To Kill the Potemkin

21

Ten miles outside Rota, Springfield gave the order to dive.

"All hands prepare for steep angles and deep submergence. Flood forward ballast tanks."

"Flood forward ballast tanks, aye."

"Stern planes down six degrees."

"Stern planes down six degrees, aye."

"Radio to control. Intercepting Soviet transmission."

"Belay the dive. Belay the dive. Stern planes zero degrees."

"Stern planes zero degrees, aye."

"Control to radio. Where is the point of origin?"

"Radio to control. It's in a priority code from Cádiz."

"Control to radio. Did you get it all?"

"Radio to control. Message complete. Shall we decode?"

"Very well, radio, decode the message. A little practice never hurts. If it's anything more than a report of our position, let me know right away."

"Aye aye, skipper."

"Stern planes down six degrees."

In the torpedo room Lopez checked the serial numbers of the live torpedoes against the log and cheerfully dusted off the warheads. Once again fully armed, Barracuda carried twenty Mark 37 torpedoes with conventional high-explosive warheads, in both wire-guided and acoustic-homing modes, four Mark 45 torpedoes with quarter-kiloton tactical nuclear warheads and two chaff decoys designed to confound and mislead an enemy torpedo. Lopez hummed a happy tune.

The young torpedomen gathered around a plaque newly installed over the firing console.

Johnson, the mate, was scrutinizing the new plating in the curved snout of the compartment. Patches of fresh gray paint still glistened in the bright light, but the welds were invisible.

"I dunno, Chief," Johnson said. "This was a damned fast job on these torpedo doors."

"Those tiger team boys know their stuff," Lopez replied. "Regular hotshots."

A thin wiry man, Johnson seemed to grow even thinner as his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was like two stones scraping together.

"Lopez, the scuttlebutt is that a Russian sub is riding a picket line thirty miles out."

"That's right. They do it all the time."

"Yeah, but this one's waiting for us."

Lopez watched the torpedomen rivet their eyes on the mate.

"No shit, Johnson. Why would they do that?"

"They want revenge because we sank their boat."

"Bullshit. They're waiting for the boomer, Vallejo."

"How do you know, Lopez? They want to even the score. Wouldn't you?"

"Johnson, you've got a big mouth. If I hear this from anybody else, I'll know where it came from. All of you, listen. The Russians are not interested in us. There's a shitload going on here that you people know nothing about because you don't need to know. Don't sweat it. When we get back to Norfolk, all of you will get thirty days' leave. Think about that and forget the Russians. After we chase these Ivans away, we're goin' home. This is my last cruise and I want it to be a good one."

The torpedomen appeared unconvinced, but none spoke. Lopez swore under his breath, cursing Springfield for not informing the crew that the Russian sub never sank. He was still muttering when the exchange between the captain and the radio operator came over the command intercom. As the torpedomen listened, they grew visibly concerned. Lopez lit a cigar.

"It's just routine," he said, "and you all know it. The trawler in the bay reports all ship movements to the picket. They're waiting for Vallejo, not for us."

A moment later the ship began to submerge. As the hull compressed, the torpedomen gasped at every creak and groan. Every eye was on the new torpedo doors. Every weld had been X-rayed twice, and the tiger team had taken the ship for a brief sea trial, including a dive to eight hundred feet, but Lopez had sealed the hatch and prepared for the worst. When Springfield adjusted the trim and leveled the ship, all systems were functioning normally. The torpedomen's cheer sounded like a sigh of relief.

"You happy, Johnson?"

"We ain't here to fight the ocean, Chief."

Lopez frowned and shook his head. "Open the hatch. It's stuffy in here. Johnson, I want circuit tests on all the on-board computers in the fish. I'm going up to have a word with the skipper."

The captain reduced speed to a crawl and began to circle. In the sonar room Sorensen closed his eyes and pressed his earphones tight against his ears, listening for the picket. When the circle closed, he spoke into his headset, "Sonar to control. Negative contact."

"Very well, sonar. If she's here, we'll have to wait until she tips her hand."

Slowly Barracuda swung back toward the bay where Vallejo was due to emerge in ninety minutes.

