“We have both in abundance,” Kalinin replied. “We’ll run out of power long before the engineer’s cache is consumed.”
“Very good. It’s important to the men. It gives them something to look forward too. Please continue your report.”
“There has been no change, good or bad, in the condition of the injured, although Captain-Lieutenant Sadilenko had to be sedated again. The doctor says there is little that he can do for Yakov, and that it is best to keep him unconscious until we can get him to a proper mental health specialist.”
“Ever the optimist, our good Dr. Balanov,” remarked Petrov.
Kalinin nodded his agreement as he turned the page in his pocket notebook. “The quality of the atmosphere has declined slightly; oxygen has dropped to sixteen point five percent and carbon dioxide is up to one point two percent. The increase is due to the fact that there are now only four air regeneration units online, using the last of the V-64 cassettes, I might add.”
“How long before this last set’s chemicals are depleted?”
“We have less than an hour. After that, the air will slowly get worse and worse.”
“Has Fonarin revised his estimate on the amount of time we have?” Petrov asked as he jerked his thumb in chemical service chief’s direction.
“Igor has triple-checked — no, correction, quadruple-checked his figures. Taking into account the number of survivors and our rate of breathing, which will increase as the carbon dioxide levels climb, he believes we have until around midday on the tenth before we reach a lethal concentration. By the evening of the eleventh, we’ll all be dead, unless we’re rescued, of course.”
Both men fell silent as Kalinin concluded his report, put his notebook away, and pulled himself up. Petrov could tell his starpom was exhausted; he had slept very little since the incident.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Yes, Vasiliy. Have Lyachin start recycling the used V-64 cassettes in the air-regeneration units. I know they’re probably next to useless, but at this point I’ll take every molecule of carbon dioxide that they can remove from our atmosphere. After that, I want you to get some sleep.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Kalinin wearily. “I will see to both requirements immediately.”
As Kalinin started to hobble toward the ladder well, Petrov called out to him, “Vasiliy, just one more item. Please confer with Dr. Balanov on the possibility of administering sleeping drugs to the majority of the crew.”
The starpom was both surprised and shocked by Petrov’s order and his expression showed it.
“Think about it, Vasiliy,” explained Petrov has he stood and walked over to Kalinin. “If we can’t remove carbon dioxide from the air, then we have to reduce the rate at which it is produced. The only way I know how to do that is to get a large number of the crew to sleep more.”
“Yes, sir. You are correct, we do need to consider what options we have in case… in case the fleet takes longer than we would like to find us.”
“Let’s pray that it is as drastic as we need to get, Starpom. But on the good side, it appears that the storm is finally waning. Within twenty-four hours we’ll know if Kokurin has sent anyone out to look for us.”
Jerry was one of the last ones to arrive in the torpedo room, trailing down the ladder behind a couple of sonar techs from control. The captain, the XO, and even the chief engineer clustered around the UUV console. Behind them, edging around the officers for their own peek, were the off-watch torpedomen and other stragglers. The crewmen saw Jerry and quickly made a hole, and the officers edged over just a little. It was enough to see.
The color display was designed to show detailed bathymetric sonar data, not a high-resolution photographic image. Palmer had selected a false-color mode that showed a strong sonar return as a brighter color than a softer echo. Thus, rocks on the seabed showed as yellow against a mottled brown and purple bottom, probably sand and mud. The false colors only threw off an observer for a moment. The UUVs primary sensors used high frequency sonars along with a precision underwater mapping algorithm, which gave the image the sharpness of a television camera. The observers could see patterns on the seabed where currents had scoured the bottom, a few clusters of rocks, but nothing more.
Rudel ordered, “Shift back to the long-range search.”
Palmer hit a key and a few seconds later the image shrank into the foreground as the sonar shifted range scales. Ahead and slightly to the left, near the top of the screen, a yellow-green shape appeared. “Range is six hundred fifty yards,” Palmer reported.
“Take your time,” Shimko cautioned, needlessly. The display showed LaVerne at a speed of three knots. She couldn’t go any slower and still be steered reliably.
It had to be
The closer the UUV got, the more the blip took on a recognizable shape. Jerry studied it, along with everyone else in the room. He was looking for something that would show it wasn’t the sub as much as something that said it was. They’d had several false alarms in the past twenty-four hours, and he’d been delayed in the control room checking the updated charts for wrecks. There were none recorded by any of the UUVs in the area — a good sign. But this was no false alarm. It was just too big.
“It’s the right size,” Shimko observed cautiously.
“Could be, XO, but shouldn’t we have seen it further out than eight hundred yards?” asked Lavoie.
“We’re probably dealing with a new type of anechoic coating on
“Two points for the sonar officer,” remarked Shimko without taking his eyes off the display screen.
After another few minutes, Palmer reported, “Range is five hundred yards.” The range readout was shown on the computer screen, but not everyone in the room could see the whole display.
The shape was definitely narrower at one end, which Jerry automatically labeled the stern. An irregular blob of canary yellow occupied a spot one-quarter of the way back from the other end. It was the proper location for
Rudel studied the readouts, then turned to the intercom. “Sonar, torpedo room. Do you have anything on bearing two four seven?”
“Torpedo room, sonar. We can hear LaVerne’s motor on the wide aperture array, bearing is two four six. Nothing else, sir.”
“Sonar, torpedo room, very well. Keep a special watch for anything from the southwest. LaVerne may have found the Russian.”
“Torpedo room, sonar, aye.”
Jerry shrugged. It would have been nice to have heard some sign of life, but couldn’t imagine what machinery could still be running aboard the downed sub. The object was quiet, inert.
“Hold at two hundred fifty yards and circle the contact.”
Palmer acknowledged Rudel’s order and typed in the commands. The “contact” now filled a quarter of the screen, and Jerry started to think of it as a sub. The perspective shifted and the shape resolved even more.
“It’s the Russian boat,” Shimko declared. “It’s
An excited buzz broke out in the torpedo room, but Rudel and the other officers ignored it. Jerry noticed money changing hands in the back of the room.
“Tell me you’re recording this,” Shimko asked Palmer, and the junior officer nodded vigorously, his eyes still fixed on the display. “The instant we got a detection,” he answered, then pointed to a red “R” in one corner of the display.
The image’s outlines continued to shift as the aspect changed. The sail took shape at the appropriate spot along the hull, but foreshortened.
“She’s listing,” Palmer observed. “It’s bad.” Resting on the uneven bottom, the sub was tilted to port — a lot. The UUV continued its circle around toward the bow, looking down the length of the boat.
“I’d guess. what? Thirty degrees?” Shimko sounded as if he hated to be right.
