Larry Bond - Dangerous Ground

At twenty knots and with his simulator mode still on, the Russian torpedoes picked him up as they circled. He saw the ping rate shift again to a range gate mode and without waiting for orders, he turned northwest, drawing the weapons away from Memphis.

But how many more times could he do this? The Manta’s battery was at forty percent. That meant he could stay at maximum speed for almost an hour, but the Akula was undamaged and had plenty of torpedoes. He could see it starting to turn toward them again. Memphis still had some countermeasures, but the Manta was out.

“Sonar has lost contact on the Akula due to countermeasure interference, but it appears that he’s slowing down. Bearing rate also indicates that he’s zigged again, probably coming back around to reengage.” At his current speed, near maximum, the Russian was blind. As he slowed below fifteen knots, the noise of his engines and the flow of water over his hull would be reduced and soon he’d be able to see, and shoot again.

“Sir, I’m going to make another run at the Akula,” Jerry said over the circuit. As he said it, he put the Manta on an intercept course.

“I don’t think that’s wise, mister. The Manta’s battery won’t last forever.”

“I’m not planning on turning away this time, Captain.”

“What?” Hardy’s shout reverberated over the sound-powered phones. “That Manta’s the only thing that’s kept us alive. Ramming the Russian won’t sink him and we’ll lose our only effective defense.”

“Sir, we are running out of options. I doubt I can fool him again. I’ve got a clear enough picture to tell bow from stern and I have the advantage in maneuverability. I can easily match his zigs with my zags. If I can hit him near the bow, I’ll either take out his tubes or his sonar, maybe both.”

“And a hit near the tail would cripple him, but he still might be able to shoot.” Hardy mused. “All right, Mr. Mitchell, you’ve made your case. Smack the bastard in the face and good luck.”

“Smack the bastard in the face, aye, aye, sir.”

The Russian was only twelve hundred yards away, his rudder holding a hard starboard turn. As the Akula turned to the east, the speed of closure between the two increased to almost forty knots. At that combined speed, they’d cover the distance between them in less than a minute.

“Conn, sonar. Regained sierra nine one, bearing two six five. He’s slowing down,” sonar announced. “Estimated contact speed is twelve knots based on blade rate.”

Jerry tried to guess what course the Russian would steady up on and angled slightly to port. He actually needed to come in from just off the bow. From dead ahead, even an Akula might be too small a target to hit. Nine hundred yards.

“Conn, sonar. Detecting compressed cavitation. He’s increasing speed again. He’s seen the Manta.”

And he’ll probably continue his turn, try to turn inside me rather than turn away, Jerry decided. He corrected again, anticipating a continued starboard turn. Seven hundred yards.

If he continued the turn, the Akula had the power and speed to outrun the Manta. But the Russian captain couldn’t know how tightly he could turn and he needed time to build up his speed again. Five hundred yards.

Jerry had lost a little distance angling to one side, but was still closing. The rate of closure had slowed, but that was actually working to his advantage. He had a clear view of the Akula’s starboard bow and cut sharply to the left. As he did so, the acoustic intercept display warning lights lit up. The two torpedoes were right behind him. For a moment, the UUV and the submarine ran parallel to each other at no more than a hundred yards, with Jerry pulling ahead. With little time left, he pulled the Manta into a hard right turn and unconsciously braced for impact.

A moment later the display screens went blank, replaced only with a stark, flashing MODEM SIGNAL LOST alert message. The sudden loss of his God’s-eye view was a shock and he kicked himself mentally for an idiotic decision.

“Conn, sonar. Loud noise detected from the same bearing as sierra nine one.” He could have figured that one out. But what damage had been done?

“Blade rate’s slowing and it sounds. wait one.” There was complete silence, which stretched on for far too long. “Conn, sonar. Sierra nine one is flooding tubes.”

That was the ball game. Even if he’d successfully destroyed their sonar, they were going to fire again on the last known bearing. Would Memphis be able to pull another rabbit out of the hat?

“Conn, sonar!” exclaimed the sonar supervisor. “One of the Russian torpedoes has started range-gating! It’s accelerating to attack speed!”

“Countermeasure!” Hardy ordered and Jerry braced himself for another hard turn. Sonar reported again, “Conn, sonar. The second torpedo has also started range-gating, but they are not homing on us. Repeat, they are not homing on us. Son of a bitch! Loud explosion, bearing two five six!” It must have been a big one, because Jerry actually heard it though the hull — a distant, low rumble.

“Conn, sonar, second large explosion, same bearing!”

Jerry’s confusion began to fade and was replaced by relief. Sitting at his now-useless console, he processed the sudden influx of information into a likely scenario. The torpedoes had been chasing his Manta. The Akula, blinded or confused, was unable to react as his own weapons homed in on him.

“Conn, sonar. Breaking up noises bearing two five five. Sierra nine one is sinking.”

Jerry powered down the console for the very last time.

June 17, 2005

Moscow, Russia

Admiral Alex Ventofsky saw Kirichenko alone. There was no need for aides or secretaries. They had known each other for twenty-two years and had served together on two different occasions. They were not close friends, but they knew and respected each other and they both served a common master.

Ventofsky was standing, pacing, as Kirichenko was shown into his office. It was large enough to let him go a good distance before turning. Decorated with the flags and pennants and other symbols of the Commander of the Russian Navy, he’d seen the Northern Fleet commander here many times before. This time Kirichenko snapped to attention as soon as the door closed behind him. Ventofsky continued pacing, as if walking could burn up his anger or resolve his problems.

The admiral was short, almost small, and nearly bald. A fringe of white hair was cut short, which only emphasized his round face. Like Kirichenko’s, it was battered by decades of harsh weather and hard service.

Ventofsky stopped pacing long enough to look at Kirichenko, who remained motionless and silent. He took a few more steps, then turned to face the junior admiral.

“Is there any new word from the search?”

“No sir. They’re still analyzing the debris and plotting its possible origin.”

“But it is from Gepard.”

“Yes, sir. Bottles and cushions, other buoyant material, all standard Navy issue.”

“And no survivors in the debris field.”

“Not even a lifejacket, sir. Although they are still looking.”

“And they will continue to look,” Ventofsky said harshly. “But that is no longer your concern. You are relieved. My office will notify Admiral Sergetev to take over, pending selection of a permanent replacement.”

Kirichenko nodded. “Ivan would make a good Fleet Commander.”

Ventofsky’s calm snapped and he almost shouted at Kirichenko, “A few days ago that would have meant something.” He took a deep breath and regained a little control. “The best thing you could do for Ivan now would be to say nothing.”