“When the Pantera was directed to divert the American 688 from these waters, I didn’t realize that such extreme means would be needed,” reflected Alexandrov.
“Why, we could have a full-scale nuclear war on our hands as a result of this attack.”
“Such are the risks that one must pay for greatness, Viktor Ilyich. We must give Litvinov the benefit of a doubt. Obviously, he wouldn’t go and attack the Americans unless he had no other option. Besides, don’t you think that if the Americans were to discover the equipment that we have stored on the sea floor of the trench below, that this same war that you speak of would be precipitated? Of course it would. Comrade.
And the Pantera’s desperate actions saved us from such an embarrassment.”
The sonar speakers filled with an agitated whirring sound, which prompted the senior lieutenant to comment, “Of course, there’s always the possibility that the attack will succeed, and that the United States will never learn the cause of the loss of their submarine.”
“A detonating torpedo does have a way of hiding evidence,” added Valerian, whose thick eyebrows arched upwards in sudden thought.
“You know, there’s another way to remove the 688, even if they should manage to escape the Pantera’s torpedoes. And what better time to give Dr. Petrov that full power test that he’s been insistent on.”
“Do you mean to say that you’re going to try to de materialize the American 688?” asked the unbelieving senior lieutenant.
“Why not?” returned Valerian.
“All we need to do is lock in its signature and then pray that it gets within range. And if the fates are with us, the USS Hyman G. Rickover might soon be spending the rest of its days in the icy Arctic waters off Siberia, divulging its many secrets, with Seawolf soon to follow!”
“Prepare for a series of thirty-degree snap turns!” ordered Walden, who had moved back into the control room to direct the evasion maneuvers.
“Diving officer, is the helm ready to initiate the sequence?”
The COB was in the process of pulling a fresh cigar from his pocket and he answered without hesitation.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Helm is standing by for orders to initiate.”
The strained voice of Tim Lacey echoed from the elevated intercom speakers.
“Torpedo continues its approach. Range is nine thousand yards and continuing to close.”
Walden reached up to grab a handhold, and briefly met the concerned glance of his XO before calling out firmly.
“Initiate evasion sequence! Flank bell! Thirty degree starboard rudder!”
The harnessed helmsmen were quick to carry out this directive, and as they turned their steering yokes, the Rickover canted over hard on its right side. A lone ruler slid across the sharply angled deck, and the crew struggled to keep from falling over because of this unexpected movement.
“We’re cavitating. Captain,” informed the COB, in reference to the glowing green light set directly above the helm’s digital depth meter.
Not concerned by this report, Walden watched as the speed indicator shot upwards in response to the flank bell. The angle of the deck began to lessen, and the captain was quick to convey his next order.
“Take us to one hundred feet at full angle. Then bring us back down to max depth, while initiating thirty-degree snap turns to port.”
“One hundred feet at full angle it is. Captain,” repeated the COB, who anxiously sat forward with his cigar clenched in his teeth.
It took both hands for the helmsmen to pull back on their yokes, and the Rickover crisply responded. As the bow angled almost straight upwards, the crew once more fought the inertial forces of gravity, and it took a maximum effort to remain standing.
“One hundred and ninety feet… One hundred and eighty …” observed the COB, whose job it was to relay the figures on the rapidly decreasing depth gauge.
“Torpedo’s coming down with us,” warned Tim Lacey over the intercom.
“Range is down to eight thousand yards.”
At a depth of one hundred and thirty-five feet, Lacey’s voice once more sounded, yet this time his tone was noticeably different.
“We’ve got a narrowband transient contact. Captain, bearing three-zero-zero. I think we just chanced upon the SOB who fired at us!”
John Walden looked over at his XO and grinned with this news.
“What do you think, Mr. Laycob?
Shall we give them something to think about?”
“By all means. Skipper,” returned the XO, who couldn’t help grinning as he struggled to follow Walden over to the firecontrol console.
Alexander Litvinov couldn’t think of a worse time for the Pantera’s reactor steam-release valve to stick.
Whenever this problem occurred, it automatically corrected itself, creating a great deal of noise along the way. Inwardly cursing the design fault that was responsible for this unwanted racket, he tensely addressed his senior sonar technician.
“Well Misha, what’s their status?”
The bearded sonarman held back his response until his current sensor sweep was completed.
“After a rapid ascent, the 688 has levelled out well short of the surface.
And now they appear to be diving once more.”
“And our torpedo, Misha?” asked Litvinov.
“It remains right on their tail, sir.”
Senior Lieutenant Yuri Berezino entered the attack center from the forward access way and joined Litvinov beside sonar.
“The zampolit has been securely locked inside the wardroom. Captain. I had the corpsman give him a powerful dose of tranquilizer as well. That should keep him quiet for the next couple of hours.”
“Good work, Yuri,” replied Litvinov.
“Boris Dubrinin has caused us enough trouble for one day.”
“Sonar contact, Captain!” exclaimed the senior technician, while pressing his headphones tightly over his ears.
“It’s a single torpedo, and definitely not one of our own!”
“We should have expected as much,” said Litvinov bitterly.
“That stuck valve was a dead giveaway, and somehow the alert Americans must have managed to get off a quick shot.”
“All ahead full!” he added to the helmsman.
“And take us deep. Like the 688, we too shall take advantage of the depths to lose this weapon before it can get a definite lock on us.”
19
Ivana Petrov couldn’t believe their good fortune.
The American DSRV was like a gift from heaven, and it was with few regrets that they left Starfish House for the safety of this unique undersea vessel.
A thin, bald-headed sailor dressed in blue coveralls welcomed them aboard the submersible named Avalon. Primarily designed to rescue other submarines, the Avalon was constructed around a central sphere, where the rescuees were to be held. The craft was operated from a small, two-man cockpit.
The team’s leader, Pierre Lenclud, was the first to be invited to visit the control compartment. While the Frenchman scooted down a tunnel-like access way to meet the Avalon’s commanding officers, Ivana and her teammates settled themselves into the main sphere.
The air was blessedly sweet, and it was wonderful not to have to rely on their scuba tanks to breathe. The sphere operator proved to be a colorful character, who appeared to have taken an immediate liking to Lisa Tanner. He apologized for not having any food for them, though he did manage to pull out a large thermos filled with coffee. Then, with only a single cup available, the steaming hot brew was passed around for all to share.