Red Storm Rising

38. Stealth on the Rocks

The first leg of the trip was only eight miles in a straight line, but the line they traveled was straight in no dimension. The terrain here was volcanic also, littered with rocks large and small. The large ones made shadows, and whenever possible they stayed in them, but with every step they had also to detour, uphill and down, left and right, until every yard of forward travel was accompanied by a yard in another direction, and eight miles became sixteen.

For the first time, Edwards knew that he was under possible observation. Even when the hilltop they skirted was hidden by a ridge, who could say that the Russians did not have another scouting party out? Who could be sure that they were not being watched, that some Russian sergeant with binoculars had noticed their rifles and packs, then picked up his portable radio and sent out a call for an armed helicopter? The effort of the walk made their hearts beat fast. Fear made their hearts beat faster still, compounding their fatigue like interest on a usurer's loan.

Sergeant Nichols proved an efficient leader, and a hard one. The oldest member of the party, his stamina-sore ankle and all-amazed Edwards.

They all kept quiet, no one wanted to make noise, and Nichols was unable to growl at those too slow to keep up. His contemptuous look was enough. He's ten years older than me, Edwards told himself, and I'm a track man. I can keep up with this bastard. Can't I?

Nichols managed to keep them clear of the coast road for most of their journey, but there was one point where the road looped around a small cove to within a mile of their path. Here they faced a cruel choice: risk observation from the road, where the traffic was probably Russian, or from the mountaintop. They risked the road, slowly and gingerly as they watched traffic motor along every fifteen minutes or so. The sun was low in the northwestern sky as they crept up a ravine with steep walls. They found a rockpile to rest in before their dash below the observation post.

"Well, that was a nice day's walk, wasn't it?" the sergeant of Royal Marines asked. He wasn't even sweating.

"You trying to prove something, Sergeant?" Edwards asked. He was.

"Sorry, Leftenant. Your friends told me you were in proper shape."

"I don't think I'll have a heart attack just yet, if that's what you mean. Now what?"

"I'd suggest that we wait an hour, until the sun sinks lower, then press on. Nine more miles. We'll want to move as quick as we can."

Sweet Jesus! Edwards thought. He kept his face impassive. "You sure they won't see us?"

"Sure? No, I am not sure, Leftenant. Twilight is the hardest time to see, however. The eye cannot adjust from the bright sky to the dark ground."

"Okay, you got us this far. I'm going to go and check on the lady."

Nichols watched him walk off. "I would not mind seeing 'the lady' myself."

"That wasn't a good thing to say, Nick," Smith observed quietly.

"Come on, you know what he's-"

"Nick, talk nice about the lady," Smith warned. He was tired, but not that tired. "She's had a bad time, man. And the skipper's a gentleman, y'dig? Hey, I thought he was a wimp, too. I was wrong. Anyway, Miss Vigdis, man, that's one hell of a lady."

Mike found her curled in a fetal position next to a rock. Rodgers was keeping an eye on her, and moved off when the lieutenant arrived.

"How are you?" Mike asked. She turned her head fractionally.

"Dead. Michael, I am so tired."

"Me, too, babe." Mike sat down beside her and stretched his legs out, wondering if the muscle tissue would just fall off the bones. He was strong enough to stroke her hair. It was matted with sweat, but Mike was past noticing such things. "Just a little while longer, Hey, you're the one who wanted to stay with us, remember?"

"I am fool!" There was a note of humor in her voice. As long as you can laugh, Mike remembered his father saying, you are not defeated.

"Come on, you better stretch those legs out or they're gonna knot up. Come on, roll over." Edwards straightened her legs and massaged her calves briefly. "What we need is some bananas."

"What?" Her head came up.

"Bananas have lots of potassium. Helps to prevent cramps." Or was it calcium for pregnant women? he wondered.

"What do we do when we get to our new hill?"

"We wait for the good guys."

"They come?" Her voice changed slightly.

"I think so."

