Fortunes of War

21

Admiral Kolchak was running slow, two hundred meters deep, making for the entrance to Sagami Bay, the sound that led to Tokyo Bay. Pavel Saratov sat in the control room with the second set of sonar earphones on his head. About every half hour or so he would hear the faint beat of turboprop engines: P-3’s, hunting his boat. Of that, Saratov had no doubt. Esenin came and went from the control room. Apparently he was wandering through the boat, checking on his people, all of whom wore sidearms and carried a rifle with them. As if they could employ such weapons in this steel coffin. Still, the sailors got the message: the naval infantrymen were there to ensure the NAVY did Esenin’s bidding. Saratov got the message before the sailors did. Esenin had his little box with him, of course, hanging on the strap around his neck. Now, as he listened for planes and warships, Saratov speculated about what was in the box. When he had examined that topic from every angle, he began wondering what the sailors were thinking. He could look at their faces and try to overhear their whispers, but that was about it. The crowded condition of the boat did not allow for private conversations, even with his officers. And no doubt Esenin wanted it that way, because he kept his people spread out, with at least one man in every compartment of the boat at all times. Everyone knew where the boat was going and why. The first day at sea, Saratov had told them on the boat’s loudspeaker system. Now they were chewing their lips and fingernails, picking at their faces, thinking of other places, other things. The absence of laughter, jokes, and good-natured ribbing did not escape Saratov. Nor did he miss the way the sailors glanced at the naval infantrymen out of the corners of their eyes, checking, measuring, wondering … This evening Askold brought Saratov a metal plate containing a chunk of bread, a potato, and some sliced beets cooked in sour cream.

As he ate, Askold showed him the chart. “We are here, Captain, fifty miles from,the entrance to the bay.”

Saratov nodded and forked more potato. “Do you wish to snorkel tonight?”

Saratov nodded yes. When he had swallowed, he said, “We must snorkel one more time for several hours, before we go in. We are taking a long chance. It’s like a harbor up there, ships and planes …”

“Can’t we go in on the battery charge we have?”

“Not if we expect to come out alive.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“We have been lucky. The thermal layer—“

“Lucky, ummm …”

“When we leave the Japanese current—“

“The thermal layer will run out.”

“Yes,” Askold murmured, and glanced at his hands. He watched his captain chew a few more bites, then went away.

Jack Innes reported to President Hood in his bedroom at the White House. The president was donning a tux. “Another disease luncheon,” Hood said gloomily as he adjusted the cummerbund over his belly. “I’d like to have a dollar for every one of these I’ve sat through in the last thirty years.”

“The Japanese have sent everything they have after that sub.”

“Where is it now?”

“We don’t know.”

Hood looked a question. “Unless he comes up to periscope depth, we can’t see him with the satellite sensors. And there are some storms over the ocean off Japan — he may be under one.”

“How long can an electric boat like that stay under?”

“I asked the experts, Mr. President. One hundred and seventy-five hours at a speed of two knots.”

“More than seven days?”

“Yes, sir. But the boat must go so slowly that it is essentially immobile. Once the hunters get a general idea where a conventional sub is, it is easily avoided and ceases to be a threat. Speaking of Russians, they deny that the boat in the satellite photo is one of theirs.”

Hood was working on his cuff links. “Is it?”

“We think so, sir. But it could be Japanese.”

“Or Chinese, Korean, Egyptian, Iranian Seems like everybody has a fleet of those damned things.”

“The Russian response to yesterday’s conference is being evaluated at the State Department. The Kremlin denies any intent to use nuclear weapons. On Japan or anyone else. They say there’s been some mistake.”

“I hope they don’t make one,” Hood said fervently. “The real question is what the Japanese are up to. They withdrew their Zeros from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok. Space Command doesn’t know why.”

“It’s a damned good thing the Japs don’t have nuclear weapons,” the president said, glancing at Innes. “The director of the CIA says they don’t.”

“Well, Abe told Kalugin that Japan had nukes when he answered Kalugin’s ultimatum. Either Abe is the world’s finest poker player or the director of the CIA is just flat wrong.”

“Abe doesn’t strike me as the bluffing type.”

“Didn’t I see an intelligence summary a while back that said the Japanese might have developed a nuclear capability?”

