“Fortunately, there’s no need for action against the Iranians until they’re close enough to attack,” Volkov said. “Have the dolphins mirror our track.”
Mirroring was the new trick he’d ask the trainer to teach them since they’d last seen combat. The animals would match the Wraith’s course and speed until commanded otherwise.
With the sonar system piped through overhead speakers, Volkov heard the pre-recorded chirps and whistles that represented orders to the dolphins. The response then came from the duo.
“They’ve acknowledged the mirroring order,” the trainer said.
Then, the shrill dissonance of high-frequency pinging filled the room. Volkov cringed and looked to his sonar expert.
“Dipping sonar,” Anatoly said. “Strong, but still less than fifty percent chance of detection.”
“What would you say the chance of detection is?” Volkov asked.
“Thirty-five percent. Guessing.”
“Very well. We’ll maintain course, speed, and depth.”
Volkov awaited the splash of an air-dropped torpedo that failed to materialize. Then the sonar of a second helicopter rang throughout the compartment.
“Less than fifty percent chance of detection,” Anatoly said. “Twenty-five percent, if I had to guess.”
“It sounded as loud as the last one,” Volkov said.
“But it was farther astern. We gave it a low sonar cross section for the return.”
“Understood.”
The thought that his crude Sidewinder launch system gave him a means of fighting back comforted him, but he resisted the urge to shoot.
He remained patient.
Thirty minutes later, the seas became quieter with the helicopter dipping systems drifting into the distance. He looked to the screen that had held Renard’s face, but while he floated a low-frequency antenna on the water’s surface, bandwidth constraints prevented a video feed.
Data from the Frenchman came as a series of numbers representing the coordinates of the ships and aircraft that pursued him, but with the helicopters’ frequent repositioning, the icons representing their locations blended into streaks on Volkov’s tactical display.
Then a loud ping startled him.
“Forty percent chance,” Anatoly said.
“Very well.”
Then the ping came again from the same direction.
“Forty percent again,” Anatoly said. “They’ve stayed in the same place.”
Renard’s data feeding the Subtics system, the icon of the closest helicopter stabilized on the chart.
“Four miles,” Volkov said.
“Why aren’t they moving, Dmitry?” Anatoly asked.
“Damn,” Volkov said. “They’re resolving our course and speed. They’ve got us — for the moment. Helm, come left, steer course one-eight-zero.”
The mechanic acknowledged the order, and the deck took a gentle roll.
“I see what you’re doing,” Anatoly said. “You’ve given them a complete stern aspect. Their return off our hull will be minimal.”
“Precisely.”
Ten minutes later, the ping came from the west.
“Weak,” Anatoly said. “Maybe ten, at most fifteen percent chance of detection.”
“Very well. Stay alert. I suspect this helicopter has vectored in another after detecting us.”
Then a haunting shrillness rose in the control room to a crescendo that electrified Volkov’s skin.
“From the east,” Anatoly said. “Greater than fifty percent chance of detection. Maybe seventy. That one was close.”
“Very well,” Volkov said. “Come right to course two-eight-zero. All ahead standard, make turns for fifteen knots.”
He grabbed the railing as the deck dipped and rolled.
“The stern aspect may not save us this time,” Anatoly said.
“Let’s see.”
A horrifying ping filled the room again.
“Damn it, that’s enough,” Volkov said. “Shoot tube four.”
His ears popped.
“Tube four is away,” a technician said.
“I hear it,” Anatoly said. “It breached the surface. Missile ignition!”
Volkov held his breath.
“Well?” he asked.
“Nothing. No sound of a hit. No sound of a fuselage splashing.”
Volkov spoke to the technician beside Anatoly.
“Backhaul tube four and load our final Sidewinder into it.”
“The torpedo room acknowledges the order.”
He then raised his voice towards his gray-bearded mechanic.
“Have the Stinger missile team lay to the control room in preparation to climb to the bridge.”
The mechanic relayed the order.
“The Stinger team is en route to the control room.”
“Torpedo in the water!” Anatoly said. “Bearing zero-nine-five.”
“Assign a tracker to it,” Volkov said. “It’s a helical search weapon. I need to see its bearings.”
“Done. It’s behind us — for the moment.”
Lines fanned out on the chart, showing the torpedo cutting circles of increasing depth behind him. The air-dropped weapon needed to be atop or in front of him to matter, and fortune had favored him.
“A narrow escape,” he said. “But now they know we can shoot back. Let’s see how their courage holds.”
“You only have two anti-air weapons left, Dmitry,” Anatoly said. “And now they’re developing a good idea of our position, due to the missile that just missed them.”
Volkov checked the clock.
“Eight minutes,” he said.
“What about it?”
“We need to evade for eight more minutes.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Have faith,” Volkov said. “If they’re smart, they’re adjusting their tactics to account for our newfound ability to shoot back at them. If I were them, I’d now try to detect us from as far away as possible, predict our path, and drop the torpedo well ahead of us.”
Two panting men carrying a shoulder-mounted missile arrived and looked to Volkov.
“Do you need us to climb the conning tower?” one man asked.
“No,” Volkov said. “Wait. The risk of you giving away our position by clanging metal against metal is too great. Stand by.”
The pinging continued, but the helicopters remained out of detection range.
“I think you’re right, Dmitry,” Anatoly said. “They’re keeping their distance. They’re scared.”
“Fear is a great motivator.”
“I hear a missile. Your delayed Sidewinder, nine miles away.”
“Indeed.”
“Low-altitude explosion! That’s a hit! Impact on the water’s surface. You got one!”
“The weapon must have had time to adjust in flight over the longer range. I should remember this tactic. I was only using it for misdirection, but I’ll take the good luck.”
Minutes later, the messages from the Frenchman proclaimed the departure of the defeated search party.
Volkov had succeeded, and the Wraith had survived.
CHAPTER 3
Captain Nicos Floros slammed the secure telephone’s receiver into its cradle.
“Damn them,” he said in Greek.
“What’s wrong, sir?” the Hydra’s commanding officer asked.
“The vice admiral just told me we have no air cover because we never will. Apparently, the entire Hellenic Air Force is on strike.”
“You can’t be serious.”
A wave swallowed the prow of the Hellenic Ship Hydra, and Floros grabbed an overhead grip as the frigate pitched.
“Apparently, the generals have already backed a candidate for a replacement government and have turned their backs on the prime minister.”
“They want him to fail?”