America (37 page)

He paused, examining their faces, then continued: “If they put fish in the water we must shoot back and get out decoys while we accelerate. Turchak, be ready if I call for power. Alert the engine room. Eck, pay attention to that sonar. Boldt, I want you to continuously monitor the torpedo firing solutions that the torpedo control machine is generating. Sometimes these idiot savants can garble the data coming in and turn out truly amazing, useless solutions. If we must shoot, it will be our asses if we miss. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rothberg, Eck?”

“Aye, captain,” they each said, one after another.

As
La Jolla
faded from the photonics screen, Kolnikov had Turchak kill the sail lights. He walked aft to the mast control panel. He personally eased the mast down and waited until the green light came on, indicating it was completely stowed. Then he waited until the watertight door closed over the opening, sealing it to prevent flow noises.

The sound from
La Jolla
's prop still beaconed from the darkness of the sea on the Revelation screen, even though the hull had faded from sight. If she maintained a four-knot speed advantage, Kolnikov calculated, it would take her fifteen minutes to open the distance between them to a nautical mile, a smidgen over six thousand feet. That would be enough. Then he would begin his turn. On the other hand, if this guy was going to punch off a minimum-range shot, he would be far enough away in about seven and a half or eight minutes. Allowing for the fact
America
was decelerating, call it ten minutes.

Ten minutes …
La Jolla
's towed array … When the bitter end of the array went by, the distance would be precisely a half mile. Anytime after that.

*   *   *

“He's definitely slowing, dropping back,” Petty Officer Buck Brown said to the control room crew aboard
La Jolla.

“Mark the time,” Junior Ryder said, and glanced at the clock on the forward bulkhead.

“Don't lose him,” the chief of the boat said to Brown.

The XO, Skip Harlow, mopped his forehead again with a sodden handkerchief, even though the room was not overly warm.

The commanding officer, Junior Ryder, glanced at the inertial navigation computer. Six knots. That speed agreed with the dead-reckoning plot. One nautical mile every ten minutes. Say the Russian slowed to two knots … no, make it three. In twenty minutes at three knots the distance between the boats would be one nautical mile, which is two thousand yards. Even if he only slowed to four knots, in twenty minutes the distance would be two-thirds of a mile—call it thirteen hundred yards. That was enough for the torpedoes to arm, but not enough to get the decoys out far enough to be effective in the event Kolnikov instantly returned fire. No, the idea here is to kill the other guy and not get killed yourself. Point-blank torpedo shots were too risky, damn near suicidal, if the other guy was also ready to shoot.

Of course, once
America
faded from the sonar, the circle of probability where she must be began expanding. The more time that passed, the larger the circle. At some point the circle would be so large that a spread of torpedoes would have to be fired to achieve an acceptable probability of a hit. Eventually the circle would become so large that the probability of a hit would shrink toward zero, even firing a spread. If
America
were in range.

Junior Ryder considered all these things and made his decision. “Forty minutes, folks. In forty minutes the range will have opened to at least twenty-six hundred yards. We'll give her the gun and put some noise and bubble makers in the water. When the decoys are out, we'll turn. Then we'll shoot two fish.”

The crew had trained for years for this moment and everyone knew his job, so there was little to say. People swallowed hard and tried not to look at one another. All highly qualified submariners, they knew that the pirate crew in
America
would undoubtedly hear the oncoming torpedoes and try to fire torpedoes of their own. Each crew would then try as best they could to evade the torpedoes seeking them. The winner of the battle would be the boat that survived what might be multiple salvos of torpedoes.

If there were a survivor …

“The frequencies on those gurgles are almost too low for the towed array,” Buck Brown said. “Not getting much help there. I'm losing him. When he goes aft of the towed array, we'll lose him in seconds.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead aft, Skipper.”

Ryder glanced at the clock. “Thirty-seven minutes from now. Remember, this guy may have changed his mind and shoot us as soon as the separation reaches minimum range. Buck, listen up.”

