and control?”
“That’s what I’m counting on them thinking, too. That a submarine actually here would surface, and blame everything on navigation error, then just sail away. Submerge again once back in U.S. waters. . . . The fact that nothing surfaces helps them convince themselves that nothing’s here.”
“What if they think we’re here, and won’t surface because we have a covert mission?”
“There’s covert and then there’s suicidal, Captain. They won’t expect even a ballsy U.S. spy sub skipper, on neutral Russian turf in time of war, to be genuinely suicidal.”
“Concur, Commodore, except . . . except I’m not sure which action would seem to them more suicidal in a major covert op. Us surfacing and for certain ruining our stealth, or not surfacing to maybe bluff them into going away? They’d figure that if our secrecy were paramount we’d go for the bluff. And they’d be right. So maybe they’ll think we are here.”
“If we do surface,” Jeffrey said, “we compromise our mission and by doing so we compromise Carter. So we know we need to stay down. But the Russians presumably can’t know that our mission is in fact directed against them somehow, not the Germans.”
“We’re between a rock and a hard place, cornered against these spires. For all we know they’ll send divers down to take a look-see in person.” Crewmen cringed as they listened to this mounting debate between captain and commodore.
“We just have to chance it. I’ve never heard of that being in their standard antisubmarine doctrine, using divers in shallow water. And Russians aren’t noted for personal initiative.”
“Sirs,” Sessions said, “we have our own safety divers, and some of the Seabees might be dive-qualified. We could send men out to kill any Russian divers who do show up.”
“The Russians would be missed,” Jeffrey said tersely.
“They could chalk it up to a diving accident, sir.”
“They’d send more divers to investigate. . . . No, we buy this diver-to-diver combat, it just prolongs the inevitable. We do nothing, stay quiet, wait for them to get bored and go away.”
Challenger was pounded by an eruption with such bruising punch it was felt more than heard, the sharp vibrations painfully shaking Jeffrey’s bones inside his body.
“Depth charge!” a sonarman shouted. “Within five hundred yards!” Men who’d been knocked off their feet recovered, checked themselves for injuries, then held onto something solid. They glanced apprehensively upward, thinking of what could come next.
“They’ll work the area systematically now,” Bell warned, “until we’re all dead.”
“Do nothing. That’s a direct order.”
“Sir, based on what reasoning? Intuition? A hunch ?”
Jeffrey held his tongue. The silence that lingered was heavy with feelings of rage and betrayal from Bell, who’d wanted all along to run the strait on the U.S. side. The men, sensing this conflict, by now were confused and scared. The implied accusation from Bell was unmistakable: their new commodore was too clever for everyone’s good.
There was another dreadful eruption. The control room darkened as red fluorescent bulbs shook loose in their sockets; consoles jiggled against their shock-absorbing mounts. Jeffrey’s teeth were jarred so badly they hurt; his feet ached.
“Depth charge! Within three hundred yards!”
Bell glared at Jeffrey. “It isn’t too late to surface!”
“It’s too early! You don’t have a single flooding report!”
“I—”
“Aspect change on the Grisha-V,” came from Chief O’Hanlon. “Grisha-V is . . . turning away! . . . Udaloy turning away!”
“Sir,” Sessions said, “helicopters have ceased orbiting, are on intercept course with the Udaloy.”
“See, Captain,” Jeffrey chided gently. “They decided there was nothing here. They left.” Happy crewmen traded high fives, or shot thumbs-up to their buddies. COB reached and gave Patel an
“That’s what I’m counting on them thinking, too. That a submarine actually here would surface, and blame everything on navigation error, then just sail away. Submerge again once back in U.S. waters. . . . The fact that nothing surfaces helps them convince themselves that nothing’s here.”
“What if they think we’re here, and won’t surface because we have a covert mission?”
“There’s covert and then there’s suicidal, Captain. They won’t expect even a ballsy U.S. spy sub skipper, on neutral Russian turf in time of war, to be genuinely suicidal.”
“Concur, Commodore, except . . . except I’m not sure which action would seem to them more suicidal in a major covert op. Us surfacing and for certain ruining our stealth, or not surfacing to maybe bluff them into going away? They’d figure that if our secrecy were paramount we’d go for the bluff. And they’d be right. So maybe they’ll think we are here.”
“If we do surface,” Jeffrey said, “we compromise our mission and by doing so we compromise Carter. So we know we need to stay down. But the Russians presumably can’t know that our mission is in fact directed against them somehow, not the Germans.”
“We’re between a rock and a hard place, cornered against these spires. For all we know they’ll send divers down to take a look-see in person.” Crewmen cringed as they listened to this mounting debate between captain and commodore.
“We just have to chance it. I’ve never heard of that being in their standard antisubmarine doctrine, using divers in shallow water. And Russians aren’t noted for personal initiative.”
“Sirs,” Sessions said, “we have our own safety divers, and some of the Seabees might be dive-qualified. We could send men out to kill any Russian divers who do show up.”
“The Russians would be missed,” Jeffrey said tersely.
“They could chalk it up to a diving accident, sir.”
“They’d send more divers to investigate. . . . No, we buy this diver-to-diver combat, it just prolongs the inevitable. We do nothing, stay quiet, wait for them to get bored and go away.”
Challenger was pounded by an eruption with such bruising punch it was felt more than heard, the sharp vibrations painfully shaking Jeffrey’s bones inside his body.
“Depth charge!” a sonarman shouted. “Within five hundred yards!” Men who’d been knocked off their feet recovered, checked themselves for injuries, then held onto something solid. They glanced apprehensively upward, thinking of what could come next.
“They’ll work the area systematically now,” Bell warned, “until we’re all dead.”
“Do nothing. That’s a direct order.”
“Sir, based on what reasoning? Intuition? A hunch ?”
Jeffrey held his tongue. The silence that lingered was heavy with feelings of rage and betrayal from Bell, who’d wanted all along to run the strait on the U.S. side. The men, sensing this conflict, by now were confused and scared. The implied accusation from Bell was unmistakable: their new commodore was too clever for everyone’s good.
There was another dreadful eruption. The control room darkened as red fluorescent bulbs shook loose in their sockets; consoles jiggled against their shock-absorbing mounts. Jeffrey’s teeth were jarred so badly they hurt; his feet ached.
“Depth charge! Within three hundred yards!”
Bell glared at Jeffrey. “It isn’t too late to surface!”
“It’s too early! You don’t have a single flooding report!”
“I—”
“Aspect change on the Grisha-V,” came from Chief O’Hanlon. “Grisha-V is . . . turning away! . . . Udaloy turning away!”
“Sir,” Sessions said, “helicopters have ceased orbiting, are on intercept course with the Udaloy.”
“See, Captain,” Jeffrey chided gently. “They decided there was nothing here. They left.” Happy crewmen traded high fives, or shot thumbs-up to their buddies. COB reached and gave Patel an
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