“Do I hear fear in your voice. Captain?” ventured the red-faced political officer.
“What you mistake for fear, Comrade Zampolit, is one professional naval officer’s respect for another,” retorted Litvinov.
“I inwardly doubted that the Americans would be so easily intimidated, and now we must pay the price.”
“But Admiral Valerian has ordered us to remove them from this sector at once!” countered Dubrinin.
“That could be a little difficult, if we can’t even manage to find them again,” said the captain, who was finding it hard to hide his loathing for the ignorant political officer.
The zampolit couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“But we must locate them, and do so with haste. Admiral Valerian is relying on us, and no matter the risks involved, we have to rid the sea of this 688.”
“And how do you propose that we do this. Comrade Zampolit?” asked Litvinov angrily.
“How should I know?” replied Dubrinin.
“You’re the trained naval expert. Apply yourself. Captain!”
Litvinov sardonically commented, “One course that they unfortunately didn’t teach at the Academy was how to handle a pretentious political officer.”
“Your impertinence is noted. Captain,” spat the zampolit.
“I shall make certain to describe it in full when it comes time to record my official log.”
“You just do that,” returned Litvinov.
“And please don’t forget to include one more thing. If it had been up to me, the rank of zampolit would have been abolished years ago. Your kind do nothing but waste space and precious resources, and cause dissension among the crew. You are a living symbol of all that was wrong in our pasta system that has left the rodina a nation of bankrupt beggars. Shame on you, Boris Dubrinin.
And shame on your precious Party!”
Stunned into silence by this unexpected outburst, the zampolit was spared further comment by the remarks of the senior sonar technician.
“We continue to monitor the DSRV, Captain. It’s well above the thermocline, and any minute now, they’ll be arriving in the quadrant where the Mir habitat is located.”
This news caused a sudden idea to dawn in Litvinov’s mind.
“Why of course, the DSRV! All we have to do is close in on it and use it as bait to draw out the 688. Then when we know their location once again, we’ll challenge them to a little game of chicken. Soon they’ll be limping back to port with a dented hull to repair.”
The zampolit failed to share the captain’s enthusiasm.
“I hope this tactic, is more effective than your sonar lashing. Comrade. I say, enough of these childish games. Once we locate them again, let’s hit them with an acoustic homing torpedo and be done with it.”
“Our orders are to scare them away, not start a war,” reminded Litvinov.
“Who said anything about starting a war, Captain?
A well-placed torpedo will guarantee no survivors.
And all the Americans will ever know is that one of their submarines lies scattered on the bottom of the Andros Trench, the apparent victim of a defective weld.”
“Such talk scares me. Comrade zampolit. It’s indicative of what a blind fool you really are.”
Fighting back the urge to slug the captain, Boris Dubrinin swore to himself that he would revenge this in suit The exchange took place in the public confines of the Pantera’s attack center, so it would soon be common knowledge. Unless the zampolit did something drastic to redeem himself and show the extent of his power, he’d lose the crew’s respect, with no hope of ever again regaining it.
As fate would have it, the opportunity presented itself shortly after Pantera changed course to close in on the DSRV. No sooner did they start up the reactor and turn to the west, when an ear-splitting, resounding sonic blast penetrated their hull. It instantly shattered the eardrums of the sonar team, and the confidence of the men gathered around them.
Yet of all those assembled inside the attack center, only Boris Dubrinin looked at this lashing as a great opportunity. At long last, the American sub had exposed itself.
It was as Alexander Litvinov attended to the bleeding senior sonar technician, that Dubrinin casually made his way to the vacant firecontrol console. With a key that only he and the captain had copies of, the Zampolit proceeded to arm the sonic homing torpedoes stored in tubes one and three. These weapons were targeted on the source of the powerful sonic burst that they had just received, and with a casual push of his index finger, he released them into the sea.
The Pantera’s deck shuddered twice as the torpedoes streamed from their tubes, and Boris Dubrinin calmly stood back and watched their progress on the flashing monitor screen. Satisfied now that he had shown his shipmates where the power lay, he turned his glance back to the sonar room. There Alexander Litvinov stood speechless in the doorway, his shocked gaze locked on the man who had just abruptly changed their destinies.
Tim Lacey was monitoring the hydrophones placed inside the Rickover’s towed array, when a muted, buzzing sound caught his attention. His first impression was that it was nothing but a biological anomaly. But when the noise persisted, and seemed to actually intensify, he knew that it warranted his complete attention.
“I’ve got a transient, Chief!” informed one of the new members of the sonar watch.
“Bearing two-five five Could it be the Avalont’ “I’ve also got it on the towed array,” replied Lacey.
“It’s the wrong frequency for Avalon. Let’s boost the volume gain to the max and see what we come up with.”
With the hope that they wouldn’t be the victim of another sonic lashing at this inopportune moment, Lacey further amplified the mysterious sound. The familiar buzzing whine continued, and he searched his memory for the last time that he heard a similar signature.
He had to go back all the way to sonar school, and when it suddenly dawned on him what it was that they were hearing, his pulse quickened and his voice shouted out in warning.
“Incoming torpedoes! Maximum range, on bearing two-five-five!”
In the adjoining control room, these words of warning were greeted with instant dread. John Walden heard them while huddled over the navigation plot, and he quickly joined the OOD on the bridge.
“I’ve got the conn. Battle stations, torpedo!” ordered Walden firmly.
It was the chief of the watch who reached up and triggered a loud alarm that penetrated every corner of the Rickover, informing the crew to man their action stations. Rushing in to join the captain was his XO, who had been shaving when this alert came down, and still had some lather covering his face and neck.
“What the hell’s coming down. Skipper?” he breathlessly asked while taking up a position beside the attack scope.
Walden answered as he scanned the instruments above the helm.
“Looks like whoever lashed us didn’t appreciate it when we returned the favor, and now they’ve gone and expressed their displeasure by taking a potshot at us.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” remarked the startled XO, his tone tinged with utter disbelief.
Walden reached up for one of the microphones that hung from the ceiling, and secured a direct line into sonar.
“Chief, do you have a definite on those torpedoes?”
“That’s an affirmative. Captain,” shot back Lacey.
“They’re still well outside the twenty-thousand-yard envelope, though both appear to be emitting.”
Walden clicked off the microphone and addressed his XO.
“We’ve got plenty of time to lose them. Have Weaps ready a MOSS. If we’re livin’ right, our decoy will take care of the threat for us.”