Sea Leopard

room.

Then: 'Submarine unit Grishka reports another magnetic trace —'

* * *

'Magnetic trace fading, Captain.'

'Thermal trace fading, Captain.'

'Planesman — ten degrees down, level at eight hundred feet.'

'Sir.'

'Steer twelve degrees to starboard.'

'Sir.'

There was silence in the control room of the Grishka. The bow sonars were blank and silent, their sensors absorbed or deflected by the British anti-sonar equipment. The infrared trace was decaying, was already almost non-existent, illusory. The magnetic anomaly detection equipment was already inducing a frustrated hunching of the shoulders in its operator. The advanced, delicate, heat-sensitive 'nose' was sniffing cold ocean water without trace of the British submarine. Every trail was cold, or growing cold.

'Steer fifteen degrees to port.'

'Sir.'

Guesswork, the captain of the Grishka admitted. A blind dog with a cold in its nose seeking an elusive scent. No prop wash even, not a trace of the trail she ought to be leaving in the sea from her movement and her turning propeller. They had picked that up once before, then lost it again.

'Nine knots.'

'Sir.'

Silence.

'Weak magnetic trace, sir. Bearing green four-oh, range six thousand.'

'We're almost on top of her — don't lose it. Steer starboard thirty.'

'Starboard thirty, sir.'

'No thermal trace, sir.'

'Magnetic trace fading again, sir.'

'Stand by, torpedo room. Any sign of prop wash?'

'Negative, sir.'

'Steer starboard five, speed ten knots.'

'Magnetic trace lost, sir.'

'Damn!'

* * *

'Steer port four-five.'

'Port four-five it is, sir.'

There was silence then in the control room of the Proteus. Whispered orders, like the rustling voices of old men, lacking authority. The sonars which, in their passive mode, were difficult for any enemy to detect with his electronic sensors, registered the movements of the Russian submarine; demonstrating the proximity of the hunter.

'Computer ident, Number One?'

'A “Victor-H”-class submarine, sir. Our friend is back.'

'Range and bearing?'

'Moving away, sir. Speed approximately nine knots, range eight thousand, bearing green one-seven-oh. She's passing behind us.'

'Other activity, John?'

' “Kashin”-class destroyer, range eleven thousand. “Alpha”-class attack submarine, range fourteen thousand, bearing red six-five, and closing. Kiev at range sixteen thousand, and increasing. The submarine rescue ship is holding station, sir.'

'Coffee, sir?'

'What — oh, thanks, Chief. ETA Norwegian waters, John?'

'At present course and speed, eleven minutes, sir.'

'Speed fourteen knots.'

'Prop wash, sir?'

'Correction — twelve knots.'

'Twelve knots it is, sir.'

'Steer port ten.'

* * *

The transmissions from the Grishka and the other Red Banner units were being received via the aircraft carrier Kiev. Dolohov had ordered the abandonment of coded signals in favour of high-speed, frequency-agile transmissions in plain language. Transferred to tape and slowed down, Dolohov then heard them broadcast in the control room. The voices, and the silences between the words, seemed equally to agitate and excite him. Sergei observed his admiral closely, worriedly. He felt like a youthful relative watching a grandparent growing senile before his eyes.

Dolohov's shoulders were hunched as he stared down into the well of the operations room, watching the moving, dancing lights and the flickering, single light that represented the British submarine. It flickered on and off as if there were an electrical fault in the board.

Sergei guessed that Dolohov had begun to entertain doubts; or rather, the doubts he had formerly crushed beneath the heel of certainty had now sprung up again like weeds. It was more than an hour since the first contact signal had been received from the submarine Frunze. Since then, the Grishka and two other units had reported traces on more than one occasion — Grishka three times — but the British submarine still eluded them. Dolohov had been able to ignore his doubts for hours, even days; but now, watching the cat-and-invisible-mouse game of the board below him, he had begun to disbelieve in success. Or so Sergei suspected.

The old man was talking to himself. His voice, in the silence from the loudspeaker, was audible throughout the room.

'Can it be done, can it be done?' He repeated it again and again, a murmured plea or a voiced fear. 'Can it? Can it?' The shorter phrase became more final, more full of doubt. 'Can it? Can it?' The old man was entirely unaware that he was speaking audibly, and Sergei felt a hot flush of shame invade his features. To be associated with this old man, muttering to himself in this moment of crisis like a geriatric in a hospital, was embarrassing, insulting. Others were listening, everyone in the room —

Then the voice of the monitoring officer on the Kiev silenced Dolohov, smearing across his words, erasing them. The admiral's shoulders picked up, his head inclined like a bird's as he listened.

'Submarine unit Grishka reports lost contact —'

Dolohov's shoulders slumped again. It was evident he thought he had lost the game.

* * *

'The “Victor-II” is turning to starboard, sir.'

'Damn. John, insert our track and that of the “Victor-II” on to the display screen.'

'Track memory is on, sir. Submarine bearing red one-six-eight, range nineteen thousand.'

'Do we still have that layer of warmer water below us?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Right. Let's make it much more difficult for them. Take us down through it.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Lloyd sensed the dipping of the Proteus' bow. The Russian submarine was on their tail again. They were still three minutes out into international waters, and the 'Victor-II' was closing rapidly. Even though he doubted now that an imagined political line on a chart would have any beneficial effect on their circumstances, Lloyd knew of no other move he could make. The display screen traced their track over the seabed, and that of the Russian. A swifter-moving, hazy line of light was dead astern of them now that the Russian captain had altered course.