“Send a starshina to find him and have him come up here, if you would,” Anton said to Mamadov.
The two men scrambled down the ladder into the conning tower. A minute later, water rushed through the hose, the pressure of the water pushing the sides of the canvas taut. Over the side of the bridge the rushing sound of water gushing onto the deck could be heard.
“Sir, I have a Spokoinyy-class destroyer starboard aft,” one of the watches said, pointing behind Anton.
Anton turned and lifted his glasses. The bow of the Soznatelnyy emerged from the fog, the bow pointed dead on toward the Whale.
A burst of static on the bridge-to-bridge radio was followed by Admiral Katshora’s distinct, raspy voice. “We have a visual on you, Captain Zegouniov. What is your situation?”
Anton pressed the talk button. “Admiral, we are nearly at the channel leading into the docking area.”
“I can see that, Captain. What are your intentions, and what is your situation?”
“My intentions are to moor where we set sail from. I have internal and portable pumps working on the flooding situation—”
“And the flooding?” Katshora interrupted.
“And my speed is diminishing,” Anton finished. “The flooding continues to gain, but we have just got the portable pumps online.”
“And the atomic engine?” Katshora asked on the unsecured comms.
Over the bridge-to-bridge, Anton heard the voice of Zotkin telling the admiral not to mention atomic power. Anton would have smiled if the situation he faced had been different. He knew the words “atomic power” would be circulating through Severomorsk by nightfall, after the destroyer docked. It would be through the fleet within a week. It had been no accident that Kat-shora had compromised the purpose of the tests over the open radio waves. Maybe he wanted the Americans to know? Maybe he wanted the Soviet Navy to know? Maybe it was a good thing for morale? And just maybe the admiral was tired of Zotkin’s arrogance and attitude and wanted to show who was the flag officer in charge of this activity?
Katshora continued, “You look as if only the forward portion of the Whale is above the waterline. You have a steep angle, Captain. Your bow is quite high. From the bridge to the stern, you are submerged. We will stand off at one hundred meters in the event you need us. I am prepared to take you under tow.”
For the next few minutes the two veterans of the Great Patriotic War discussed how they would effect the towing if or when it was needed. Anton did not like the idea of the Soznatelnyy taking them under tow, but the exigencies of the situation overrode the tradition of the skipper to resolve his own problems. Towing would be a quick way to gain control. He raised his binoculars and scanned the entrance channel. The problem was that he did not believe he had time to put the Whale under tow before it would sink. The only salvation lay in getting pierside. Ashore, the quick-reaction team would be rigging deflooding stations along the pier. Between pumping water out and blowing high-strength pressurized air into the boat, he might be able to keep it afloat long enough to seal the hull around the aft torpedo room.
Bleecker stood. He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, though the temperature in the forward battery compartment was below thirty degrees. “That should do it,” he said to Gledhill.
Bleecker turned to Morgan and Garcia. “Good job.” The two electrician mates had finished minutes earlier. He walked over to the intercom and pressed the switch down, checking to make sure he was connected to both the conning tower and the control room.
“Go ahead,” Weaver said when Bleecker called.
“We’re ready to turn on the power in the forward battery compartment.”
“Wait one,” Weaver said.
Almost immediately, Weaver replied. “XO says go ahead, Greaser.”
Bleecker grabbed the handle to the fuse box and shoved it upward. The buzz of power filled the compartment as the diesel engines diverted to the batteries started charging them.
“No sign yet,” Gledhill said.
Bleecker nodded, his lips pursing outward. “We won’t know for a few minutes. Those hands won’t move fast as the cells charge.” He looked at the three sailors. “Now we wait.”
Five minutes later, Bleecker exhaled a deep breath. “Petty Officer Gledhill, I’m going to make a quick trip through the aft battery compartment and the two engine rooms; then I’ll be back. Morgan, you and Garcia keep an eye on those low-charged cells and make sure they’re taking a charge.”
They acknowledged his order as the World War II veteran walked toward the aft watertight hatch. “I will swing by the conning tower and report to the skipper along the way.” As he stepped out of the compartment, he turned to Gledhill. “If anything happens, you shut down the power and shout for me. Keep an eye on the hydrogen density. We don’t want to waste all this repair effort, now, do we?” he asked with a grin as he shut the hatch and secured it.
“Captain,” Arneau said from the hatch, “we are three nautical miles from the narrows, making twelve knots.”
“Lieutenant Van Ness got us on track?” Shipley asked.
“Steady on zero three zero, sir. We should be entering the shallow waters within the next fifteen minutes.”
From the fog off the starboard stern side the sound of a naval gun firing reached the Squallfish. The chill of recognition rippled through him, his mind back to World War II as he listened intently for the whistle. The whistling sound of a shell passed overhead, to explode about half a mile off the port beam.
“What the hell was that?” Arneau said.
“We’ve been located, XO. Double-check the Christmas Tree, our general quarters conditions, and tell Greaser I need those batteries ASAP.” He added quietly, more to remind himself than to tell Arneau, “As long as we hear the whistling, we’re okay.”
“Aye, sir,” the XO said, sliding down the ladder into the red-lighted conning tower.
Shipley raised his binoculars and scanned the fogbank, trying to locate the ship firing at them, when the second shell was fired. He doubted they could see him in this mess, so the naval gunfire was being targeted by radar. Turning forward, he searched the waters in front of the Squallfish as the sound of the third shell being fired reached his ears. The second shell landed off the port stern side at about five hundred feet, and then almost immediately the third shell hit two hundred feet off his starboard bow. They had him bracketed.
Where were rough waters when he needed them? Submarines had a low profile, but in rough seas they were nearly invisible when surfaced.
Bleecker’s head appeared in the hatch. “Sounds to me like we have a destroyer on our tail, Skipper,” the CHENG said with a tight smile.
Shipley nodded. “Does seem that, Greaser.” The fourth shell was in the air. “What’s the status?”
“We’re charging now.”
“I’m going to need them once we’re through the narrows.”
The fourth shell hit on the starboard side about three hundred feet out. “They seem to have our range,” Shipley said.
“Hard to hit a submarine, Skipper.”
“Takes only one, though.”
“I’m on my way aft, Captain. The aft battery compartment is fully charged. We can run on snorkel if you want. I have two diesels charging, but can always bring one of them online if you need the speed.”
Shipley nodded. “That would slow our charging of the forward battery, Lieutenant. What’s the status on the forward battery compartment?”
Bleecker bit his lip as the sound of the next gunfire reached the boat. “I’d say about between fifty to seventy percent. Got some dead cells and damaged cells, but we gerry-rigged a fix around the dead one.”