Sorensen took off his headset and turned on the speakers. Fogarty watched the blank screen, giving a little start each time the brief sound of a distant surface ship flashed a target across one sector of his screen.

"What's the matter, Fogarty? You jumpy?"

"God, Sorensen, we steamed out here like a battleship. If there's a Russian picket, she's locked onto us."

"I guess you are jumpy. Relax. This Russian isn't going to pull any dirty tricks. It's our turn."

Fogarty rubbed his eyes and stretched. "It's been a long day and I could use some sleep. Instead, I get more Russians."

Sorensen glanced at the chronometer in his console. "You'll have plenty of time to sleep when this cruise is over. Meanwhile, get Davic and Willie Joe in here. We have to try out the new down-searching passive array they installed in Rota. And get us some coffee. Let's stay awake."

In the galley Fogarty found Cakes sipping tea with Stanley. Fogarty asked, "What's shakin', Cakes?"

"Lopez just came through with a big mad on. Said he was goin' to shut down the rumor mill. You heard any good rumors lately, Fogarty?"

Stanley spoke up. "I hear the Russians put out a contract on Barracuda. They want us bad. No shit, just like the Mafia."

Cakes shook his head. "What, like the Mafia?"

"Sure, man. This Mafia is all KGB. Same in Japan, this Yakuza. they all KGB, too. The Italians are just fall guys, get all the bad rep."

Cakes laughed. "Why put a contract on us, Stanley?"

Stanley put a finger to his lips and whispered. "We sink their ship, kill their sailors. They want an eye for a tooth."

Fogarty poured two cups of coffee and balancing them precariously returned to the sonar room where he found Davic and Willie Joe crowded around Sorensen's console. Sorensen had activated the new sonars.

Barracuda was at four hundred feet. A school of tuna passed under the ship at a thousand feet, turning the screen into a swirl of green dots. Sorensen took his coffee from Fogarty, punched a button, and most of the fish disappeared. "This sonar is computer-enhanced. It compensates for the thermals," he said. "Not completely, not perfectly, but it helps."

"What's the point?" Davic asked. "No sub goes that deep anyway."

Sorensen said, "I dunno, Davic. You never can tell. Go ahead and sit down. You're going to have to learn how to use this."

Davic and Willie Joe each took a turn, and Fogarty was taking his when the overhead speakers came to life.

"Attention all hands. This is the captain. I'm sure you all recall Admiral Netts' visit to our ship in Naples. Now that we have put to sea, I am authorized to read you a communication from him. It is dated yesterday and addressed to all the officers and men of Barracuda, SSN five nine three. The message is as follows:

"That is all."

Stunned silence greeted the captain's speech. In every compartment each sailor was thinking the same thing, but in the torpedo room, Johnson, the mate, said it aloud. "Holy shit, the ship that hit us is still alive. Alive and kicking and maybe after our ass." A rumble of assent issued from the other torpedomen.

Lopez looked hard at Johnson. "Cool down, Johnson. We're going to find her, follow her, harass her ass from here to Leningrad, but that's it. Got it?"

Johnson nodded sullenly, but there was no doubt what he was thinking… get them before they get us…

In the sonar room Springfield's announcement interrupted the test of the new passive array.

Davic blanched. "She is not sunk? Sorensen, what does this mean?"

"It means it was hit and run."

"But the implosions…"

"Faked."

"You knew about this."

"What if I did? Now you know about it too. And I'll give you all something to think about. This is a new class of ship that can go down to at least four thousand feet, maybe deeper."

"Four thousand feet!" Davic shook his head. "What is it? A bathyscaph?"

"No, it's an attack boat, class name Alpha. She's a noisy devil. We have her signature. We got it just before the collision."

"If it's so noisy," Willie Joe asked, "why can't anybody find it?"

"That's a good question. My guess is she's been running slow and deep, maybe on electric power, but she has to come up to pass through the Strait. She got in because we weren't looking for her."

"How many do they have?" Davic asked.

"So far, we only know about this one."

"Where is it?" Davic persisted. "Is it coming after us?"

"Why would the Russians come after us?" Sorensen snapped.

"Because we have discovered their new ship, of course."