"And you leave then?" Mike was quiet for a moment, measuring his boldness against his shyness. What if she says-

"Not without you, I don't." He hesitated again. "I mean, if that's-"

"Yes, Michael."

He lay down beside her. Edwards was startled by the fact that he desired her now. She was no longer the victim of rape, or a girl pregnant by another man, or a strange person from another culture. He was awed by her inner strength and other things for which he had no names, and needed none.

"You're right. I do love you." Son of a bitch. He held her hand as both rested for the task ahead.

"That's one of 'em, sir. Providence, I think. I got some funny transients, like metal pieces beating against each other."

They'd been tracking the target-every contact was a target-for two hours, closing very carefully as the possible noise source changed into a probable one. The overhead storm degraded their sonar performance measurably, and the target's stealth prevented their developing a signature identification for an agonizing period. Might she be a Russian sub creeping in search of her own target? Finally the faint rattles from the damaged sail betrayed her. McCafferty ordered his boat to close the target at eight knots.

Had Providence repaired her sonar systems? Certainly they'd try, McCafferty thought, and if they then detected a submarine approaching very cautiously from the rear, would they think this was their old friend Chicago, or another Victor-III? For that matter, how sure were they that their target was Providence? That was why American subs were trained to operate alone. Too many uncertainties attached to cooperative operations.

They'd left the Soviet surface forces behind. McCafferty's hit-and-run maneuver had fooled them, and before the noise faded out, they listened to a spirited hunt involving aircraft and surface forces, now thirty miles astern. That was a positive development, but the absence of any surface ships in this area made McCafferty uneasy. He might now be in a submarine-dedicated sector, and submarines were by far the more dangerous opponents. His earlier success against the Victor had been pure luck. That Soviet skipper had been too interested in starting his own hunt to check his flanks. It was a mistake he did not expect to be repeated.

"Range?" McCafferty asked his tracking party.

"About two miles, sir."

That was the fringe of gertrude range, but McCafferty wanted to get a lot closer than that. Patience, he told himself. Submarining was a continuous exercise in patience. You spent hours in preparation for a few seconds of activity. It's a wonder we don't all have ulcers. Twenty minutes later, they had closed to within a thousand yards of Providence. McCafferty lifted the gertrude phone.

"Chicago calling Providence, over."

"You took your time about it, Danny."

"Where's Todd?"

"He went off west after something two hours ago. We lost him. No noise at all from that direction."

"What's your condition?"

"The tail works. Rest of our sonar's shot. We can shoot fish from the torpedoroom control systems. Still raining in the control room, but we can live with it as long as we stay above three hundred feet."

"Can you go any faster?"

"We tried going to eight knots. Found out we couldn't keep it up. The sail's coming apart. The noise just gets worse. I can give you six, that's it."

"Very well. If you got a working tail, we'll try to take station a few miles ahead. Call it five miles."

"Thanks, Danny."

McCafferty hung up the phone. "Sonar, you got anything that even looks like it might be something?"

"No, sir, it's clear right now."

"All ahead two-thirds." So, where the hell is Boston? the captain asked himself.

"Funny how quiet things have got," the exec pointed out.

"Tell me about it. I know I'm acting paranoid, but am I acting paranoid enough!" McCafferty needed the laugh. "Okay. We sprint and drift north, fifteen minutes sprint, ten drift, until we're five miles ahead of Providence. Then we settle down to six knots and continue the mission. I'm going to catch a nap. Wake me in two hours. Talk to the division officers and chiefs, make sure the troops are getting some rest. We've been pushing pretty hard. I don't want anybody to fold up." McCafferty grabbed half a sandwich as he walked forward. It was only eight steps to his stateroom. The food was swallowed by then.

"Captain to control!" It seemed he had only just closed his eyes when the speaker over his head went off. McCafferty checked his watch on the way out the door. He'd been asleep for ninety minutes. It would have to do.

"What do we got?" he asked the exec.

"Possible submarine contact on the port quarter. Just picked it up. We got a bearing change already-it's close. No signature yet."

