between the boat’s skipper and its 118-man crew, comprising 86 commissioned and warrant officers and 32 noncommissioned officers and sailors.
Captain Lyachin was seated in his raised black leather command chair in the center of the CCP. His command post was set just forward on the conning tower and aft of the torpedoes, the second compartment in the boat. The CCP, an oval-shaped room, was fairly spacious, but with thirty or so submariners crowded inside, it felt and smelled like a traditional Russian banya, or steam bath. The captain, frustrated in his efforts to quit smoking, lit another cigarette, his tenth.
To Lyachin’s right sat his helmsman, gripping a wheel the size of a dinner plate that controlled the boat’s aft stabilizers. Next to him was the planesman, who controlled the sub’s hydroplanes. His responsibility was to “steer” the boat up and down while submerged, or remain at any given depth the captain had ordered.
Arrayed in front of these men was a bank of computer screens showing depth, speed, and course, among other vitally important information. Next to them, the sonar officer, Lieutenant Petrov, monitored his screen, which displayed a flickering cascade of sound. In addition, the compartment had consoles for radar, weapons, electronic countermeasures, and damage control, all manned by specialists.
Petrov suddenly got a hit, but the signal was buried in surface clutter and needed to be washed. He leaned forward and thumbed the switch initiating the ALS, algorithmic processing systems. The ALS would analyze and filter, eliminating any signals not matching his desired target. He kept his eyes focused on the screen, waiting for the results.
Lyachin sat back in his heavily padded chair and expelled a sigh of frustration. “Tell me, Aleksandr, what fresh hell do we have on our hands now?”
“Frankly, it doesn’t make any sense,” Ivanov-Pavlov, the XO said. “We are getting repeated power spikes from the reactor. On a regular basis. But we see no indication of anything amiss on any of the monitoring systems, nor cooling, nor do the surges affect normal functions and operations.”
“Radiation leaks?”
“No, sir.”
“Makes no sense,” Lyachin said, scratching his chin. His thoughts turned to his greatest fear, the loss of his boat, not with a bang, but with a bug.
“No, sir.”
“Electronic security, Alexei? Has the engineer been able to detect any evidence of a viral infection in any system?”
The XO thought before he responded. “Unless some traitor among the crew boarded this vessel at La Guaira with a dirty mobile phone up his ass, this boat is still clean.”
“Inform the engineer that I want another sweep. Stem to stern,” Lyachin said.
“Yes, Captain, right away.”
“Fucking hell,” the captain said under his breath. He had a very bad feeling about this. Too many inexplicable things had been going wrong aboard the Nevskiy. He was beginning to believe his own theorem that it wasn’t just bad luck or sloppy engineers. Perhaps, he thought, it was the Texas. Perhaps the American sub he’d been chasing was somehow capable of infiltrating There was a brief burst of metallic static from the speaker above the skipper. “Conn, Sonar, new contact bearing zero-nine-five. Designate contact number Alpha 7–3.”
Lyachin thumbed his microphone. “Captain, aye. What have you got, Lieutenant Petrov?”
“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.
Thirteen
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.
