Dangerous Ground

20. PURSUIT

June 11, 2005—1800

Northern Fleet Headquarters

Severomorsk, Russia

Admiral Yuri Kirichenko strode into the briefing like he owned the place, which, in effect, he did. He was the Commander of the Northern Fleet, which, even after the collapse of Russian naval power, still meant something.

Kirichenko’s legend had grown with his rank. A competent junior officer under the Soviet regime, he’d been promoted just in time to become another impoverished senior officer. He’d remained in the military, ruthlessly fighting corruption and pushing efficiency as a necessary substitute for proper funding. By force of will, he’d kept the Northern Fleet from imploding.

So when he walked into the room with his characteristic high-speed stride, everyone in the room snapped to attention and everything was ready for his arrival, from the briefing materials to the tea and fresh fruit by his seat. Kirichenko was also well known for expecting the perks and privileges of his rank.

“Good evening, Admiral.” Captain First Rank Orlov was the Intelligence Officer on the staff. Normally he had one of his deputies conduct the actual briefing, but this material was too important.

“Since the last brief at 0800, we’ve confirmed that there’s no surface traffic in the area. Two patrol craft have reached the scene and reported detecting a submarine contact within our territorial waters. They attempted to localize it for prosecution, but it disappeared before they could make an attack.

“The seabed sensor grid hasn’t reported any activity since 1715. Total elapsed time of the most recent detection was one hour and thirty-seven minutes. We’ve had experts examining the data but the sensors were never designed for narrowband…”

“I’m aware of the sensor’s capabilities, Captain,” growled Kirichenko.

Orlov nodded quickly “Of course, sir. My apologies. They have determined that the sound signals came from more than one source, and there were a large number of transients during the period.”

The intelligence officer frowned. “Combined with the length of time they were near the array, we conclude they were working at that location and that they were unaware of the array’s presence. They may have been landing agents or planting surveillance equipment…”

“When we catch them, we’ll ask them,” declared the Admiral, standing and walking around to the head of the table. Orlov hurriedly gathered up his notes and returned to his seat. Kirichenko’s entire staff had assembled for this meeting, and they all listened intently.

“Whatever their purpose, they are not here to help the Russian Federation. I’m declaring a fleet-wide alert. I want aircraft covering the Kara Sea from the location of the incident all the way north, to the edge of the polar ice pack. Every operational unit is to get underway and head for the area. Admiral Sergetev,” he pointed to his deputy, “will be in charge of the search.”

“Ivan, form a barrier running east from the northern tip of Novaya Zemlya and then move it south. You should find the submarine as he attempts to escape.”

Admiral Ivan Sergetev nodded in acknowledgment, but not agreement. “If we can get the barrier formed before he slips through. If he moves at high speed. ”

“Sonobuoys will pick him up,” Kirichenko interrupted. “And there will be stragglers and units that are too far out of position to reach the initial barrier line. Have them form a second line running northeast. If he’s able to evade the first barrier, he may relax and we’ll trap him with the second.”

The deputies for aviation, surface ships, and submarines were all writing furiously, but so was Kirichenko’s supply officer. He raised his hand politely and waited for the Admiral’s permission to speak. Supply officers in the Russian Navy these days usually brought bad news — and this time was no different.

He spoke cautiously. “Admiral, our operating funds do not allow this type of deployment. We could use up our entire year’s training budget in a few days’ operations. And stores are critical. We’ll have to dip into war reserves for enough sonobuoys, and I’m not even sure we have enough fuel on hand to fill everyone’s tanks.”

“Then send them out half-full.” Kirichenko let him finish, but just barely. “And then get more fuel, and we’ll send out tankers if we have to.”

Kirichenko paused after answering the supply officer’s objections, then spoke to the entire staff. “I don’t care if we spend every ruble in the Fleet, including the stash under your mattress, Andrei.” Everyone smiled at the joke, but they also looked worried and puzzled.

Kirichenko was a commanding figure, tall with a long, angular face that had been weathered not only by the elements but the weight of command. That contrasted with his blond hair. So far it was hard to see how much of it had gone gray.

“We’ve had penetrations of our waters before, and the West thinks that with us facing hard times they can enter our territory at will. Captain Orlov says there are ‘multiple sources.’ It sounds like there is more than one submarine, possibly several. Why would they need so many if they weren’t making some sort of major effort against us?

