Torpedo!

CHAPTER 16

The Soviet ballistic missile submarine cruised steadily at 15 knots, running at 200 feet below the surface of the Atlantic. The crew was relaxed, a patrol station off Washington, D.C., even in winter, was better than the previous patrol area, which had been conducted under the ice near the North Pole. That had been almost seven weeks of complete discomfort, the ship wrapped in a numbing cold that the ship’s heaters could never dispel, the crew swathed in sweaters, heavy boots and gloves day and night. The Atlantic in the Washington latitude would be chilly but not as cold as the far North. The great winter storms that often raged off the American coast were of no consequence to the submarine. It could submerge below the storm action and wait until the weather front had passed.

Captain Malenkov stood in the Command Center of his submarine and studied the chart his Navigator had placed on the work table. He nodded approval of the course line and the ETA on station. The chart showed that the patrol area would be 350 miles east of the American coast line, just east of the sharp drop where the Continental Shelf descended into an area noted on the chart as the Hatteras Abyssal Plain. The water in the patrol area was deep, almost 2,000 fathoms. Farther to the west, over the Continental Shelf, the chart showed depths of 12 to 24 fathoms. He turned his face upward as the loudspeaker rasped.

“Contact! Sonar reports fast screws bearing two three zero degrees. Contact is below our depth.”

Captain Malenkov turned to his Navigator. “We have a visitor, Alexy. Our information was that the Americans didn’t have any of their submarines out here. Like all our intelligence, it was apparently wrong.” He stared at the chart.

“We’ll stay on course, maintain speed. He will probably nose around like a dog at a garbage heap and then go away.”

“Contact is making very fast turns,” the loudspeaker rasped. “Contact is changing course to our stern.”

“Range on the contact, get his distance and give me a triangulation on his depth,” Captain Malenkov ordered.

“Range is two thousand yards. Target’s speed is approximately forty knots. Target is definitely coming around our stern. Depth is three hundred feet.”

The Soviet Captain watched as his Navigator swiftly drew in the plot on the chart. He snapped his head around to stare at the Navigator as the clangor of the other submarine’s sonar beams echoed through his ship.

“He’s letting us know he’s there,” Malenkov grunted. “He must be hitting us with his full decibel range. What the hell is he up to?”

“Target is now bearing one eight zero and moving to our starboard. . Target is now changing course to run up our starboard side. It’s very hard to get accurate bearings, sir. He’s ranging on us with everything he’s got.”

“To hell with him,” Captain Malenkov grunted. “Let him play his game. Let him make all the noise he wants. This is the open sea. We have a right to be here.”

“And a duty,” his Navigator murmured. He drew in a line on the chart to show the position of the other submarine. He looked at his Commanding Officer.

“Two can play at this game, Comrade. We could range on him.”

“Let’s do that,” Captain Malenkov said. He picked up the telephone. “Sonar Room, I want full decibel ranging on the target. Let’s find out which of us is the noisier.”

Aboard the Orca Captain Reinauer and his XO studied the computer video screens in the Control Room. “He’s locked in on him,” he said to Eckert. “Look at the rate he’s closing at, he must be doing thirty knots or better. Looks like he’s going to sweep around his stern.” He turned his head as the loudspeaker on the port bulkhead began to rattle and then blare.

“He’s hitting him with all the power in his sonar transmitters,” Ecker said. “Those Russians must think they’re inside a boiler factory, all that noise hitting them.”

Captain Reinauer studied the screen closely. “We’ve lost Devilfish on the passive. He must be around on the Russian’s starboard side.” He touched the helmsman on his shoulder.

“Six hundred feet. Let’s do it quickly. I want to be able to hear both of them.”

The Orca slanted downward sharply until it was well below the other submarines. The two white dots on the video screens now showed clearly.

“Looks like he’s only about five hundred yards off the Russian’s beam,” Eckert said. The loudspeakers began to scream and Captain Reinauer, annoyance showing on his face, reached for the telephone. He stopped as the loudspeakers went suddenly quiet and the voice of the Sonar Chief on watch came over the speakers.

“Both targets are hitting each other with full decibel range, Control. I’ll turn down the volume so it won’t ruin your ears. They’re making so much noise out there I don’t think they can hear anything at all, Control.”

“Affirmative,” Captain Reinauer said into the telephone. “I want one quick echo range on the nearest target, that’s a Russian submarine.”

“Will do,” the loudspeaker said. Reinauer waited.

“Range to the nearest target is two zero zero zero yards, Control.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. “Helm, come left to three zero zero.” He looked at the video screen.

“That puts us on a closing course with him,” he said to Eckert. He turned to Lieutenant Bill Reiss, the weapons officer.

“Give me a time of direct closing,” he said quietly. Reiss punched the keys on his computer console.

“At this speed, twenty knots, we’ll be at collision point in three minutes, sir,” Reiss said. “He’s running at two hundred feet, sir. Devilfish is on his starboard beam at the same depth.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. “Maintain present speed.”

