Voyage of the Devilfish

CHAPTER 15

“Captain,” Stokes said, “ship is ready to hover. Depth is six seven five feet, speed zero, depth rate zero.”

“Very well.” Pacino stood at the periscope watching the distant glow of the ice overhead. “Attention in the fire-control team…” The room quieted, the eerie silence filled only with the whine of the computers and the bass of the ventilation fans.

“… Here we go. After we upset this guy, be ready to make the recovery and get deep. Off sa’deck, to all spaces, rig ship for collision and prepare to report any damage. Diving Officer, engage the hovering system and give me max blow until Aux 2 is dry, report ascent rate.”

This dangerous maneuver might go sour, Pacino realized. If the Devilfish’s hovering system failed they might rise up with a drift to the side and collide with the ice. Trying to induce your enemy to lead so you could counterpunch was a risky business. If he started the ascent from a shallower depth it might not be enough to affect the OMEGA. To a ship that massive, even a blow from Devilfish from a mere 200 feet would scarcely jar it. There were just no guarantees, too many variables, too many ways his maneuver could turn against him. But to do nothing was to risk losing the OMEGA if she left the polynya and went deep. The thing was too damned quiet. He’d never catch up with it. The time was now.

Chief of the Watch Robertson at the wraparound ballast-control panel reached for the hovering joystick and pushed it to the BLOW position to put high-pressure air into the aux tank and blow out the ballast water to lighten the ship.

A slight sound was perceptible above the roar of the fans, the sound of air blowing into a tank. The digital depth gage clicked. The ascent had begun.

“Aux 2 empty, sir. Securing the blow,” Robertson intoned. Pacino snapped up the periscope grips and adjusted the control ring to lower the periscope so it would not be smashed by the ascent.

“Six hundred feet, sir,” Diving Officer Lanscomb called from his seat between the planesmen. “Ascent rate five feet per second… seven… ten… fifteen…” On the ship-control console in front of the Diving Officer the numbers on the depth gage began to spin rapidly. The deck now tilted to the port side. Pacino, behind Stokes at the forward end of the Conn, looked up at the bubble inclinometer, which showed a list of ten degrees. The sail must be dragging them into this tilted ascent. As the water flowed at great speed over the hull, the sail acted as a brake, heeling them over. Pacino grabbed a handrail set into the side of the Conn sonar console. Now five hundred feet below the OMEGA submarine, Devilfish continued upward at terminal velocity, her hull level fore and aft but heeled over, her sail tilted to a fifteen-degree angle. She was a 4500-ton express elevator, roaring through the dark arctic depths toward the most advanced attack submarine in the world.

Admiral Novskoyy checked the bulkhead chronometer, set as usual to Greenwich Mean Time. As he waited for the seconds to click away till 0900, he again read his message. Brief and official, Novskoyy thought. He typed in the next words in the sequence: TRANSMIT SEQUENCE STATUS? And the computer said: READY… It was time. Novskoyy typed in: TRANSMIT And the computer replied: TRANSMITTING…

There were now only ten minutes, until 0910, to decide whether to send the execution message for missile launch to his fleet. Novskoyy had told Dretzski at the Severomorsk shipyards that this deployment was to force U.S. compliance with his demands for total destruction of their nuclear weapons. And he had believed it, at least up to a point. He had also acknowledged to himself that if necessary he would take the next step, as he had done all those years ago against the USS Stingray. Well, his ships were deployed; the mole, General Tyler, had already gone to lengths to convince the U.S. authorities that this was merely another exercise. Would they seriously believe a sudden reversal, believe that the threat was real? Certainly not from Tyler. And certainly not from a Russian admiral. Never again would he and his forces have such an opportunity. Had he ever, in fact, really believed it would not come to more than a deployment? As the Kaliningrad’s multifrequency antenna began transmitting the standby order to the COSMOS 21 communications satellite, Novskoyy doubted he would need the ten minutes to decide whether to follow up with the execution message for missile launch. The decision was made.

