Arctic Gold (42 page)

the Americans into doing something rashand noisybut there’d been nothing.

Until now.

Helm! Kirichenko ordered. Come right eight- five degrees, to new heading two- five- zero! Increase speed to twelve knots!

Yes, Captain!

Five hundred meters. They’d been so close! But the American sub was turning away, which made her an easy target.

Stand by to fire torpedoes one and two, Kirichenko said. On my mark!

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1209 hours, GMT12

Everyone stay calm, Benford continued. But you will

do as I say. Or you’ll all die sooner, rather than later.

Harry! Kathy cried, pulling back a little from Golytsin. What do you think you’re doing?

I’m not

going to jail for murdering Richardson! he said. The damned Russians double- crossed me tried to put the blame on me. Well, they’re not going to get away with it!

We’re not trying to blame you, Dean said. He was kicking himself. That was his

pistol, the one he’d carelessly dropped on a seat after coming on board the Mir. He was trying to remember how many cartridges should be left?

He didn’t know the Makarov well, but he knew the Walther PP series and he’d read once that the Russian Makarov was based on the tried- and- true PP design.

Walthers had eight- round magazines, so the chances were good that the Makarov had an eight- round mag as well.

But how many rounds had he fired in the short, savage firefight on board the GK-1 just now? There’d been his first shot then three quick ones.

He couldn’t be surethings had happened so fastbut he was pretty sure the pistol only had one shot left. Maybe

two

Yes, you are! Benford cried. There were tears on his face now, and his hands were shaking. Not

good

Harry, it’ll all be okay! Kathy told him. She started to rise, but he swung sharply, pointing the pistol at her.

Don’t move, you little bitch! Damn it, no one believes me! It it wasn’t supposed to be this way! I did everything they wanted me to do, and then they always wanted more! And now they want to double- cross me! Well, I’m

giving the orders now!

Listen here, Benford, Dean said.

No, you listen! The pistol swung back to point at him. You you just get me to the surface, understand? And get me out of this fucking box!

The stress, Dean thought, must have been building on the man for days. From the sound of it, he was having a bout with claustrophobia as well, first locked up in that stores closet on the Russian platform, and now crammed into the Mir. That and his fear at being caught for the murder

The trouble was that if he fired that pistol in here, it could very easily kill them all. The hull of the Mir was as thick and rigid as the hull of the GK-1, designed to withstand the incredible pressures of the abyss which meant that a bullet fired in here would bounce wildly around the crowded compartment until it hit someoneor cracked one of the quartz viewing ports forward, or

smashed some piece of equipment vital to their continued survival.

The pressure on the hull outside, Benford, Dean said, keeping his voice low and level, is roughly one half ton pressing down over every square inch. Do you know what will happen if you put a hole in one of our viewing ports with that thing?

Don’t make me find out!

Give it up, Benford! Put the gun down!

No!

If you think it cramped in here now, wait until twenty tons or so of seawater blast in through a porthole and smash you into a grease spot!

Shut up!

Dean met Kathy eyes. He flicked his own gaze forward, to the place where she’d laid her pistol when she’d changed clothes. It was lying on a shelf on the starboard side, a few feet forward of Golytsin chair and well out of her reach out of Golytsin reach, too, assuming he could move fast enough to grab it.

Dean glanced aft again to meet Kathy eyes, then ahead to the pistol again. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

If Dean could throw the Mir into a violent maneuver, knocking Benford off his feet, Kathy might be able to grab the other pistol and regain control.

Of course, Benford weapon might go off when he fell. The odds were not real good at the moment

And then something collided with the Mir, knocking it sideways with the violence of a sledgehammer blow and sending Benford slamming against a bulkhead.

What the hell?

Kathy looked up at the TV monitor over Dean head and pointed. Look!

Dean glanced up, then looked again. Another submarine,

bigger than the Mir, an ugly bug of a submersible painted dark red and with a pair of insect arms spread wide, had just slammed into the Mir aft port quarter.

And Dean saw Braslov leering face in the cockpit canopy.

SSN Dekabrist

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

Fire number one! Kirichenko said.

The weapons officer brought his palm down on the firing button at his console. Kirichenko felt the slight bump through the steel deck, heard the hiss of compressed air forward.

Number one fired electrically, sir!

Fire two!

Again, a bump and a hiss.

Number two fired electrically, sir! Both torpedoes running true and normal.

We have operational control of both torpedoes, a michman

seated at the weapons console announced.

Estimate impact, the weapons officer said, looking up at the clock high on the bulkhead, in thirty seconds!

