So far the day had not gone his way. He’d fired two torpedoes in slow transit stealth mode, one targeted at the American escort Virginia-class submarine, the second at the Panther. Neither submarine should have detected them until their hulls were opened. But the damned Virginia had almost immediately fired countermeasure torpedoes that destroyed the one headed for her, and at first it had seemed the second unit had homed in on the Panther, and the huge double explosion from the north had the crew in the central command post cheering until he’d quieted them with a brutal reprimand and a murderous stare from his good eye. But, inexplicably, not long after the explosions, they detected steam flow, steam turbine startups and then the incoming UGST Russian torpedoes, these much quieter than the torpedoes the Americans had employed, and these worried Alexeyev. In the minutes after their launch, two loud active sonar pulses were emitted by the American submarine, and soon after that it launched four weapons, presumably Mark 48 ADCAP versions. That made ten torpedoes coming for Kazan.
In response, Alexeyev had ordered twelve Futlyar Fizik-2 torpedoes launched in countermeasure mode to go up against the incoming ten, but now he shook his head. All these torpedoes targeting each other just wasted weapons, and soon the torpedo room would run out. And then what the hell would he do, run like a woman chased by pillagers? His torpedo room loadout had been 24 Futlyar Fizik-2 torpedoes, of which twelve were gone. He could get out another twelve in two minutes, he thought, saving two weapons for the trip home in case someone unfriendly awaited them during their transit.
The good news was that explosions were happening in the sea between Kazan and the two target submarines. Their offensive weapons were falling to Alexeyev’s defensive ones. But no warrior, he thought, ever won a battle with a shield. It took a sword. However, up to now, it had been as his mentors had taught him—“Georgy, you must fight the alligator that is closest to your boat.” Now that that alligator was soon to be gone, it was time to launch an offensive.
Alexeyev deeply regretted he didn’t have the weapon loadout of Novosibirsk or Voronezh, since both had been loaded with two Kalibr nuclear-tipped antisubmarine cruise missiles, and the only units Kazan had taken to sea were conventional missiles, for use against hostile surface ships. There had been no time on this emergency sortie to sea to load better antisubmarine weapons. His only antisubmarine weapons were the Futlyar torpedoes, but heaven help them, they had to be enough.
Heaven indeed. Alexeyev had never been a religious man, but what was the saying, there are no atheists in foxholes? He hadn’t prayed once in his adult life, but had watched as Natalia had sank to her knees and prayed devotedly to God every night before they went to bed, which he’d always thought was bizarre, because when her prayers were over, she did things that no churchgoer would want to know about. Still, when he’d watched her, he’d wondered if he were missing something. Maybe, he thought, this would be a good time to pray.
“Captain? Captain!”
Alexeyev realized he’d shut his eyes in concentration and First Officer Lebedev thought he’d fallen asleep. As if he’d sleep during a damned battle, he thought in irritation.
“What?”
“We should launch, sir, Futlyar torpedoes in offensive mode, recommend six at high-speed-of-approach, full active and wake homing enabled.”
“Madam First, we will fire twelve. Maximum firing rate. Start now.” For a moment he’d actually forgotten that what he’d decided in his mind hadn’t been communicated to Lebedev. Maybe Natalia’s complaints about him living inside his own head had some merit. But a thought for another day. Today, there were two enemy submarines to kill.
He smiled to himself. Kill them he would, and then, finally, it would be time to go home. Ten days. Just ten days from home. Home.
But then it occurred to him that nothing waited for him at home but a lonely, empty apartment. And a lonely, empty life. Damn that Natalia, damn her to Hell.
Mercer sounded worried. “Torpedoes in the water from Master One. I’m getting them every ten seconds. Recommend another active pulse.”
There was an audible bang from the south.
“What the hell was that?” Romanov asked.
Mercer shook his head. “Smaller detonation than a torpedo, but it’s from the bearing to the Panther.”
Seagraves frowned at Romanov. “That’s not good,” he said. “Put out another ping, Nav.”
“Mercer, ping active,” Romanov ordered.
After the roaring, screeching noise of the active sonar pulse, the circular display’s expanding green circle hit the Panther south of them, then Master One and what had to be a dozen or more torpedoes in between Panther and Master One, with at least six or eight blips that seemed less solid, somewhat blurry, and larger than the torpedo return blips but smaller than Panther.
“What’re those?” Romanov asked Mercer, pointing.
“Probably torpedo explosions, Nav. Bubbles, foam, turbulence from a countermeasure mode torpedo’s warhead going off.”
Romanov stood back a few feet to see the display and think. She looked at Seagraves and Quinnivan. “We need to see if those torpedo launches are defensive or an attack on us and Panther.”
“Ping again,” Seagraves ordered.
“Mercer, ping active,” Romanov ordered the sonarman.
Another blasting sonar ping was broadcast out into the sea. In the confusion of all the torpedoes in between the combatants, one group of torpedoes had advanced much faster than the previous weapons. They were headed northward. Toward Vermont. And Panther.
“Whoa,” Romanov said. She looked at Seagraves. “Recommend we run north at flank while loading more Mark 48s in CMT mode.”
“Clear datum north at flank,” Seagraves ordered.
“Pilot, right full rudder, steady course north, all ahead flank!” Romanov ordered. The deck began to shake as the ship’s velocity rose to maximum speed.
“In the firecontrol party,” Seagraves said, “intentions are to launch eight Mark 48s in CMT mode, aim point five thousand yards south of us, passive circlers. Firing point procedures, tubes one through four.”
“What’s going on with Panther?” Romanov asked, looking at the active display on the command console.
“Ping again,” Seagraves said as the attack center and the weapons control console set up to launch the four Mark 48s in countermeasure mode.
The BQQ-10 sonar set barked out another loud pulse.
Quinnivan stared hard at the display. “Panther looks dead in the water.”
Romanov bit her lower lip. “Is it possible he’s hovering, trying to prevent presenting an up or down Doppler effect on a torpedo sonar pulse?”
“Playing possum? We’ve always wondered if that would work,” Quinnivan said.
“It would work on a Mark 48,” Romanov said. “Plus, if they’re dead in the water, there’s no wake for the torpedo’s wake homing sensor to zero in on.”