Barely allowing the sub to level out after reaching depth, the captain ordered them back up to one hundred and fifty feet. This time Moore’s body was thrown backwards, and once again there was a crashing sound outside the control room.
While in the midst of this sharply angled ascent, a tall, moustached man with short brown hair managed to enter the compartment from the forward access way The boat’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Rich Laycob, wasted no time reporting in.
“The stowage locker in your stateroom snapped open, Captain. Your textbooks are all over the place.”
“I thought the chief was supposed to repair that locker,” replied Walden, clearly upset.
The XO made a note in a small pad that he pulled from his breast pocket, as Walden turned back towards the helm. This time he ordered the engine room to answer to a wide variety of bells ranging from two-thirds speed, to standard, full, and flank. This last bell demonstrated the sub’s top speed, that was attained regardless of noisy propeller cavitation.
An all-stop command caused the knot gauge to begin a sharp decrease, and Walden followed it up with yet another flank bell. This time, as the Rickover shot through the water, he ordered a series of tight, snap roll turns. Like a jet fighter, the sub canted over hard on its side, completing turns ranging from fifteen to thirty degrees. This was the most impressive maneuver of all, and Moore had a new respect for the Rickover’s capabilities as the drill was completed.
“Well, Commander Moore, what do ya think?” asked Hop, who had remained right alongside him during the entire sequence.
“The only word that comes to mind is awesome,” replied Moore.
“I guess that says it all, sir,” said Hop proudly.
“Because nobody will be able to catch the Rickover once we get a bone in our teeth.”
“I hope you’re right,” returned Moore, who inwardly wondered if they would have to soon put this boast to a real test. Unbeknown to the crew of the USS Hyman G. Rickover, another submarine was silently hovering in the water, seven hundred and fifty feet beneath them. The Pantera was the lead ship of the newest class of Russian nuclear-powered attack vessels. Crammed within it’s 360-foot-long double hull were a state-of-the-art liquid-metal-cooled reactor and the latest in sensors and weapons, all primarily designed for a single task-to hunt down other submarines.
For an entire week, Pantera had been tracking the USS John Marshall as it returned from an extended deployment in the Mediterranean. Relatively easy to follow because of the racket produced by its externally mounted swimmer delivery hangar, the special operations submarine led them practically right into the mouth of Hampton Roads, and the Norfolk Navy base. Forced to break off their pursuit at the hundred fathom line, Pantera was awaiting new orders, when sonar reported a submerged contact approaching from the west. Captain Alexander Litvinov was in the wardroom finishing his evening meal of beef stroganoff and pickled beets, when word arrived of this new contact. One of the youngest commanding officers in the Russian fleet, Litvinov reacted to this news with an expectant grin, and eagerly pushed away his plate and stood, to join his senior sonar technician in the attack center.
Seated to the young captain’s left was the boat’s zampolit, Boris Dubrinin. The portly, middle-aged political officer certainly didn’t share Litvinov’s enthusiastic zeal, especially at mealtime. Yet ever-true to his duty, he swallowed a last creamy mouthful of noodles and stood to follow the captain through the forward access way The attack center was located amidships, directly beneath the boat’s elongated sail. A hushed, tense atmosphere prevailed there, only to be further intensified by the arrival of the two senior officers, who headed straight for the sonar console.
“What have you got, Misha?” asked Litvinov to the bearded sailor seated before the broad band CRT screen.
Senior Sonarman Mikhail Petrokov lifted up one of his headphones and excitedly answered.
“I believe we’ve tagged an American attack sub, sir!”
“You don’t say,” returned the surprised CO.
The sonarman pointed towards the waterfall display visible on his monitor screen.
“At first I thought it was nothing but a biological. But the closer it came, the more it appeared to be a transient.”
The captain reached for an auxiliary set of headphones and listened for the sounds currently being conveyed by their passive sensors. First to meet his ears were the incessant chattering cries of the shrimp. Closing his eyes to focus his concentration, he could just make out a distant pulsating surge, which showed up on the CRT screen as a jagged white line broadcasting on a single-frequency band.
“I hear it, Misha!” revealed Litvinov as he opened his eyes wide.
“I believe it is another submarine.”
“So what’s so surprising about that. Comrade?” asked the dour-faced zampolit.
“Both of you sound as if you’re astounded that our sonar is capable of doing its job.”
“Locating another submerged submarine is never an easy task,” responded the captain.
“This is especially the case when it comes to tracking the American Trident and 688 class vessels.”
“Captain,” interrupted the senior sonar technician, “I believe I can get a screw count on them. Then if we can stay within range, I should be able to determine precisely what sub it is that we’ve managed to chance upon.”
“As you very well know, determining the exact signatures of America’s submarine fleet is a number-one priority of ours,” said Litvinov.
“Therefore, we shall do our best to remain in this vessel’s baffles for as long as possible.”
The Zampolit pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket, and patted dry the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered on his forehead, before somberly expressing himself.
“I still think that all of you are overrating the capabilities of the U.S. Navy’s submarines.
A decade ago I might have agreed with you that the Yankees were fielding the superior ships. But today we’ve more than caught up with them, as our sleek panther here so rightly proves. Thus it’s not mere chance that precipitated this contact, but the effectiveness of a new generation of Russian-designed sensors.”
Though he was prepared to contradict, Alexander Litvinov wisely held his tongue. He was certainly in no mood for arguments with the stubborn likes of their political officer. And besides, now he had more important things to do, like silently engaging their engines and plotting this new pursuit.
11
Dr. Andrei Petrov felt tired and drained of all energy.
Ever since arriving on the Academician Petrovsky he had been seasick, and his nausea persisted regardless of what medication the ship’s physician tried. Adding to his discomfort was the intense tropical heat. The humidity never seemed to slacken, and the sweat poured out of his overheated body, making his clothing damp and uncomfortable. Sleep proved all but impossible, and his appetite was limited to quenching a thirst that he could never seem to satisfy.
To make matters even worse. Admiral Valerian was constantly badgering him. The one-eyed naval officer thought nothing of disturbing him in the middle of the night, to ask the most foolish questions. Because he still feared for his daughter’s life, the physicist didn’t dare incur Valerian’s wrath. He thus answered Valerian the best he could, and prayed that the man would honor his side of their bargain.