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
“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.
24. May She Ever Return
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
“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.”
He walked over to his desk and pointed to a pile of documents on one corner. “It’s all here, Yuri. Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”
Kirichenko’s blood suddenly froze and he fought to maintain control. What had they discovered?
Ventofsky picked up each document in turn as he spoke. “Inflating the threat, sending that incredible message to
Kirichenko waited half a moment before responding. “I did not wish the American submarine to escape. It was important that the Northern Fleet corner or kill this boat. It would teach the Americans to respect our borders and it would show our own countrymen that the Navy is still an effective force, despite the paltry funding we are given. I want the world to respect us and the motherland!” Kirichenko poured the feigned patriotism on thickly; it was his only real defense and the Slavic Admiral would readily appreciate it.
“And any transgressions you made during that pursuit would be forgiven,” Ventofsky concluded. “Was that it?”
Kirichenko nodded. “I couldn’t let this sub escape. He’d penetrated our waters. He had to be prosecuted. We’d pursued him, attacked him, and may have even damaged him.”
“Which should have been enough of a victory, in my opinion,” Ventofsky argued sternly. “Instead, in violation of every regulation, you sent
“I was defending our territory.”
“You were trying to get that sub’s scalp to hang on the wall! Glory-hunting is. ” He trailed off, then sat down heavily on the edge of the desk. “So unbelievable from you. You were one of our best. You would have taken over from me in a year or two when I retire.”
“My intention was to protect the motherland,” Kirichenko lied.
“Everyone has good intentions. We needed your good judgment,” Ventofsky explained, “and you let us down.” He picked up a single sheet of paper and studied it briefly. “All right. You are attached to this office until your trial next week.”
Kirichenko paled, but Ventofsky’s tone was unforgiving. “We’ve lost seventy-three lives and a first-line nuclear submarine. There has to be a public accounting. You will be found guilty of poor judgment and malfeasance:
