America

'I'll avoid it.'

Kolnikov nodded. He could rely on Turchak, which was a good feeling.

'Rothberg,' he said, glancing around to locate the American. 'Check the torpedo control panel. I want to ensure the panel is continuously updating the presets in the torpedoes. I hope to sneak away from her without anyone the wiser, but we must be ready, with our finger on the trigger. I want to let the towed array go by before I turn and point our prop at it. Putting those pulses right into the towed array and expecting them not to hear is asking too much. When we are well aft of it, then we will turn.'

He paused, examining their faces, then continued: 'If they put fish in the water we must shoot back and get out decoys while we accelerate. Turchak, be ready if I call for power. Alert the engine room. Eck, pay attention to that sonar. Boldt, I want you to continuously monitor the torpedo firing solutions that the torpedo control machine is generating. Sometimes these idiot savants can garble the data coming in and turn out truly amazing, useless solutions. If we must shoot, it will be our asses if we miss. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Rothberg, Eck?'

'Aye, captain,' they each said, one after another.

As La Jolla faded from the photonics screen, Kolnikov had Turchak kill the sail lights. He walked aft to the mast control panel. He personally eased the mast down and waited until the green light came on, indicating it was completely stowed. Then he waited until the watertight door closed over the opening, sealing it to prevent flow noises.

The sound from La Jolla's prop still beaconed from the darkness of the sea on the Revelation screen, even though the hull had faded from sight. If she maintained a four-knot speed advantage, Kolnikov calculated, it would take her fifteen minutes to open the distance between them to a nautical mile, a smidgen over six thousand feet. That would be enough. Then he would begin his turn. On the other hand, if this guy was going to punch off a minimum-range shot, he would be far enough away in about seven and a half or eight minutes. Allowing for the fact America was decelerating, call it ten minutes.

Ten minutes .. La Jolla's towed array… When the bitter end of the array went by, the distance would be precisely a half mile. Anytime after that.

'He's definitely slowing, dropping back,' Petty Officer Buck Brown said to the control room crew aboard La Jolla.

'Mark the time,' Junior Ryder said, and glanced at the clock on the forward bulkhead.

'Don't lose him,' the chief of the boat said to Brown.

The XO, Skip Harlow, mopped his forehead again with a sodden handkerchief, even though the room was not overly warm.

The commanding officer, Junior Ryder, glanced at the inertial navigation computer. Six knots. That speed agreed with the dead-reckoning plot. One nautical mile every ten minutes. Say the Russian slowed to two knots… no, make it three. In twenty minutes at three knots the distance between the boats would be one nautical mile, which is two thousand yards. Even if he only slowed to four knots, in twenty minutes the distance would be two- thirds of a mile — call it thirteen hundred yards. That was enough for the torpedoes to arm, but not enough to get the decoys out far enough to be effective in the event Kolnikov instantly returned fire. No, the idea here is to kill the other guy and not get killed yourself. Point-blank torpedo shots were too risky, damn near suicidal, if the other guy was also ready to shoot.

Of course, once America faded from the sonar, the circle of probability where she must be began expanding. The more time that passed, the larger the circle. At some point the circle would be so large that a spread of torpedoes would have to be fired to achieve an acceptable probability of a hit. Eventually the circle would become so large that the probability of a hit would shrink toward zero, even firing a spread. If America were in range.

Junior Ryder considered all these things and made his decision. 'Forty minutes, folks. In forty minutes the range will have opened to at least twenty-six hundred yards. We'll give her the gun and put some noise and bubble makers in the water. When the decoys are out, we'll turn. Then we'll shoot two fish.'

The crew had trained for years for this moment and everyone knew his job, so there was little to say. People swallowed hard and tried not to look at one another. All highly qualified submariners, they knew that the pirate crew in America would undoubtedly hear the oncoming torpedoes and try to fire torpedoes of their own. Each crew would then try as best they could to evade the torpedoes seeking them. The winner of the battle would be the boat that survived what might be multiple salvos of torpedoes.

If there were a survivor…

'The frequencies on those gurgles are almost too low for the towed array,' Buck Brown said. 'Not getting much help there. I'm losing him. When he goes aft of the towed array, we'll lose him in seconds.'

'Where is he now?'

'Dead aft, Skipper.'

Ryder glanced at the clock. 'Thirty-seven minutes from now. Remember, this guy may have changed his mind and shoot us as soon as the separation reaches minimum range. Buck, listen up.'

Brown concentrated on the computer display before him and pushed his earphones more tightly against his ears.

'Which way will he turn, Skipper?' The OOD asked that question.

'Starboard, I think. Based only on the fact that a port turn would take him right back to the exact position where he launched the Tomahawks. I suspect he will instinctively turn to get away from that location. Of course, he could turn port just because he thinks I think it probable that he'll turn the other way.'

'Two torpedoes?'

'That's right. We'll turn ninety degrees starboard and fire both from the starboard tubes. I think he'll probably turn starboard. Fifteen seconds between fish.' At these close ranges, the torpedoes would begin an active sonar search for their target immediately after they left the tubes, while accelerating to their attack speed of forty knots. As they ran they would send sonar data back to La Jolla via fiber-optic cables that would reel out behind them. If the fiber-optic wire remained intact, the sonar operator in the firing submarine could help the torpedo differentiate between decoys and its real target during the attack phase and issue steering commands. If the wire broke, the torpedo was on its own, guided by the logic programmed into it.

'If the first torpedo finds him,' Ryder said, 'we can ensure that the second fish turns that way. One of these things should get a hit.' He said that for the benefit of the control room crew, trying to radiate confidence. Alas, he was gambling all their lives. Try as he might, he didn't see any other choice. Kolnikov and his men had hijacked America—Ryder and his crew had been sent to find and sink it.

It was as simple as that. Really. Junior Ryder and his men were obeying the orders of their lawful superiors. If they died doing their duty… well, a great many good men wearing American uniforms had gone before them.

Vladimir Kolnikov carefully explained to his control room team what he wanted each man to do and what the execute commands would be. 'Don't do anything without orders,' he concluded. 'Doing the wrong thing is usually worse than doing nothing at all.'

He was briefing them just in case, he told himself, hoping against hope that the Americans didn't know that the stealth submarine was anywhere around and that they would disappear into the dark wastes, searching futilely. If the commander knows we are here, he will probably shoot, Kolnikov silently acknowledged.

'The Americans watch too many John Wayne movies,' Kolnikov muttered.

'That they do,' Heydrich replied, just loud enough for Kolnikov to hear.

He checked the torpedo presets, made sure the computer was properly calculating the angles. It seemed to be. He was studying the horizontal tactical plot when Eck said, 'There's another submarine out there. Forty degrees forward of our port beam, I think.'

Kolnikov took a deep breath and checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed since La Jolla began pulling away. She was just a fading light on the bulkhead Revelation screen. 'What kind?'

'Don't know yet. The computer is trying to match the screw and flow noises.'

Eck had already designated a track, but of course, with passive sonar there was no way to quickly determine the depth of the other sub or the range, the distance to it. The control room crew would have to take a series of bearings over time, plot them, then average to eliminate errors, to establish a probable distance, course, and speed on the other sub. Fortunately a torpedo data computer, or TDC, helped with this chore. The same technique could