“They’re not expecting a massive response, and a massive response is the only way to deal with this type of attack. Our training budget just became our operating budget, and Andrei, this sounds like exactly the time to dip into war reserves.”

The admiral leaned forward a little, driving home his point to the staff. “And think of what happens when we catch him! We will make the Americans and the others respect our waters and prevent who knows how many future incursions.”

He turned to the supply officer. “And consider this, Andrei. What better way to get more funding for our Fleet than showing what we can do? With a success like this, I guarantee that I’ll be in Moscow the next day, demanding that they give us enough support to operate the Northern Fleet properly.”

Then he dropped his bombshell. “And Andrei, also use war reserves to make sure that every ship has a full load of ordnance, not just antisubmarine, but gun and missile ammunition as well. I want these intruders caught, and if they don’t respond to our challenges, then they will be sunk.”

Everyone looked surprised, but his deputy, Admiral Sergetev, was the only one who spoke up. “Sir, the chance of catching them in territorial waters is. ”

“I don’t care if they’re in our waters when you find them. They were in our waters, and we have the array data as proof.” He spoke more formally. “If the intruding submarines do not answer your challenge or comply with your instructions, you will attack with all your weapons and sink them. The Kara Sea is shallow. The hulk of a Western sub is just as convincing as a live one and will make our point about the sovereignty of Russian territorial waters even more effectively.”

Sergetev, maybe because he was the one who would actually control the operation, risked another question. “Sir, are you formally changing the Fleet’s Rules of Engagement?”

Those rules had been drafted by the Naval Staff and approved by the highest levels of the Russian government. They described in excruciating detail when and under what conditions a Russian naval unit could fire at a foreign one. Every naval officer in the Fleet was expected to be able to quote them verbatim. In the past, only intruders actually encountered in territorial waters could be engaged, and then only after several challenges and if there was evidence of hostile intent.

“I’ve already spoken to Moscow and they’ve approved the change for this specific incident. They are not happy with the idea of several Western submarines in our territory. Of course, if this doesn’t work out well, I’ll be the one explaining to Moscow.”

That had the effect he’d expected, and the staff looked more willing to carry out the order, almost excited. Moscow’s approval of the Admiral’s orders removed any misgivings they might have had.

“I want reports on the status of all units and expected sailing times in an hour. Ivan, I want your search plan an hour after that. As of this moment, gentlemen, the Northern Fleet is at war. Dismissed.”

Kirichenko watched his staff leave the room, almost at a run. Good, they were motivated, and the lie about Moscow’s approval had effectively dealt with any reservations.

He remained in the briefing room, sipping his tea and studying the charts that covered the walls. Calculating distances and times, he tried to visualize how the prosecution would develop, where the detection might take place. How could he organize the hurriedly assembled units to best effect? He’d spoken in positive terms to his staff, because they needed him to be positive, but he’d been too long in the Fleet to know what the odds were of finding a submarine that did not want to be found.

And this one had to not only be found, but sunk. He had no idea why the sub was there, but if they were, he knew what they’d found.

Right before the breakup of the Soviet Union, as a new Captain First Rank, he’d supervised the disposal of hazardous materials under the aegis of Soviet Military Intelligence, the GRU. He’d directed the dumping of spent fuel, old reactors, and all manner of dangerous items. Being a good officer, he’d made it his business to learn the details of each load.

One load, a barge full of canisters, had attracted his attention. While disposals were handled by the GRU, the material to be disposed of always came from other agencies: the armed forces, medical organizations, or the Ministry of Atomic Energy, Minatom. They all handled or produced radioactive material as a part of their functions, and thus had to dispose of radioactive waste.

But this barge didn’t make sense. According to the paperwork, it carried canisters full of radioactive waste from Minatom, but the authorizing signatures were by GRU officers, not Minatom officials. And the barge had not come from any of the Minatom facilities. Oh, the paperwork said it had, but then he’d checked with the tug that had brought the barge to Arkhangel’sk. It had come up the Dvina River from well inside Mother Russia. Minatom’s waste always came by rail in special cars and was then loaded onto barges for disposal.

At first, he suspected smuggling or possibly espionage. Perhaps someone had cached sensitive equipment or precious metals on the barge, presuming that nobody would want to closely inspect radioactive material. Classified equipment could be sold to the West. Corruption and graft were nothing new in Russia, and the cracks appearing in the Soviet Empire just multiplied the opportunities for enterprising individuals.

