"Coffee, sir?"
"What — oh, thanks, Chief. ETA Norwegian waters, John?"
"At present course and speed, eleven minutes, sir."
"Speed fourteen knots."
"Prop wash, sir?"
"Correction — twelve knots."
"Twelve knots it is, sir."
"Steer port ten."
The transmissions from the Grishka and the other Red Banner units were being received via the aircraft carrier Kiev. Dolohov had ordered the abandonment of coded signals in favour of high-speed, frequency-agile transmissions in plain language. Transferred to tape and slowed down, Dolohov then heard them broadcast in the control room. The voices, and the silences between the words, seemed equally to agitate and excite him. Sergei observed his admiral closely, worriedly. He felt like a youthful relative watching a grandparent growing senile before his eyes.
Dolohov's shoulders were hunched as he stared down into the well of the operations room, watching the moving, dancing lights and the flickering, single light that represented the British submarine. It flickered on and off as if there were an electrical fault in the board.
Sergei guessed that Dolohov had begun to entertain doubts; or rather, the doubts he had formerly crushed beneath the heel of certainty had now sprung up again like weeds. It was more than an hour since the first contact signal had been received from the submarine Frunze. Since then, the Grishka and two other units had reported traces on more than one occasion — Grishka three times — but the British submarine still eluded them. Dolohov had been able to ignore his doubts for hours, even days; but now, watching the cat-and-invisible-mouse game of the board below him, he had begun to disbelieve in success. Or so Sergei suspected.
The old man was talking to himself. His voice, in the silence from the loudspeaker, was audible throughout the room.
"Can it be done, can it be done?" He repeated it again and again, a murmured plea or a voiced fear. "Can it? Can it?" The shorter phrase became more final, more full of doubt. "Can it? Can it?" The old man was entirely unaware that he was speaking audibly, and Sergei felt a hot flush of shame invade his features. To be associated with this old man, muttering to himself in this moment of crisis like a geriatric in a hospital, was embarrassing, insulting. Others were listening, everyone in the room —
Then the voice of the monitoring officer on the Kiev silenced Dolohov, smearing across his words, erasing them. The admiral's shoulders picked up, his head inclined like a bird's as he listened.
"Submarine unit Grishka reports lost contact —"
Dolohov's shoulders slumped again. It was evident he thought he had lost the game.
"The “Victor-II” is turning to starboard, sir."
"Damn. John, insert our track and that of the “Victor-II” on to the display screen."
"Track memory is on, sir. Submarine bearing red one-six-eight, range nineteen thousand."
"Do we still have that layer of warmer water below us?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right. Let's make it much more difficult for them. Take us down through it."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Lloyd sensed the dipping of the Proteus" bow. The Russian submarine was on their tail again. They were still three minutes out into international waters, and the "Victor-II" was closing rapidly. Even though he doubted now that an imagined political line on a chart would have any beneficial effect on their circumstances, Lloyd knew of no other move he could make. The display screen traced their track over the seabed, and that of the Russian. A swifter-moving, hazy line of light was dead astern of them now that the Russian captain had altered course.
"Information on the “Victor-II” becoming unreliable, sir."
"I can see that. The warmer layer's causing ghosting and refracting. Are we through it yet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Level at eighty fathoms, cox" n."
"Eighty fathoms, sir."
"Is that the coast at the edge of the screen John?"
"No, sir." Thurston was at his side, staring down at the screen. The image of the Russian submarine was faint. The warmer layer of sea water through which they had descended would be confusing the Russian's sensors, hiding the Proteus. "It's a small plateau. Our depth makes it look like a mountain."
" “Victor-II” now bearing green one-seven-oh, range fourteen thousand, and she's in a shallow dive, sir."
Thurston looked into Lloyd's face. "We didn't fool her. She's back with us," he whispered.
"The computer confirms course and bearing, sir."
Lloyd hesitated for only a moment. Then a tight determination clamped on his features. He had accepted the evidence of his sonars and his computers.
"John," he said in a steady voice audible to everyone in the control room, "call the crew to Alert Readiness. The time for playing games with this Russian is over. He's after us, all right."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Negative contact on Magnetic, Captain."
"Maintain present course for one minute, then hard starboard — mark."
"Marked, Captain. One minute."
"Negative contact, sir."
Always the negative. The Russian captain sensed the Grishka around him, slipping through the blind darkness of the sea. He sensed the crew closed up to Action Stations, as they had been for more than half an hour on this occasion alone; and three other times he had spoken to the torpedo room, readying them, and calling his men to Action Stations. It could not go on for much longer, he would have to relax them. He was wearing them down. He sensed, especially, the torpedo crew room and the wire-guided, wake-homing torpedoes, one with reduced warhead and the second with the special MIRV warhead, the "Catherine Wheel". Once he ordered their launch, one expert crewman would guide them to their target, relying solely on his own skills. His man was good enough, and the torpedoes would do their job. Yet everything — everything — depended on tiny, delicate sensors in the bow of the boat; magnetic sensors, thermal sensors. Somewhere ahead — or below or beside or above or behind — there was a magnetic lump of metal which was emitting heat and which could not be entirely damped and rendered invisible. The British submarine was leaving faint traces, flakings of her skin, faint noises of her breathing. Somewhere in the ocean, those traces lay waiting for him to discover them.
"Coming hard round, Captain."
"Planesman — hold her steady."
"Sir."
Somewhere, out there in the dark, lay the Proteus.
"Sir, the “Victor-II” is coming hard round —"
"I have her. Engine room — plus fifty revolutions."
"Plus fifty, sir."
"Heat trace confirmed and growing stronger, Captain."
"Ten degree quarter — sixty second rate."
The captain of the Grishka leaned against the periscope housing. The range of the British submarine was still too great, and though the trace was strengthening it was still elusive. The game might continue for hours yet. He sensed the pressure on him not to fail, but more importantly he was aware of the growing, slightly desperate need for action in himself and his crew. His loyalty was, therefore, to the stifled, tense atmosphere of his control room.
"Torpedo room," he said distinctly, pausing until everyone was alert with attention to his voice, despite their own tasks. Torpedo room, load manual guidance torpedo, set it for a screw-pattern search. Set maximum range and wait for my order."