Emelyanov didn’t waste time cursing. “Helm, come to course one-one-six.
Flank speed!”
“Left full rudder. Increase to flank speed.” The Exec’s voice was cold,
level, giving away no hint of emotion or concern. Emelyanov felt a flash of
admiration for the way the young officer carried himself. Shvachko knew as
well as anyone just how risky the maneuver his captain had just ordered really
was. It was a testament to the way he had trained all of his crew, officers
and seamen alike.
In theory turning into the enemy torpedo was the most effective defense
they had. In the best-case scenario, the torp would hit the sub before it had
time to arm. At least they might hope to get past it, buy a few more minutes
of safety before it could turn around and use its sonar to reacquire and home
in on the sub. But it was still incredibly risky.
“Decoys ready, Captain!” the fire-control officer announced.
“Range five hundred, closing,” the sonar operator added.
Emelyanov’s hands gripped the edge of the chart table of their own
accord. He could feel the sweat trickling down his face. He had been through
countless exercises in preparation for a moment like this, but the reality was
nothing like the simulations or the practice runs against Soviet hunters.
“Four hundred … three-fifty … three hundred …”
“Depth now two-twenty-five meters,” the planesman reported.
There was an inversion layer somewhere around 250 meters beneath the
surface, a layer of water where the temperature rose sharply. Thermal
variations could distort or block sonar signals, providing a narrow pocket of
safety where a sub could disappear from its pursuers for a time. If they
could get there, they might be able to break contact.
If …
“Range two-fifty … two hundred …” The ping of the torpedo’s active
sonar was growing steadily louder and faster as the range closed.
“Fire decoy!” Emelyanov ordered. “Helm, come to course one-two-five!”
Silently, he uttered an old prayer his Ukrainian mother had taught him.
His eyes met Dobrotin’s. He wondered for an instant what the zampolit
would think if he knew the captain was seeking solace in the religion still
officially rejected by the Communist Party despite all the efforts of the
liberal reformers.
Then the torpedo struck.
0929 hours Zulu (0929 hours Zone)
Viking 704
Northeast of the Faeroe Islands
Tombstone Magruder found it hard to believe that they were involved in a
battle. There was none of the excitement, the adrenaline, the feeling of life
and death hanging on every move they made that characterized the combats he
was used to. The Viking crew was cool, professional, almost matter-of-fact as
they waited to see the results of their first attack.
“Torpedo running,” Curtis reported. “Running … sub’s put out a decoy
now … Hit!” His voice rose suddenly, cracking with sudden emotion for the
first time. “That’s got to be a hit, by God!”
“Get on those sonars, Curtis,” Harrison ordered. “Confirm the kill.”
The S-3B started a long, banking turn, skimming low over the ocean.
Magruder scanned the angry waters, looking for some outward sign of the
battle. There was something unreal about a fight where you couldn’t even be
sure you’d scored a hit. Even when a Phoenix knocked out an enemy plane at a
hundred miles’ range, the bogie would disappear from the radar screen. But
ASW warfare remained a matter of guesswork, surmise, assumption, from first
contact to the very end of the engagement.
He cut his reverie short and pointed. “Down there, Commander,” he said.
Harrison grunted acknowledgment. A froth of bubbles was rising to the
surface, along with a few unidentifiable bits of debris. “Not much junk,” the
pilot said. “Curtis, what are you getting?”
“Decoy’s obscuring it,” Curtis replied. “But I don’t think the bastard’s
out of action yet.”
Submarines customarily carried decoys that simulated a sub’s engine
noises to confuse enemy sonars. The decoy dropped by the enemy Victor was
still emitting its signal, which made it hard for Curtis to interpret the
other noises his passive sonar receivers were picking up. But if he was
right, the Russian was still down there, status unknown.
“Don’t worry, Commander,” Harrison said. He seemed to sense Magruder’s