To Kill the Potemkin

27

Eight hours later Sorensen and Fogarty mustered in the sonar room for their next watch. Sorensen had slept too long under the sunlamps and had a sunburn.

As Willie Joe was logging out, Sorensen asked, "You ready for your qualifying exam, Willie Joe?"

"The Lieutenant says I've got Fire Control down pat."

"You're gonna make it, no sweat."

"Thanks, Ace."

"You got plans for the thirty day leave, Willie Joe?"

"Sure do. Me and the old lady are takin' the kids to Baton Rouge. That's where her folks are. They got a nice place, a big back porch all screened in. Keeps the bugs out."

"You going to buy that new Bonneville?"

"You said it. Gonna get me some high-class Detroit steel and cruise on down to Louisiana. You never went for cars, did you, Ace?"

"Never had much time to drive 'em."

"You ain't got an old lady. Them bitches, all they wanna do is show off in the parking lot at the supermarket. I don't give a shit. If that's what she wants, well, it beats her banging the whole fleet while I'm on patrol."

Sorensen nodded, keeping a straight face, and Willie Joe opened the door. "I'm outta here. Maybe you'll get lucky and catch a Russian."

Barracuda was running slow and quiet. Two more messages had been received from Norfolk. Dherzinski continued on the same course, but between the first and second messages the Alpha had disappeared five hundred miles southwest of the Azores.

Figuring the Alpha was waiting at the rendezvous point for Dherzinski, Springfield maintained a course five miles south and parallel to the projected track of Dherzinski. He knew it wouldn't be long before they intercepted the huge missile sub which he calculated was less than fifty miles away.

Between watches, Fogarty had spent four hours listening to tapes of Soviet FBMs. The tape of Dherzinski, collected as she entered Havana harbor, was clear and distinct, and he had listened to it several times.

"Say, Ace, how long has this boat been making patrols out of Cuba?"

"A year."

"How did she get in there in the first place?"

"She must have crossed the Pacific from Vladivostok, passed around Cape Horn and come up through the South Atlantic. A British sub, Conqueror, picked her up off the Faulklands and followed her all the way to Havana. The Russians never knew Conqueror was there, and they still think we don't know anything about Dherzinski."

"I'm surprised the Brits or somebody didn't get crazy and blow her away."

"Maybe they should have, but of course we've been trying to find a way to get her out of the Caribbean for good without firing a shot. Sinking a boomer under any circumstances is bad news. I'll tell you one thing, I bet her skipper is unhappy right now. I bet he'd like to put a fish into the Alpha himself for making him risk exposure."

For three hours they listened and drank coffee. They heard a lone whale sing a mournful song, but no surface ships and no submarines. Fogarty listened to the tape of Dherzinski several more times.

Sorensen yawned and stretched.

"You sound tired. Ace."

"Shit, Fogarty. They want to promote me to chief and put me on a new boat in the Pacific."

"Congratulations. A lifer like you, what more could you ask for?"

"I'm going to turn it down."

Fogarty was stunned. "I don't believe it. Not you, not the great Sorensen."

"Yeah, well. I'm going to be the former great." He pointed to the speakers, which were churning out the signature of Dherzinski. "I don't want to hear one of those things ever again."

"What do you mean? This is what it's all about, isn't it?"

"It sure is, but this is it for me. I'm not going aboard Guitarro, you are. I talked to Pisaro about it. He's going to be the CO. Willie Joe is going too. You can look after the Russians, you're going to be the hotshot."

"Me? Come on, Ace."

"Look, Fogarty, number one, you're good enough. You've got it. Number two, you're hooked. You want to do it, whether you know it or not. Number three, you don't want a war but number four, you've come a long way, now you'll fight if you have to. You're gonna be bad, dude."

Fogarty was embarrassed, partly for being pleased at Sorensen's words.

"Am I right or am I right?"

"We'll see… but what about you, Sorensen? If you're not going onto Guitarro what are you going to do?"