“One of the analysts thought that was a possibility. The CIA brass vehemently disagreed.”

“Have the White House switchboard find the analyst. Have him come to the hotel where they are holding this lunch. When he gets here, come get me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Admiral Kolchak took an hour to rise from two hundred meters to periscope depth. Glancing through the attack scope, Saratov thought, My God, it is raining! Heavily. A squall. Nothing in sight or on the sonar. Who says there is no God?

The crew ran up the snorkel and started the diesel engines, which throbbed sensuously as they drove the boat along at ten knots. The swells overhead gave the submarine a gentle rocking motion. Sitting with his eyes closed, Pavel Saratov savored the sensation. “They are going to get us this time, Captain,” the sonarman said softly, almost a whisper. Saratov tried to think of something upbeat to say, but he couldn’t.

He pretended he didn’t hear the michman’s comment, which mercifully the man didn’t repeat.

“The technological superiority that the Americans have given the Russians must be eliminated, in the air and on the ground. The F-22 squadron base at Chita will be destroyed and the F-22’s eliminated as a threat.”

The Japanese officer who made this pronouncement was a two-star general. His short dark hair was flecked with gray. He was impeccably uniformed and looked quite distinguished. Three of the four Zero pilots sitting around the table nodded their concurrence. The fourth one, Jiro Kimura, did not nod. Despite his fierce resolve, he immediately thought of Bob Cassidy when the general mentioned the F-22 squadron base. The general didn’t seem to notice Jiro’s preoccupation, nor did any of the colonels and majors who filled the other seats in the room. “I have just come from a briefing at the highest levels in the defense ministry in Tokyo. Let me correct that and say the very highest level. As everyone in this room is aware, air supremacy over Siberia is absolutely essential to enable us to supply our military forces and the civilian engineering and construction teams this winter. Without it … well, without it, quite simply, we must begin withdrawing our forces or they will starve and freeze in the months ahead. In fact, without air supremacy, it is questionable if we can get the people out that we have there now. “Frankly, if Japan cannot neutralize the technological edge the Americans gave the Russians, Japan will lose the war. The consequences of such an event on the Japanese people are too terrible to imagine. “Gentlemen, the survival of our nation is at stake,” the general continued. “Consequently, the decision has been made at the very highest level to use a nuclear weapon on Chita.”

The room was so deadly quiet that Jiro Kimura could hear his heart beating. He didn’t know Japan had nuclear weapons. Never even dreamed it. From the looks of the frozen faces around the room, the fact was news to most of the people here. “I must caution you that the very existence of these weapons is a state secret,” the general said, albeit quite superfluously. “The weapons we will use will be of a low yield, about ten kilotons, we believe, although we have never actually been able to verify that yield by testing one of these devices.”

One of the pilots sitting at the table held up his hand. The general recognized him. “Sir, my father’s parents died when the Americans bombed Nagasaki. I cannot and will not drop a nuclear weapon on anyone, for any reason. I took an oath to this effect before I joined the military. My father demanded it of me.”

The general gave a slight bow in the pilot’s direction, then said, “You may be excused from the room.”

The general looked at the colonels. The senior Zero pilot, Colonel Nishimura, rose from his chair against the wall and reseated himself beside Jiro at the table. Jiro Kimura didn’t know what to do. His mouth was dry; he was unable to speak. He was hearing what was said and seeing the people, but he was frozen, overcome by the horror of being here, being a part of this. The two-star droned on, then used a pointer on the map hanging behind him. Four planes, four bombs, one must get through. The senior man, now Colonel Nishimura, was in charge of tactical and flight planning. Then it was over and Jiro was walking down the hallway with his fellow pilots, feeling his legs move, seeing the doorway to the building coming toward him, going down the outside stairs, walking across the lawn, and vomiting in the grass.

When he first heard it, Saratov wasn’t sure. He pressed the earphones against his head and listened intently. The night had come and gone, he had snatched a couple of hours of sleep, and he was back in the control room, watching the sonarman play with the data on his computer screen and listening to raw sound on his own set of earphones. A P-3 was up there, somewhere, and the beat of its propellers was insistent. Embedded in that throb … Yes. Pinging. Very faint. Far away. “Captain …” said the sonarman, who was in his tiny compartment a few feet away. “I hear it, too,” Saratov muttered. He listened for a while, then got off his stool and looked at the chart. “Where are we, exactly?” he asked the navigator. “Here, Captain.” The navigator pointed. “If we stay on this course, we go in the main channel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Esenin — ask him to come to the control room.”