To avoid tipping off the criminals, he made several quiet checks, always making sure the enquiry would appear to come from a different part of the government.

And the answer had come quickly. The GRU had indeed falsified the paperwork, but it was not the act of an individual or group of criminals, but the GRU itself. They’d been in too much of a hurry to build a foundation for its “legend,” which helped Kirichenko penetrate the cover quickly. In fact, they’d been rushed — and more than a little scared. Specifically, Soviet Military Intelligence had been handed a hot potato, with orders to fix the problem as quickly, and quietly, as possible.

The Soviet leadership had been cheating on the arms controls accords, producing more warheads than allowed under the treaties. The military had stockpiled them as the ultimate insurance policy, just in case of a surprise attack by the West. Secret even from the armed forces and known only to a few officials, the stockpile would give a devastated Russia a “hole card,” even if all of its other strategic weapons were discovered and destroyed.

Now, with the Soviet Union crumbling around the GRU’s collective heads, the stockpile was a dangerous liability that needed to be disposed of — and swiftly. The warheads could not be easily destroyed. The removed weapons-grade plutonium would raise far too many questions about its origins, and frankly, the money for their disposal would have to be accounted for, if it could be found at all. A simpler and cheaper solution was to just label them as radioactive waste and dump them in the sea.

Kirichenko agreed with their solution, but also saw opportunity in the situation. He did several things. First, he made sure that the special barge was properly scuttled, but not at the location that appeared in the report he sent to GRU headquarters. Then he compiled a list of the people who knew about the operation, and places where there might be records of the shipment or the stockpile.

Finally, using the GRU’s authority, he ordered the deployment of acoustic sensors around the barge. Through some legal trickery — and a few veiled threats — he was able to make the sensors’ deployment look like part of the disposal operation. Nobody questioned their need or purpose.

For fifteen years, Yuri Kirichenko had kept track of all the people and all the documents associated with the secret dumping. He’d been able to surreptitiously remove all of the documents, and he’d kept a close track of those who knew. Everyone, except him, had left the armed services; some had even left Russia. Many had died.

But Kirichenko had steadily risen in rank and power. He became a staunch opponent of graft within the Russian Navy and had jailed several officers for stealing precious metals from decommissioned submarines. He was also instrumental in making the Northern Fleet more efficient with its meager funds, much more so than the Baltic, Black Sea, and Pacific fleets. This had earned Kirichenko an unusual reputation for honesty. He was considered by the Russian government to be above suspicion, completely trustworthy.

And he’d begun to plan for his retirement. It had taken years to build up his contacts within the arms black market, and more time to learn the market. Now fifteen years of hard work and a rich reward were in jeopardy.

He studied the map as it showed not just the coast, but the interloping submarine as well. It had to be a Western sub, and probably an American. Or possibly more than one, according to Orlov. That worried him. They would not send more than one sub to such a remote location unless they knew what was there. Had someone learned of the cache? If they had proof, they would have already trumpeted the news to the world. So there was still time to keep the secret, and make a few sales. He had contacted a number of countries who would pay handsomely for a fully functional one hundred fifty kiloton nuclear warhead. He had plenty to sell.

Memphis had successfully evaded the searching Grishas, but Hardy had been forced to dodge farther east to keep clear of the corvettes. They were now heading north-northwest, toward home. Once clear of the northbound ships, Jerry kept the Manta on a northeasterly course at a charge-conserving five knots. The rendezvous with Memphis and the recovery of the Manta went off very smoothly, almost as if it were a training exercise. After hours of stress and strain, Jerry felt a load fall off his shoulders when the Manta finally nestled into its docking skirt.

The instant the Manta was secure, Jerry headed for sickbay, anxious to see the COB and Harris. He had to use his rank to open a hole in the large crowd that filled the passageway. It seemed that almost everyone not on watch was there, asking after the two divers. He was just starting to make progress when resistance suddenly ceased, and he realized the enlisted men around him had snapped to attention. Instinctively, he joined them, stepping to one side and making himself as thin as he could.

Moving into the space Jerry had just made, the XO, followed by Hardy and Patterson, headed into sickbay. Hardy nodded to Jerry as they passed and said, “Come with us if you like, Mr. Mitchell.”

Jerry ended up standing in the doorway, with Hardy, Bair and Patterson barely able to move as the corpsman made his report. “They’ll both be fine, but I recommend bed rest and fluids for the rest of the day. That water is above freezing, but not by much, and it put a tremendous strain on their bodies. Luckily, they were both in good health.”

