three.'
'Up two feet,' Mancuso told the quartermaster. The periscope came up. 'I see him, just on the horizon? call it three miles. There's a light behind them!' He slapped the handles up and the 'scope went down at once. 'Let's get there fast. All ahead two-thirds.'
'All ahead two-thirds, aye.' The helmsman dialed up the engine order.
The navigator plotted the position of the inbound boat and ticked off the yards.
Clark was looking back toward the shore. There was a light sweeping left and right across the water. Who was it? He didn't know if the local cops had boats, but there had to be a detachment of KGB Border Guards: they had their own little navy, and their own little air force. But how alert were they on a Friday night? Probably better than they were when that German kid decided to fly into Moscow? right through this sector, Clark remembered. This area's probably pretty alert? where are you, Dallas? He lifted his radio.
'Uncle Joe, this is Willy. The sun is rising, and we're far from home.'
'He says he's close, sir,' communications reported.
' 'Gator?' Mancuso asked.
The navigator looked up from his table. 'I gave him fifteen knots. We should be within five hundred yards now.'
'All ahead one-third,' the Captain ordered. 'Up 'scope!' The oiled steel tube hissed up again-all the way up.
'Captain, I got a radar emitter astern, bearing two-six-eight. It's a Don-2,' the ESM technician said.
'Conn, sonar, both the hostile contacts have increased speed. Blade count looks like twenty knots and coming up on the Grisha, sir,' Jones said. 'Confirm target ident is Grisha-class. Easterly contact still unknown, one screw, probably a gas engine, doing turns for twenty or so.'
'Range about six thousand yards,' the fire-control party said next.
'This is the fun part,' Mancuso observed. 'I have them. Bearing-mark!'
'Zero-nine-one.'
'Range.' Mancuso squeezed the trigger for the 'scope's laser-rangefinder. 'Mark!'
'Six hundred yards.'
'Nice call, 'Gator. Solution on the Grisha?' he asked fire control.
'Set for tubes two and four. Outer doors are still closed, sir.'
'Keep 'em that way.' Mancuso went to the bridge trunk's lower hatch. 'XO, you have the conn. I'm going to do the recovery myself. Let's get it done.'
'All stop,' the executive officer said. Mancuso opened the hatch and went up the ladder to the bridge. The lower hatch was closed behind him. He heard the water rushing around him in the sail, then the splashes of surface waves. The intercom told him he could open the bridge hatch. Mancuso spun the locking wheel and heaved against the heavy steel cover. He was rewarded with a faceful of cold, oily saltwater, but ignored it and got to the bridge.
He looked aft first. There was the Grisha, its masthead light low on the horizon. Next he looked forward and pulled the flashlight from his hip pocket. He aimed directly at the raft and tapped out the Morse letter D.
'A light, a light!' Maria said. Clark turned back forward, saw it, and steered for it. Then he saw something else.
The patrol boat behind Clark was a good two miles off, its searchlight looking in the wrong place. The Captain turned west to see the other contact. Mancuso knew in a distant sort of way that Grishas carried searchlights, but had allowed himself to disregard the fact. After all, why should searchlights concern a submarine? When she's on the surface, the Captain told himself. The ship was still too far away to see him, light or not, but that would change in a hurry. He watched it sweep the surface aft of his submarine, and realized too late that they probably had Dallas on radar now.
'Over here, Clark, move your ass!' he screamed across the water, swinging the light left and right. The next thirty seconds seemed to last into the following month. Then it was there.
'Help the ladies,' the man said. He held the raft against the submarine's sail with his motor. Dallas was still moving, had to be to maintain this precarious depth, not quite surfaced, not quite dived. The first one felt and moved like a young girl, the skipper thought as he brought her aboard. The second one was wet and shivering. Clark waited a moment, setting a small box atop the motor. Mancuso wondered how it stayed balanced there until he realized that it was either magnetic or glued somehow.
'Down the ladder,' Mancuso told the ladies.
Clark scrambled aboard and said something-probably the same thing-in Russian. To Mancuso he spoke in English. 'Five minutes before it blows.'
The women were already halfway down. Clark went behind them, and finally Mancuso, with a last look at the raft. The last thing he saw was the harbor patrol boat, now heading directly toward him. He dropped down and pulled the hatch behind himself. Then he punched the intercom button. 'Take her down and move the boat!'
The bottom hatch opened underneath them all, and he heard the executive officer. 'Make your depth ninety feet, all ahead two-thirds, left full rudder!'
A petty officer met the ladies at the bottom of the bridge tube. The astonishment on his face would have been funny at any other time. Clark took them by the arm and led them forward to his stateroom. Mancuso went aft.
'I have the conn,' he announced.
'Captain has the conn,' the XO agreed. 'ESM says they got some VHF radio traffic, close in, probably the Grisha talking to the other one.'
'Helm, come to new course three-five-zero. Let's get her under the ice. They probably know we're here-well, they know something's here. 'Gator, how's the chart look?'
'We'll have to turn soon,' the navigator warned. 'Shoal water in eight thousand yards. Recommend come to new course two-nine-one.' Mancuso ordered the change at once.
'Depth now eight-five feet, leveling out,' the diving officer said. 'Speed eighteen knots.' A small bark of sound announced the destruction of the raft and its motor.
'Okay, people, now all we have to do is leave,' Mancuso told his Attack Center crew. A high-pitched snap of sound told them that this would not be easy.
'Conn, sonar, we're being pinged. That's a Grisha death-ray,' Jones said, using the slang term for the Russian set. 'Might have us.'
'Under the ice now,' the navigator said.
'Range to target?'
'Just under four thousand yards,' the weapons officer replied. 'Set for tubes two and four.'
The problem was, they couldn't shoot. Dallas was inside Russian territorial waters, and even if the Grisha shot at them, shooting back wasn't self-defense, but an act of war. Mancuso looked at the chart. He had thirty feet of water under his keel, and a bare twenty over his sail-minus the thickness of the ice
'Marko?' the Captain asked.
'They will request instructions first,' Ramius judged. 'The more time they have, the better chance they will shoot.'
'Okay. All ahead full,' Mancuso ordered. At thirty knots he'd be in international waters in ten minutes.
'Grisha is passing abeam on the portside,' Jones said. Mancuso went forward to the sonar room.
'What's happening?' the Captain asked.
'The high-frequency stuff works pretty good in the ice. He's searchlighting back and forth. He knows something's here, but not exactly where yet.'
Mancuso lifted a phone. 'Five-inch room, launch two noisemakers.'
A pair of bubble-making decoys was ejected from the portside of the submarine.
'Good, Mancuso,' Ramius observed. 'His sonar will fix on those. He cannot maneuver well with the ice.'
'We'll know for sure in the next minute.' Just as he said it, the submarine was rocked by explosions aft. A very feminine scream echoed through the forward portion of the submarine.
'All ahead flank!' the Captain called aft.
'The decoys,' Ramius said. 'Surprising that he fired so quickly?'
'Loosing sonar performance, skipper,' Jones said as the screen went blank with flow noise. Mancuso and
