Dive to Oblivion

18

The crew of the Avalon received word of the attack on the Rickover via their underwater telephone. Captain Walden himself was on the other end of the line, and he urged them to continue with their current mission of mercy before returning to the safety of the depths to await further orders.

Thomas Moore couldn’t really say that this shocking news caught him by surprise. He knew that there was a chance that these waters were home to an enemy military operation. And his suspicions were proved right. Sorry that they hadn’t been able to inspect the device that most likely prompted this attack, Moore readied himself for the unscheduled part of their mission.

Beside him, Ned Barnes carefully manipulated the joystick, and guided the Avalon up towards the coral shelf where the Mir habitat was located. The grizzled pilot was still upset by the report from the Rickover, and he voiced himself while readjusting the DSRV’s thrusters.

“Damn, I can’t believe that anyone’s stupid enough to think that they could possibly get away with such a thing. It’s not every day that someone goes and takes a shot at a nuclear attack sub. What the hell were they trying to prove?”

Thomas Moore had yet to brief Barnes, and he responded somewhat guardedly.

“I just pray that we can contain this whole thing.”

“Do you think this emergency that we’re responding to is somehow related?” asked the pilot.

“I don’t know, Ned. But it sure seems like a weird coincidence that all of this is happening at the same time.”

The DSRV’s sphere operator poked his bald head into the cockpit to voice his own concern.

“How much longer until our ETA at the habitat?”

“Hang in there, Ollie,” replied the pilot.

“It looks like you’ll be havin’ some company in another couple of minutes.” “Then what?” continued the senior enlisted man, while nervously twisting the pointed ends of his moustache.

Barnes held back his answer until he had completed a minor course change.

“The Rickaver’s skipper recommends that we head for deep water to wait this whole thing out. And I’m all for that. The Avalon sure doesn’t want to get in the way of a torpedo.”

The digital depth gauge broke seventy feet, and Barnes redirected his remarks to his copilot.

“We should have the habitat complex on visual now, Thomas. Hit the spotlights and activate the video camera.”

Thomas Moore did as ordered, and watched as the central monitor screen filled with a distant collection of strangely-shaped, underwater structures. Lights glowed from inside the largest of the buildings, which looked like they belonged to a futuristic space colony.

“Holy cow! Will you just look at that,” said Ollie Draper.

“For the life of me, I never thought I’d see the day when folks would be actually livin’ on the sea floor.”

Thomas Moore was equally impressed, noting that one of the structures seemed to be configured like a star, with several tubular appendages, while the others were single-pieced domes, shaped much like the top half of an onion. All of them stood on telescopic legs, with a flat coral shelf providing their solid foundation.

“Looks to me like there’s a tiny flickering light out there in the open water between the two domes,” observed the sphere operator, whose eyes never left the monitor screen.

“Maybe that’s one of the aquanauts.” “By George!” said Barnes as he inched back the throttle.

“Get ready for that company, Ollie. It won’t be long in comin’, and I can’t wait to hear their story.”

For the first time since childhood, Karl Ivar Bjornsen experienced true fear. Though he had certainly had had his fair share of close calls with death while working in the North Sea as an oil fields service diver, his current situation was different. Soon they would run out of breathable air, and be forced to the surface, to face a deadly enemy.

When they reloaded the air compressor to purge the system of the gases that had killed Uige, it soon became apparent that all of the newly arrived tanks of helium were tainted, so they were forced to survive by breathing the air in their scuba tanks. In less than a half hour, this supply would be exhausted, and then they would have to ascend and face the people responsible for this attempt on their lives.

As Karl Ivar left Habitat One to join his teammates in Starfish House, he realized that Ivana Petrov had been right all along. The fire that had destroyed Misha had not been an accident. The same persons who had sent the poisoned helium had been responsible for the blaze. All that he lacked to complete the puzzle was their motive.

