“A submarine,” Novskoyy said… Either one of the Russian Pacific Fleet attack boats coming to stop his mission, or, and more likely, the American attack ship that Dretzski had alerted him to. Four loud BOOMS reverberated from outside the hull — from the direction the intruding submarine had gone after it stopped scraping the underside of the Kaliningrad’s hull. Ivanov stared at the sonar console, flipping rapidly from one graphic display in the software to another. Without looking up he gave his report to Novskoyy.
“It’s an American attack submarine. Admiral. Piranha class. Probably up here to spy on us—”
“How could it have found us?”
“They are leaving the area at maximum RPM, sir. We must neutralize them…” Novskoyy’s own instructions to the Northern Fleet submarines allowed, even encouraged, the firing of a warshot torpedo at any foreign submarine if there was a collision or clear evidence of foreign surveillance if both vessels were under the cover of the polar icecap. Ivanov knew this.
“No,” Novskoyy said. The molniya go-code for attack still had to be transmitted to his deployed fleet.
“Sir,” Ivanov said, “the intruder is getting away, we must prosecute them, your standing orders to the fleet, sir. We can return here after the American is on the bottom—”
“No. We will remain here. There is an urgent radio—”
“Sir,” Ivanov persisted, “the American must be expecting an attack and will be planning to release his own weapons. Sir, isn’t it a question of defending ourselves?”
Novskoyy waved an acknowledgment. By his lights, Ivanov was right. After the sinking of the American sub in 1973 the U.S. submarine fleet had no doubt been spoiling for revenge, but would the American shoot at them in what everybody considered peacetime? He proceeded to answer his own thought… They would if they linked his transmissions to his attack fleet off the coast. What if they had broken the encryption codes and were reading his communications. Then they would try to sink the Kaliningrad before he could complete the attack molniya to the fleet… There was no choice — the transmission would have to wait.
“Ivanov, submerge the ship, lock in the fire-control targeting instructions for the American submarine and launch a 100-centimeter Magnum to the target aimpoint.”
Ivanov paused. The watchstanders paused. The room’s conversations died.
“Sir, a nuclear weapon could damage this ship. I’ll have to overpower the reactors and use the polymer system. Would the admiral consider a 53-centimeter unit? Or several?”
The conventional 53-centimeter torpedoes had conventional explosive warheads, not nuclear ones.
“Not fast enough. The Piranha will get away and the 53-centimeter unit would run out of fuel. Launch the Magnum and get us out of the area.”
“Aye, Admiral.”
“Captain, damage reports are in,” Stokes said, replacing the phone handset in the cradle. “We’re hurting. Evaporator and lithium bromide air conditioner are out. Just about every piping system we’ve got is leaking from the couplings and joints. Bilges are filling up with water — nothing the drain pump can’t handle. Worst leaks look to be primary coolant, and the radiation level in the reactor compartment is climbing. But we’ve got full propulsion. Hovering system up forward is leaking both high pressure air and seawater. We’re trying to isolate the leaks. But the hovering system is down hard. Sonar’s got a real problem. The towed array is dead. We must have crushed the fiberglass fairing on top of the hull, maybe severed the cable. Total loss of narrowband sonar on Target One—”
“Status of the spherical array?”
“Still okay, sir.”
“Well, we’ll just have to keep tabs on Target One on broadband.”
“Captain,” Rapier said, turning from the Pos Two console he’d been studying, “Target One’s in the baffles now. We can’t hear him. Recommend you come around right or left twenty degrees and bring him out.” Pacino shook his head. Rapier frowned, not understanding.
“Mark range to the collision,” Pacino ordered.
“Two thousand yards,” Stokes replied, looking at the geographic plot. Minimum weapon standoff range for the Russian’s torpedoes, Pacino thought.
“Conn, Sonar,” Pacino’s headphone intoned, “Uh, transients now from bearing zero seven zero, edge of the starboard baffles… Conn, Sonar, we have a detect on an active sonar… it’s a quick pulse-range check omega’s transmitting Blocks-of-Wood active sonar in a beam at us, verifying our range…”
Good. The OMEGA had heard them and was responding. The range check was a classic Russian tactic immediately before a torpedo shot. The officers in the space, most of them wearing the same headphones Pacino wore, turned to look at him, waiting for him to get the ship out of trouble, or into it.
“Well, XO,” Pacino said, “it seems the OMEGA may be hostile, after all. Are we ready to shoot?”
“Sir,” Rapier said, thinking of the Russian submarines lurking in the seas off the coast of his hometown, “let’s kick his ass.”
The next few minutes seemed to go by in a blur, whether the result of the injury he had sustained in the collision or the stress of the moment, Novskoyy wasn’t sure as he watched Ivanov and the team of officers submerge the ship and head east away from the American submarine, trying to get enough distance from it so that the safety interlocks on the Magnum torpedo would allow warhead aiming — too close and it could home in on the launching ship. The conversation in the space seemed to swim by Novskoyy’s ears rather than register in them.
“REAR GUARD sonar range to target, 1500 meters,” Ivanov called out.
“Magnum torpedo loaded in tube six. Flooding tube six now,” said Weapons Officer Chekechev.
“REAR GUARD range to target, 2000 meters. Target range meets firing criteria. Target bearing 280, speed 65 clicks.” Ivanov.
“Magnum in tube six weapon power on, gyro at nominal RPM, computer self-check complete. Target solution locked in,” from Chekechev.
“Open outer door, tube six.” Ivanov turned to Lieutenant Katmonov, the Ship Control Officer. “To Engine Control, overpower both reactors to 110 percent power.”
Chekechev: “Tube six outer door open. Magnum fuel turbopump pressure increasing, increasing—”
“Engine Control reports both reactors at 110 percent power,” reported Katmonov. “Ship’s speed, 80 clicks.”
“Magnum fuel pressure in limits. Computer ready indication,” said Chekechev.
“Firing status?” Ivanov asked.
“Ready to fire.”
“Fire tube six on my mark,” Ivanov ordered. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Markf “Firing six!” The ship trembled, just slightly, as the heavy large-bore weapon left the tube.
“Engage the polymer system and report ship’s speed,” Ivanov ordered.
“Magnum turning to attack course.”
“Polymer system engaged. Ship’s speed increasing to eighty-five clicks,” Katmonov intoned. Chekechev: “Magnum steady on attack course.” Katmonov: “Ship’s speed increasing to ninety clicks.” Chekechev: “Magnum speeding up to attack velocity.”
Ivanov: “Status of the target?” Chekechev: “Target no longer registers on REAR GUARD. Must be on the other side of the Magnum now. Confirmed. Magnum is on the bearing to the target. Target noise masked by Magnum noise.”
“Very good. Range to the aim point?”
“Aimpoint range, fifteen kilometers. Ship’s speed, ninety-one clicks. A record, sir.” Ivanov took it in. The most a Russian submarine had gone before was eighty clicks, at least in his memory. Chekechev: “Aimpoint range, sixteen kilometers. Four kilometers to go till outside blast-damage zone.” Katmonov: “Ship’s speed, steady at ninety-one clicks.”