Wall of Night

32

The special session of the Security Council ended with the Chinese delegation storming out an hour after it started. Two hours after that, Martin’s own ambassador arrived with the transcripts.

Following a brief statement describing the reactor accident in Chita, then moving on to similar incidents in the past, China’s normally circumspect ambassador proceeded to lambast the Russian representative, accusing the Federation of negligence, illegal labor practices, and racially biased safety standards toward Chinese citizens living in Siberia.

“Not very smart of the Chinese to come out swinging like that,” Martin said as he read. “The Russians don’t like being backed into a corner.”

Maybe that’s what they want, Bousikaris thought. The natural assumption was that China wanted a solution. True or not, nothing the PRC did was unconsidered. Every word spoken in that meeting had been decided in advance. “They’re grandstanding,” he said. “Jockeying for advantage.”

Martin turned to his ambassador. “What’s your take, Stephen?”

“I’ve been at the UN for eight years, and I’ve never seen a Security Council meeting go this badly this quickly. I don’t think China is looking for a solution just yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if we see a news conference at their embassy later today.”

“I agree,” Bousikaris said. “If so, I’m betting we’re going to see a whole different tone.”

“Explain,” said Martin.

“Very solemn, very disappointed: ‘We were hopeful the Federation would be appropriately responsive to our concerns, but it appears we were mistaken’—something along those lines.”

The ambassador said, “Right or wrong, much of the world still sees Russia as the big hungry bear. It won’t take much to paint China as the underdog.”

“And everybody loves the underdog,” Martin said.

“Especially when the victims are peasants just trying to scratch out a living in a foreign land. China’s got the high road. By this time tomorrow, the Federation’s position will be lost in the shuffle.”

Martin considered this. “So where’s all this headed? Howard?”

Where this is headed, thought Bousikaris, is to another visit from the PRC ambassador.

“Once China gets the leverage it’s looking for, we’ll see their real agenda, sir.”

One hundred twenty miles from Russia’s coast, Columbia had its first close encounter.

“Conn, Sonar.”

Kinsock keyed the intercom above his head. “Conn, aye.”

“Contact, Skipper. Designate Sierra-four. Bearing zero-zero-five, close aboard — make it eight thousand yards. He was laying in the grass, Skipper.”

Four miles off our beam, Kinsock thought. “What’s he doing?”

“Bearing rate indicates a turn to the south; he’s headed our way, but in no big hurry.”

No chance he knows we’re here: Still, better safe than sorry. “Diving officer, make your speed one-third for eight knots. Sonar, how soon can you get me an ID?”

“Twenty minutes, Skipper. Less if you can get me closer.”

“Stay on it. Let’s see what he does.”

Sierra-four kept coming, turning in an arc that brought it three miles off Columbia’s starboard quarter. “We got an ID, Skipper. Need to refine it a bit, but it looks like an Akula.”

Damn. An Akula was a Russian hunter-killer, fast and dangerous. More importantly, Akulas were prestigious billets in the Federation navy and reserved for its best skippers. “Conn, aye.”

A few minutes passed. “He’s turning again … coming north, but still heading generally west.”

Jim MacGregor, Columbia’s exec, whispered, “He’s hunting, Archie.”

“Yep. Zigzagging to open up his passive sonar.”

Kinsock felt the first tinge of wariness. He’d tangled with Akulas three times, the last incident lasting nearly fourteen hours before they’d been able to slip away. On this trip they couldn’t afford such an encounter. Though currently ahead of schedule, the closer they got to the Russian coast, the greater their chances of running into more bad guys. Out here, a stray Akula was something of a fluke; inside the mouth of Vrangel Bay … Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Sonar, Conn, how many turns has he done in the last half hour?”

“Four, Skipper.”

MacGregor said, “About one every seven minutes. Pretty slow turn rate.”

“Maybe we can use that.”

Together they leaned over the chart table, jotting numbers and making calculations. Finally satisfied, Kinsock keyed the intercom. “Sonar, Conn, let me know the instant he starts his next zig.”

“Aye, sir.”

Two minutes later: “Bearing shift on Sierra-four. He’s coming around.”

“Conn, aye. Diving officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve knots.”

Kinsock felt the deck surge beneath his feet as Columbia’s engines sent more power to the screws. MacGregor clicked his stopwatch. “How long, Archie?”

“Make it forty seconds.”

Kinsock was doing what’s known as a “scoot-and-die” and its success depended on three things: the angle of the Akula’s turning radius, her speed, and how well Kinsock had done his math. The theory was sound, if not exact: As the Akula turned to open its port sonar array, there would be a period during which it would have an “aural blind spot” on Columbia’s general bearing.