SSGN Ohio

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

Torpedoes in the water! Mayhew yelled over the intercom. Two torpedoes, 650s, range seven hundred yards, closing astern! Estimate impact in thirty seconds!

Grenville was just entering the control room again.

Release countermeasures! he barked. Helm! Hard right rudder! Ahead full!

Release countermeasures, the weapons officer announced, aye, aye! Countermeasures released!

Helm to hard right rudder, aye, aye! Ahead full, aye, aye!

There was no panic, no urgency just men performing their assigned jobs, according to long training and experience, with cool efficiency. Grenville was proud of them.

If the two torpedoes coming in on the Ohio tail were 650s, they were the largest in the world650mm wide and over 9 meters long, with warheads weighing close to one ton apiece. They would be wire- guided and wake- homing, and they were fast. Driven by a powerful closed- cycle thermal propulsion system, they could travel at fifty knots for up to 60 kilometers or cruise at a more sedate thirty knots for a full 100 kilometers. As they sped from the Russian sub bow tubes, they trailed slender wires behind them, allowing the Russians to steer them toward the target. When they were close enough to acquire the target on their own, the Russians would cut them loose and they would home on the sound of the Ohio

screw.

The Ohio couldn’t outrun them, not at what amounted to point- blank range. By popping countermeasures, however, a pair of canisters releasing clouds of sound- reflecting bubbles astern, the Ohio maneuver might be masked for a critical few seconds. The Russian skipper, Mayhew thought, had pushed things too close. The Ohio

was barely seven hundred yards awaydamned close for a pair of 650mm torps, he thoughtand they might well miss on their first pass.

Of course, the Russian weapons officer would steer them around on their wires until they reacquired

Captain! Mayhew called again. Torpedoes in the water!

I know,

Mayhew, I know

No, sir! New torpedoes! It the ‘Burgh

! He just popped two ADCAPs and is slamming them right up the bastard ass!

SSN Dekabrist

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

Torpedoes running, Captain! the sonar officer called.

I know, Lieutenant. Our torpedoes

Enemy

torpedoes, sir! Coming in from dead astern!

What? Where in hell had a second American submarine come from?

SSN Pittsburgh

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

Both torpedoes running hot, true, and normal, Skipper! Time to target, twenty seconds!

Very well. Captain Peter Latham, CO of the USS Pittsburgh,

glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. This was going to be damned close.

Ordered to cover the SSGN Ohio, the Pittsburgh had been lying back, staying quiet and staying out of sight. They’d been following the damned Russian for hours, ever since they’d picked him up near the location of the remote weather station. He’d clearly been hunting for the Ohio, but the op orders for the American subs had been to go weapons- free only

if the Russians made hostile or provocative moves.

There was a lot of latitude to orders like that, and making the wrong decision could wreck a man naval careerassuming it didn’t kill him first. But firing a couple of torpedoes could definitely be construed as hostile, no matter how the weekend quarterbacks in Washington chose to interpret things later.

The Pittsburgh

advantage here lay in the fact that she’d been squarely behind the Russian boat and therefore in the Russian blind spot. Between wake turbulence and the sound of your own screw, it was almost impossible to hear anything from directly astern, even the shriek of incoming high- speed torpedoes.

Both torpedoes have armed, the weapons officer said. Both torpedoes have now acquired the target.

Very well, Latham said. Cut the wires.

Cut the wires, aye, aye.

Helm, come left four- zero degrees!

Helm come left four- zero degrees, aye!

Down planes, one- five degrees!

Down planes one- five degrees. Aye, aye, sir.

It wouldn’t do to be too close to the Russian when those ADCAPs hit. Explosions under the ice could be unpredictable at best.

Latham kept watching the clock, counting down the seconds.

Deep Black 7 - Arctic Gold

25

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

ANOTHER SAVAGE JOLT ROCKED the Mir as Braslov submersible slammed into them from astern. Dean pulled the joystick hard over to the right, at the same time shoving the power control all the way forward. The electric motor whined as the Mir twisted hard to the right; the deck slanted sharply, and Benford fell, toppling clumsily into the seated Golytsin and the kneeling McMillan. On the TV monitor overhead, the other minisub swam out of the camera view, but they could hear the bumps and clatters as its keel dragged across the Mir upper hull.

Dean chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. Kathy was wrestling with Benford, struggling for control of the pistol. Dean snapped the stick over to the left and hauled back, praying there was enough oomph in the electric motors to pull off this sudden a maneuver. Minisubs were not jet aircraft, and the sluggishness of the Mir response reminded Dean of the bumper cars at an amusement park he’d gone to as a kid.