"I don't think they'll do that, Davic. All we know is that they can go deep. We don't know how. I don't think they'll do anything so stupid. I figure all they want is to get that sub out of the Med and on its way home." At least I hope that's all, he added to himself. And then, as much to reassure himself as the others, he said, "Jesus Christ, we re not at war with these people."

"We should nuke their shipyards," Davic muttered.

"The next time I see Admiral Netts I'll tell him you said so, Davic. In the meantime let's get on with this test. This toy just might help us detect a deep-running sub."

Exactly on schedule they heard the thrashing sounds of a submarine.

"Sonar to control. Contact bearing zero seven two degrees, speed twelve knots, course two eight eight, range eight miles. It's Vallejo, skipper."

"Very well, sonar. All hands man maneuvering stations."

Davic and Willie Joe took their asbestos suits and went forward to their damage-control stations.

"Control to navigation, set course zero seven two degrees."

"Navigation, aye. Course zero seven two degrees."

"All ahead half."

"All ahead half, aye."

Barracuda accelerated, her course parallel to that of the big missile ship emerging from the bay. The two subs swept past each other a hundred yards apart, frothing the sea like a pod of whales, then turned and steamed past one another again. They crisscrossed back and forth twice more.

Fogarty was shaking his head. "Why don't we just send the Russians a telegram telling them where we are?"

"That's the idea."

"But that's nuts. Can't they tell us apart?"

"No. Our signatures are almost identical. We have the same reactor, same reduction gears and the same prop as Vallejo. He has to get within a mile to tell the difference. For the moment, we're bait. We want this Russkie to come after us so Vallejo can escape. That's the name of the game, to help Vallejo shake her tail. Hang on. You'll see. HMS Valiant is just inside the Strait, off Gibraltar, and some heavy-duty British ASW forces. No Russian captain has ever tried to run that gauntlet except the damned Alpha. We still don't know exactly how that son of a bitch got in there, but he did, and maybe this one will try it, too, if we can't juke him into coming after us."

"Maybe the picket is the Alpha."

Sorensen let his face fold slowly into a smile. "And if it is? Is that what's making you nervous?"

Fogarty shrugged, trying to maintain a casual air. "He rammed us once. I'd rather not give him a second chance."

"You know what I think, Fogarty? I think you're pissed off at the Russians for fucking your head around. I think your high-minded ideals are out the window. I think you're ready to make war."

"I'm not crazy, Sorensen."

"I hope not."

"Except this is a war now, Sorensen… an electronic war of nerves…"

"It's Cowboys and Cossacks, Fogarty. It's just a game. Believe it."

Did he?

Half an hour into the exercise, at a precisely timed moment, both subs suddenly went quiet and drifted, their momentum carrying them in opposite directions.

Sorensen's fingers stabbed at his keyboard. In the abrupt silence that followed the shutdown of machinery he heard a faint mechanical rumble. An instant later, it stopped.

"Got her. That's it. Sonar to control. Contact bearing two three zero degrees. No range, but he's not too close. He's holding still, skipper. No identification yet."

In the control room the bearing of the Soviet sub appeared on the navigation and weapons screens.

"Bingo," said Lt. Hoek.

"Where is Vallejo?" Springfield asked.

"Right here, skipper," Pisaro answered, pointing to a blip on his chart.

Vallejo was making a wide turn to the right, away from Barracuda, and descending to one thousand feet.

Springfield spoke quietly into his microphone. "Attention all hands. Prepare for quiet running. Quiet in the boat."

In the sonar room the air conditioner stopped whirring. Sorensen switched off the overhead speakers and said quietly to Fogarty. "We're going to try to make this Ivan think we're Vallejo. We're going to go north. If the Russian takes the bait and follows us, then Vallejo is clear."

"And if she doesn't?"

"We'll have to wait and see."

Sorensen played the brief tape of the picket, backed it up and ran it through a series of filters that corrected the distortion and removed extraneous sound. Then he ran it through the signature program.

"Okay, Fogarty, what is it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Is it Soviet?"

"Yes."

"How do you know? That might be Her Majesty's Ship Valiant."

"He moved when we moved, and stopped when we stopped. He's hostile. He's up above four hundred feet trying to listen to us, trying to decide which one to follow, and his prop cavitated just so. November class, even the computer knows that. It's not the Alpha."

