Authors: Edward L. Beach
“If they decide to play real rough, we are. On two counts. One, we're the motive power. Two, if we disappear, their hardball diplomacy is actually strengthened.”
“Then”âBuck had lowered his voice to a whisperâ“you do think the collision with the
Cushing
wasn't an accident! But how could they do something that risky deliberately? Their sub could just as well have been the one sunk.”
“She hit him from aft, and Keith thinks she was on a nearly parallel course. Also, she was running silent. Otherwise, he'd have heard her. If they'd have had any advance warning he was on his way, it might not have been too hard to fix one of their nukes with some kind of steel girderlike protection, or even some sort of projecting ram to stick up against a revolving propeller. We have a pretty tough ice suit built into the
Manta
, you know. At least, you were bragging to me about it. Why couldn't the Soviets do the same thing, but skewed slightly?”
“It still sounds farfetched to me. Even if such a sub could wreck Keith's propeller, he couldn't be sure of getting the emergency propulsion motor too.”
“He did, though. Didn't he? Did a really superb job. Got them both at once. I'm guessing that was fortuitous. Most likely the scheme was to disable the main propeller as though it were an accident, as though the
Cushing
had hit some hard ice. And then, while she was creeping home on the EPM, they'd have plenty of time to clip that off somehow.”
“If all your guessing is close to right, that Russian sub skipper must be a pretty doggone experienced one. And pretty doggone tough, too. If his mission was to disable Keith by ramming him with his own sub, he still was taking a hell of a chance that he might have been the one disabled.”
“We took a lot of chances a few years ago too, Buck. Ramming is not an unknown naval tactic, especially if your ship's built for it.”
“They must know an awful lot about our subs, how they're built and all that,” said Buck pensively.
“Don't you think they do?”
“I suppose so. But they couldn't have had that sub just hanging around up here waiting for someone maybe to show up. They must have known Keith was coming. Pretty far in advance.”
“Not possible?”
“He didn't even know himself until a few weeks before!”
“Sure. I didn't either, till a week or so before he did. But the thing had been planned a long time. They could have been watching construction of the
Cushing
. She's the only missile sub built with an ice suit, you know. She's the only one we could have sent. When did you find out her sailplanes could be elevated to ninety degrees?”
“Quite a while ago. It was all over Electric Boat because there were so many design changes needed.” Rich said nothing, and after a short pause Buck muttered, half to himself, “I see what you mean. The
Cushing
was the boat for them to watch.”
“Ship. That's your line.”
“Ship.”
The sonar room was almost silent. Buck and Rich had unconsciously squeezed their heads tightly together in their darkened corner, above and to the side of the sonar console. The tiny compartment, the ship, the orderly quiet of the men at action stations, the tension of readiness for immediate emergencyâall had temporarily fallen away from their consciousness. At the same time they were at the spot where the crisis would be first recognized, ready to take instant action even prior to the startled report from the sonarman.
Schultz, wedded to his precious sonar set, was unconscious of the low-voiced conversation two feet above his head. His head half-covered with huge, sound-insulated, sponge-rubber-covered earphones, reaching from behind his eyes to the curve of his neck behind his ears, concentration upon the information conveyed to him by the electronic instrument in front of him was total. He had already decided to call attention to the slightest deviation in
the Russian submarine's movements simply by striking out with his left hand. He would not have to distract his own attention by speaking. He would hit something, someone, and bring them over to him. More, as a man at the top of his profession, wise in the down-to-earth practicality of submariners, with perhaps his own life and those of all others aboard depending upon him, he knew this was exactly what his superiors would have expected. His own instructions to the operator of the sonic JT set, sitting on a stool with a similar set of earphones in the forward torpedo room, were to stand on no protocol or ceremony, to report anything he heard, or thought he heard, instantly via the special speaker circuit between the two stations.
There had been a pause in the conversation between the two officers. Both felt their senses acutely tuned to the limitless medium through which their ship was passing. Above them, not far away, was the nearly impervious ice cover; below, very far below, the rock basaltic plates of two of those slowly drifting crusts on the earth's mantle which, in the Arctic Ocean, had by their confluence ages past created two huge basins, thousands of fathoms deep. Between the two limits, and further limited by the maximum depth to which
Manta
's strong shell could descend, there was complete freedom to move in any direction her masters willed, as fast as they willed, up to the top power her nuclear reactor could deliver and her turbines receive.
Except that
Manta
was not free. She was a prisoner of the towline, constricted to move only slowly, steadily, constantly, in a single direction. Slight, and only very gradual, changes could be made in speed; changes in depth and direction could be made only very slowly, with the greatest of care. Violation of any of these rules would inexorably rupture the thin, weak thread that held out hope to Keith and his crew of 126 men.
“I think I'll go start Jerry on that plot we want,” said Buck. “Back in a minute. We'll have to use the UQC to get the information we need from Keith. Okay?”
“Got to,” said Rich.
When he returned, rather more than a minute later, for he had made a quick head call, Buck found Richardson and Schultz huddled over the sonar display. “He's begun echo-ranging again,” said Rich. “And he's begun to move out ahead of us. He's up to something!”
“If he shoots a torpedo, I'll have to maneuver to avoid. The towline will break.”
“I know, Buck. We'll have the other one to hook up again with, if we get the chance.” Then a thought struck Richardson. “Don't you have a couple of decoys up forward?”
“Yes.”
“Have them get one ready for firing. Quick, man!”
Buck did not even answer. He picked up the telephone handset, spoke directly into it, gave the order. “They'll have to haul out one of the fish and load the decoy into the tube. They're pretty fast, especially with all the extra men up there on battle stations. Three minutes, they told me.”