The only logical explanation was that it had something to do with the discovery that they had made on the bottom of the trench. They had obviously stumbled upon some sort of clandestine military operation at that time, and now these operatives were trying to kill them.

With the slim hope that Commandant Lenclud had come up with a plan to see them safely past this deadly predicament, Karl Ivar passed by the coral clump, which marked the halfway point of his present swim.

Not even bothering to keep a lookout for prowling sharks, he concentrated his line of sight solely on the glowing lights of Starfish House. And it was only as he reached the protective shark grill and climbed up onto the first rung of the ladder, that a distant flickering light caught his attention.

The Norwegian’s initial concern was that their mysterious enemy was returning to finish them off. He expected that this light was coming from one of the diving saucers, and was genuinely surprised when an underwater vessel of a much different design glided into view. This fifty-foot-long, black, sausage-shaped submersible had a distinctive white transfer skirt set into the bottom of its hull, and Karl Ivar wanted to shout with joy when he spotted an American flag painted on its side.

“Our decoy continues to emit loud and clear. Captain.

I think one of the torpedoes has taken the bait!”

Tim Lacey’s hopeful observation was met by a moment of constrained silence, as the two senior officers gathered behind the sonar console anxiously awaiting further news. The next update came soon, and was delivered by Lacey with great relief.

“Scratch one torpedo, Captain! That makes one down and one to go.” “There goes half our problem,” said John Walden solemnly.

His XO grunted.

“We’ve still got time to shake the other one. Skipper. Shall we try another fist in the water?”

“Let’s do it, XO. And this time I want that water in our wake so shaken up that the remaining torpedo will never be able to find us!”

Admiral Igor Valerian stood in the sheltered confines of the Academician Petrovsky’s bridge, listening to the assortment of sounds being conveyed by their hydrophones. With his senior lieutenant close at his side, the one-eyed veteran shook his head in wonder, when one of the underwater microphones relayed a growling, low-pitched signature that could have only one source.

“I tell you, Viktor Ilyich, that’s a torpedo all right.

I’d know that distinctive sound anywhere.”

“But Admiral, what does such a thing mean?” asked the grim-faced Alexandrov.

Valerian’s words flowed with great emotion and pride.

“I’ll tell you what it means. Comrade. In the dark seas beneath us, a brave crew of our fellow countrymen have taken it upon themselves to carry out their orders like true patriots. And because of the actions of Alexander Litvinov and his crew, the rodina has a chance to be great once more!”

“When the Pantera was directed to divert the American 688 from these waters, I didn’t realize that such extreme means would be needed,” reflected Alexandrov.

“Why, we could have a full-scale nuclear war on our hands as a result of this attack.”

“Such are the risks that one must pay for greatness, Viktor Ilyich. We must give Litvinov the benefit of a doubt. Obviously, he wouldn’t go and attack the Americans unless he had no other option. Besides, don’t you think that if the Americans were to discover the equipment that we have stored on the sea floor of the trench below, that this same war that you speak of would be precipitated? Of course it would. Comrade.

And the Pantera’s desperate actions saved us from such an embarrassment.”

The sonar speakers filled with an agitated whirring sound, which prompted the senior lieutenant to comment, “Of course, there’s always the possibility that the attack will succeed, and that the United States will never learn the cause of the loss of their submarine.”

“A detonating torpedo does have a way of hiding evidence,” added Valerian, whose thick eyebrows arched upwards in sudden thought.

“You know, there’s another way to remove the 688, even if they should manage to escape the Pantera’s torpedoes. And what better time to give Dr. Petrov that full power test that he’s been insistent on.”

“Do you mean to say that you’re going to try to de materialize the American 688?” asked the unbelieving senior lieutenant.

“Why not?” returned Valerian.

“All we need to do is lock in its signature and then pray that it gets within range. And if the fates are with us, the USS Hyman G. Rickover might soon be spending the rest of its days in the icy Arctic waters off Siberia, divulging its many secrets, with Seawolf soon to follow!”