November was flashing on the screen.

"Very good, Fogarty. See, there's nothing so mysterious about these Russians and their noisy boats. Let's play the tape again. It could be the Alpha simulating a November."

While the tape was running, Sorensen stood up and looked at the chart of Soviet subs. He tapped the drawing of the November class attack subs. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, I recognize that boat. That's our old friend Arkangel. Jesus, they must've pulled that thing out of mothballs. Wow, we don't need sonars to pick up Arkangel. All we need is a Geiger counter."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that is a hot boat. She's so radioactive I bet she glows in the dark. I sure wouldn't want to be on it. If you can feel sorry for any Russian sailors, think about that. Those suckers get more radiation in a month than we'll get in five hundred years. Just for them to come this far from Murmansk and then have to go back means every one of those guys has been zapped… Sonar to control, we have a signature. November class, it's Arkangel."

"Very well, sonar. Control to communications."

"Communications, aye."

"Prepare to send up a radio buoy on my order. Message as follows: Hostile contact thirty-six degrees thirty-four minutes north, six degrees forty-one minutes west. Priority one."

"Priority one, aye."

They waited in silence, drifting slowly in the slight current. Vallejo was three miles south, six hundred feet deeper, and also drifting. The Russian was eight miles west and making no noise.

Sorensen hunched over his console, quietly humming and beeping along with the faint sounds of marine life that came through his earphones. Every few minutes he looked casually at Fogarty, noting the exhaustion beginning to etch deep lines under the young sailor's eyes.

After two hours Sorensen was ready to have Fogarty relieved. He whispered, "You're through, kid. Hit the sack."

Fogarty shook his head

"That's an order. Get outta—"

"Attention all hands. General quarters, general quarters. Man battle stations. Man battle stations. Prepare for maneuvering."

On the screen they could see Vallejo already moving.

"Okay, Fogarty, I guess you're going to stay put. You awake?"

"Never felt better in my life."

"Control to navigation. Set course three three one."

"Course three three one, aye."

"All ahead slow."

"All ahead slow, aye."

The ship shuddered once and began to move. Vallejo was heading south and Barracuda north. The Russian hesitated, then moved toward Vallejo.

"Son of a bitch," Sorensen said. "She didn't take the bait. This stupid fucker is in for it now."

In the control room Springfield called communications. "Send up the buoy."

"Communications to control. Buoy away."

From the top of the sail a small float detached itself from the ship and rose to the surface. A small, powerful radio beamed an encoded, enciphered, compressed and scrambled message to Rota. Thirty seconds later an alarm sounded on the Spanish aircraft carrier Dédalo, and helicopter rotors started churning up the night.

"Control to weapons."

"Weapons, aye."

"Lieutenant, load tubes three and six. Conventional warheads, wire-guided."

Hoek could sense his blood pressure rising. He began to sweat. "Conventional warheads, wire-guided, aye. Weapons to torpedo room."

"Torpedo room, aye."

"Chief, load tubes three and six with Mark thirty-sevens, Mod three. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill."

Lopez pushed a button on his console and a red light began to blink in the torpedo room. The torpedo-men jumped to attention.

"Johnson," Lopez yelled across the room, "load three and six. This… is… not… a… drill."

The torpedomen unbolted two torpedoes from their bays and slipped them into tubes. When the inner doors were locked, the targeting computer began feeding data to the on-board computers behind the warheads.

"Control to weapons, lock on sonar."

"Lock on sonar, aye."

Hoek punched buttons on his console, and the signature of the November was fed into the torpedoes.

"Flood tubes."

"Flood tubes, aye."

Fogarty listened to the sound of seawater rushing into the torpedo tubes, thinking the war of nerves was about to become something else… "We can't sink her," he muttered, "she's in international waters—"

"There is no way in hell the skipper is going to let Arkangel or any other Russian sub put a tail on a boomer," Sorensen cut him off. "Not allowed. No way. We know it, and the captain of Arkangel knows it. An attack submarine like that one, or this one, is considered the most destabilizing military unit you can get. Suppose the Russians had a tail on every one of our boomers. They could sink all of them all at once. Result — no second strike, no deterrence. So we don't even give them a chance. Just like they wouldn't give us a chance—"

"Control to sonar. Echo range, maximum power, target-seeking frequency. Let him have it, Ace."