"Sorensen Sound Effects, three hundred an hour… But first we're going fishing for a big fish, and hope we don't get hooked."

They were almost at the end of their watch when Fogarty saw the streak flash across his screen. He recognized it the instant he heard it.

"Contact, bearing two eight eight, range fourteen thousand yards, course zero seven six, speed eighteen knots, identification, Soviet Hotel class FBM, Dherzinski."

Sorensen barely glanced at the screen. "Okay, champ, feed it to the skipper."

"Don't you want to check it?"

"Nope."

"Sonar to control," said Fogarty, and repeated the data over the intercom.

"All stop. Quiet in the boat," ordered Springfield.

The sonar screens immediately cleared as Barracuda glided to a stop. Fogarty closed his eyes and listened to the rumble of machinery gliding through the ocean. Dherzinski's missiles, like Vallejo's, represented Fogarty's worst nightmare. And it popped into his head that one way to get rid of them would be to sink Dherzinski right now — and that thought made him sweat. What was happening to him?…

Sorensen lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the air conditioner.

"Does she know we're here?" Fogarty asked him.

"I don't think so. We're too quiet. If she hears us, her commander will take evasive action, or threaten us."

"What are we going to do?"

"Follow her. She'll lead us to the Alpha. In a few hours we're going to be on top of the two most secret ships in the Soviet Navy. Dherzinski must need something from the Alpha. Or vice-versa. Otherwise they'd never pull her off-station. I figure the last thing the Russians expect is for us to show up. If we're lucky we'll catch them together on the surface."

"What will they do?"

"I don't read minds, kid. But I do know Springfield will do his job, which won't win us the Order of Lenin—"

"Control to sonar."

"Sonar, aye."

"We're going to play tag. Let's keep our range between ten thousand and twelve thousand yards."

"Sonar to control, aye aye."

Barracuda fell in behind Dherzinski and began to follow the huge missile sub at a distance of six miles. Steaming on an easterly course, Dherzinski rolled through the sea like Leviathan, her computers continuously tracking targets on the east coast of the United States fourteen hundred miles away. The noise from the boomer's engines was so loud that her sonar operators never heard the American sub.

Sorensen quietly listened to the sounds of machinery, then spoke up. "You know, Fogarty, as of now we're tailing a part of the strategic deterrence of the Soviet Union. She's got the capacity to hit our coast cities, and she's in our sights. If she so much as floods a missile tube… well, we can't give her a chance to launch a missile. Shit like this gives me the jitters."

Fogarty stared at the blip on his screen.

Fifty miles away Potemkin hovered six hundred feet down, waiting for Dherzinski. Potemkin had not moved from the rendezvous point in eighteen hours, and the atmosphere inside the sub was fetid, the crew anemic, weak and irritable. The seven reactor engineers with virulent colds grew steadily worse. The constant bombardment by neutron radiation was killing the marrow in their bones. They were going to be transferred to Dherzinski and replaced with engineers from the FBM, and it had better happen fast.

In the cramped crew quarters in the stern. Engineering Officer Lieutenant Third Rank Polokov lay dying of infection. He pleaded with Federov to make the sign of the cross over him.

Federov complied, dragging from his memory a child's prayer. Polokov stopped breathing. The surgeon pulled a sheet over his face. "Shall we prepare for burial at sea, Captain?"

"Later."

Popov's voice came through the intercom speakers. "This is sonar calling the captain. We have made contact with Dherzinski."

Federov rushed to the control room and stood over Popov at the sonar console. Dherzinski was beaming a sonic signal over the prearranged frequency that Potemkin was to use as a homing device.

"Prepare to surface. All ahead slow," ordered Federov. "Alexis, put life jackets on Bolinki and the others to be transferred. I'm sending along a sealed copy of the log with an account of Kurnachov's actions for Gorshkov's eyes only. I want your signature."

"Yes, Captain."

On Barracuda Sorensen and Fogarty heard Dherzinski's signal.