“God, we should have thought of this before,” muttered Rich. “That's one string to our bow we should have had ready!”
“I should have thought of it,” said Buck. “After all, I'm skipper of this craft.” He was silent for a long, thoughtful minute. “What kind of fish do you think he's likely to have?”
“Some straight running, for sure. The question is whether he can set them to run this deep. Besides that, probably some kind of target-seeking torpedo. Since they're antisubmarine, most of them can be set for any depth a sub's likely to be, and when they detect a sub they'll go after it, whatever the depth. If he shoots one of those, we've got to make it think the decoy is us.”
“That's what the decoy's for, all right. But where do we go after we shoot it? There's not much maneuvering we can do.”
“If you stop your screws, put her in full dive and flood negative, the
Cushing
will coast overhead. You could even back a little, when you're deep enough. If you're lucky, you might not even break the towline.”
“We should warn Keith, shouldn't we?”
“We should; but if that sub's really up to something, he's monitoring us with every resource he's got. We'd better not take the chance. Keith will know something serious is going on, and will cope.”
The telephone gave its characteristic squeak. Buck snatched it, listened. “Four and a half knots,” he said.
“Forward room wanting to know what speed to set on the decoy, eh?”
“Yep. They're about to shove it in the tube.”
“Good. That was quick work.”
“Thanks.” Buck picked up the telephone again, said, “Tubes forward, you got that loose fish secured for angles? Good! Good work up there!” Hanging up the phone he said to Rich, “We're always supposed to be ready for steep angles, but that torpedo was hanging in midair while they hauled it out of the tube, so I thought I'd check to make sure it was secured. It's secure, all right. The chief even pretended I hurt his feelings by asking.”
“His feelings weren't hurt. He's proud of his work, and he's pleased with you for giving him a chance to show it.”
Buck felt an elbow in his middle. Schultz was pointing to the illuminated spot on his dial where the enemy submarine was indicated. It had drawn well ahead, and echo-ranging spokes were no longer coming from it. Simultaneously, both officers noted the unexpected lengthening of the silence since the last ping.
“What's he doing?” said Rich. “Could he be getting ready to shoot?”
“Echo-range, Schultz! Full power and short scale!” Buck ordered. There was savagery in his voice. Grabbing the phone, he said, “Tubes forward, set the decoy for short-scale pinging. Then flood the tube and shoot it! Let me know when it's away!”
“Good for you, Buck,” said Rich quietly. “If he shoots now, it's likely a quiet, fairly slow torpedo, programmed to finish its run by homing on noise. That must be why he shut off his pinging. So as not to confuse it. If he plans to shoot he'll do it now while we're pinging, so that his fish can home on it.”
Buck still held the phone to his ear, did not answer. Suddenly he said sharply, “Secure pinging!” Schultz flipped a switch on his console as Buck thrust past Richardson, stepped into the passageway outside the sonar room. “All stop!” he called peremptorily. “Tom! Flood negative! Twenty degrees down angle! Make your depth seven hundred feet!”
There was a clank of mechanism beneath their feet, the sound of water rushing through a large orifice, a huge whoosh of air and an increase in pressure on the eardrums.
Manta
began to incline downward with an ever increasing angle.
Buck had run across the control room, was talking to Tom Clancy. “Start blowing negative and zeroing the bubble at seven hundred feet, Tom,” he said rapidly. “I'm going to have to back then, and you'll have your hands full keeping control. Use a bubble in bow buoyancy or main ballast if you need to. When
the
Cushing
's about overhead we'll go ahead again. You'll have trouble with your weights aft, too.”
“Maybe you'd better let her drift down an extra hundred fifty feet, Skipper, seeing this looks like an emergency.
Cushing
's got her anchor at seventy fathoms, and she's at three hundred feet right now. So that's four hundred twenty feet added to whatever depth she winds up at when she starts feeling that extra weight. We don't want to bump into that big iron mushroom of hers down there!”
“Right, Tom! Make your depth eight hundred fifty!”
“Also, you know there's going to be a hell of a lot of pressure in the boat when we vent off all that air we'll be using in negative tank!”
“Can't be helped, Tom. Do it slowly. When we get a chance to, we'll pump it back down with the air compressors.”
The deck had begun to incline quite steeply. The depth gauge was already registering five hundred fifty feet as Buck struggled across the control room to the sonar room. Three hundred feet to go! And, of course, he would have to allow for the angle in calculating where
Manta
's stern was.
Schultz was saying, “Looks like there's another submarine out ahead of us! It's pinging just like we were, and I can even hear machinery noises.”
“How about the Russian? Do we know for sure he's fired at us?
“We think so, Buck,” said Rich. “The JT reported something in the water, some faint swishing noise, out ahead of the Russian. We can't hear it here. It's too bad they didn't think of putting the JT controls in the sonar room too.”
“The later boats have them that way, you know. What's the Russian doing now?”
“He's just stopped. Hovering, I guess, waiting for us to catch that fish of his.”
“Would you authorize shooting one at him?”
“If he's really fired at us, I'll sure think about it!”
“We'll know if our decoy gets sunk!”
“That's what I was thinking!”
All three men in the sonar room had to brace themselves against the steep downward inclination of the submarine. Now there was the sound of air blowing, and Buck heaved his head out the doorframe. He stepped out, holding to the frame for support,
stretching his hand in front of him to the stacked motor-generator sets across the passageway. He skidded forward, holding to the rail around the periscope stand, reached the diving station. “Tom,” he said, “we may not need to back. Take her on down anyway, and I'll give you two knots in a couple of minutes. Get us a zero bubble as soon as you can.”