“Fine, Chief,” Bair answered. “Can we speak to them?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Noonan as he fiddled with Reynolds’ oxygen mask. He stepped to one side as much as the crowded space allowed.

Reynolds and Harris sat reclined on the single bunk. Both were under several blankets with their faces obscured by oxygen masks. A heated IV bag hung over each of them, with the tube leading under the blankets.

Reynolds’ face was strained, but he managed to prop himself up as the Captain stepped up to the bunk.

“That was excellent work, COB. You and Harris both did a five-oh job.”

“Thank you, sir,” Reynolds beamed. Any praise from Hardy was rare, but then Jerry knew they’d both earned it. “We didn’t stop to count, but there were dozens of those cases in there, sir, all the same. It’s a warhead, isn’t it? A nuke?”

Hardy and Patterson both nodded. “It can’t be anything else,” he answered. “Although you were closer to it than we were. What can you tell us about it?”

“The sumbitch was heavy, I’ll say that. It had a smooth finish, but there were markings on the case and on the warhead inside.” He motioned to a slate lying on a counter nearby. “I copied them as best I could.”

Bair, closest, picked up the slate and held it so that Hardy and Patterson could see it as well. Jerry could see that there was something written on the slate, but not what it said.

Patterson shook her head. “I can’t read Russian, and the numbers don’t tell me anything.”

Bair said, “With your permission, sir, I’ll take this and start working on it.” Hardy nodded and Bair stepped out into the passageway and hurried forward.

Jerry resisted the urge to follow him; he was just as curious as the next guy to find out what they had stashed in the Manta skirt, but he wanted to see the COB first.

They’d managed to obtain two Russian nuclear warheads. The thought still boggled his mind. He’d love to have a closer look at one, but they were out of reach at the moment.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Reynolds apologized, but Hardy shook his head. “You’ve done more than enough, Master Chief,” the Captain reminded him.

Patterson, beaming, said, “The President will hear about this,” then bent down and hugged Reynolds, and then Harris. Both managed to look pleased and embarrassed under their oxygen masks. She quickly stood, then left, with Hardy following them back up to control.

Jerry waited his turn while the men congratulated the divers. He stepped forward when the crowd thinned.

“I’m glad you’re back in one piece, Master Chief.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Mr. Mitchell. Thanks for getting us back.”

“So, how was the ride?” asked Jerry with genuine curiosity.

“Bumpy. And the in-flight service was terrible,” joked Reynolds, grinning. But Jerry noticed that it was a weak one.

“I still wish that I’d been out there with you, COB.”

“I think Petty Officer Harris does, too,” Reynolds answered. Harris managed to nod his head in agreement.

“I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you two and ask if there’s anything you need.”

“Aw, sir, I’m not dying. I just need to take a nap.”

“For about a week,” added Harris.

“I’m just glad a good pilot was working the Manta, sir.”

“We’ve all got plenty to be grateful for, Master Chief. I need to get going and you guys go and take that nap — right now.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” winked Reynolds.

Talking about sleep with Reynolds reminded Jerry of his own fatigue and hunger. It was well after dinnertime, and he’d missed lunch. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had had more than a few hours of sleep at one time. Ship’s routine, as busy as it was, suddenly seemed like the nostalgic past. For all the pressure of his work and his qualifications, at least it was predictable. Two and a half weeks of survey work had left him thoroughly bone-tired. But now the Captain had turned Memphis northward. Although they’d just started, they were homebound. He almost looked forward to working on his qualifications.

He headed for the wardroom, figuring to scrounge a sandwich, but found most of the officers had the same idea. There was only one topic of discussion.

“. cheaper to dump them than destroy them,” Jeff Ho was saying as he came in.

Harry O’Connell, the navigator, countered, “But wouldn’t you be worried about somebody else going down and finding them, stealing them for their own use?”

Ho shrugged. “I wouldn’t advertise where I dumped them, and there’s not a lot of sport diving in the Kara Sea.”

“And that would explain the sensors,” Cal Richards added.

“But these warheads aren’t supposed to exist.” Everyone turned to see the XO standing in the door, the slate and several books in his arms. Jerry could see the books were intelligence publications with brightly colored security markings on the covers.

Bair stepped toward the table and they hurriedly cleared a place for him to sit down.