Despite the fact that Esenin hadn’t had a bath in days, he looked like a Moscow politician, clean-shaven and spotless.

Saratov took off the headphones and handed them to the general. “Listen.”

After a bit, Esenin said, “I hear…, humming.”

“That is a P-3, looking for us. Do you hear a chime?”

After a moment, Esenin said, “I believe so. Very faintly. Like a bell.”

“That is a destroyer, probably near the entrance to the main channel. He is echo-ranging his sonar. Pinging. Sending out a sound that echoes off solid objects, like submarines.”

“But we hear the noise and can avoid him.”

“If you will, please look at the chart. The destroyer is roughly here, pinging away. Somewhere closer to the mainland will be a Japanese submarine. They will be listening for the sonar ping to echo off our submarine, yet they will be too far away from the emitter for us to hear the echo from their boat. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Esenin handed the earphones back. “What do you suggest?”

“I am wondering just how secret your little mission to flood half of Japan really is.”

“Are you suggesting that there has been a security leak?”

“I suggest nothing. I merely observe that the Japanese seem well prepared for our arrival, almost as if someone told them we were coming.”

“I fail to see the relevance of that observation.”

“Perhaps it isn’t relevant.”

“We have our orders. We wilt obey. Now, how do you propose to get us in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think of something, Captain. Keep us alive to do our duty.”

Saratov put the earphones back on and retreated to his stool. He listened to the pinging and stared at the navigator’s chart, which lay on the table a few feet away.

Other people were also talking of duty. “Colonel Nishimura, I do not think I have the warrior’s spirit that will be necessary to complete this mission.”

“Kimura, no sane man wants to drop a nuclear weapon. We will do it because it is our duty to our nation.”

“I understand, Colonel. But we all have a similar duty. Someone else can fly this mission and fulfill his duty.”

“I cannot believe you said that, Kimura. The comment is offensive.”

“I do not mean to offend.”

“You are a Japanese officer. You have been chosen for this mission because you have had the most success against F-22’s. Your experience cannot be replaced.”

“It is true, I am still alive when others are dead. And it is true, I successfully shot down several F-22’s. Both these feats happened because I wore a helicopter night-vision helmet to see the enemy. I was the only pilot to do so. I suggested it to others, including Colonel Handa, who refused because higher authority had not sanctioned it.”

“Ah, yes, good Colonel Handa, a bureaucrat to the backbone. That sounds like him.”

“I survived only because I wore the helmet.”

“Everyone will wear such a device on this mission,” Nishimura replied. “We have altered them to attach to our regular helmets so that we can also wear our oxygen masks.”

“Then you don’t need me,” Jiro rejoined. “I wish to pass the honor of striking this blow for the nation to one of my colleagues.”

The colonel struggled against his temper. “You have the experience. Only you. I want to hear no more of this. Honor and duty require this service of you. The future of your country is at stake.”

“Saito was excused. This is also his country. Extend to me the same courtesy that was extended to him.”

“Have you taken an oath, like Saito?”

Kimura lowered his head. “No, sir,” he admitted. “All that you are,” the colonel said thoughtfully, “you owe to Japan, to the Japanese people, who gave you life, nurtured you and educated you and made you the man you are. Your obligation cannot be erased or made smaller.”

“I owe other obligations too,” Kimura murmured. “I do not wish to discuss this further,” the colonel said. “We will speak of it no more.”

“Gentleman, this is the situation.” Pavel Saratov looked around the packed control room at his officers, and, of course, at General Esenin. “Above us, P-3’s are searching. They cannot find us because we are under an inversion layer, a layer we will probably leave in a few miles. Still, we are deep, traveling slowly, and they would have to go right over us to get a reading on their magnetic gear.”