"Sonar to control. Dherzinski is echo-ranging."

"Very well, sonar. Slow speed. We must be near the Alpha. If Dherzinski starts to circle, we'll go around with her."

Sorensen stood up. "Any second now Dherzinski's echo ranger will pick up the Alpha. When the echo bounces back, we should hear it. That's when one of them might pick us up. Cross your fingers. If they hear us they'll never surface. And we won't be able to see them. And that means we can't get the pretty pictures the admiral wants."

Tension crept through the ship. In the control room Springfield studied the repeater.

"She's turning. Go left three degrees." A second blip appeared on the screens. "There it is. All stop."

The two Russian subs were a mile apart, six miles from Barracuda. Slowly the two blips moved together.

"General quarters, general quarters. All hands prepare for maneuvering. Control to weapons. Load tubes two and four with Mark thirty-sevens, acoustic homing."

"Weapons to control, understand load two and four with Mark thirty-sevens, acoustic homing."

"If they discover us right now," said Pisaro, "I think they'll shoot…"

Springfield silently agreed. "Leo, if we hear a target-seeking sonar, we got to turn tail. Tell the quartermaster to load the camera. When we raise the scopes, you blow off your film in a hurry. As soon as you're done we back off and do our best to pick up Dherzinski later. We're not going to invite this Alpha driver to be a hero of the Soviet Union at our expense. All ahead slow."

Barracuda inched toward the hovering subs. When the distance was reduced to a mile Sorensen heard strange garbled noises. The Russians were communicating on an underwater telephone.

"Sonar to control, they're talking on a gertrude."

"Very well, sonar. We're sending Davic in."

A moment later Davic pushed through the door into the sonar room. Sorensen greated him with a big smile. "You're on, Davic. Listen up."

Davic squeezed into the third console, put on a headset and shook his head. "It's breaking up. They're too far away. Wait a minute, wait a minute, I'm getting something — something about carbon dioxide… lithium… now I've lost it again."

Fogarty said, "One of them is blowing her tanks. It's Dherzinski, she's rising. Now the Alpha. They're both surfacing."

Sorensen watched the screen. "Okay, it seems they still don't know we're here. Sonar to control. They're surfacing. Holding steady at six thousand yards."

"All ahead slow. Helm, take us in to one thousand yards. Periscope depth, gear for red," ordered Springfield.

The lights in the control room switched from green fluorescence to cherry red.

"Take her up. Quartermaster, rig the camera to number one scope."

"Aye aye, sir. It's going to be dark up there."

"Switch on light intensifies."

"Light intensifiers on."

"Mr. Pisaro, try standard film first. If we have time, we'll activate the infrared system."

"Aye aye, skipper."

"Control to engineering. Chief, increase steam to ninety percent. We may have to get out of here in a hurrv."

"Engineering to control. What's he going to do? Fire a broadside across our bow?"

"Not funny. Up scopes."

Barracuda angled up, and at sixty feet the periscopes broke the surface. Springfield bent over the binocular eyepiece of the number two scope.

Olonov stood on the bridge on Dherzinski's squat ugly sail, looking at the short, sleek sub rocking twenty meters away in the gentle sea. He shouted through a bullhorn, "Who are you?"

"This is Potemkin," came Federov's reply. "Do you have the lithium hydroxide?"

Olonov's mood was dark. "So you're Federov, Gorshkov's fair-haired boy. Prince of the Northern Fleet. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Federov did not appreciate the sarcasm. "Send across the lifeline."

It had been thirty years since Olonov last worked as a deckhand. Alone on the bridge of Dherzinski, he managed to fire the small rocket that catapulted the rope across the void. Federov secured the line to a cleat and spoke into his headset.

"Send Bolinki up. Get the others ready."

Olonov secured the bag of crystals to the line and Federov slowly pulled it across. When the precious chemical was safely aboard Potemkin, Federov tied the unconscious Bolinki into a litter, stuffed the copy of his log into the sailor's jacket, and Olonov began to pull the crewman toward Dherzinski.