“I’ve already reported to Dr. Patterson and the Captain, and he says there’s no reason not to tell you guys about this,” he announced as he settled into his seat. “I can’t read Russian, and most of these numbers are meaningless to me, but I did find enough to tell us what we need to know.

“The markings on the case and the warhead are similar, except for a serial number, which appears to be in the same series. They both include the sequence ‘15Zh45.’ That looked like an article number.”

Jerry saw several heads nod in agreement. Russian military equipment had several different designations. While it was being developed, it would have one name, then the factory would call it something else, and the military service that actually used it would have a different name. And then there was the name that NATO had given it, because often the West didn’t learn its true name or designation until after it had been in service for some time.

“I found it in one of the older intelligence pubs we have for Russian nuclear weapons. This article number was used for the RT-21 Pioner. It was called the SS-20 Saber by NATO.” He held up the intelligence publication. “We’re lucky I was able to find anything on it at all. It was a theater ballistic missile the Soviets deployed in the 1980s. They fielded several hundred, but they were all destroyed as part of the 1987 INF treaty.”

“The what, XO?” asked a perplexed Ensign Jim Porter.

Bair gave Porter the typical forlorn scowl that all XO’s are required to master and said, “The Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, you young pup!”

A light laughter erupted in the wardroom over the XO’s reply. But it didn’t last long, not because the humor wasn’t appreciated, but because everyone was dog-tired and stressed out.

“XO, the treaty didn’t allow for the destruction of the missiles or warheads by dumping them, did it?” Jeff Ho asked.

Bair emphatically shook his head. “Definitely not. The Soviets had to declare the total number they’d manufactured and international observers witnessed the destruction of the missiles and warheads. It was a big deal. They destroyed several missile types, and we disposed of our Pershing II and ground-launched cruise missiles as well. With observers watching both sides, of course.”

“So could the records be off?” Lenny Berg asked, but Bair didn’t even bother to answer.

Like everyone else in the wardroom, Jerry processed the news and tried to understand the implications. If the Soviets, and then the Russians, had broken a nearly twenty-year-old treaty, then what else had they concealed? It did explain the acoustic sensors. But how far were the Russians willing to go to keep this secret?

After almost a minute of silence, Bair said, “The Captain also said we’re heading home.”

Jerry managed to get his sandwich and then lay down for a while. He had the midnight to six in control and knew it was bad form to fall asleep on watch. As he lay in his bunk, trying to unwind, he found himself reviewing his quals again, trying to plan how to best use the time left.

He was still shaking the sleep off when he reported. Although they were still in the Kara Sea, the watch had already settled into transit routine. Lenny Berg was the Officer of the Deck, with Jerry as the JOOD. “Let’s hope for a nice, boring watch. It will put us six hours closer to home and six hours away from this place,” remarked Lenny.

Al Millunzi, the Main Propulsion Assistant, was the offgoing OOD, and he ran down the checklist with them: ship’s engineering systems all on line, except for one pump being checked, all sensors were on line, including both towed arrays, “And I don’t have to tell you about the weapons systems, Jerry,” he concluded. There was no criticism in his voice, but Jerry still felt bad. Although there was nothing to be done, he didn’t like letting the boat down.

Millunzi led them over to the chart table. “This is our position as of 2340.” Novaya Zemlaya lay along the western side of the paper, with most of the chart open water filled with soundings. Most of the northern Kara Sea averaged fifty to eighty fathoms, shallow for Memphis, but a deep undersea trench ten to fifteen miles wide lay close to the island’s east coast. One hundred and fifty or even two hundred fathoms looked a lot better for a submarine trying to avoid attention.

Memphis’ course lay straight up the middle of the trench, marked in red on the chart, with penciled notes marking their progress. “Current course is zero three five degrees at twelve knots, next turn is expected at 0210.” Millunzi pointed to a spot on the chart. “The new course will be zero two zero, to conform to the trench. The Captain wants to be called before the turn. He also says to keep a close eye on the fathometer. He doesn’t trust the chart.”

Berg grinned. “Really? I’ll bet the Russians have a better one. Should we ask?”

Senior Chief Leonard, the offgoing Chief of the Watch, came over and reported to Millunzi. “The watch is relieved, sir.”

“Very well, Senior Chief. See you in the morning,” Millunzi responded.

Millunzi turned back to Berg and Jerry. “That’s it? Any questions? My rack is calling.”