Saratov certainly had their attention. “Ahead of us about thirty miles is an enemy warship, pinging regularly. That warship is probably a large destroyer or frigate, carrying one or two helicopters equipped with dipping sonar. We will hear the helicopters as we get closer. Somewhere near that warship is probably one, perhaps even two or more submarines. They are lying deep and quiet, listening for us. I suspect one is on the far side of the destroyer, but it could be anywhere. “I have considered all our options. If we go in under a freighter, the echo ranging will detect us. No doubt that is why they are doing it. “We face the classic battery-boat dilemma. If we go in quickly, we will prematurely drain our batteries and need to snorkel in Sagami Bay, which would be suicidal. If we go in slowly, trying to save battery energy, we will expend lots of time and we’ll be at the mercy of the tides. Three knots will just hold us in place; then when the tide pushes us, we will get a mere six knots. Alas, that will have to do. “Our only choice is to be bold. When the tide turns in two hours, we will close the destroyer and shoot two torpedoes set to home on noise. They will probably put decoys in the water. We may get a hit; then again, we may not. Regardless, the confusion factor will be high. That, I hope, will give us an opportunity to slip into Sagami Bay.”

“You really have no plan,” Esenin said, frowning in disapproval. “You may say that, sir,” Saratov admitted. “We can only take advantage of opportunities that come our way. The enemy must positively identify every target before they shoot. We have no such handicap. Everyone we hear is the enemy. On the other hand, we can only do what the battery lets us do.” No one said anything. “We go so slowly, yet time is critical,” Saratov said. “We must get into the bay before other antisubmarine forces arrive and join the search. Once inside, we must find our fault and settle onto the bottom. “Are there any questions?”

They stared at him with drawn, dirty, haggard faces dripping sweat, although the temperature was not warm. Whatever they had been expecting, this wasn’t it. “General Esenin.”

“What if you fail to torpedo the destroyer?”

“Then, sir, we will both get to experience our very first depth charging. I hear that it is a religious experience.”

“You have balls, Saratov. I’ll say that for you.”

The michmen and naval officers exchanged glances, trying to keep their faces deadpan. Saratov thought he knew what they were thinking, but with Esenin standing there … “Do you intend to go up and use the periscope, Captain?”

“We must shoot from this depth.”

He bent over the chart table with the XO and navigator beside him. “Our torpedoes have a range of ten miles. We must get within that range to shoot, but not so close that we are detected. With the destroyer’s screw noises and bearing change, we should be able to get an idea of his course and speed, and therefore his relative position and range. Navigator, you and Sonar start a plot. What I think he is doing is circling in a racetrack pattern. I suspect our best maneuver will be to approach that pattern from the seaward side and shoot when the torpedoes have the shortest distance to run. “XO, let’s flood four of the tubes and open the outer doors. The doors make a bit of noise coming open.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Saratov donned the sonar earphones and got back on his stool. He checked the clock.

“Mr. President, the intel analyst is in the limo outside.”

David Herbert Hood made his excuses, shook hands with the important people at the head table, and headed for the hotel lobby. He shook some more hands there, then got into the limo for the ride to the White House. The analyst turned out to be a young woman, and she was obviously flustered. She was wearing jeans and tennis shoes. “Mr. President.”

“This is Deborah Buell, Mr. President.”

“Glad to meet you. Sorry to call you away from a Saturday at home.”

The analyst assured him there was no problem. “A while back, you wrote a summary that said that Japan may have nuclear weapons. Do you remember that?”

“Oh, yes, sir. That was several months ago.”

“Why did you think that was a possibility?”

“My section does economic analyses of foreign economies. It seemed to me that a significant percentage of Japan’s government spending could not be accounted for in the normal ways. Basically, I thought they were spending a lot of money off-budget. So I began looking at other sectors of the economy where the money could be going. The high-tech engineering firms have been doing very well in Japan for years, and it’s hard to see why — the civilian products that they should be producing don’t seem to be there. Anyway, to make a long story short, it seemed to me that Japan might have several major black weapons programs. They have the technical wherewithal to make bombs, if they wanted them. So I wrote in the summary that they may have these weapons.” A black program was one so secret the government did not acknowledge its existence. “What did your superiors think of your reasoning?”

“They thought there was not enough evidence. Still, they reluctantly agreed to let me put it in the summary, labeled as a possibility.”

“Surely you’ve thought more about this since then?”

“Yes, sir. And I’ve done more research. I still can’t prove it.”

“But you stand by your assertion. It’s a possibility.”

“In my opinion, it is.”

“Ms. Buell, I appreciate you taking your time to chat about this. After the limo drops me, it can take you back to your car.”

