“I didn’t mean to insult them.”
Ignoring his commanding officer, the lithe man raised his voice. “Slide him in behind Andrei.”
Two sailors pushed the dolphin’s fluke as two others slipped the tarp from under the animal. With the trainer’s guidance, they closed the breach, equalized pressure, and flooded the tube.
Releasing the mammals, Volkov ordered the muzzle door opened, returned to the control room with the trainer, and then stood over his sonar leader’s shoulder. “Hail them for a response. Minimum transmit power.”
Anatoly called up the screen of recorded dolphin sounds and pressed the icon that invoked the chirps and whistles and demanded an immediate cetacean response. “They responded. Range, three hundred yards, based upon the roundtrip speed of sound.”
“Send them to one o’clock relative to our position.”
“I’ve sent them a command to swim at one o’clock relative to our position of twelve o’clock, and they’ve acknowledged.”
Volkov gave the mammals time to swim and then grew impatient for their report. “Prepare to query them for submerged contacts.”
The sonar ace tapped keys. “I’m ready to query them for new submerged contacts.”
“Transmit the query.”
Over loudspeakers, an exchange of chirps and whistles rang from the Wraith’s bow-mounted hydrophones. After the animals responded, Anatoly shook his head. “They have nothing.”
“This water’s shallow and noisy. Finding contacts will be a challenge.”
“Even for dolphins.”
“Yes. And for humans, too. So, I want my best ears attuned to threats. Pass control of the dolphins to the trainer so you can listen.”
Seated beside Anatoly, the lithe man looked up. “Yes, please. Let me control them.”
“Have them follow us. This will be complex since we’re trying to search behind us. It’s a new geometry for them. Be vigilant,”
“My babies will do their job, Dmitry.”
As Volkov drew breath to order his drones launched to assist with his rearward search, his sonar guru curled forward and pressed his muffs against his head. A chill crept up the Wraith commander’s spine. “Anatoly?”
“High-speed screws. Torpedo in the water!”
“Is it a threat to us?”
With fear in his eyes, Anatoly looked at his commanding officer. Blood fell from his face, and he resembled a ghost. “It’s coming right at us. We need to run. Now!”
CHAPTER 8
New heights of fear terrifying him, Volkov shouted. “Torpedo evasion!”
Accelerating to flank speed, the Wraith shuddered and rolled through a sharp turn.
Ignoring his mortal danger, the trainer distracted his commanding officer. “My babies have a submerged contact, bearing—”
Volkov interrupted him. “I don’t care where the contact is. Arm them, and have them deploy their warheads.”
His face revealing betrayal, the lithe man looked up and pleaded with his eyes. “Dmitry? You’re sending them away.”
“I’m running from a torpedo. We’ve already lost them.”
Tears welling, the trainer lowered his head and tapped a key, and the overhead loudspeaker issued an exchange of chirps and whistles. “They’ve acknowledged the order to arm themselves.”
“Very well. As soon as they’re armed, order them to deploy their warheads. Don’t wait for my order.”
In a room full of terrified men, the trainer alone revealed sadness. “I understand.”
“We’ll come back for them, if we survive.” Volkov turned his attention to his sonar ace. “Is there a bearing drift yet?”
Anatoly shook his head. “It was still coming right at us when I lost it in our flow noise. No bearing rate. No bearing drift. No idea of range. It’s a damned tail chase.”
“Damn it.” Volkov stepped behind the back of his seated gray-bearded veteran. “Prepare to launch one pair of gaseous countermeasures on my mark.”
Through successive menus, the veteran tapped icons. “I’m ready.”
“Launch countermeasures.”
Anatoly pointed to a fuzzy trace forming on his screen. “The torpedo’s behind our countermeasures.”
“Then whoever shot it can’t hear us, unless they’ve already repositioned themselves wisely.” Volkov returned to his sonar ace’s side and crouched. “What’s the status of my reactive weapon?”
Anatoly called up a screen. “Tube one’s loaded with a slow-kill weapon. I’ve assigned it to run along the bearing of the incoming torpedo, range three miles.”
To convey his seriousness, Volkov raised his voice. “I agree with the presets. Shoot tube one.” The impulse launch popped the Wraith commander’s ears as air displaced water within the tube. He verbalized his next order to his gray-bearded veteran. “Have the torpedo room cut the guidance wire to tube one and reload tubes one and three with slow-kill weapons.”
Twisting his torso, the gray-beard faced him. “Do you want me to launch a noise-making countermeasure?”
With grave pessimism, Volkov pondered his escape, discerned hopelessness, and decided to hold his desperate course with the torpedo chasing him. “Launch the noise-maker.”
The sonar guru announced the Wraith’s second countermeasure. “I hear our noise-maker. It’s transmitting our ship’s recorded flank-speed frequencies.”
“Very well, Anatoly.” Volkov traversed the control room to his gray-bearded veteran’s side and leaned into his ear. “Pass the word for all men who aren’t staffing a combat or propulsion station to prepare to abandon ship.”
Defeat loomed, but hope sprang from the last place the Russian expected as his American rider waved at him. “Mister Volkov! Come see this. It’s the California.”
Volkov marched to Commander Hatcher and studied English characters streaming over a black screen. He recognized the Latin alphabetical numbers, but the language’s letters were unbreakable code. “I can’t read all of that.”
Seated beside the rider, the translator relayed the meaning. “It’s a datalink from the California tracking the weapon that’s chasing us and sending the California’s new course and speed.”
Digesting the interpretation, Volkov mentally ran the American submarine’s new geometry relative to the Wraith, and then he looked to Commander Hatcher for context. “What sort of sailors behave like this, sprinting towards a hostile weapons exchange? What the devil are they doing?”
“It’s not suicide, I assure you. I’m sure we’ll know more soon. Just watch the datalink.”
The Wraith’s commander studied a tactical display showing a new icon of the friendly submarine and the updated American perspective of the incoming torpedo. The hostile weapon shifted backwards two miles to its true location, easing the constricting of Volkov’s chest. “The California’s six miles away. How can we hear its communications?”
With the imminent danger, Commander Hatcher avoided feigned contriteness and shrugged. “The three-mile limit was imposed only on your fleet’s ships.”
“Can I respond?”
“Not beyond three miles, no.”
Volkov turned his eyes to the English characters and noticed a new sequence. “What’s it say?”
The rider handled the translation. “It’s an order to come left to course one-one-five.”
“I should bring the Wraith to course one-one-five?”
“Yes.”
“That’s too shallow of an evasion angle. How’s that supposed to help?”
“Look here.” The rider pointed at the tactical display. “If the California stays on course and speed… incredible.”