“I won’t keep a man from his rest,” Berg replied, smiling. “I relieve you, sir.”

The offgoing watch section cleared out quickly, and Jerry settled in. Aside from some careful navigation and frequent depth checks, he was looking forward to a quiet, uneventful six hours.

“The biggest challenge on this watch is gong to be staying alert,” Berg prophesized. “Homebound watches are dangerous. Everyone starts to slack off. They’re too busy thinking of home and hearth, and not paying enough attention to their indicators.”

“Even in the Kara Sea?” Jerry asked, half-joking.

“It’s a state of mind, not a position on the chart. Check the fathometer every five minutes, and we’re going to come up with some drills for the control room team.” He looked at the qualification book Jerry had brought along. “What are you working on now?”

“I thought maybe the communications systems.”

“Since you knew you were going to be stuck with the comms officer for six hours in the middle of the night. Well done, Mr. Mitchell. Stand by for some merciless questioning.” He paused, with his ever-present smile, then ordered, “All right, get busy.”

Trying to start a habit, Jerry checked the fathometer — two hundred forty feet under the keel and six hundred above. Good. He started a detailed check of every instrument, every switch setting in the control room. Behind him at the chart table, Lenny Berg made a conspicuous display of sitting back and opening Jerry’s qualification book.

Jerry was a quarter through his inspection when Berg hit him with the first question. “What frequency range does the UHF whip cover?” Jerry answered correctly and continued checking. Lenny hit him with a question every three or four minutes, which was also Jerry’s cue to check the fathometer and review the quartermaster’s update of the chart.

They were forty minutes into the watch when sonar jarred them out of the routine. “Conn, sonar. We’ve detected some sort of explosion, bearing one four zero.”

Jerry felt adrenaline flash like electricity through him. Berg, along with the rest of the watch, sat up quickly, but he didn’t speak. He looked as if he expected Jerry to, though.

Jerry stepped over to the intercom. “Sonar, conn. Can you tell how big?”

“Conn, sonar, Very small or very far away,” replied the sonarman. “No other activity, either, just that one transient.”

“Conn, sonar aye.” Jerry responded, still puzzled. He didn’t like mysteries, and he looked toward Berg, but Lenny looked puzzled as well.

Well, whether this was one of Bair’s drills or not, all he could do was play it by the book. Step two was to tell the Captain. Jerry picked up the phone and dialed the Captain’s cabin.

“Captain.” Hardy had picked it up on the first ring.

“Officer of the Deck, sir, sonar reports hearing an explosion some distance behind us. Either very distant or a very small explosion.”

“Very well, I’m coming.”

Hardy was there in less than a minute, fully dressed. He was still studying the chart when sonar made another report. “Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a second explosion, bearing one five zero. It’s closer this time or a bigger explosion.”

Hardy pressed the talk switch. “Sonar, conn, verify that you hold no other contacts.”

“Conn, sonar, confirmed. We hold no other contacts.”

“Then it’s aircraft,” Hardy said.

Dr. Patterson came into the control room in a robe and pajamas. “Did someone say they’d heard an explosion?” Patterson’s robe was long and white, and it had the insignia of the White House embroidered on it. She managed to look sleepy and alarmed at the same time. Emily Davis followed her in, having taken time to dress.

Hardy looked annoyed but didn’t reply, so Jerry ventured, “Sonar’s detected explosions behind us. We don’t know what they mean.”

“Wrong, Mr. Mitchell,” Hardy corrected.

“Conn, sonar, we’ve detected a third explosion, this one to port, bearing two nine five. Classify explosions as echo-ranging line charges.”

“Sonar, conn, concur with your assessment,” Hardy answered. “Keep a sharp lookout for anything that sounds like a Bear Foxtrot.”

“Conn, sonar aye.”

Jerry had to remember his sub school classes on allied and foreign ASW systems. The U.S. Navy used explosive echo-ranging back in the 1950s, before active sonobuoys entered the Fleet. The theory behind explosive echo-ranging was simple enough. Lay a field of passive sonobuoys, then drop small explosive charges. The buoys not only picked up the sound of the explosion, but any echoes off the hull of a submerged sub. The U.S. Navy stopped using the technique in the 1970s, however, because in practice it proved a lot harder to do.

The Soviets, on the other hand, had never given up on the idea, and they perfected it long before the West did. It was used to find quiet submarines operating in shallow water. Like Memphis in the Kara Sea.