She laughed nervously. “I’m glad someone reads those summaries, Mr. President. The people at the office think they go to the great file cabinet in the sky.”

“No doubt they do, Ms. Buell. But I read them first.”

“Mr. President, I don’t want to talk out of school, but there was an unsubstantiated rumor going around in the intelligence community earlier this summer that the Japanese had operational nukes. It was never more than a rumor and no one could ever verify who started it. Shortly after that, Japan invaded Siberia. It seems possible, to me anyway, that the Japanese started the rumor to discourage any thoughts the Russians might have about using nuclear weapons to defend themselves.”

The president gave the woman a long, hard look as he got out of the car. “Thank you,” he told her. As they walked the corridors of the White House, the president asked Innes, “What are the Japanese doing about that sub?”

“They have at least four airplanes and six surface ships hunting for it between its last known position and the entrance to Tokyo Bay. One of the naval types over there told our people that the Japanese are afraid of a Yokosuka refinery repeat. They don’t want another disaster like that on their hands.”

“What if it isn’t going to Tokyo Bay?”

“That’s what has them worried. They have everything they own in the water east of the Japanese islands looking for this sub. The submarine could be a red herring. The Russians could be about to do something spectacular off Vladivostok.”

“What does Abe say about this development?”

“He remarked to Ambassador Hanratty that if Russia still has nuclear weapons, they have lied to everyone for years.”

“That’s news?”

“He wants the United Nations to step in. Pass some sort of resolution promising the use of armed force against anyone who uses nuclear weapons. “Uh-huh.”

“And he wants the UN involved in Siberia. Basically, he repeated his demand that the UN give Japan a mandate to act as guardian of the native people, develop the place, and sell Siberian resources for world-market prices.”

“He’ll never get that,” the president said as he plopped into his chair behind his desk in the Oval Office. “He probably knows that. He’s just making his position clear.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think both Russia and Japan are up against the wall. The war is out of control. Something is going to happen in the very near future.”

Four hours after the conference in the control room Admiral Kolchak was in position. Barely making steerage way, about a knot, just enough to keep the planes effective, she was headed northwest toward the strait that led to Sagami Bay. Five ships had gone overhead, freighters from the sound, going to and from the bay. War or no war, the wheels of commerce continued to turn. From his stool outside the sonar shack, Pavel Saratov could see the chart. Actually, he was looking almost over the navigator’s shoulder, so he could also see the measurements, the lines, the tiny triangles. The sub was actually approaching the destroyer’s racetrack from a forty-five-degree angle. The screw noise would be the loudest when the destroyer was going away from the sub. The torpedo would home on that noise. One hit with these giant ship-killers should be enough. The trick was to get the hit. Saratov had been sitting on this stool, listening to the sounds, trying to hear another submarine, for the last five hours. Amazingly, he wasn’t a bit tired. He was too keyed up. He had to have a plan for every contingency. Askold had briefed the torpedomen and engineers, ensured everyone knew what was expected and was ready to do it without hesitation. Sometime during this hustle and bustle, Michman Martos eased his head into the control room, looked around, made eye contact with the captain, then left. Two hours ago, Saratov had conferred with Esenin. “How accurate is the GPS?” Esenin asked. “For the best accuracy, we should surface and let the equipment get a position update from the satellites. It is within a few meters now, however.”

“That will have to do,” Esenin said with a frown. “Yes.”

“When we get to the fault, I will have my men ready.”

“Are they experienced divers?”

“They know what they have to do, believe me. I am going out first.”

“Whatever.”

“You have a Spetsnaz diver aboard.”

“We do. Michman Martos.”

“I have had a talk with him. I do not think he is politically reliable.”

“It’s been a few years since I heard that phrase.”

“You know what I mean. I need men I can trust.”

“To the best of my knowledge, he didn’t volunteer. I do not want any clouds on the man’s professional ability, General. He is highly trained, experienced, and up for a medal for his service during the Yokosuka refinery attack. He deserves the honor.”