Bolinki was suspended over the sea when Federov heard Popov's voice on the intercom. Radar had picked up periscopes at a distance of one kilometer.

Federov was furious at Olonov for letting himself be picked up and trailed, compromising Potemkin. He spoke to Popov again. "Identification?"

"None, Captain. We never heard him… but now we have periscopes on radar—"

"Alexis, prepare to dive. Load torpedoes and flood tubes, now." He shouted into the bullhorn, "Olonov, get that man aboard. You dive first and proceed due north exactly five hundred kilometers. We'll rendezvous again in twenty-four hours to finish the transfers."

Olonov was equally dismayed. He too was risking exposure, and possibly being cut off from retreating back to the Cuban lair. Through infrared binoculars he now could see the periscopes. Dherzinski was compromised.

It was three o'clock in the morning on a clear night. Through the binocular lenses of his periscope Springfield saw a mottled shape a half mile away rolling in the sea like a beached whale. Dherzinski. One man stood on top of her low stubby sail wrestling with a lifeline. As the big ship rocked in the waves, Springfield saw that the line stretched across to another much smaller submarine.

"Leo, start the camera. I think we've got our hit-and-run artist here."

Pisaro put his eye to the Nikon's viewfinder and activated the motordrive. The camera began taking rapid-fire pictures.

"We got a Hotel class boomer and what has to be the Alpha," said Pisaro. "They're not acting like they know we're here."

"Then they'll know any minute," Springfield replied. "Their radar will pick up the scopes. Dherzinski is sending a container across. They've got a man rigged to the lifeline. They're taking him off the Alpha and putting him on the missile sub—"

"Sonar to control. They're echo-ranging. They've got us."

"Radar to control. They've picked up the periscopes. I've got two discrete frequencies."

"They're cutting loose the lifeline," Pisaro announced. "They're closing the hatches."

"Attention all hands. This is the captain. Prepare for steep angles and deep submergence. Control to radio, prepare a position report and the following message: Soviet Hotel class FBM Dherzinski and Soviet Alpha class SSN photographed on surface. Will follow FBM according to orders."

"Radio to control, aye aye."

"Sonar to control. One sub is flooding his tanks, he's making way. It's Dherzinski."

"Steady now," said Springfield. "We'll wait until the Alpha is down before we transmit. We don't want them to intercept our message. Control to sonar."

"Sonar, aye."

"Keep track of the boomer. We'll want to pick up its trail fast, as soon as we're sure the Alpha isn't on our tail. We've got to get free of him first."

"Sonar to control, echo-ranging. Dherzinski is making six knots. She's not going down easily. The Alpha is holding steady on the surface."

Through his periscope Springfield saw Federov staring back at him through infrared binoculars. He knew the Russian was waiting for him to transmit.

"Sonar to control. Dherzinski is still on the surface, speed eight knots, course zero zero zero."

"Mr. Pisaro, shoot the infrared film."

Pisaro changed film and fired off thirty-six exposures of Potemkin. He detached the film cartridge from the camera and called to the quartermaster. "Chief, get Luther to process this film right away."

"Sonar to control, the Alpha is flooding torpedo tubes."

"Steady as she goes. He won't fire from the surface. That's suicide. Control to weapons. Flood tubes."

"Weapons to control. Flooding tubes."

"Mr. Hoek, program your fish to home on the Alpha. Do you have her signature?"

"Yes, sir."

"Easy on the trigger, Lieutenant. Very easy. Give him a chance to back off."

In the sonar room Davic was yelling at the blip on his screen. "Shoot him. Shoot him now—"

Fogarty turned on him. "Shut up, Davic. Shut the hell up."

"Chickenshit…"

Sorensen wheeled around, barely restraining himself. "Get out of here, Davic. Take your white suit and go to your damage-control station. Now."

Davic hesitated for a moment, then put on his asbestos suit and left, trailing an untranslatable curse.