It meant that there was a passive sonobuoy field near them, which had been laid by antisubmarine aircraft. Now they were monitoring the field and dropping charges, trying to find them.

“The charges are small ones,” Hardy explained. “They’re less than a pound, not much more than grenades. If they get close enough, though, they’ll find us.”

“But why didn’t we hear the aircraft this time?” asked Patterson, showing a hint of fear.

“They’re probably up high enough that the blade noise was attenuated before it reached the water. They didn’t want to spook the prey,” replied Hardy flatly. “Good tactics on their part.”

It was a nasty situation. Go fast to get away from a sonobuoy field, and you’d make enough noise for the passive buoys to pick up. Creep along, and you’re in the field long enough for them to locate you with the explosive echo-ranging.

“Mr. Berg,” the Captain ordered, “come right to course zero six zero, speed five knots. Mind your depth. I want to keep us as close to the bottom as possible and rig ship for ultra-quiet. Ladies, I need you to return to your stateroom.” Without protest, Patterson and Davis left control.

Jerry only glanced at the chart, but it was clear Hardy was taking them out of the trench, which was the sensible thing to do. The trench was an obvious route for any sub trying to leave the area, so the Russians had laid a barrier across that ten or fifteen miles. Leave the trench, and now their quarry could be anywhere in the Kara Sea. Except the trench, of course.

Lenny Berg repeated the Captain’s course and speed order and ordered Memphis down to eight hundred feet. That left sixty feet under the keel. “Jerry, get over there and watch that fathometer. Report the depth every time it changes more than ten feet.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jerry answered.

“Conn, sonar, more explosive charges, to the north and the south.”

“Sonar, conn aye,” Berg replied, with Hardy nodding his understanding. The Russians were closing in, bracketing their position, but Memphis was already doing what needed to be done.

Jerry kept his eyes glued to the fathometer. “Depth is eight four zero feet.”

Berg replied, “Understood,” and continued working at the chart. He ordered, “Diving officer, make your depth seven eight zero feet.”

Chief Swanson repeated the depth and double-checked the planesman as he brought the boat up to the new depth. Jerry called out the depth as the bottom sloped upward.

Hugging the bottom, Memphis crept and inched her way northeast into shallower and shallower water. Berg kept his eyes on the chart and made sure the boat was never more than sixty feet off the bottom. “Sir, I recommend coming left ten degrees. There’s a deeper spot at three two zero relative, and it also puts us on a more northerly course.”

“Stay on this course, mister.” Hardy shook his head. “They were waiting for us in one deep spot. Right now, if I could, I’d put wheels on this boat.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Berg replied.

Jerry rapidly called out the depth changes, “Depth is four two zero feet and shoaling.” He tried not to sound worried. So what if the charts were incomplete? So what if the Russians were chasing them?

The sudden call on the intercom shocked them all. “Conn, sonar. Engine noises off the port bow. Multiple contacts.”

Hardy took over. “Mr. Berg, I have the conn. Increase speed to ten knots, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero. Mr. Berg, watch our depth.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Our depth is good for the next mile on this course.”

“Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course zero nine zero, helm aye.”

“Maneuvering making turns for ten knots.”

“Very well,” replied Hardy to the stream of reports, his eyes shifting quickly between the sonar display, fire control, and the nav chart.

“Sonar, conn. What can you tell me about those contacts?”

“Conn, sonar. I’ve got four surface contacts close aboard. They appeared suddenly and I’m getting high blade rates on all of them. I believe they were loitering in the area and now they’ve increased speed to close on us. They currently bear between zero four four and zero six five.” After a moment’s pause, the sonar operator added, “Conn, sonar. Detecting Bull Horn transmissions. Same bearings as the surface contacts.”

The report was largely redundant, as the acoustic intercept receiver started bleeping its warning tones as soon as the ships above them lit off their sonars.

That would put them right over that deeper spot that Lenny had wanted to use, Jerry thought. The Russians were using the landscape to their advantage. But how had they known Memphis was passing by? And where did those ships come from? We didn’t hear them at all!

Another buoy field, he thought. They knew Memphis would leave the trench once she heard the explosions and flushed her from one trap toward another: toward the hunters sitting in a duck blind.

The Captain continued to work with sonar. “Sonar, conn. What is the bearing rate of the surface contacts?”

“Conn, sonar. Very slight right drift, sir, and their blade rate’s increasing, they’re cavitating. I think they’re building up to maximum speed.”

