“Load tube one with a heavyweight torpedo.”
“It will take fifteen minutes. We need to set up the block and tackle system while the men are being sprayed by water.”
“Do it in five. Your life depends upon it.”
“The Goliath just broached, sir,” the sonar operator said. “I hear its gas turbines spinning up.”
“Its commanding officer thinks we’re helpless. He’s coming in to finish us off. He’ll be surprised to learn that even with the beating we’ve taken, the Krasnodar is still fighting.”
“The Goliath’s gas turbines are online. Its screws are accelerating to flank speed, making turns for thirty-four knots based upon blade rate. Bearing rate is zero. It’s coming right for us.”
Reluctant to gift his enemy verification of his exact location, Volkov withheld his radio mast below the waves. He looked to his veteran in hopes of a low-frequency update from an attentive fleet.
“Anything yet from the fleet on the Goliath?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Here it comes. Goliath is surfaced. Coordinates to follow. Air strike against the Goliath is launched, first weapons on target in fifteen minutes. The surface task force is moving in against the Specter.”
Volkov leaned over a console and called up a screen for manual data entry.
“Read me the Goliath’s coordinates.”
The veteran dictated, and Volkov typed. The icon appeared and Volkov held his breath.
“Mother of God. It’s less than five miles away. Has its commanding officer gone mad?”
“If he wanted to shoot a torpedo, he would have already,” the veteran said. “We’re well within range.”
“Any sign of an incoming torpedo?” Volkov asked.
“No, sir,” the sonar operator said.
“He can’t possibly know that I’m unable to shoot back at him. He can’t possibly trust that his aim was that good on my tubes. I’ll even have a tube loaded soon.”
“Still no sign of a torpedo, sir.”
Having seen his adversaries minimize the lethality of their attacks, Volkov wondered if the Goliath’s commanding officer had disabled but spared the Krasnodar out of chivalry. Such a sentiment seemed consistent for a battle in which excessive ordnance had been spent but less than two dozen men had perished.
The theory explained why he continued living, but it didn’t explain the Goliath’s sprint in his direction. Then he considered the air strike and realized that hiding near or under his ship served as an excellent defense for the transport ship.
Tapping his fingers on his console, he attempted to avoid the temptation of accepting the simple answer. His wisdom spurred him to seek something deeper.
An idea began to form but evaporated. Then it came again, survived for a fleeting moment, and then vanished.
Failing to put the idea into words or to frame it as a coherent construct, he found himself holding a fractional thought. Fueled by a combination of paranoia and uncertainty, he let the concept grow into a verbalized question that he hoped would lead to a command.
“How’s your depth control?”
“I’m holding a neutral trim,” the veteran said. “Just barely, but I’m holding it.”
“Then you won’t mind if I deprive you of the knot and a half of speed.”
“I can manage, as long as you stay shallow.”
“Very well. Have the engineer turn the outboard ninety degrees to port. I want him to spin the ship clockwise.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
A pang of embarrassment agitated him while he considered the possibility that the future would prove his suspicions ridiculous.
“The Goliath is a transport ship capable of carrying a vessel of our size. I want to complicate that for him, in case that idea is on its commanding officer’s mind.”
“I will see to it, sir.”
“And once you’re done,” Volkov said. “Have every available man report to the gun locker. He may attempt to board us. Prepare to repel borders.”
CHAPTER 21
The Goliath’s radar data showed Cahill the inverse of his desires.
Where he hoped for clear skies to the north, a swarm of angry Fencer aircraft approached. Where he hoped to see helicopters from the surface fleet to the east, he saw clear skies.
“Have the men start moving backup rounds to the port weapons bay for manual loading.”
Walker acknowledged and assigned a sailor to manage the task.
“What will we shoot?” he asked.
“We’ll start with the Fencers,” Cahill said. “I know we’re unlikely to hit, but we might just slow them down.”
“Splintering rounds from both cannons?”
“Yes. Prepare to fire one hundred splintering rounds from each cannon.”
“The cannons are ready.”
“Fire.”
The railguns cracked.
“Incoming data feed from Pierre,” Walker said. “Helicopters are heading for Jake. Our Ukrainian support crew has them on radar, but they’re just over the horizon from our phased-array.”
“I’m sure they got nervous after Jake submerged. They’re looking for him, and time’s his greatest asset. We need to buy him more of it with our cannons.”
“But time’s working against us. We need to get to the Kilo before the Fencers get to us. We need to slow them down.”
“I’m more concerned about the Kilo if it finds a way to shoot us,” Cahill said. “We rained down hell on its tubes, but there’s no guarantee that we silenced its torpedoes.”
“The fact that it didn’t shoot at us yet is a good sign. Four minutes until we’re within five hundred yards.”
Cahill tapped his sonar supervisor’s shoulder.
“Can you hear an incoming torpedo?”
“No, but we’re moving so fast that I wouldn’t hear one until it goes active.”
“At that point it would be too late.”
“I know. I’ll feel better once we’re under that Kilo.”
“Or within five hundred yards,” Cahill said. “I’ll feel safe enough when we’re protected by torpedo anti-circular run safeguards.”
He turned and faced the console that showed Renard’s face.
“Any new thoughts?”
“None,” Renard said. “God speed. Sprinting towards the Kilo is your best tactic.”
“I don’t suppose now’s a good time to lobby for stronger propulsion motors? I’ve got enough power in me turbines and MESMA system for at least two more knots, but it’s wasted.”
“Duly noted.”
His boss’ face froze in pixelated absurdity as Russian jamming took its toll. It then reappeared in its fatigued normalcy.
“What about Jake?” Cahill asked.
“When the helicopters started seeking him, he realized that he could no longer wait for you. He’s decided to deviate from the escape plan and take on the Russian fleet himself.”
The audacity fit with Cahill’s perspective of his colleague.
“I feel bad for the Russian fleet.”
“I share your optimism,” Renard said. “And you can help him. I see that you now have a helicopter on your radar. I suggest that you divert one of your cannons to his cause.”
“Liam, shift the port cannon to the helicopter.”
As the railgun sought a new target, Cahill looked at his tactical display. The Goliath reached within a mile of his best estimate of the Kilo.
He respected the Russian commander’s restraint in withholding his masts below the surface. Cahill’s ship had no short-range returns on its radar, and he had to guess at his prey’s precise location.