"Boston?"

"Could be."

I wish Todd hadn't gone off like that, McCafferty told himself. He found himself wondering if they shouldn't just tell Providence to go to her best speed and screw the noise. That was fatigue talking, he knew. Tired people make mistakes, especially judgmental effors. Captains can't afford those, Danny.

Chicago was making six knots. No noise at all, the captain thought. Nobody can hear us… maybe, probably. You don't really know anymore, do you? He went into the sonar room.

"How you feeling, Chief?"

"Hangin' in there, skipper. This contact's a beaut. See how he fades in and out. He's there, all right, but it's a cast-iron bitch to hold him."

"Boston headed off west a few hours ago."

"Could be him coming back, sir. Lord knows he's quiet enough. Or it could be a Tango on batteries, sir. I don't have enough signal to tell the difference. Sorry, sir. I just don't know." The chief rubbed raw eyes and let out a long breath.

"How long since you had any rest?"

"I don't know that either, sir."

"When we finish up this one, you hit the rack, Chief " The tracking party officer called forward next.

"I have a working range for you, sir. Five thousand yards. I think he's on an easterly course. Trying to firm that up." McCafferty ordered a firecontrol solution to be run on the contact.

"What's this?" the chief asked. "Another sonar contact behind the first one, bearing two-five-three. He's following the other guy!"

"I need an ID, Chief."

"I don't have enough data, Captain. Both these guys are creeping."

Is Boston one of them? If so, which? If the one in front, do we warn him and reveal our position? Or shoot and risk shooting at the wrong one? Or just do nothing at all?

McCafferty went aft to the plotting board. "How close is this one to Providence?"

"Just over four thousand yards, coming in on her port bow."

"He probably has her then," the captain thought aloud.

"But who the hell is he?" the tracking officer asked quietly. "And what's this Sierra-2 contact behind him?"

"Transient! Transient!" the sonar chief called. "Mechanical transient on Sierra2!"

"Left fifteen degrees rudder," McCafferty ordered quietly.

"Torpedo in the water, bearing two-four-nine!"

"All ahead two-thirds!" This order was loud.

"Conn, sonar, we got increased machinery noises on Sierra-l. Okay, the front contact is a two-screw boat, blade count indicates speed of ten knots and increasing, getting some cavitation. Target Sierra-I is maneuvering. Classify this target as a Tango-class."

"Boston's the one in back. All ahead one-third." McCafferty ordered his submarine to slow back down. "Get him, Todd!"

His wish was rewarded with an explosion fifteen seconds later. Simms had come up with the same tactic as his friend on Chicago. Close to a few thousand yards of the target, and give him no chance to maneuver clear. Fifteen minutes later, Boston joined her healthy sister.

"Talk about a tough four hours. That Tango was good!" Simms called over on the gertrude. "You in good shape?"

"Yes. We have the front guard position. You want to take the rear for a while?"

"You got it, Danny. See ya'."

"Lead off, Sergeant Nichols."

The Russian outpost was three miles south and three thousand feet up. They climbed up the walls of the ravine and into relatively open ground. They were between the sun and the outpost. Edwards found that intellectually he believed what Nichols said about light conditions, and how the eye reacted to them-and how easy was it to spot something three miles away? — but walking like this felt like being naked on the street at rush hour. They had darkened their faces with camouflage makeup, and their uniforms blended in well with the color and texture of the land. But the human eye looks for movement, Edwards told himself, and we're moving. What am I doing here?

One step at a time. Walk softly. Don't raise any dust. Slow, easy pace. No sudden moves. Heads down. All the things Nichols had said echoed through his mind. Look at me, I'm invisible.

He commanded himself not to look up, but Edwards would have been less than human not to sneak an occasional look. The hill-mountain towered above them. It really got steep near the top. A volcano? he wondered. There was no sign of activity at the summit. Maybe nobody is there? Right. Do us all a favor and be blind, or asleep, or eating, or looking for airplanes. He had to pull his eyes away from it.

