“Why?” Gesny asked.
“Sir, it will point our bow at Alpha. It will hide our screws from his sound heads.”
“But Bravo will pick them up.”
“XO, Bravo already has them,” Rybin answered. “This will be a simulated torpedo firing on Alpha.”
“Alpha has a teft-bearing drift,” Gesny said. “Doesn’t that mean it will be forced to change course?”
“Yes, Comrade XO,” Rybin said, his voice wavering for a moment. “But when it changes course, it will have to change toward us.”
“But I may want a beam shot at him,” Anton said.
“Sir, we are unable to see him because of the fog. If he turns, he will come into visual range. A visual torpedo firing is more accurate than sound.”
Anton and Gesny glanced at each other, and both nodded simultaneously. Anton smiled. “Good work, Ensign.”
A smile broke across Rybin’s face. Anton thought he saw a few beads of sweat on the young officer’s forehead, but in the red light of the conning tower, it was hard to be sure.
Gesny glanced down at the chart, placing his spread fingers on top of it.
“Up periscope,” Anton said. “If Comrade Rybin recommends a torpedo firing, then we should do so, XO. Set battle stations and bring the Whale to course zero one zero.”
The beeps of general quarters sounded through the submarine. Soft, but constant. Sailors rushed from their bunks, the mess, and other areas of the submarine, hurrying to their assigned battle stations.
Lieutenant Antipov clambered up the ladder, his soft-soled shoes making little noise on it. The officer rushed to the torpedo panel.
“Report when the Whale is ready for battle.”
“Coming to course zero one zero,” the helmsman reported.
Rybin echoed the words. Nearby, the chief of the boat, Chief Ship Starshina Mamadov, lightly slapped a petty officer on the back of the head and nodded at the logbook.
Anton spun the periscope, searching once again for the two destroyers and having as little visual luck now as a minute before.
“Alpha is in a port turn, sir,” the sonar operator reported.
“Very well,” Anton replied without removing his eye from the scope.
“Steady on course zero one zero,” came the cry from the helmsman.
Anton saw the white mast light and the port red light of the destroyer emerging from the thick fog. “I have Alpha,” he said. “Mark!”
“Set!” Antipov announced. “Range six hundred meters.”
“Battle stations set, Comrade Captain,” Gesny said.
“This will be a forward firing exercise,” Anton said. “This is where I would say, ‘Make sure we don’t actually fire a torpedo,’ but we have no torpedoes on board.”
“Yes, sir,” Gesny answered drily.
“Log that,” Mamadov ordered the sailor, tapping the logbook. “Log everything that is said when at battle stations. You understand?”
“Bearing — mark,” Anton said crisply. “Bearing zero zero zero. Angle ten degrees port.”
He heard the XO repeat the command. Anton stayed glued to the periscope, taking bearings and listening to the “marks” being repeated.
Antipov, the acting torpedo officer, shouted “set!” to the marks and reported the decreasing range to the target. Against the forward bulkhead near the planesmen, Mamadov watched the young sailor keeping the log even as he kept most of his attention on the planesmen. Once the captain gave the word for the evasive maneuvering, these two men would have to be spot-on with their execution.
Anton leaned away. Gesny was standing beside Antipov. Most were hovering over the firing key operator, who was manning the sound-powered telephone. “This will be a spread of four. Set shallow. Ten seconds separation.”
Once the skipper had given the command to fire the first torpedo, the firing officer — Lieutenant Antipov — would take over and ensure that the other simulated torpedoes in the salvo were fired with sufficient separation so they did not interfere with each other and that they were fired with sufficient course-angle separation so that at least one of them would catch the target if the target decided to maneuver to port or starboard; speed up or slow down; or even attempt to back up.
He leaned into the periscope. “He’s swinging toward us. This will be a firing solution,” Anton said. “Bearing!”
“Three five seven!” Gesny sang out.
“Mark!” Anton said.
“Set!” Antipov announced. “Range three hundred meters.”
“Angle on the port bow is five. Simulate firing. Fire one!”
“Fire one!” Antipov replied.
The firing key operator pressed the firing key — a huge brass knob fixed to the bulkhead beneath the ready light. “Fire one!” the operator shouted into the telephone. Then, the sailor reached up and turned “one” off and turned “two” on.
Down in the forward torpedo room, the tube captain, wearing his sound-powered telephones, heard the “Fire one!” command. His eyes were glued to the gauge board in front of him. His hand was positioned over the manual-firing button in the event the solenoid firing mechanism failed to fire electrically. But this was an exercise, and there were never casualties in an exercise unless it was part of the exercise. Everyone on board the Whale knew they were out there to see what the atomic-powered engine could do. The exercise was to test the power in every circumstance.
Chief Igor Rashchupkina, the chief torpedoman in the forward torpedo room, had already pulled the lever that opened the torpedo tube doors. In a real firing, his job was to operate the opening and closing of the torpedo tubes.
On board the destroyers, the sonar operators had heard the opening of the torpedo tubes and reported it to their captain. Rashchupkina imagined the shouting going on in the combat center on board the surface ships and grinned. “Stupid skimmers.”
“Number one fired electrically,” the tube captain reported through his sound-powered telephone.
In the conning tower, the firing key operator echoed the report. Anton kept the periscope up, watching Alpha target close his position. In a real-world scenario, he would want to watch to ensure that the torpedoes hit. He listened as the firing key operator simulated firing the other three torpedoes at the command of Lieutenant Antipov.
Anton grabbed the nearby microphone and pressed the transmit key. He reported his firing solution, time of firing, and spread of torpedoes. Quickly acknowledged by the referee on board target Bravo, he hung up the microphone.
“Okay, everyone. Time to play prey. Periscope down!” Anton shouted, stepping away from the scope and slapping the handles up. “Left full rudder, all ahead full!”
The Whale tilted to the left as the submarine twisted in response to Anton’s commands. Anton reached out and touched the bulkhead for balance. The speed came almost automatically, unlike the ramp up to speed that came from batteries. He was growing to love atomic power with every passing minute.
“Take her down to sixty meters!” he continued. Behind the Whale, water churned upon itself, creating a knuckle that should help confuse the sonar operators on board the destroyers.
“Bearing to Bravo?” he asked, stepping to the center of the conning tower.
“Target Bravo bears two five zero degrees, sir.”
“Then steady up on two five five at sixty meters.”
Chief Ship Starshina Mamadov stood behind the planesmen, watching them turn the huge nickel-plated wheels, and glancing at the depth gauge as the Whale continued its twisting dive away from base course. This was what sailors were meant to do; not sleeping every night in a barracks, as if they were soldiers. Master chiefs were the same in every Navy. If it were easy, they would not need master chiefs.