Ted Bell - Phantom

“Distant contact. Surface. Large vessel. In these waters, I’d guess a tanker. Maybe a cruise ship, sir. Amerikanski.”

“Periscope depth,” Lyachin said. “Let’s have a look around. See what we see.” The other possibility, of course, was an American spy vessel, disguised as a freighter and crammed to the gunwales with offensive electronic weaponry. If not the Texas, then surely it was the American spy vessel that was bugging him.

“Periscope depth!” the XO called out.

“Periscope depth, aye,” said Lieutenant Viktor Kamarov, the planesman on duty, and he adjusted the boat’s attitude accordingly.

“Engine turns for fifteen knots,” Lyachin said.

“Fifteen knots, aye.”

“Initial course two-zero-one.”

“Two-zero-one, aye.”

Nevskiy, which had been transiting the Bahamian Trough at two hundred meters, began to rise, driven by its two steam turbines and the hydrodynamic action of her diving planes.

“Raise periscope and power up the ESM mast,” Lyachin ordered. The ESM antenna was designed to sniff out electronic signals from any snooping subs or ships. If the Texas, or anyone else, was indeed trying to penetrate the Nevskiy ’s electronic barriers, he needed to know about it now. Lyachin grabbed the periscope rising from its well and swiveled the two handles around to face west where the signal had been acquired.

Born cautious, he first quickly scanned the horizon. His search periscope featured infrared detection, a live-feed video facility, and satellite communications capability to forward real-time video to Russia’s Strategic Submarine Command. The weather had deteriorated since he’d submerged. The seas had to be running twelve to fifteen feet, the wind blowing spumy froth from the tips of the whitecaps. He kept swiveling a few degrees before coming to a stop. He could make out the distant silhouette of a large vessel on the horizon.

Nevskiy was closing fast on the vessel, running at periscope depth, around sixteen to eighteen meters below the surface. Her periscope, which resembled a hooded cobra with a large glass eye, trailed a long white wake behind it.

Lyachin said, “Visual contact Alpha 7–3, bearing one-nine-five, speed fifteen knots. Large displacement American cruise ship. Headed for Jamaica, I would guess. And right into the teeth of that storm we’ve been tracking.” He turned to his starpom.

“Sound General Quarters, Aleksandr. Battle stations. Prepare for torpedo attack.”

The XO picked up a microphone and his voice echoed throughout the submarine.

“Battle stations! Battle stations! Prepare torpedo attack!”

Lyachin had received “Eyes Only” orders from the commander, Strategic Submarine Forces, South Atlantic Fleet, to launch a practice torpedo attack, a dry run, sometime before 0500 tomorrow. He had glanced up at the ship’s chronometer mounted on the bulkhead. Now was as good a time as any. And the big American cruise ship hauling sunburned tourists full of rum was as good a simulated target of opportunity as any.

At Sea, Aboard U.S. Cruise Ship FANTASY

The first inkling of trouble ahead was the red wine. Stoke looked at Fancha’s glass. He hadn’t even felt the massive cruise ship heeling over, but the wine sure had noticed. It was tilted inside the glass at a very weird angle. Stoke was about to mention it to his brand-new bride and then thought better of it. Fancha was already weirded out about being on this big boat and completely out of sight of land.

The only reason she’d agreed to Stoke’s secret honeymoon surprise, this cruise from Miami, was the destination. The massive Carnival cruise ship Fantasy, with five thousand souls aboard, was bound for Jamaica, a place she’d always wanted to go-so she let him talk her into it. Despite the fact that the last time he’d talked her into crossing the ocean (in an airship) she’d almost died.

This was their third night at sea. So far so good. Until this cold front had moved in, they’d had nothing but calm seas, sunny days, and romantic nights in their stateroom. Stoke had a vial of Viagra inside his Dopp kit, but hadn’t touched it. This was giving him a lot of positive feelings as he did his morning laps around the ship. Ain’t lost it yet, Mama. Lead in the pencil, snow on the roof, but a roaring fire at the bottom of the chimney.

Stoke didn’t know squat about honeymoons, but this one seemed to be off to a good start, skimpy nighties and all. They’d seen a cabaret show last night and then hit the blackjack table. His new bride had won almost five hundred dollars and was so excited you’d think the ghost of Ed McMahon had shown up with a million-dollar check from Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Stoke, seeing the wine now slowly tilting in the opposite direction, smiled at his girl and asked her to dance. The band was playing Satchmo’s “What a Wonderful World,” and since it was Stoke’s favorite song, Fancha wasn’t too surprised when her husband, who hated to dance, asked her out on the floor.

“You know what?” she whispered, her head pressed against his chest.

“No, what?” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“I’m glad we came on this cruise, baby. And, just think, day after tomorrow we’ll be in Montego Bay.”

“It’s going to be great, honey. Just like I said. I’m glad it makes you happy.”

“And I say to myself… what a wonderful world,” she sang, looking up at him with love and happiness in her eyes.

S toke showed her back to the table and then excused himself to go to the john. There was perceptible motion now, but luckily Fancha had had a few glasses of champagne before dinner and probably just thought she was a little woozy. He said he’d be right back and he’d damn sure better not find her dancing with another man.

Instead of the head, Stoke went up one flight of stairs to the purser’s desk. They had newspapers posted and weather faxes regularly. He’d checked the charts yesterday but not today. He looked at this one and it didn’t look good. At that moment he could actually feel the big boat listing to starboard before beginning the long roll back.

“Looks like we got a little tropical depression due south of Haiti,” Stoke said to the uniformed guy on duty.

“Yes, sir. Captain’s keeping a close eye on it.”

“Moving north-northwest, according the last report. Right in our path.”

“Well, maybe, maybe not. Nothing more unpredictable than a tropical storm.”

“How about women?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. This boat has bilge keels? Active fin stabilizers?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” the man said, rolling his eyes. “I’m the assistant purser.”

“Right. You and your purse have a good evening.”

“And you as well, sir. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You are? Well, that’s good. That makes me feel a whole lot more comfortable.”

Stoke walked away, storm clouds gathering outside. And inside his mind.

A board the Nevskiy, the captain’s war-game order came: “Torpedo attack! Prepare tubes one and two!”

The XO, Ivanov-Pavlov, passed along the order to the torpedo section in the sub’s forward-most compartment. Each of the sub’s ten watertight compartments had three or four decks, except the one housing the OK-650B nuclear reactor and the torpedoes. Senior Lieutenant Dobrov, aged thirty, was the commander of the torpedo combat unit and it was he and the warrant officer responsible for loading who would direct the practice launch operation. The torpedo compartment was located just forward of the CCP.

The compartment was large, nearly the size of a basketball court. It contained four 533mm-caliber and two 650mm-caliber forward torpedo tubes, plus the torpedo and missile magazine. The eighteen torpedoes were stacked in three rows and suspended over the crew’s heads like giant cigars. The weapons themselves were conveyed along a hydraulic tracking system to the tubes in the boat’s bow. Most of these “warshot” torpedoes had warheads of between 200 and 300 kilograms of high explosives.