“What do you intend to do?” Eckert said.

Captain Reinauer grinned, his white teeth showing in his thick black beard.

“We’ve got a reinforced sail on this lovely baby of ours. We can break through six feet of pack ice if we have to. I’m going to try and slide up underneath that bastard and give him a nudge. ComSubLant said to do a bump and run if possible. We’ll bump the bastard!” He held down the talk button on his telephone.

“Sonar, this is the Captain. You think there’s any chance either of those targets out there can hear us?”

“Not a chance, sir. They’re making so much noise I don’t think they can hear anything at all, sir.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. He looked at the screen again and raised his eyes to Bill Reiss.

“Go to computer navigation to close on the nearest target. I want to come up underneath him and do it at dead slow.” The helmsman leaned back in his padded chair as three lights flared on his console, indicating that depth, course and speed were now being controlled by the computers. Reinauer and Eckert watched the video screen as the white dot that was the Orca closed rapidly on the nearest of the other two white dots.

“Depth is three hundred feet, sir,” the helmsman said. “Up bubble of five degrees. Speed slowing to five knots, sir. Up bubble now two degrees, sir.”

“Very well,” Reinauer said. He looked upward instinctively as the sound of the Soviet submarine’s screw echoed through the hull of his ship.

“Relative positions,” Reinauer snapped.

“We’re coming into him just aft of his bow,” Reiss said. “Eighty degree port angle on the bow for us.”

“Give me a vertical range!” Reinauer snapped.

“Target is fifty, repeat five zero feet above us, sir!” The sonar operator’s voice was cracking with excitement.

“Close on a collision course!” Reinauer ordered. “One bump and then flood down and come hard left rudder after the bump.” He turned to Eckert.

“I hope that bastard’s got a solid keel, I don’t want the son of a bitch draped around our neck!” He pressed the button on his telephone set.

“All hands, stand by for a collision. Helm, stand by for hard left rudder and turn for forty knots as soon as we hit. Flood manifold, stand by for quick flood and deep depth after the bump.” He waited, watching the two white dots merge on the screen. Bill Reiss, standing in front of his computer console keyboards, cleared his throat.

“Expect collision in twenty-one seconds, sir. Override for helm on speed and depth is go, sir.”

The Orca closed relentlessly on its target. The American submarine’s bow slid just beneath the hull of the Soviet submarine and the heavily reinforced top of the Orca’s sail slammed into the Soviet submarine’s keel with a loud crash. The crew members on watch in the forward section of the Soviet submarine were thrown off their feet by the force of the collision and amidships, in the Command Center, Captain Malenkov went to his knees, clutching at the work table in front of him to keep from falling.

“Collision!” the Navigator screamed. “Rig all compartments for collision! Make a report on damage!”

Aboard the Devilfish Captain Miller ordered his Sonar Room to stop ranging on the Soviet submarine.

“Ranging stopped, Control,” the Sonar Room reported. “The target has stopped ranging, sir.”

Captain Miller studied his video screens. John Carmichael, standing beside him, pointed at the screen. “That second blip, that must be the Orca. What the hell did he do? Look, he’s turning away, going deep, increasing speed. Both the damn blips were one piece when I looked at it the first time.”

“I think that son of a bitchin’ Reinauer sneaked in on the Russian while all the noise was going on and gave him a bump and run,” Captain Miller said. “Bastard never did tell me what he intended to do if we caught up with the Soviet sub. All he asked me to do was to get on its starboard side if we were both to port when we picked up the Soviet sub and to make a lot of noise. Bastard!” There was a tone of admiration in his voice. “Look, he’s well clear of the Soviet now and he’s turning back, coming up to depth.” He winced as the loudspeakers on the bulkhead blared with the sound of the Orca’s echo-ranging transmitters.

“He’s giving him hell from the other side. Commence full decibel ranging on the target. We’ll make that bastard go out of his mind with noise!”

The initial confusion aboard the Soviet submarine was over in less than a minute as the crew, meticulously trained for emergencies, found that there were no leaks and that the ship was still answering its helm. Captain Malenkov looked at his Navigator.

“Two submarines after us,” he said. “One deliberately came up underneath us and hit us! They’re madmen! What in the hell is going on? We’ve done nothing wrong. Are these bastards going to risk an international incident?” He jumped as the Orcas’s sound transmitters hit the port side of his ship with a devastating roar of noise. Seconds later the noise doubled as the Devilfish joined in from the starboard side with its own shattering sound waves.

“Surface!” Captain Malenkov ordered. “I’m not going to stay down here with two madmen on each side of us. We’ll go up and if they come up we’ll find out what the hell they’re up to.” He grabbed at the work table for support as the submarine slanted upward sharply.

“He’s going up,” Orca’s Sonar Room reported. “He’s blowing ballast tanks, Control. He’s at one hundred feet and going up, sir.”