“No doubt he does,” Esenin said, then went on to another subject. Now that conversation seemed as if it had taken place in another lifetime. Now there was only the boat, swimming gently forward amid the screw noises and the sounds of the sea. And the pinging: ping…, ping … ping … Saratov sat with his eyes closed, listening intently to the orchestra. There were other submarines nearby. Saratov could feel them. “We shoot in five minutes, Captain,” said the XO. Esenin was rolling dice with the lives of every man on the boat. He wanted to set off four nuclear devices, to murder tens of millions of people. Even if the four blasts were insufficient to create a tsunami, the fireballs would broach the surface, fry coastal villages, create horrible tides that would inundate vast areas. Detonating these devices near the mouth of Tokyo Bay — perhaps Esenin would get a tidal race going back up the bay after the initial surge out of the bay, toward the blast area. “Three minutes, Captain.”

He could hear the destroyer, powerful screws, turning … This was the closest point of approach, four miles. If it didn’t detect Admiral Kolchak now, the submarine would get its shot. Esenin didn’t seem to understand that if you nuke them, you have made it easier for someone to nuke you. Probably he thought that aspect of the matter was Kalugin’s problem. The people in Moscow. In the Kremlin. Those people. The destroyer was still turning. The pitch of the screw noises changed as the aspect angle changed. “Two minutes.”

“Are we ready?”

“Yes sir.”

“Sonar, have you heard anything?”

“No, sir.”

“One minute.”

The destroyer was steady on its new course, angling away from Admiral Kolchak. It was doing about ten knots, making a mile every six minutes. The submarine was making one nautical mile per hour, so it was essentially dead in the water, screws barely turning over, every nonessential electrical unit off. Even the boat’s ventilation fans were off. “Fire tube one.”

Saratov heard the blast of compressed air that ejected the torpedo from the tube and then heard its screws bite into the sea. He had taken the precaution of turning down the volume on his earphones, which was a good thing. The torpedo was not quiet. As the screw noises faded, he slowly twisted the volume knob back to maximum sensitivity. The running time for this fish was six and a half minutes. Presumably the sonar operator aboard the destroyer would pick up the sound of the inbound torpedo and report it to the captain, who would probably order the launch of acoustic decoys. If the ship’s company was competent, the decoys would be in the water in plenty of time. In fact, they might even be launched early. Saratov took off the sonar headset, eyed the clock as the second hand ticked off a full minute since the first fish went into the water. “Fire tube two.”

Perhaps the second torpedo would arrive unexpectedly. After the second fish was launched, he fought the urge to kick the boat to flank speed and go charging past this destroyer, which he hoped would soon be very busy. The risk was too great. Saratov did, however, order up five knots and changed course sixty degrees to the right to clear the area where the torpedoes were launched. A competent anti-submarine commander would have a helicopter in this area dipping a sonar as soon as possible.

Saratov turned sixty degrees to starboard after launching his torpedoes because that course was the most direct one into Sagami Bay. What he didn’t know was that this course, chosen for good reason, pointed Admiral Kolchak directly at the Japanese submarine Akashi. The sonar operator aboard Akashi heard the torpedoes and reported them. “High-speed screws, two one zero degrees relative.”

“How far?”

“Several miles, sir,” the operator said. Unfortunately, there was no way he or his captain could instantly determine the target of the torpedoes. Given enough time, any right or left drift in the relative bearing would become apparent. If there was none, the torpedoes were on a collision course. Time was what was needed, and the captain didn’t have any to spare. If torpedoes were aimed at him, he should locate the enemy with active sonar, fire a torpedo in reply, launch decoys, and try to evade the incoming fish. If, on the other hand, the torpedoes were aimed at the beacon destroyer, giving away his submarine’s position by the use of active sonar was not immediately necessary. Nor was it advisable. The captain was well aware of the long-range capabilities of Russian twenty-one-inch torpedoes, and this factor helped tilt the decision. The shooting had started — his ship was in harm’s way — he didn’t want to waste time waiting for bearing drift that he thought probably was not there. On the other hand, there were two freighters on the surface nearby. The government refused to close this area to civilian shipping. Before he launched a torpedo the captain had to be sure of his target. “Start pinging,” he told the sonar operator. “Flood tubes one and two and open the outer doors.” To the officer of the day, he said, “Come left sixty degrees and give me flank speed.”

The ping of the active sonar raced through the water, and just behind it the noise of the submarine’s twin screws thrashing as they bit into the water to accelerate the submarine. Aboard Admiral Kolchak, Saratov and the sonarman both heard the ping and screw noises. “Quick,” Saratov said to the sonarman. “A bearing.”