Brown concentrated on the computer display before him and pushed his earphones more tightly against his ears.

“Which way will he turn, Skipper?” The OOD asked that question.

“Starboard, I think. Based only on the fact that a port turn would take him right back to the exact position where he launched the Tomahawks. I suspect he will instinctively turn to get away from that location. Of course, he could turn port just because he thinks I think it probable that he'll turn the other way.”

“Two torpedoes?”

“That's right. We'll turn ninety degrees starboard and fire both from the starboard tubes. I think he'll probably turn starboard. Fifteen seconds between fish.” At these close ranges, the torpedoes would begin an active sonar search for their target immediately after they left the tubes, while accelerating to their attack speed of forty knots. As they ran they would send sonar data back to
La Jolla
via fiber-optic cables that would reel out behind them. If the fiber-optic wire remained intact, the sonar operator in the firing submarine could help the torpedo differentiate between decoys and its real target during the attack phase and issue steering commands. If the wire broke, the torpedo was on its own, guided by the logic programmed into it.

“If the first torpedo finds him,” Ryder said, “we can ensure that the second fish turns that way. One of these things should get a hit.” He said that for the benefit of the control room crew, trying to radiate confidence. Alas, he was gambling all their lives. Try as he might, he didn't see any other choice. Kolnikov and his men had hijacked
America
—Ryder and his crew had been sent to find and sink it.

It was as simple as that. Really. Junior Ryder and his men were obeying the orders of their lawful superiors. If they died doing their duty … well, a great many good men wearing American uniforms had gone before them.

*   *   *

Vladimir Kolnikov carefully explained to his control room team what he wanted each man to do and what the execute commands would be. “Don't do anything without orders,” he concluded. “Doing the wrong thing is usually worse than doing nothing at all.”

He was briefing them just in case, he told himself, hoping against hope that the Americans didn't know that the stealth submarine was anywhere around and that they would disappear into the dark wastes, searching futilely. If the commander knows we are here, he will probably shoot, Kolnikov silently acknowledged.

“The Americans watch too many John Wayne movies,” Kolnikov muttered.

“That they do,” Heydrich replied, just loud enough for Kolnikov to hear.

He checked the torpedo presets, made sure the computer was properly calculating the angles. It seemed to be. He was studying the horizontal tactical plot when Eck said, “There's another submarine out there. Forty degrees forward of our port beam, I think.”

Kolnikov took a deep breath and checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed since
La Jolla
began pulling away. She was just a fading light on the bulkhead Revelation screen. “What kind?”

“Don't know yet. The computer is trying to match the screw and flow noises.”

Eck had already designated a track, but of course, with passive sonar there was no way to quickly determine the depth of the other sub or the range, the distance to it. The control room crew would have to take a series of bearings over time, plot them, then average to eliminate errors, to establish a probable distance, course, and speed on the other sub. Fortunately a torpedo data computer, or TDC, helped with this chore. The same technique could be used for depth, with less accurate results since the angles from the horizontal were so small.

“Another
Los Angeles
–class attack sub,” Eck reported.

*   *   *

“I've lost him completely,” Buck Brown said to the skipper of USS
La Jolla,
Junior Ryder. “That gurgle wasn't much, and it's completely gone now, faded into the background noise.”

Ryder glanced at the tactical plot, then his watch. Nine and a half minutes. Allowing for the deceleration, the Russian was down to about two knots, slower than he thought. That meant the distance was opening quicker than he'd estimated. He was going to wait until the distance had opened to at least a mile and a half, giving the decoys sufficient time to deploy and the torpedoes more time to acquire their target. Still, it was going to be a minimum range, down-the-throat shot. Another fifteen minutes.

Sweet Jesus, into your hands I commit the lives of these men who sail with me.

