” he concluded with finality.
“So are we.”
“It’s a bluff,” the KGB head growled.
“Possibly,” the Minister of Defense responded unconvincingly. He might have added that both sides knew that in the end it would always come down to a bluff.
“At this moment they are in contact with every major nation and they are detailing the events of the past few days,” the General Secretary said quietly.
“What’s to prevent them from—”
“We have already intercepted those messages to their allies explaining that the Soviet Union and the United States have reached an agreement to avoid what might have been a general exchange.…” He droned on without expression until he was interrupted.
“What if Florida doesn’t launch? How do we know that Pasadena hasn’t been successful?”
“There appears to be only one method of finding out. The President is quite adamant in that regard.”
Neither the General Secretary nor the Minister of Defense mentioned the second set of conditions.
“… Range gating … first target’s torpedo on two-second interval …” an anxious voice reported from Pasadena’s sonar room. The same voice a split second later, “Second target’s torpedo still range gating … one-second interval now.”
Another voice in the background, “Oh, Christ, listen to those screws. Maybe the noisemakers didn’t work — they must be on us.”
The boomer had fired two torpedoes at Pasadena. The first had been decoyed and the other one appeared to have passed the noisemakers and was gradually closing in a stern chase. But the second submarine also had one working torpedo attacking them head-on.
Pasadena’s crew reacted out of instinct to their situation. They had been at war for days, their enemy seemingly known only to their captain. Wayne Newell’s personality had reversed itself too, often cajoling a crew that feared an enemy they were unsure of, then shifting into depressions in the last day. This lack of continuity in crisis had thrown them into total confusion. Yet the captain’s face now radiated a smile of contentment that frightened those around him. Two torpedoes, each one carrying enough high explosive to rip Pasadena apart, were range gating on his submarine and he was actually enjoying himself.
“Number-one tube loaded. The chief says he’ll have the tube and the unit ready super fast. They’re working on the others now.”
“XO,” Newell called, looking about the control room for his executive officer, “how long—”
“He’s in sonar, Captain.”
“Ridiculous. He’s the fire-control coordinator. He’s supposed to be here — with me.” Newell’s face shaded. The smile vanished.
“Captain, recommend more noisemakers,” the OOD said for the second time. There was an urgency in his voice magnified by fear. They’d evaded after shooting at the boomer, coming right, then left, then right again. And they had increased their depth twice. Still, two torpedoes had searched for and apparently found them. The XO had gone into sonar. Now the OOD found himself left completely out of the captain’s plans. He fired noisemakers on his own.
“Depth?”
“Seven hundred.”
“Go deeper,” Newell decided, as if it was of little concern to him, “another hundred.” He took a couple of steps toward the entrance to sonar. “Dick! What the hell are you doing in there? Get your ass—”
“First torpedo is on continuous range gating.” Locked on and closing. “Must be on a noisemaker or—”
“Oh shit …” was cut off as a powerful explosion rocked Pasadena. She seemed to jump bodily to port. Yet there was no change in her forward motion after a violent shudder coursed down her entire length. The torpedo had detonated on a nearby noisemaker.
“That final torpedo got lost in the blast.” Nothing could possibly be heard on the passive sonar. The voice was frantic, unidentifiable. “Maybe … it had to be on continuous range gate.”
“Go active on the target,” Newell ordered.
Christ, the OOD thought, there’s another almost on top of us and he’s paying no attention.
“Fifty-two hundred yards.”
“Firing-point procedures.”
Lieutenant Holloway, the weapons-control coordinator, sat at his console, his face ashen, eyes tightly closed. “Weapon is ready,” he said in a soft monotone.
“Good job, Bob, good job. Not much time left.” Newell’s expression was one of heightened glee now. He seemed to have forgotten his executive officer as soon as the torpedo was reported ready. “Shoot on generated bearings.”
The familiar thud of the water slug was felt through the length of the ship.
Done. Beautiful. Never let anything else interfere when you’re making an attack. “Left full rudder. Bring her up to three hundred feet.” The diving officer found Newell beside him. “Make it as big an up angle as you can. Take her right to the edge.” His hand rested easily on the man’s shoulder. It would be close. If they got enough water between themselves and the blast, they might just make it. “You’ve got a torpedo coming up your ass and you might just save our necks. I don’t want to vent main ballast.” Even before he had finished, he was crossing control toward sonar, grabbing the overhead supports to brace himself against the radical maneuvering of the submarine. “Dick, what the—”