“Prepare for a series of thirty-degree snap turns!” ordered Walden, who had moved back into the control room to direct the evasion maneuvers.

“Diving officer, is the helm ready to initiate the sequence?”

The COB was in the process of pulling a fresh cigar from his pocket and he answered without hesitation.

“Aye, aye, Captain. Helm is standing by for orders to initiate.”

The strained voice of Tim Lacey echoed from the elevated intercom speakers.

“Torpedo continues its approach. Range is nine thousand yards and continuing to close.”

Walden reached up to grab a handhold, and briefly met the concerned glance of his XO before calling out firmly.

“Initiate evasion sequence! Flank bell! Thirty degree starboard rudder!”

The harnessed helmsmen were quick to carry out this directive, and as they turned their steering yokes, the Rickover canted over hard on its right side. A lone ruler slid across the sharply angled deck, and the crew struggled to keep from falling over because of this unexpected movement.

“We’re cavitating. Captain,” informed the COB, in reference to the glowing green light set directly above the helm’s digital depth meter.

Not concerned by this report, Walden watched as the speed indicator shot upwards in response to the flank bell. The angle of the deck began to lessen, and the captain was quick to convey his next order.

“Take us to one hundred feet at full angle. Then bring us back down to max depth, while initiating thirty-degree snap turns to port.”

“One hundred feet at full angle it is. Captain,” repeated the COB, who anxiously sat forward with his cigar clenched in his teeth.

It took both hands for the helmsmen to pull back on their yokes, and the Rickover crisply responded. As the bow angled almost straight upwards, the crew once more fought the inertial forces of gravity, and it took a maximum effort to remain standing.

“One hundred and ninety feet… One hundred and eighty …” observed the COB, whose job it was to relay the figures on the rapidly decreasing depth gauge.

“Torpedo’s coming down with us,” warned Tim Lacey over the intercom.

“Range is down to eight thousand yards.”

At a depth of one hundred and thirty-five feet, Lacey’s voice once more sounded, yet this time his tone was noticeably different.

“We’ve got a narrowband transient contact. Captain, bearing three-zero-zero. I think we just chanced upon the SOB who fired at us!”

John Walden looked over at his XO and grinned with this news.

“What do you think, Mr. Laycob?

Shall we give them something to think about?”

“By all means. Skipper,” returned the XO, who couldn’t help grinning as he struggled to follow Walden over to the firecontrol console.

Alexander Litvinov couldn’t think of a worse time for the Pantera’s reactor steam-release valve to stick.

Whenever this problem occurred, it automatically corrected itself, creating a great deal of noise along the way. Inwardly cursing the design fault that was responsible for this unwanted racket, he tensely addressed his senior sonar technician.

“Well Misha, what’s their status?”

The bearded sonarman held back his response until his current sensor sweep was completed.

“After a rapid ascent, the 688 has levelled out well short of the surface.

And now they appear to be diving once more.”

“And our torpedo, Misha?” asked Litvinov.

“It remains right on their tail, sir.”

Senior Lieutenant Yuri Berezino entered the attack center from the forward access way and joined Litvinov beside sonar.

“The zampolit has been securely locked inside the wardroom. Captain. I had the corpsman give him a powerful dose of tranquilizer as well. That should keep him quiet for the next couple of hours.”

“Good work, Yuri,” replied Litvinov.

“Boris Dubrinin has caused us enough trouble for one day.”

“Sonar contact, Captain!” exclaimed the senior technician, while pressing his headphones tightly over his ears.

“It’s a single torpedo, and definitely not one of our own!”

“We should have expected as much,” said Litvinov bitterly.

“That stuck valve was a dead giveaway, and somehow the alert Americans must have managed to get off a quick shot.”

“All ahead full!” he added to the helmsman.

“And take us deep. Like the 688, we too shall take advantage of the depths to lose this weapon before it can get a definite lock on us.”