“What you got?” Shipley asked.
“Sir, the water tower bears two five five degrees; time zero five fifty- five.”
Shipley raised his binoculars and did a sweep of the area. The freezing air caused him to cough once. He recalled the story of a person caught outside in the North Atlantic during World War II who froze his lungs, the air was so cold.
Something caught his attention, and he brought the binoculars back. He focused them on the dark area along the coastline. It took a few minutes of coming back to the object until he realized he was looking at a gigantic opening of a huge, covered docking area. It reminded him of the dirigible hangars he had visited after the war in Elizabeth City, North Carolina.
He dropped his binoculars, squatted, and stuck his head near the hatch. “Lieutenant Logan, look ahead of us — off our starboard bow.” Shipley heard the hydraulics turning the periscope above him.
“Jesus Christ!” Logan exclaimed. “That’s it, sir. That’s it. Can we get off the front of it?”
“Lieutenant Weaver, come to course one nine zero. There’s a slight bulge in the shoreline here.”
“Sixty meters!” Lieutenant Antipov announced.
The bow of the Whale eased up as the boat reached the depth. The only communications between them and the destroyers would be through underwater communications. Down in BCh-4, the radiomen would be monitoring for the results.
“Range to Bravo?”
The sonar operator looked at Anton. “Less than one thousand meters, Captain.”
The sailor’s voice did not sound sure. Anton looked over at him. The man licked his lips.
“If you are not sure, you need to tell me, Starshina.”
The man dropped his head. “Sir, I have him bearing one seven five from us. The range is more a guess, Captain. Everything is being done passively.”
“Good. Never hesitate to tell the skipper the facts, including when you are not sure.”
Though the red lighting of the conning tower obscured the starshina’s face, he knew the young man would consider it a rebuke. It was not lost on Anton that Mamadov would be chewing out the poor man’s butt later. This was a good lesson for everyone.
“Final trim,” Mamadov announced from the planesmen position, his eyes glued to the inclinometer above the two huge wheels.
“Final trim,” Antipov echoed.
The deck was level and the boat was steady.
“Depth?”
“Captain, we make our depth sixty-three meters.”
“Three meters is too much, Lieutenant. Three meters can mean the difference between slamming into the bottom of the sea or masking our movements beneath the sound layer.”
“Aye, sir,” Antipov answered.
Anton made a mental note to practice the maneuver again and again until the crew was able to come out with a final trim on the boat at the commanded depth. Submarines were not surface ships. They moved through a medium comprised of four directions: up, down, right, and left. A surface ship could handle only two. The only other direction was down. There was never an up direction for a surface ship.
Lieutenant Nizovtsev straightened from his plotting table. Soviet warships had two navigators assigned, and that was all they did: navigate. The Whale had only one, but then it was classified a research submarine until this testing was done with the atomic power. Anton could tell that Nizovtsev was going through nicotine withdrawal. Nizovtsev pushed his dark-rimmed glasses back off his nose and leaned back over the charts.
If Admiral Katshora was correct, then he would continue as the skipper of the Whale once Doctor Zotkin’s research was finished. The Whale would shift its berth from the facility to the Northern Fleet’s submarine headquarters, and the flag of the Soviet Navy would fly proudly from the stern while tied up. The Whale would be more than a test platform. It would be the Soviet Nautilus.
“Skipper, target Bravo passing down our port side, sir,” Antipov reported.
Anton nodded. “Sonar, bearing?”
“Bearing one six zero, sir.”
“Officer of the deck, bring us up to six knots.” Anton looked at the sonar operator. “BCh-3, keep the bearings coming.”
“Target Bravo bearing one five nine.”
“Lieutenant Antipov,” Anton said, “prepare to start our turn. Here is how we are going to do it.” He nodded at the sonar operator. Sonar on Boyevaya Chart three is going to keep announcing the bearing of Bravo. I want a slow turn to the left that keeps those bearings drifting to the left until our course is the same as the true bearing.”
“Left-bearing drift.”
“Correct,” Anton said with a sharp nod. He heard the OOD repeating sonar bearings from BCh-3.
“Aye, sir.”
“Okay, left one-third rudder,” Anton said, and then he looked at the sonar operator. “Keep the bearings coming, Starshina. And shout if you think I failed to hear you.” He pointed at the young petty officer. “You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then start.”
“Bravo bearing one five three.”
Then for the next few minutes Anton listened to the sonar operator reporting the bearings while he kept an eye on the Whale’s course. If the operator reported the sound of Bravo increasing, then he’d steady up, put on some speed, and separate them from the destroyer.
He also watched the compass as the Whale swung from course two five zero toward Bravo. The Whale was on course one eight zero when the sonar operator interrupted.
“Sir, I have another target in the area, bearing two five zero.” Anton’s eyebrows arched, and he looked at Antipov. “I thought the operational area was supposed to be clear.”
The communications officer shook his head. “No one is allowed in the area except us and the two destroyers. With the fog topside, it is possible a merchant or fishing vessel from Murmansk has wandered into the area.”
Lieutenant Nizovtsev straightened from the plotting table. “The bearing cuts through the facility.”
“It might be the torpedo boat that carried Zotkin and his team out to the destroyer.”
“No, sir,” the sonar starshina said. “Contact has two shafts, four blades on each propeller. I estimate revolutions for about six knots, and I have a right-to-left bearing drift.”
Anton visualized the information. It would mean they had a target between them and the facility on a southerly heading, probably following the coast, considering they were only about twenty kilometers out to sea.
“I’ve lost it.”
“What do you mean, you lost it?”
“The noise is gone.” The sonar operator looked at Antipov and Anton. He pressed his earpieces against his head; then, holding them firmly, he shook his head. “One moment it was there and the next gone.”
“Could it have turned away from us?”
“No,” Anton said, “it would have to turn toward us for us to lose the sound of its screws.”
“But we should hear their screws regardless of which direction they’re going,” Nizovtsev offered, his hands patting the cigarette packet in his shirt pocket.
“It’s the gradient,” the sonar petty officer offered. “The waters are cold, so the sound is playing weird things.”
“Where is Bravo?” Anton asked. The intrusion by the unauthorized vessel was the worry of the destroyers. The last thing they needed was to run into the stern of the destroyer he wanted to use to mask their presence. Knowing the waters were masking the intruder’s noise meant it also would mask theirs.
“Bravo bearing one zero zero?”
“Our course?”
“Passing one five seven,” Antipov answered.