Sea Leopard

'Information on the “Victor-II” becoming unreliable, sir.'

'I can see that. The warmer layer's causing ghosting and refracting. Are we through it yet?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Level at eighty fathoms, cox' n.'

'Eighty fathoms, sir.'

'Is that the coast at the edge of the screen John?'

'No, sir.' Thurston was at his side, staring down at the screen. The image of the Russian submarine was faint. The warmer layer of sea water through which they had descended would be confusing the Russian's sensors, hiding the Proteus. 'It's a small plateau. Our depth makes it look like a mountain.'

' “Victor-II” now bearing green one-seven-oh, range fourteen thousand, and she's in a shallow dive, sir.'

Thurston looked into Lloyd's face. 'We didn't fool her. She's back with us,' he whispered.

'The computer confirms course and bearing, sir.'

Lloyd hesitated for only a moment. Then a tight determination clamped on his features. He had accepted the evidence of his sonars and his computers.

'John,' he said in a steady voice audible to everyone in the control room, 'call the crew to Alert Readiness. The time for playing games with this Russian is over. He's after us, all right.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

* * *

'Negative contact on Magnetic, Captain.'

'Maintain present course for one minute, then hard starboard — mark.'

'Marked, Captain. One minute.'

'Negative contact, sir.'

Always the negative. The Russian captain sensed the Grishka around him, slipping through the blind darkness of the sea. He sensed the crew closed up to Action Stations, as they had been for more than half an hour on this occasion alone; and three other times he had spoken to the torpedo room, readying them, and calling his men to Action Stations. It could not go on for much longer, he would have to relax them. He was wearing them down. He sensed, especially, the torpedo crew room and the wire-guided, wake-homing torpedoes, one with reduced warhead and the second with the special MIRV warhead, the 'Catherine Wheel'. Once he ordered their launch, one expert crewman would guide them to their target, relying solely on his own skills. His man was good enough, and the torpedoes would do their job. Yet everything — everything — depended on tiny, delicate sensors in the bow of the boat; magnetic sensors, thermal sensors. Somewhere ahead — or below or beside or above or behind — there was a magnetic lump of metal which was emitting heat and which could not be entirely damped and rendered invisible. The British submarine was leaving faint traces, flakings of her skin, faint noises of her breathing. Somewhere in the ocean, those traces lay waiting for him to discover them.

'Coming hard round, Captain.'

'Planesman — hold her steady.'

'Sir.'

Somewhere, out there in the dark, lay the Proteus.

* * *

'Sir, the “Victor-II” is coming hard round —'

'I have her. Engine room — plus fifty revolutions.'

'Plus fifty, sir.'

'Heat trace confirmed and growing stronger, Captain.'

'Ten degree quarter — sixty second rate.'

* * *

The captain of the Grishka leaned against the periscope housing. The range of the British submarine was still too great, and though the trace was strengthening it was still elusive. The game might continue for hours yet. He sensed the pressure on him not to fail, but more importantly he was aware of the growing, slightly desperate need for action in himself and his crew. His loyalty was, therefore, to the stifled, tense atmosphere of his control room.

'Torpedo room,' he said distinctly, pausing until everyone was alert with attention to his voice, despite their own tasks. Torpedo room, load manual guidance torpedo, set it for a screw-pattern search. Set maximum range and wait for my order.'

There was relief, palpable as cold, fresh air, in the set of every man's shoulders and on every face that he could see. He kept a sudden assault of doubt from his own features.

'Heat trace strengthening, Captain.'

'Magnetic trace positive, Captain.'

'Sonars negative, Captain.'

'Range and bearing?'

'Bearing unchanged, sir. Range thirteen thousand, and decreasing. We're overhauling her, sir.'

'Very well.' He paused. The low-warhead torpedo was in the tube. He had four of them, and four multiple- warhead 'Catherine Wheel' torpedoes. Could he risk the first one at that range? Torpedo room — fire One! Keep calling.'

Tube One away, sir, and running. Sensor on, lights green. Negative readout.'

The Russian captain looked at his first lieutenant standing at the depth indicator panel. He shrugged expressively.

'Torpedo sensors have made contact, Captain.'

The wake-homing torpedo began its search immediately it was launched. The wire that connected it with the Grishka transmitted to its tiny computer the instructions of the experienced operator in the torpedo room. Its guidance control was tested, and responded, then the speed of the torpedo was altered a number of times in quick succession. On each occasion, the torpedo responded immediately and precisely.

The torpedo crossed the traces of the Proteus' s wake one thousand metres from the Grishka. Its corkscrewing movement through the sea, which enabled it to search in three rather than in two dimensions, took it across the wake well astern of the British submarine's position. There was, however, sufficient trace of the wake remaining for the torpedo to register it.

The torpedo nosed on through the dark water until it reached the conclusion of its next one thousand metre run, then it began retracing its course, back towards the wake. Once it crossed the wake for the second time, and its sensors registered either a stronger or a weaker trace, then it would be instructed to turn to port or starboard, and to run down the submarine's track until it made contact. Once its path was chosen, and the wake's direction established, contact was unavoidable.

The torpedo crossed the wake and turned to port almost immediately with a flick as lithe as that of some hunting sea creature. Its corkscrewing track evened out as it began tracing its way down the wake of the British submarine.

* * *

'Contact continuous, Captain.'

'Excellent — keep calling.' The captain of the Grishka grinned at his first- lieutenant.

'Lock on indicated… three thousand five hundred metres of run completed, sir… four thousand metres completed… heat sensor responding and locked on… command override on, sir… proximity fuse armed and on, sir… seven thousand metres of run completed… TV camera on, light on —'

'Come on, come on,' the Russian captain murmured. Too long, too long, he told himself. Should have waited, she's out of range.

'Seven and one half thousand metres of run completed, sir… eight thousand metres of run completed.'

'Positive contact, sir!'

'Cox' n hard astern!'

'Hard astern, sir.'

'Contact identified as a torpedo, sir!'

* * *