“Man battle…”

Rippling thunder interrupted Hardy’s order. A deep rumble filled the air inside the boat and stopped all activity, every quiet conversation. It was a rough, uneven noise that rose and fell, but as it fell, Jerry felt a mild vibration in the deck and the bulkhead. The Russians were shooting at them.

“Launch an NAE beacon!” Hardy ordered. “Man battle stations. Change course to three five zero, speed twelve knots. Mr. Berg, our depth?”

“We can increase depth to two hundred feet, sir. As long as we’re heading northwest at all, the slope will be downward.”

“Conn, sonar. Multiple clusters of explosions to port and starboard. Evaluated as RBU 6000 fire.” It was old news, but knowing the explosion’s location and identifying the weapon was helpful, if distressing.

Hardy nodded to Berg, then pressed the key on the intercom. “My intention is to run under them and get in their baffles while they try to sort out that countermeasure.”

Berg cautioned, “We risk leaving a wake at this speed and depth, sir.”

“I’m hoping they’ll miss it in the roiled water from the attack. Make your depth one eight zero feet,” the Captain ordered. “That should help as well.”

Lieutenant Commander O’Connell, the Navigator and battle stations OOD, came in and quickly relieved Lenny Berg. That freed up Jerry as well, and he hurried down to the torpedo room.

Most of the torpedo division was already at their stations. Jerry saw Senior Chief Foster fussing with the firing panel. He’d already declared it dead, even cremated, but he wouldn’t stop trying to resurrect it.

The phone talker, TM2 Boyd, saw Jerry and said, “Control wants to man stations for Manta launch, just in case. We’re still at ultra-quiet.”

Jerry quickly put on his phones and started checking the panel. Davidson and Greer were already at their launch positions.

Even before Jerry could report the Manta ready for operations, the control room talker reported, “The Captain wants to know the status of the Manta’s battery.”

Jerry didn’t have to look at the gauge. It was the first thing he’d checked. “Forty-seven percent. Call it three and a half hours at ten knots.”

The phone talker replied, “Forty-seven percent, control aye,” and that was it.

The silence on the phone line pulled at him, demanding to be filled, but Jerry forced himself to be patient. The Russians were close aboard, and all he could do was wait. They might secure in half an hour or they might be here tomorrow morning, still having done nothing. Hopefully having done nothing, he corrected himself.

Jerry checked the space, making sure that everyone was quiet and on the job. The men sat or stood at their stations quietly, speaking in whispers. Foster had several tech manuals out and was leafing through them, being careful to turn the pages quietly.

Another rumble made them turn their heads, automatically trying to locate the sound, which was nearly impossible after passing through both water and a steel hull. Jerry wanted to think it was behind them. It certainly sounded fainter.

WHAAMM. Jerry felt, as well as heard the explosion. It was painful; he couldn’t tell whether from the shock or the intensity of the sound. He looked around the torpedo room in alarm, convinced that water was pouring in somewhere. It reassured him to see that the hull was still intact, but then a second, even stronger explosion rocked the sub.

Jerry had to hang on to the console to stay in his seat. Objects fell out of their racks. Foster’s coffee cup shattered on the deck. The lights failed and the battle lanterns automatically clicked on, then off a moment later as the overhead lights flickered back to life.

The first explosions, the ones Jerry had felt up in control, had been many smaller charges detonating together, like popcorn. Those were RBU-6000 ASW rockets fired by the surface ships. They had a small warhead, only about fifty pounds of explosive, but each mount fired twelve projectiles.

The last two jolts were hammer blows. Jerry had never imagined anything could be so powerful and not destroy the sub.

“Check the room and the weapons,” Foster ordered, and Jerry automatically looked at his own displays, as well as those of his men. A few were dark, and the Senior Chief ordered Boswell to reset the breakers.

As FT2 Boswell stood up and turned toward the breaker panel, a third explosion sounded, fainter than the first two. Jerry felt the vibrations and heard the rumble, and relaxed because it was so much weaker than the first two.

They weren’t prepared for the one that came next. It felt like the hammer — a giant’s maul — had hit the hull directly outside the torpedo room. Jerry only heard the beginning of the explosion; the ringing in his ears that followed was like church bells.

Boswell was thrown into the port torpedo stow and every man in the torpedo room was knocked to the deck. The lights failed again and sparks flew from cable junctions in the darkness before the circuit breakers cut the power.