*   *   *

“If
La Jolla
takes a crack at us, this new guy may decide to strap us on too,” Turchak said to Kolnikov. Both men knew that decoying and evading torpedoes was a noisy affair, sure to be heard for many, many miles, depending on the location of the temperature and salinity discontinuities. And like blood in the water, attract sharks.

“Port torpedo, from number two tube,” Kolnikov said, addressing Rothberg, “target the newcomer. Starboard for
La Jolla.
Just in case.”

“Only one torpedo for each,” Turchak whispered hoarsely. “What if one malfunctions?”

“We only have six. We may damn well need the last four.”

“I just want you to know that I'd be most unhappy dying with four torpedoes still aboard.”

Kolnikov resented Turchak's melodrama. “You're not going to die,” he scoffed, “unless food poisoning nails you.”

A sweating Rothberg was all thumbs changing the setting for the port torpedo. Kolnikov watched him, made sure he did it right.

Then he waited. Ten minutes came and went. Perhaps
La Jolla
's commander was waiting for the range to open.

The unbearable tension seemed to get even tighter.

Rothberg began sobbing.

“Shut up,” Heydrich snarled at him.

“They're going to kill all of us,” he whispered, barely audible. He glanced fearfully at the bulkheads. The other submarines were out there, listening.

“We must shoot now,” Turchak insisted. “Before
La Jolla
tells this new contact of our presence.

Vladimir Kolnikov lit a cigarette and smoked it in silence.

*   *   *

The minutes ticked away in dead silence in
La Jolla
's control room. Everyone perspiring, everyone watching this and that, no one saying a word. Ten minutes since
America
passed the end of the towed array … eleven …

On the fourteenth minute, Buck Brown broke the silence. “Contact! I have a subsurface contact. About fifteen degrees forward of our port beam.”

Junior began doing mental arithmetic. The range between
La Jolla
and
America
had opened to almost a mile and a half, which the torpedoes would traverse in about two minutes after they had made the turn.

“
Los Angeles
–class,” Brown said.

Shit! With her Revelation sonar,
America
must have heard the other boat. And there was no way in the world that boat would hear
America.
For whatever reason, that sub had just sailed unsuspectingly into the middle of a shootout.

Should he wait?

If he contacted the other boat on the acoustic circuit, Kolnikov might shoot at both boats. The American could fire back, down the bearing line of the incoming torpedo, but at short range would he have enough time to get his decoys out, accelerate, and evade? While Junior weighed the problem, the oncoming victim was steadily closing the range.

“Okay,” he said, making up his mind. “Let's do it. Right full rudder. Flood tubes one and two.”

*   *   *

“Kolnikov,
La Jolla
's making a funny noise.” Eck pressed his headphones tightly against his ears and watched the presentation on his scope. It took him all of five seconds. “He's flooding tubes.”

Kolnikov's face was a mask. He took two steps to the torpedo control console, checked the presets going to each weapon one more time. Without knowing the range to the second sub, he was going to have to merely shoot down the bearing line and hope for the best. Not knowing how far the torpedo had to travel made that an iffy proposition. And with a limited number of torpedoes, he couldn't afford to miss.

“Target turning starboard,” Eck reported.

“Go active,” Kolnikov snapped at Eck. “Give me exact range and bearing to
La Jolla,
then to the port-side submarine.”

Eck turned a knob on his console, selected a narrow beam width.

Ping! The needle jumped when the pulse went out.

*   *   *

Buck Brown heard the ping from
America
just after the first Mk-48 pump-jet torpedo swam from its tube and raced away, turning toward
La Jolla
's beam, in the direction that
America
had to be. As he sang out the news, he checked the PPI readout on the scope of the neighboring console, looking for the bearing. “Starboard beam, Captain,” he roared.

“Fire two,” Junior Ryder ordered, although only seven seconds had passed since the first fish was launched. He couldn't afford to wait. He was counting on the second torpedo guiding automatically, because the fiber-optic wire would undoubtedly break as he accelerated.