“Zero one zero relative, Captain. A submarine.”

“Set tube three on acoustic homing.”

“Tube three set acoustic.”

“Ten degrees right bearing.”

“Ten degrees right bearing set.”

“Fire tube three.”

“Tube three fired, Captain.”

Both the sonar operators aboard Harukaze, the Japanese destroyer manning the picket station between Oshima Island and the Tateyama Peninsula, the eastern entrance of Sagami Bay, heard the unmistakable sound of small high-speed screws when the first of Admiral Kolchak’s torpedoes was still four minutes away from the destroyer. Their computers verified what their ears were telling them: torpedoes. They immediately reported the screw noises and the bearing to their superior, the tactical action officer in Combat, who reported it to the bridge on the squawk box. The captain ordered the acoustic decoys deployed. Within sixty seconds, three of the four ready decoys were in the water. One of the decoys, the decoy that should have been ejected the farthest to starboard, was not launched due to a short circuit in the launcher. While a small knot of sailors and petty officers worked frantically to remedy this glitch, the captain had a decision to make. Should he continue on this course, turn left, or turn right? He elected to turn right, to starboard, for a perfectly logical reason — there was a Japanese submarine to starboard, in the mouth of the bay, and drawing the enemy in that direction seemed like a good idea. The captain had already turned his ship and was steady on the new course when the OOD reported that one of the acoustic decoys had failed to deploy. The captain had only seconds to consider this news when Saratov’s first torpedo hit an acoustic decoy, destroying it without exploding, and went roaring past the ship about a hundred yards to port. Harukaze’s sonar operators were listening to the decoys and the screw noises. The loss of one decoy changed the pitch of the cacophony. In addition, the sound of the first torpedo dropped in volume and pitch as it receded. The computer displayed a graphic of the torpedo’s track. It had missed by only a hundred yards!

The two grinned at each other and shouted congratulations. Tight sphincters relaxed somewhat. The junior operator was the first to get back to business. He was amazed to hear high-speed screw noises very near, and getting louder. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and stared at his computer screen. Another torpedo!

This is no drill. These are real tobb7eaedoesst

“Torpedo,” he shouted as he stared at the bearing presentation on the screen and tried to concentrate so that he could repeat the number to the tactical action officer. The big Russian ship-killer smashed into the stern of Harukaze. Water being essentially incompressible, most of the force of the explosion was directed into the structure of the ship. The explosion ripped off Harukaze’s rudder and both screws, bent the shafts, and smashed a huge hole in the after end of the ship. Water poured into both engine rooms, drowning the engineers who had survived the initial blast concussion. The ship drifted to a stop and began sinking at the stern. The echoes from the pings were very faint when they returned to Asashi. The Russian submarine was almost bow-on, three miles away, and four hundred feet deeper than Asashi. Sounds echoing off the rising seafloor were causing havoc with the computer. In addition, the sonar operator was also trying to determine the bearing drift on the torpedo noises that he was hearing. He was getting a positive drift when the acoustic decoys from Harukaze went into the water and complicated the problem. Then the explosion from Harukaze reached him, quite loud, water being an excellent conductor of sound. All this input, much of it extraneous, was giving the computer fits. He reported the explosion and the bearing, relieved and sick at the same time. Relieved because his boat was not the target, and sick because the bearing was to Harukaze, which he had been listening to for hours. He was startled when he heard more screw noises amid the horrifying sounds of ripping metal and bulkheads collapsing. Automatically, he checked the bearing. “Another torpedo, Captain. Bearing two one zero relative.”

The relative bearing was the same as the first torpedo he heard, but not the magnetic bearing, because Asashi had turned sixty degrees. “Screw noises getting louder, Captain. Little bearing drift apparent.”

“Launch the acoustic decoys,” the captain barked. “Screw noises on constant bearing, Captain.”

“I asked for decoys, people! Our lives are at stake! Get them launchedst”

“It will be a few seconds, Captain.”

“Stop all engines.”

“All engines stop.”

“Left full rudder. Come left another sixty degrees.”

“Left full rudder,” the helmsman repeated, just as Admiral Kolchak’s torpedo struck the stern of the submarine and exploded.