The rocks he stepped over and around blended together after a while. Each member of the party walked alone. No one said anything. Every face was couched in a neutral expression that might have meant quiet determination or concealed exhaustion. Just walking the rocks safely required concentration.

This is the end of it. The last hike. The last hill to climb. The end, Edwards promised himself. After this I drive a car to get the morning paper. If I can't have a one-story house I'll damned well have an elevator installed. I'll get kids to cut the grass for me and sit on the porch watching them.

Finally the hilltop was behind him. He had to sneak his looks over his shoulder now. For some reason the helicopter full of Russian paratroopers didn't come. They were somewhat safer now. So Nichols stepped up the pace.

Four hours later the mountaintop was behind a knife-edge ridge of volcanic rock. Nichols called a halt. They'd been moving for seven hours.

"Well," the sergeant said. "That was easy enough, wasn't it?"

"Sarge, next time you jump out of an airplane, please break your ankle," Mike suggested.

"Hard part's behind us. Now all we have left is to climb this wee hill," Nichols pointed out.

"Might want to get some water first," Smith said. He pointed to a stream a hundred yards away.

"Good idea. Leftenant, I do think we should be atop the hill as quick as we can."

"Agreed. This is absolutely the last Goddamned hill I ever climb!"

Nichols chuckled. "I have said that myself once or twice, sir."

"I don't believe it."

"Welcome aboard, Toland!" Commander, Strike Fleet Atlantic was a three-star billet, but Rear Admiral Scott Jacobsen would have to settle for the job instead of the rank for the moment. The life-long aviator was the most senior carrier division commander in the Navy, and was the replacement for the late Admiral Baker. "You have one hell of a letter of introduction here from Admiral Beattie."

"He made too big a deal of it. All I did was pass along an idea somebody else came up with."

"Okay. You were on Nimitz when the task force got hit, right?"

"Yes, sir, I was in CIC."

"The only other guy who got out was Sonny Svenson?"

"Captain Svenson, yes, sir."

Jacobsen picked up his phone and punched three digits. "Ask Captain Spaulding to join me. Thank you. Toland, you, me, and my operations officer are going to relive that experience. I want to see if there might be something our briefing left out. They're not going to punch any holes in my carriers, son."

"Admiral, don't underestimate them," Toland warned.

"I won't underestimate them, Toland. That's why I have you here.

Your group got caught too far north for the circumstances. Taking Iceland was a beautiful move on their part. It screwed our plans pretty well. We are going to fix that, Commander."

"So I gather, sir."

"Ain't she pretty!" O'Malley said. He flipped his cigarette over the side and crossed his arms, staring at the massive carrier on the horizon. She was just a dim gray shape, with aircraft landing on the flat deck.

"My story is supposed to be about the convoy," Calloway sniffed.

"Well, they're making port right about now. End of story." The pilot turned with a wide grin. "Hell, you made me famous, didn't you?"

"You bloody aviators are all the same!" the Reuters correspondent snapped angrily. "The captain won't even tell me where we're going."

"You don't know?" O'Malley asked in surprise.

"Well, where are we going?"

"North."

The port had been cleared in expectation of the convoy. The merchantmen were brought past several wrecks of ships that had died from Soviet mines, some laid before the war, others dropped from aircraft. The port had also been bombed six times by long-range fighter-bombers, each time at a murderous price from French air defense forces.

The first ships in were the big Ro/Ros, the roll-on/roll-off container ships. Eight of them together carried a full armored division, and these were taken quickly to the Bassin Theophile Ducrocq. One by one, the ships lowered their curved stern ramps to the dock and the tanks began to roll off. They met a continuous taxi-rank of low-loader tractor-trailers, each of which would carry a tank or other armored fighting vehicle to the front lines. Loaded, they rolled off one by one to the assembly point at the Renault facility adjacent to the port. It would take hours to unload the division, but it had been decided nevertheless to move everything in a body to the fighting front, less than five hundred kilometers away.