MacGregor counted off the seconds. “Thirty seconds … thirty-five … forty … Archie?”

Kinsock shook his head, waiting.

“Forty-two … three … ”

Kinsock turned to the diving officer. “All stop.”

“All stop, aye.”

Columbia’s deck shivered. She began slowing, drifting forward on her own momentum. There came a soft squeal from the pressure hull. They were scraping against the thermal layer; the temperature change was expanding the hull.

The diving officer whispered, “Might be losing our layer.”

“Two degrees down plane, all ahead one-third for two knots.”

“Two degrees down, one-third for two, aye, sir.”

Ten seconds passed. Fifteen.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four still opening, shaft rate decreasing … He’s slowing, Skipper.”

All the better to hear us with, Kinsock thought.

MacGregor said, “You think he heard—”

“We’ll know soon enough. Sonar, time to Akula’s next turn?”

“At his new speed, nine minutes.”

If the Akula had heard their hull squeal, its next turn would come sooner than its last. If the Akula’s skipper was feeling frisky, he might go active on his sonar and try to get a bounce off something solid — in this case, Columbia’s hull.

The air in the control room grew thick with tension. Everyone’s movements slowed, became more deliberate. Except for commands from Kinsock and the occasional soft chirp from consoles, everything was silent. Eyes not glued to consoles stared at the overhead.

“Conn, Sonar, two minutes to turn. No change on Sierra-four.”

“Conn, aye. Jim, crunch the numbers again; we’ll try another scoot when he turns.”

“Right … Make it thirty-two seconds. His slowing down gave him a tighter turn radius.”

“Okay.”

Without realizing it, the Akula’s skipper had partially countered Kinsock’s tactic. Unless the Akula changed course or slowed even more, Columbia would now gain only a few hundred yards on each scoot. It could take several hours to leave the Russian far enough behind to breathe easy again.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra-four’s time to turn in ten seconds. Nine … eight—”

MacGregor held up crossed fingers. Kinsock smiled.

“Mark! Listening … no change on shaft rate … no change on bearing rate or doppler …”

Come on, buddy …

“Wait! Here he comes, Skipper. Bearing rate indicates port turn — he’s coming south again.”

Kinsock ordered, “Diving Officer, all ahead two-thirds for twelve.”

MacGregor clicked the stopwatch.

“Sonar, Conn, how’s his speed?”

“No change. Up Doppler … bearing rate steady …”

All good signs. Suspicious though he might be, the Akula’s skipper wasn’t sure of anything. So far, Columbia was still just a ghost on his screen.

The next four hours passed with agonizing slowness: Columbia scooting forward a few hundred yards at a time, the Akula remaining doggedly astern, but slowly losing ground as it tried to gain contact.

“Conn, Sonar, Sierra-four is fading. Haven’t had a bearing shift in twenty minutes. I make his range at twenty thousand plus.”

Standing at the chart table, Kinsock replied, “Conn, aye. Good work.”

“Stubborn SOB,” MacGregor said.

“Yep, they usually are.” Kinsock chuckled. “Like trying to scoop sand with a net.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s how my first skipper described trying to hold contact on an LA boat.”

“Thank God and pass the silence,” MacGregor said.

“We’re gonna need it.”

“That bad, you think?”

“ ’Fraid so. That game we just played was a preview. The closer we get to Nakhadka the more traffic we’re gonna see. Add to that the hydrophone array outside the harbor—”

“Which may or may not be operational.”

“Never rely on maybe, Jim — it’ll get you killed. We assume it’s operational. If we’re wrong, fine, we’re wrong and alive.”

Dozens of things could go wrong between here and the coast. Dozens of chances to be picked up by a passing frigate or another attack sub. And once inside Russia’s territorial waters, the rules changed from cat-and-mouse, to shoot first and ask questions later.

One hundred eighty miles to Columbia’s south, another submarine, this one a specially modified, Russian-built Kilo class, was heading north at a leisurely four knots, her captain unaware of Columbia’s close call with the Akula. Had he been, he would have fretted the situation as much as Kinsock himself. Everything depended upon the American sub reaching her destination.

The captain walked to the chart table, where the navigator was working. “On track and slightly ahead of schedule, Captain.”

“How far ahead?”

“Two hours.”

Have to adjust for that, the captain thought. Timing will be critical.

The navigator said, “Of course, we could improve that if we increased speed.”

“This will do for now.” Four knots was the Kilo’s best, quiet speed. “Inform me when we’re a hundred miles from the intercept point.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain was under no illusion: His was a good boat, but it was no match for the American — not on an even playing field, at least. Of course, by the time they reached the intercept point, the field would be heavily canted in his favor.