The aux tank remained full of air, acting like a hot-air balloon, driving Devilfish screaming up to the surface toward the OMEGA.

“Four hundred feet, Cap’n.” Chief Lanscomb said from the Diving Officer seat. “Ascent rate 20 feet per second and steady.” Less than 20 seconds, Pacino thought. Twenty seconds to what?

“Two five zero feet, sir,” Lanscomb called out. “Depth rate twenty-two feet per second ascent rate. Two hundred feet, twenty-three feet per second…”

“One five zero feet sir, twenty-three feet per second.” Lanscomb said.

It was the last thing Pacino heard before the collision.

The Communications Officer at the radio console caught Captain Krakov’s eye. Something was coming over the periscope antennae. The flashing red light on the console meant it was coming in on the emergency frequency.

A shot of adrenaline overcame the nausea Krakov had been feeling. The Communications Officer pulled the printout from the discharge slot and handed the message to the captain.

“Deck Officer,” Krakov said after reading it, “spin up the SSN-X-27 cruise missile. Keep the periscope up for communication reception, and alert me to any incoming molniya. The First Officer and I will retrieve the attack plan and authenticator package from the war safe.”

“Sir”—the Deck Officer could barely get out the words—“is this a drill or…?” Krakov looked at his First Officer Anatoly Tupov, holding up a hand before he could speak.

“No,” Krakov said, “it is not a drill.”

Krakov and Tupov hurried to the captain’s stateroom, down the ladder and around a corner, in the door and behind a locker cabinet to the war safe. The outer combination was Krakov’s. He spun the tumbler, his hands sweaty, and on the second try opened the safe. As he stood back he heard the ship wide announcement: “BATTLESTATIONS MISSILE! BATTLESTATIONS MISSILE! THIS IS NOT A DRILL, REPEAT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL!”

The inner-safe combination belonged to Tupov. Tupov had more trouble with the tumbler. The safes were configured this way so as to prohibit one man alone access to the war-authentication codes. With an authenticator packet from the inner safe, someone could send a fake message to launch a nuclear attack or send a fake cease-fire message after a valid attack order. Novskoyy’s message to begin preparations could have been sent by anybody with a radio on their emergency frequency. But the execution message, when it came, would need the exact combination of numbers and letters inside the foil packet marked NF-008. All authenticators were at all times under two-man control or locked in a double-combination safe. If the execution message was complete with the authenticator, the message was valid.

Krakov handed First Officer Tupov the authentic ators, bound together in a brick. While Tupov searched for NF008, Krakov opened the sealed attack order. Inside the wax-sealed envelope was a single sheet of paper with an introductory paragraph at the top stating the general conditions for a release, including the requirement of a molniya. Krakov skimmed it and dropped down to the meat of the profile, the computer-printed instruction for their primary target:

The latitude and longitude of the primary target were given to the tenth of a second of arc.

By the time Krakov and Tupov returned to the control compartment with the red foil authenticator packet the expectant crew members were assembled at their stations.

“Missile status?” Krakov asked the Weapons Officer.

“Missile power engaged, gyro on, fuel cell nominal and pressurized, target program ready to accept coordinates.”

Krakov handed over the latitude and longitude of the U.S. Navy base. “Program the 27 for primary target.”

Nothing to do now but to wait for the communications console to show its red flashing light, which would signify transmission of the molniya execution message. But the molniya did not come. At 0912 GMT the molniya was two minutes late.

“Status of the missile,” Krakov called impatiently to the Weapons Officer.

“Nominal, sir. Still green board for launch. Missile remains on ship’s power.”

“Shift the missile to internal power.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Weapons Officer replied, and proceeded to manipulate his console. “Missile on internal power, sir.”

“Very good,” Krakov said, looking at his watch for the sixth time in two minutes.