After what had seemed an endless, tense voyage, arrival was a culture shock for the American troops, many of them National Guardsmen who rarely went overseas. The dock workers and traffic police were too exhausted from weeks of frantic work to show any human emotion, but ordinary people who had learned, despite heavy security, that reinforcing troops were landing came out, first in small groups, soon in small mobs, to watch the new arrivals. The American troops were not allowed to leave their company areas. After some informal negotiations, it was decided small delegations would be allowed to meet briefly with some of the troops. The security risk was minor-the telephone lines in and out of all NATO ports were under tight control-and there was an unexpected result to this exercise in simple courtesy. Like their fathers and grandfathers, the arriving troops saw that Europe was worth fighting for. The people who were often seen merely as threats to American jobs had faces and hopes and dreams, all of which were in danger. They were not fighting for a principle, or a political decision, or a treaty made of paper. They were here for these people and others not the least different from those they'd left at home.

It took two hours longer than they'd hoped. Some vehicles were broken down, but the port and police officials had organized the assembly points with skill. The division moved off in the early afternoon at a steady fifty kilometers per hour, driving down a multilane highway cleared for its path. Every few yards, someone stood to wave while the troops made final checks on their gear. The easy part of their journey was about to end.

It was four in the morning when they reached the top, only to find that this mountain had a number of "tops." The Russians had the highest one, three miles away. Edwards's group had a choice of two subsidiary peaks, each a few hundred feet lower than the adjacent thousand-meter summit. They picked the higher of the two, overlooking the small fishing port of Stykkisholmur, almost due north, and the large rock-filled bay that the map called Hvammsfj" rdur.

"Looks like a fine observation point, Leftenant Edwards," Nichols judged.

"That's good, Sarge, 'cause I am not going another foot." Edwards already had his binoculars on the eastern peak. "I don't see any movement."

"They're there," Nichols said.

"Yeah," Smith agreed. "Sure as hell."

Edwards slid down from the crestline and unpacked his radio.

"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we are where you want us, over."

"Give me your exact position."

Edwards opened his map and read off the coordinates. "We believe there's a Russian observation post on the next peak over. They're about five klicks away, according to this map. We're well concealed here and we have food and water for two days. We can see the roads leading into Stykkisholmur. Matter of fact, it's nice and clear now, and we can see all the way to Keflavik. We can't pick anything out, but we can see the peninsula."

"Very well. I want you to look north and tell us what you see in detail."

Edwards handed the radio antenna to Smith, then turned and put his field glasses on the town.

"Okay. The land is pretty flat, but higher than the water, on a shelf, like. The town is fairly small, maybe eight square blocks. There are some little fishing boats tied up to the docks… I count nine of them. The harbor north and east of the port is wall-to-wall rocks that go on for miles. I do not see any armored vehicles, no obvious signs of Russian troops-wait. I do see two four-by-fours parked in the middle of the street, like, but nobody around 'em. The sun's still low, and there's lots of shadows. Nothing moving on the roads. I guess that's about it."

"Very well, Beagle. Good report. Let us know if you see any Soviet personnel at all. Even one, we want to know about him. Stay put."

"Somebody coming to get us?"

"Beagle, I don't know what you're talking about."

Toland stood in the Combat Information Center, watching the displays. Submarines concerned him the most. Eight allied subs were in the Denmark Strait, west of Iceland, forming a barrier that few submarines would be able to pass. They were supported by Navy Orions operating out of Sondrestrom, Greenland, something impossible until the Russian fighters at Keflavik had been whittled down. That closed off one possible avenue of access to Strike Fleet Atlantic. More submarines formed a line parallel to the fleet's line of advance, and those were supported by the carrier-borne S-3A Vikings that operated continuously off the flight decks.

The Pentagon had leaked to the press that this Marine division was enroute to Germany, where the battle hung in the balance. In fact, the tight formation of amphibs was twenty miles from his carrier on a course of zero-three-nine, four hundred miles from its real objective.

"We're not heading north any longer," Calloway said. Dinner was being served in the wardroom. The officers were plowing through the last fresh lettuce aboard.