The Mir came left and started to climb, directly into Braslov submarine.

SSGN Ohio

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1210 hours, GMT12

Ten seconds to impact! Mayhew called over the intercom.

The COB put an intercom mike to his lips. All hands! All hands brace for impact!

Thunder boomed through the Ohio, the force slamming Grenville hard against the Mk. 18 periscope mount. A second explosion followed hard on the heels of the first, the twin detonations ringing like hammer blows. This is it!

he thought as the deck heeled far over toward starboard, threatening to invert the boat.

Only as the Ohio began swinging back toward a normal orientation did Grenville realize that the explosion had not been that of a Russian torpedo detonating against the Ohio

hull.

Torpedoes passing close astern! Mayhew warned. They’re homing on the countermeasures!

Grenville heard them now, the high- pitched whine of torpedoes passing very close to the Ohio,

sounding close enough to touch.

The Pittsburgh ADCAPs had struck their target first. The Russian torpedoes, still racing toward the Ohio,

had taken the bait and homed on the cloud of bubbles, punching through and into the clear, cold, empty water beyond.

Grenville and the officers and men crowded into the Ohio

control room collectively held their breath as the whine dwindled into the distance.

Con, Sonar! Mayhew called. I have major flooding and breakup noises close to port!

Helm, reverse turn, Grenville ordered. Come left one- eight- zero degrees!

Reversing turn, helm left one- eight- zero degrees! Aye, sir!

He tried to picture what must be happening on board the Russian sub right now, just a few hundred yards to port. The ‘Burgh

ADCAPs must have winged squarely into the Russian boat stern, tearing out the main ballast and aft trim tanks, the engine room, the generators maybe even the nuclear power plant. Forward, men would be struggling in absolute darkness as freezing- cold seawater blasted into compartment after compartment.

It was every submariner nightmare, no matter what the uniform they wore or flag they sailed under.

Grenville concern now was to steer away from the collapsing wreckage lest the Ohio become tangled in the debris and also to put some distance between the Ohio

and those Russian torpedoes.

The torps would have been wire- guided. If the enemy weapons control officer had already cut them loose before the ‘Burgh

ADCAPs hit, they would be operating under a search program, one that would swing them about in a large circle until they reacquired their target, or found a new one. If the wires had still been attached, though, when the Russian sub exploded, all steering commands had suddenly ceased. Depending on what the final set of programmed instructions was telling them, the torpedoes might go into automatic search mode, or they might simply continue running, descending into the depths.

Until Grenville knew which was the case, he intended to put as much maneuvering room between his command and those Russian torpedoes as he could manage.

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1211 hours, GMT12

Braslov minisub was twice to three times the size of the Mir, an ugly, cigar- shaped monster perhaps eighty or ninety feet long. It had the blunt, rough- hewn character of a construction vehicle, and Dean imagined that it was used for heavy lifting around the GK-1, hauling and attaching sections or drill tube. It mounted two shrouded propellers aft, plus smaller directional thrusters for tight maneuvering.

Its sheer size, however, gave Dean and the Mir an advantage. As the larger submersible passed overhead, Dean brought the Mir bow up and around to the left. Reaching down with one hand, he slipped his arm into the open framework of the controller for one of the Mir mechanical arms. As his hand closed on the squeeze- grip handle inside, there was a whine of servomotors and the arm on the Mir port side jerked spasmodically, then extended itself, grippers wide open.

He missed. He’d been trying to jam the Mir arm into one of the propeller shrouds on the other sub, but there was no kinesthetic feedback to the thing, and he couldn’t feel what he was doing, or judge distance and reach. The Mir arm flailed wildly, banging uselessly off one of the construction sub tall rudders.

He tried coming right again, tried getting above the other craft.

Behind him, Golytsin and McMillan continued struggling wordlessly with Benford.

The shock wave struck, slamming into the Mir from above and from the left. Dean heard the roar, like far- off thunder, but the jolt ringing through the Mir hull was

sharper and more insistent. The Mir tipped hard to port as loose gear and equipment crashed from storage racks and a water pipe somewhere on the port side broke with a shriek of high- pressure water.

The Mir very nearly flipped over, but somehow Dean brought the stubborn little craft back onto an even keel. He heard a loud thump behind him. When he glanced back, he saw Benford flat on the deck, evidently unconscious, with Kathy standing over him, the Makarov in her hand. Golytsin, bare- chested, was getting up off the deck, his hand pressed against the oozing wound in his side.

Nice maneuver, Kathy told Dean. Give us some warning next time!