Novskoyy had less time than he thought to prepare the second message ordering the missile launch. The next seconds occurred in slow motion. Novskoyy, a hand on the radio console to help him stand, had partially gotten up when the whole ship seemed to jump. It was not as if he were thrown — it was more as though the railing surrounding the periscope well flew up and hit him in the midsection. He felt helpless as his body, caught below its center of gravity, flipped over the railing, over the deck of the periscope stand, his body still rotating. As the aft periscope pole came toward him, he was almost horizontal. When he hit the pole it smacked him squarely in the buttocks and his lower back.

He had a brief impression of sliding down the periscope pole to the deck, and of the deck seeming at odds with gravity. It had become so tilted over that it was no longer a deck. His head hit the deck with a crack, his vision dissolved in a world of blue and orange sparks, he felt liquid in his mouth, tasting coppery — and then all was black.

Commander Harrison Toth IV stepped up to the periscope stand of the USS Billfish, shouldering aside the heavy curtain surrounding the periscope stand that was used to screen out the glow from the control room instruments when the room was rigged for black. The space outside the curtain was never completely black, illuminated as it was by the light from the fire-control consoles, the gages of the ship control panel and the light from the meters on the ballast-control panel. Together, the light leaks were enough to interfere with the Officer of the Deck’s night vision. The OOD was pressed up against the number-two periscope peering into the black night. Although it was 0900 Zulu, Greenwich Mean Time, the local time was 0400, and dawn in December came late even this far at sea. 0703 was the time the status board stated for sunrise. Billfish rocked in the rough seas, trailing the AKULA Russian attack submarine Vladivostok at periscope depth 153 miles east of Norfolk, Virginia. The AKULA, designated Target One, was also at periscope depth.

“Very well, FT,” the OOD was saying to the fire-control Technician of the Watch, who had come up to the Conn. Toth tensed, knowing this could be a precursor to a problem with fire-control, something he didn’t need now with the AKULA so close.

“Captain, sir,” the OOD said, not removing his face from the periscope eyepiece, “weapon power has been applied to the Mark 49 torpedoes in tubes three and four for over an hour now, sir. The gyros are heating up. The FT wants to deenergize them.”

“What’s the status of tubes one and two?” Toth was reluctant to turn off the torpedoes with the Russian in weapons range.

“Dry loaded, Mark 49 Hullbuster Mod Alphas, both tubes, sir.”

“Get a recommendation from the Weapons Officer. I want my six shooter loaded when I’m in the same corral with this guy.”

“Should we flood one and two, sir? We could spin up their gyros—”

“No. Flooding the tubes will just make noise. Could alert our friend up ahead—”

“Conn, Sonar,” the headset to sonar boomed in Toth’s ear, “transients from Target One… water noises… flooding a tank… hull popping… Target One’s probably going deep… Conn, Sonar, confirmed. RPM’s going up on Target One’s screw. He’s speeding up and going deep.”

“Sonar, Conn, aye,” Lieutenant Culverson replied into his own headset’s boom microphone, glancing at Captain Toth. “Sir?” Toth stared at the line of dots on Pos Two.

“Take us down below the thermal layer and rig control for white.”

“Diving Officer, make your depth five four six feet,” Culverson called out. “Lowering number-two scope.” The OOD put on his red goggles and ordered the room lit. The curtain was pulled aside, and blinding white light flooded the room. The ship’s angle increased to ten degrees as Culverson ordered the Diving Officer to go down to 546 feet. As the ship passed 300 feet, the thick steel hull emitted a creaking groan, punctuated by a loud pop. Target One was a mere 1500 yards ahead on the port bow.

The deck of the Vladivostok took on a steep angle as she departed periscope depth for her 50-meter missile-firing depth. Captain Krakov was furious that he still had not received the expected message from Admiral Novskoyy to execute missile launch.

“Captain,” Tupov said, “we should come back up to periscope depth and await a transmission.”