"I believe you're right," O'Malley agreed. "I think we're heading west now."

"You might as well tell me what the devil we're up to. I've been shut off from your satellite transmitters."

"We're screening the Nimitz battle group, except that when you're motoring along at twenty-five knots, it's not all that easy." O'Malley didn't like this. They were running a risk. It was part of war, but the pilot didn't like any part of war. Especially risks. They pay me to do it, not to like it

"The escort is mostly British, isn't it?"

"Yeah, so?"

"That's a story I can use to tell the people at home how important-"

"Look, Mr. Calloway, let's say you file your story, and it got published in the local papers. Then let's say a Soviet agent reads the story and passes it along to-"

"How would he do that? The government has undoubtedly put severe restrictions on all forms of communication."

"Ivan has lots of communications satellites, same as us. We have two satellite transmitters on this dinky little frigate. You've seen 'em. How expensive do they look? Think maybe you could have one in your backyard, inside a bush maybe? Besides, the whole group is blacked out. Total EMCON. Nobody is transmitting anything at the moment."

Morris arrived and took his seat at the head of the table.

"Captain, where are we going?" Calloway asked.

"I just found out. Sorry I can't tell you. Battleaxe and we will continue to work together for a while as stem guard for the Nimitz group. We are now designated 'Mike Force.'"

"We getting any more help?" O'Malley asked.

"Bunker Hill is heading this way. She had to reload her magazines and join up with HMS Illustrious. They'll operate in close when they catch up. We're going to outside picket again. We start doing real ASW work in another four hours. Still going to be a bastard trying to keep up with the carrier, though."

There were three contacts. All arrived within ten minutes. Two were ahead of Chicago, left and right of her bow. The third was on her port beam. Somehow, McCafferty realized, the Russians knew of the submarines they had killed. Probably some sort of radio buoy, he was sure. That meant all that his tactical successes had really accomplished was to draw more dangers in on the trio of American submarines.

"Conn, sonar. We have some sonobuoy signals at two-six-six. Count three buoys-four, make it four."

More Bears? McCafferty wondered. A cooperative hunt?

"Skipper, you better come forward," the sonar chief called.

"What's happening?" The waterfall display screen was suddenly crowded.

"Sir, we have three lines on sonobuoys forming up right now. Gotta be at least three aircraft up there. This one's fairly close, looks like it'll extend aft of us, maybe right on our friends."

McCafferty watched the new signal lines appear at the rate of one per minute. Each was a Russian sonobuoy, and the line marched east as two others grew on different azimuths.

"They're trying to box us in, Chief."

"Looks that way, sir."

Every time we destroyed a Russian ship we gave them a location reference. They've confirmed our course and speed of advance many times over. McCafferty had gotten his submarine back to the Svyataya Anna Trough. His path to the icepack was a hundred miles wide and three hundred fathoms deep. But how many Russian subs were there? The sonar crew continued to call off bearings to the submarine contacts while the captain watched the buoy lines extend.

"I think this is Providence, sir. She just increased speed-yeah, look at the noise now, she's really increased speed. This buoy must be right near her. Still can't find Boston, though."

Bearing was constant to the two forward submarine contacts. He couldn't develop a range figure unless he or they maneuvered. If he turned left, he'd then close on a third contact, which might not be a good idea. If he turned right, he'd run away from the submarine that might then close on Providence. If he did nothing, he'd accomplish nothing, but McCafferty didn't know what to do.

"There's another buoy, sir." The new one was between the bearings of two existing contacts. They were trying to localize Providence.

"There's Boston. She's-yeah, she's running past a buoy." A new contact line appeared suddenly bright where nothing had been before. Todd just increased power and he's going to allow himself to be picked up, McCafferty thought. Then he'll dive deep to evade.

Look at it from the Russian side, the captain told himself. They don't really know what they're up against, do they? They probably figure they're up against more than one, but how many more? They can't know that. So they'll want to flush the game before they shoot, just to see what's here.