“Surface,” Captain Reinauer ordered. “Let’s go up with him and see what happens. Tell Devilfish we’re surfacing and suggest they do the same.”

The Soviet submarine broke through the surface of the Atlantic and wallowed in the long deep-water swells, its rounded hull almost submerged. On either side of it the smaller American attack submarines burst through the surface, throwing spray as the sleek hulls reared half out of the water and then settled back. Captain Malenkov climbed into the upper part of his submarine’s sail and took a bullhorn from his quartermaster. He watched and saw figures come into view in the top part of the sails on the two submarines that were now stationed on his port and starboard beams, less than one hundred yards away.

“What is the meaning of this madness?” Malenkov said into the bullhorn mouthpiece. “This is Captain Malenkov of the Soviet Navy. I demand to know why you are interfering with my ship in international waters.”

Captain Reinauer raised his bullhorn to his mouth. “No one has interfered with you, Captain. We were trying to protect you from some American whales that make their home in these waters.”

“Whales?” Captain Malenkov’s voice was almost a scream. “You rammed my ship! You may have damaged my hull. I’ll have you before an international court of inquiry! Who am I speaking to?”

“Captain Richard Reinauer, United States Navy, commanding the U.S.S. Orca, Fleet Attack Submarine. The ship on your starboard hand is the U.S.S. Devilfish, commanded by Captain Robert Miller, United States Navy.

“No one rammed your ship, Captain. It was the whales. They don’t like Russian ships, Captain. They ram every Soviet ship they see. Very dangerous animals, those whales. Your commercial fishermen kill lots of their relatives and they want revenge. We tried to save you from the whales by making a lot of noise with our sonar gear but we didn’t have much luck.”

“You are insane! “ Captain Malenkov roared into his bullhorn. “If I am interfered with again I will retaliate.”

“You mean you have harpoons aboard and a harpooner?” Captain Reinauer replied. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir. A cornered pod of whales can be very dangerous. You could lose your ship, Captain.”

Melenkov turned to his Navigator. “There’s something very wrong here and these fools know what is going on and we don’t. So we’ll play their game and see what happens.” He raised the bullhorn.

“We appreciate your concern for us, Captain. Do you have any suggestions about how we should handle these whales?”

“He’s getting cute,” Reinauer muttered to Eckert. “So we’ll get cute.” He cleared his throat and raised his bullhorn.

“I’d suggest you stay on the surface and ask for instructions from your headquarters, Captain. We’ll submerge and try to herd the whales away from you.”

“Very good of you,” Malenkov answered. “Are you acting as fellow submariners or do you have orders to help us in this situation?”

“We are acting under orders, Captain. I strongly suggest you stay on the surface and contact your headquarters. We’ll go down and look for the whales.”

Captain Malenkov saw Reinauer’s head disappear and then the submarines on either side of his ship began to slowly descend. He watched until the two submarines had disappeared. “Get me a sonar report on what they are doing,” he snapped.

“Sonar reports contacts on either beam, sir,” the loudspeaker on the bridge rasped. “Both contacts appear to be moving very slowly away from us. Depth of both contacts is now one hundred feet.”

“Are we going to dive?” his Navigator asked.

“Dive? And be rammed or worse? Don’t be a fool. There’s something going on here that we know nothing about. I am not going to risk this ship. We stay on the surface and make a full report to Polyarnyy and wait for instructions. While we wait I want a man over the side in shallow-water diving gear to make an inspection of our bottom, up forward, where they rammed us.” He stood in the ship’s sail, his pale blue eyes scanning the empty sea.

“I will say one thing for those people,” he said, “they must be superb seamen to be able to hit us as they did without losing their own ship.”

“Or lucky,” his Navigator said. “Madmen are often lucky, our own folklore teaches us that.”

“Not lucky,” Captain Malenkov said. “Seamen of the highest order. And clever. If we submerge we will be attacked. No ballistic missile submarine can fight off two attack submarines. Up here, on the surface, we are safe. At least for a while. Until Polyarnyy tells us what to do.”

“Up here on the surface we are no longer a ballistic missile submarine,” his Navigator said. “We cannot fire our missiles while we are on the surface.”

“That’s what I meant when I said they were clever,” Captain Malenkov said. “That’s why I suspect something very serious is going on politically. They have frustrated us for the moment. Polyarnyy must be informed at once. Perhaps others of our fleet have been frustrated in the same manner.”

“Do you suspect we might be close to war, Comrade Captain?”

“Yes,” Captain Malenkov said. “I’m going below and draft the message. You have the bridge and the watch. I want a constant sonar watch kept and I want the positions of both those submarines charted at all times.” He dropped through the hatch and climbed down the ladders to the Command Center, thinking about the message he had to send. The Command at Polyarnyy would not be pleased with the way his ship’s nuclear missile effectiveness had been so neatly neutralized. He pulled a pad of paper across the work table and took a pen out of his pocket. What was to be would be. He began to write.