Wasn’t me, Dean told her. Shut off that water pipe! Golytsin! You know how to work the arms on this thing?

Da.

Then help me! Get up here and take that sucker apart!

Braslov construction craft was just ahead, apparently dead in the water. Dean could see a large, white numeral 4 painted on the upper starboard side.

What was that explosion? Kathy wanted to know.

Damned if I know, Dean said. It wasn’t us; that all I know. Golytsin! Can you disable that bastard props?

If you get me close enough to the stern, yes.

He was studying the other craft narrowly in the glare from the Mir outside work lights. It didn’t appear to be damaged, but it wasn’t going anywhere at the moment. It appeared to have a very slight negative buoyancy, but it was still upright, still intact under the terrible, crushing pressure outside.

He cut the forward power back by half and pulled the Mir into a tight turn until the other minisub stern was directly ahead and below. Dean didn’t want to spend too much time here; other Russian construction subs might have launched from the GK-1 and be in the vicinity.

But if he, Golytsin, and Kuthy could cripple Number Four, that would be one sub, at least, that would not pursue them to the surface.

Nomer Chiteereh

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1211 hours, GMT12

Braslov groaned and opened his eyes. That had been an underwater explosion, and one close by. A smear of blood glistened on the control panel in front of himhis

blood. That explosion had slammed him forward, momentarily stunning him. He raised a hand to lightly touch his forehead; it came away wet with blood.

No matter. He’d suffered a lot worse. The important thing was what was the condition of his submarine? Quickly he looked around, checking monitors, checking readouts. The hull was still intact, power still good, trim still good

And the Mir with the Americans on board was swinging around onto his tail.

Braslov grinned. That would get them nowhere.

He reached again for the controls.

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1211 hours, GMT12

With Golytsin working the controls, both of the Mir mechanical arms extended, reaching toward the other craft starboard side screw. Before Dean could grab hold, however, the propeller suddenly spun to life, the

shroud pivoting as Braslov put the craft into a sharp turn.

Damn!

Okay. We’ll just have to try to race him to the surface, Dean said. He brought the Mir nose up and rammed the power handle full- forward. I don’t suppose there are torpedoes on this thing?

No, Golytsin said. No torpedoes.

Sluggish, the Mir began climbing.

Behind it, the construction submarine turned a clumsy circle, then began to give chase.

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1214 hours, GMT12

Three miles away, the two torpedoes fired from the Russian submarine Dekabrist

continued their flight through the lightless deep, continuing to descend as they raced through the water at fifty knots. Though the American submarine captain was not yet certain of the fact, there’d been no backup programming directing the weapons into a search sweep. They would continue to drive into the depths until they either ran out of fuel and sank or hit the bottom.

Groaning like a dying man, the wreckage of the Dekabrist settled toward the bottom as well. They could hear the sounds in the sonar rooms on board both the Pittsburgh and the Ohio as steel bent and twisted. Now and then, a compartment sealed off from the rest of the vessel would give way under the steadily increasing pressure, a sharp, chilling pop

as seawater inexorably forced its way inside.

The bottom here was eighteen hundred meters down just over a mile.

It would take the Dekabrist

a long time to get there.

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1218 hours, GMT12

Dean checked the aft monitor. Sure enough, Braslov was on their tail, and coming fast. Dean could see the work lights on the construction sub like four dazzling stars in the night, the bow of the sub a vaguely seen insect face between them.

He can move faster than us, Golytsin told Dean. Especially in ascent. More power, and larger ballast tanks.

Great. Fucking great.

But the Mir is more maneuverable, Golytsin continued. And more rugged.

How much more rugged? Dean wanted to know.

Mir can outdive him by perhaps twenty percent.

Meaning it can take more pressure on the hull?

Yes. Wait you’re not

No, Dean said. I’m not going to try to lure him beneath his crush depth. That would be crazy.

Yes.

I’m going to try to ram him. Kathy! You’ve got Benford secured?

Yeah, Kathy replied. There was some rope in this locker back here.

Okay. Strap yourself down.

No seat belts, Charlie.

Then hold on, damn it. Golytsin! Where are the ballast controls on this thing?

Golytsin pointed.

Flood the ballast and trim tanks, Dean said. And kill the forward lights! Let see if we can discourage the bastard!

He pulled over on the stick, bringing the nose of the Mir up even higher, then over and around. Like a jet aircraft in a stall, the little submersible hung suspended for a moment, then nosed over, beginning to descend.

Ahead, the four work lights on the construction sub grew brighter, and seemed to stretch farther apart.

God in Heaven, Golytsin said, eyes widening. What are you doing?