"Torpedo in the water, bearing one-nine-three!"

A Russian Bear had dropped on Boston. McCafferty watched the sonar display as Simms took his boat deep with the torpedo in pursuit. He'd change depth and make a few radical changes in course and speed, trying to evade the fish. The bright line of a noisemaker appeared, holding a constant bearing as Boston maneuvered further. The torpedo chased the noisemaker, running another three minutes before it ran out of fuel.

The screen was relatively clear again. The sonobuoy signals remained. Boston and Providence had reduced power and disappeared-but so had the Russian sub signals.

What are they doing? What is their plan? the captain asked himself. What submarines are out there?

Tangos, has to be Tangos. They cut their electric motors back, slowed to steerageway, and that's why they disappeared off the scopes. Okay, they're not coming in after us anymore. They stopped moving when the aircraft detected Providence and Boston. They're coordinating with the Bears! That means they have to be at shallow depth, and their sonar performance is down because they're close to the surface.

"Chief, assume that these two contacts you had were Tangos doing about ten knots. The figure of merit gives us a detection range of what?"

"These water conditions… ten to twelve miles. I'd be real careful using that number, sir."

Three more sonobuoy lines began to appear north of Chicago. McCafferty went aft to see how they were plotted out. They assumed about a two-mile spacing on the sonobuoy lines, and that gave them range figures.

"Not being very subtle, are they?" the exec observed.

"Why bother when you don't have to? Let's see if we can pick our way through the buoys."

"What are our friends doing?"

"They'd better be coming north, too. I don't want to think about what other assets they have moving in on us. Let's head right through here."

The executive officer gave the orders. Chicago began to move forward again. Now they'd really find out if the rubber tiles on the hull absorbed sonar waves or not. The last bearings to the Russian submarines were plotted also. McCafferty knew that they too could be moving behind that wall of noise. When he detected them again it would be at perilously close range. They went deep. The submarine dove to a thousand feet and cruised toward the precise midpoint between a pair of pinging buoys.

Another torpedo appeared in the water aft, and McCafferty maneuvered quickly to evade, only to realize that it was aimed at someone else, or nothing at all. They listened to it run for several minutes, then fade out. A perfect way to break a man's concentration, McCafferty thought, bringing his sub back to a northerly course.

Bearings to the sonobuoys changed as they got closer. They were almost exactly two miles apart, a mile on either beam, as Chicago went through the first line, crawling just above the bottom. They were set on a frequency that could be heard clearly through the hull. Just like the movies, the captain thought, as the crewmen not directly involved in navigating the boat looked up and outward at the hull as though it were being caressed by the noise. Some caress. The second line was three miles beyond the first. Chicago turned slightly left to head for another gap.

Speed was down to four knots now. Sonar called out a possible contact to the north that immediately faded away. Maybe a Tango, maybe nothing. It was plotted anyway, as the submarine took nearly an hour to reach the second line of pinging buoys.

"Torpedo in the water, port side!" sonar screamed out.

"Right full rudder, all ahead flank!"

Chicago's propeller thrashed at the water, creating a bonanza of noise for the Russian aircraft who'd dropped a fish on a possible contact. They ran for three minutes while waiting for additional data on the torpedo.

"Where's the torpedo?"

"It's pinging sir-but it's pinging the other way, bearing changing south, left to right, and weakening."

"All ahead one-third, rudder amidships," McCafferty ordered.

"Another one-torpedo in the water bearing zero-four-six."

"Right full rudder, all ahead flank," McCafferty ordered yet again. He turned to the exec. "You know what they just did? They dropped a fish to spook us into moving! Damn!" Beautiful tactic, whoever you are. You know we can't afford to ignore a torpedo.

"But how'd they know we were here?"

"Maybe they just guessed well, maybe they got a twitch. Then we gave 'em the contact."

"Torpedo bearing zero-four-one. The torpedo is pinging at us, don't know if it has us, sir. Captain, I got a new contact bearing zero-nine-five. Sounds like machinery noises-possible submarine."