Sorensen nodded, and Fogarty took a deep breath. The Russian on his screen had become much more than a blip. In a fraction of a second Fogarty remembered his first sonar lashing, the collision and Sorensen's tape. He was ready. His onetime concern for the Russians was gone. They hadn't sunk anyway, just faked it… Deliberately he locked the echo ranger on the Russian sub, turned it up to maximum power, and pushed the button. The echo came back with a resounding ping.

In the control room every screen came alive with incoming data from the target. Each man was holding his breath. They were alone, no longer a so-called "instrument of national policy" but a state unto themselves in the open sea. In a matter of moments they might be infamous, or dead, or worse.

This time the Russians did not hesitate. The single ping from the target-seeking sonar meant the next thing they would hear would be a torpedo. Arkangel made an abrupt ninety-degree turn and suddenly the sea erupted with the roar of her machinery. She cut loose all her raw power, and in a matter of seconds she was heading due west at thirty knots, leaving Vallejo free to begin her patrol unmolested.

It happened so fast… no one had time to feel relief.

Fogarty's heart was banging his ribs hard enough to make his chest hurt. He could almost taste the adrenaline.

Sorensen was standing up, his face an inch from the screen. "That was close," he mumbled. "That was awfully goddamn close."

He sat down, with unsteady fingers lit a cigarette, took a long deep drag.

"Is it over?" Fogarty said.

"Yeah, it's over."

"She sure hauled ass, didn't she?"

"It was, you might say, the prudent thing to do, under the circumstances. She was outnumbered, after all." He grinned. "You sure put the fear of God into them, Fogarty. Shit, you put the fear of God into me."

Fogarty stood up and took off his earphones. He was flexing his hand muscles, snapping his fingers over and over from a fist into a straight edge. Sorensen saw the glint still flickering in his eyes. Maybe he had pushed the kid too hard. Fogarty's lifetime of self-control could blow up. He was like a volcano waiting to erupt…

Fogarty said, "I scared the shit out of myself."

"Take it easy, it's over."

Fogarty shook his head. "They'll come back, they'll always come back, and we'll chase 'em and—"

"And as long as we win the battles, we won't have to win the war."

"You've got a smart answer for everything, Sorensen. Well why don't we follow her, chase her all the way to the ice—?"

"Jesus, next you'll ask me why we didn't blow her to hell. What did you do, take an upside-down pill?"

"Listen, Sorensen, you told me to shape up and do my job. So I'm doing it. Okay?"

"Sure, okay, killer." He smiled when he said it. "But don't turn into another Davic. Stay cool."

"There's nothing cool about a target-seeking sonar. It's about as hot as you can get."

"It's sure as hot as I ever want to see it… Listen, Fogarty, you scared yourself, you scared me. It's okay, sooner or later we all scare ourselves down here. We all feel like killers sometimes. You just got to put the beast back in his cage and keep him there… You're tired, you've had a busy day. Go get yourself some sleep."

Fogarty reached for the door, smiled. "Okay, cowboy, I'll try to belay the beast. Whatever you say."

The quartermaster's voice came through the speakers just then. "Secure from general quarters. Secure from general quarters. Midrats are now being served in the mess. That is all."

Fogarty opened the door to find Pisaro about to move in from the control room.

"Pardon me, sir," Fogarty said as he stepped past.

Pisaro shut the door and sat down next to Sorensen.

"Pretty hairy, wouldn't you say, Ace?"

"I'd say, Commander."

"Did the kid do okay?"

"He's not ready to stand watch by himself. He got pretty excited, but he'll get used to it, as much as anybody ever does. This kind of thing can make you grow old quick."

"Look, Ace, are you positive that was Arkangel?"

"Yes, sir. That was old dirty Ivan, in person, polluting the Atlantic. Must be a new crew. They're probably using the old one to light up Leningrad."

"No more dirty tricks?"

"I don't think so, sir. Not this time."

"All right. We're going to run a rear guard for Vallejo until she clears the Strait. You're relieved. Davic is on his way in here. Go get yourself some grub."