“Anatoly, this must be a transmitter problem. An American ship may have gotten to Novskoyy on the Kaliningrad. There won’t be a transmission. We can’t contact the other ships in the fleet without violating radio silence. I know the admiral’s intent. We must proceed. Execute launch on primary target as per the 0850 GMT preparation order.”

As Billfish levelled out at 546 feet the broadband sonar trace on the video repeater winked out. Target One had just vanished. Commander Toth frowned as his headset earphone crackled.

“Conn, Sonar, deflection/elevation to Target One is very high, plus ten degrees. Signal-to-noise ratio is dropping fast. We’ve lost him…”

“Sonar, Captain, is it possible Target One is still above the thermal layer?”

“Conn, Sonar… yes.” Toth gestured to Culverson with his thumb. Get back up.

“Depth fifty meters, sir,” the Deck Officer reported.

Krakov turned to the weapons console. “Status of the 27?”

“Run check complete,” Weapons Officer Vasily Geronmyy said into his console. “System checks are satisfactory. Chronometer input satisfactory. Navigation fix input satisfactory. Gyro spinup complete.”

“Mark the target readback,” Krakov ordered. Geronmyy typed into his console and read the computer reply.

“Norfolk Naval Station, Submarine Piers, ground zero. Airburst at fifty meters.” Krakov nodded.

“Variable yield setting?”

“One point one megatons.” Geronmyy turned to look at Krakov. “The targeting manual also gives us direct-hit credit for taking out the American Navy’s submarine headquarters and the Atlantic Fleet headquarters. And most of the adjacent Naval Base and Naval Air Station runways and aircraft should be in ruins.”

“Open the outer door,” Krakov ordered.

“Conn, Sonar, we’ve regained Target One, signal-to-noise ratio above threshold. Contact is definitely above the thermal layer.”

“Sonar, Captain, aye,” Toth responded. “Anything more from Target One? Anything unusual?”

“Conn, Sonar, yes. Transients from Target One now… scraping noise… Conn, Sonar, Target One is opening a hull… possible torpedo tube outer door.”

Toth swore under his breath. When he was a sonarman he would know for sure, not have to guess. Was it a torpedo tube door or not? It didn’t make a hell of a lot of difference. The contact could be dumping garbage, pumping his sanitary tanks, dumping some bilge oil… It wasn’t exactly appropriate to consider dumping trash an offensive action. Toth could almost hear his own court martial.

“Sonar, Captain, did he open a fucking torpedo tube door or not?”

“Conn, Sonar… yes.” The sonar chief still sounded unsure. What if this guy was about to shoot him? Did he really have to wait for the Russian to launch a weapon before shooting back? Of course he had to. Rules of Engagement said so, gut feel or not. Toth looked over at Pos Two. The solution was set into the Mark 49 torpedoes in tubes three and four, overheating as they were. But it would take the 49s in tubes one and two a full five minutes to spin up. Commander Harrison Toth opened his mouth to order the weapons in tubes one and two be powered up. Just in case.

“Missile on internal power, sir.”

“Stand by to fire on my mark,” Krakov commanded.

“Standing by, sir.”

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Mark’.”

“Fire!” the Weapons Officer called, punching a fixed-function key. The ship shuddered, Krakov’s eardrums popped.

“Conn, Sonar, launch transient from Target One!”

“What the hell was that?” Toth demanded. Was this a torpedo in the water or not?

“Sonar, Captain, did Target One launch or not?” No answer for a moment, then: “Conn, Sonar, no torpedo in the water, but it was definitely a launch transient…”

A dry fire? Toth thought.

“Sonar, Captain, was that a water slug?”

“Conn, Sonar, no, but… we suspect a misfire of a weapon. More transients from Target One. He may be lining up another tube.”

“Any sign of a counterdetection? Does he know we’re here?”

“No.” Then who the hell is he shooting? Toth thought. Unless it’s not a torpedo… in which case it might be… Oh God… a cruise missile?