"Now what?" McCafferty whispered. He put the Russian torpedo on his stem and hugged the bottom. Sonar performance dropped to zero as Chicago accelerated past twenty knots. Their instruments could still hear the ultrasonic pings of the torpedo, however, and McCafferty maneuvered to keep the weapon behind him as it dove down after the American sub.

"Bring her up! Make your depth one hundred feet. Shoot off a noisemaker."

"Full rise on the planes!" The diving officer ordered a short blow on the forward trim tanks to effect the maneuver. Along with the noisemaker, it created an enormous disturbance in the water. The torpedo raced in after it, missing below Chicago. A good maneuver, it was also a desperate one. The submarine rose quickly, her elastic hull popping as the pressure on the steel diminished. There was an enemy sub out there, and he now had all sorts of noise from Chicago. All McCafferty could do was run. He was confident that the other sub would chase after him with a homing torpedo circling below, but didn't understand why the other sub was there at all. He slowed Chicago to five knots and turned as the torpedo ran out of fuel below him. Next problem: there was a Soviet submarine close by.

"He's gotta know about where we are, skipper."

"You got that one right, XO. Sonar, Conn, Yankee-search!" Both sides could use unusual tactics. "Fire-control party, stand by, this one's going to be a snapshot."

The powerful but seldom-used active sonar installed in Chicago's bow blasted the water with low-frequency energy.

"Contact, bearing zero-eight-six, range four six hundred!"

"Set it up!"

Chicago's steel hull reverberated three seconds later with Soviet sonar waves.

"Set! Ready for tubes three and two."

"Match bearings and shoot!" The torpedoes were fired within seconds of one another. "Cut the wires. Take her down! Make your depth one thousand feet, all ahead flank, left full rudder, come to new course two-six-five!" The submarine wheeled and sped west as her torpedoes raced toward their target.

"Transients-torpedoes in the water aft, bearing zero-eight-five."

"Patience," McCafferty said. You didn't expect us to do that, did you? "Nice job, fire-control! We got our shots off a minute faster than the other guy. Speed?"

"Twenty-four knots and increasing, sir," the helmsman answered. "Passing four hundred feet, sir."

"Sonar, how many fish we got chasing us?"

"At least three, sir. Sir, our units are pinging. I believe they have the target."

"XO, in a few seconds we're going to turn and change depth. When we do, I want you to fire off four noisemakers at fifteen-second intervals."

"Aye, Cap'n."

McCafferty went over to stand behind the helmsman. He'd just turned twenty the day before. The rudder indicator was amidships, with ten degrees of down angle on the planes, and the submarine was just passing through five hundred feet and hurtling down. The speed log now showed thirty knots. The rate of acceleration slowed as Chicago neared her maximum speed. He patted the boy on the shoulder.

"Now. Ten degrees rise on the planes and come right twenty degrees rudder."

"Yes, sir!"

The hull thundered with the news that their fish had found their target. Everyone jumped or cringed-they had their own problems chasing after them. Chicago's maneuver left a massive knuckle in the water that the executive officer punctuated with four noisemakers. The small gas canisters filled the disturbance with bubbles that made excellent sonar targets while Chicago sped north. She raced right under a sonobuoy, but the Russians could not put another torpedo down for fear of interfering with those already running.

"Bearing is changing on all contacts, sir," sonar reported.

McCafferty started to breathe again. "Ahead one-third."

The helmsman dialed the annunciator handle. The engineers responded at once, and again Chicago slowed.

"We'll try to disappear again. They probably aren't sure yet who killed who. We'll use that time to get back down to the bottom and crawl northeast. Well done, people, that was sorta hairy."

The helmsman looked up. "Skipper, the south side of Chicago ain't the baddest part of town anymore!"

Sure as hell is the tiredest, though, the captain thought. They can't keep coming at us this way. They have to back off and rethink, don't they? He had the chart memorized. Another hundred fifty miles to the icepack.