“Jesus Christ, Carl! I’d rather have the committees and the summit talk.”
“Surface!”
Neil Garrison echoed Taylor’s order. “Surface. Full up, planesman.”
“Aye aye, sir, full up.”
“Sound General Quarters,” Taylor said.
The klaxon went off, feet began to thud along the corridors of the Los Angeles as men ran for their duty stations, and all interior lighting went to red.
“Control Center, Sonar. Hostile’s stopped engines. Bearing still oh-one-four, range now twelve hundred yards.”
“All stop,” Taylor said.
“Aye aye, Skipper, all stop,” Garrison said.
As the sub slowed, Taylor visualized the position of the Winter Storm, which they had identified and had been tracking for the past hour. The CIS submarine had ignored them, maintaining its deep search pattern northeast of the impact point, until they closed within 2,000 yards.
Then it had made a climbing, evasive turn, and abruptly shut down all its systems.
Sitting silent.
Waiting.
Waiting for the American submarine to demonstrate its intentions.
Taylor showed his intentions by surfacing.
He could not imagine ever taking such an action, based on his training, but he also could not think of a clearer way to express his desire to talk.
The Los Angeles broke the surface, and Garrison unbuttoned the hatch into the conning tower. Taylor scrambled up the ladder behind him.
The early-afternoon sun was blotchy, struggling to get its rays through a thin overcast. To the west, the cloud bank was heavier, thicker, darker. The seas were running long, high swells. There was a wind out of the northwest that Taylor gauged fairly steady at ten miles per hour.
They waited.
Taylor felt vulnerable.
Garrison had donned a headset and plugged into one of the sail’s extensions.
“Sonar reports they’re coming up, Skipper.”
“Good. But let’s keep everyone alert.”
The CIS submarine cleared the surface about a half mile away to the northwest. It was clearly a Sierra-class boat, larger than the Victor IIIs, and equipped with the bullet on top of the vertical rudder. That strange-looking cylinder had been attributed to anything from a towed sonar array to a supersecret, ultrasilent propulsion system.
“Ahead one-third,” Taylor said.
Garrison repeated the order, and the Los Angeles gained headway and began to move.
The Russian waited for them.
Taylor raised his binoculars to his eyes, adjusted the focus, and found the heads of three men peering over the top edge of the sail. All three were staring back at him with their own field glasses.
He lowered the binoculars. “They’re suspicious of us, Neil.”
“Hell, Skipper, I’m suspicious of us. You want me to get a photograph of that fin housing?”
“No. Let’s not play naval intelligence this time.”
The bow of the Winter Storm came slowly around to the west as they approached, allowing the Los Angeles to come directly alongside.
When they were ten yards apart, Taylor ordered reverse to stop their forward movement, then minimal forward power to maintain their heading.
The Russian did the same, and the two subs crawled through the sea side by side, but rising and falling by as much as eight feet in relation to one smother in the heavy seas.
“You didn’t manage to learn any Russian last night, did you, Neil?”
“I tried, Skipper. No luck.”
Taylor raised his loud hailer. “I am Commander Alfred Taylor, captain of the United States submarine Los Angeles.”
The response was made a trifle ragged by the wind, and the English was stilted, but Taylor heard, “Captain Mikhail Gurevenich … Storm.”
So far, so good.
They had not lied to each other yet.
“Captain Gurevenich, I invite you aboard my boat for a short meeting.” Taylor spaced out the words, hoping he was understood above the wind and the translation problems.
There was a hurried confab among the three officers, then a dinghy was brought up onto the afterdeck.
Garrison ordered a greeting party out onto their own afterdeck, and Taylor followed with the instruction to stand down from General Quarters.
Fifteen minutes later, Captain Gurevenich was led into the wardroom, and Taylor met him with a salute. Gurevenich returned the salute, and Taylor offered his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, the CIS captain agreed to the handshake. He had a hard, callused hand.
“Captain, this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Neil Garrison.”
“And the Winter Storm’s navigation officer, Lieutenant Kazakov.”
He was young and had a large bruise on his forehead, and Taylor guessed that he was a newly assigned officer. Taylor assumed the executive officer would be required to stay aboard the CIS sub.
Taylor waved them toward seats at the table. “Would you care for coffee, gentlemen?”
“That would be very nice, Captain Taylor.”
The nod offered by the junior lieutenant suggested that he also understood English.
After the steward had poured mugs with steaming coffee and withdrawn, Taylor said, “This is an unusual meeting for me, as it must be for you.”
A nod.
He took a long sip of the coffee, followed by an approving smile.
“I want to assure you that we have come with the sole purpose of assisting you in the recovery of your nuclear reactor.”
Now that got a response from the young guy. His face paled, and he looked toward his captain.
Taylor glanced at Garrison. His exec had also noted the reaction.
“We do appreciate your offer,” Gurevenich said, “but I believe my government has already notified yours that the recovery of the rocket is expected to be routine.”
That was a parroting of superior instructions, if he had ever heard one, Taylor thought.
“In any event, Captain Gurevenich, we are going to be in the immediate vicinity, and we will be happy to share with you anything we learn.”
“That is gracious of you.”
“If you have not already identified them, the submarines Houston and Philadelphia will also participate in the exercise.”
“We have identified them,” Gurevenich said, again sipping the coffee.
“Neil.”
Garrison passed a chart to the Russian commander.
“That is the pattern we intend to follow, so you will know who and where we are, Captain.”
Gurevenich quickly scanned the chart. “Yes. This will be of assistance.”
“What could possibly be more helpful is if you would share with us what you have already discovered,” Taylor suggested. “We would not be reinventing a few wheels, perhaps.”
With a fleeting glance at the little lieutenant, Gurevenich said, “I am afraid that is impossible at this moment. I would have to confer with fleet headquarters.”
Taylor had the distinct feeling that the response was not one Gurevenich wanted to make.
“Yes. I can understand. Neil, do you have the other chart?”
“Right here, Skipper.” Garrison produced the chart that had been transmitted to them only a few hours before.
Gurevenich looked it over with more interest than he had shown in the search plan.
“That was put together by oceanographers aboard the research vessel Orion, Captain. It is a compilation of exploration maps from expeditions in the region over the past fifteen years, and it identifies geologic structures and shipwrecks of which you may not be aware.”