The Seventh Angel - Страница 16

“Don’t talk nonsense,” the Helmsman said. “We aren’t more than twenty kilometers from the ice pack. It’s nice and warm down here, but the air up topside will be colder than a Siberian whore.” He chuckled. “Your sosiska will freeze and fall off!” A sosiska was a thin Russian sausage.

Viktor elbowed his friend in the ribs. “You’ve been drinking the water from the reactor again, haven’t you? You’re hallucinating. My sardelka is fat and juicy! It is a man’s sausage!”

The Helmsman snorted. “You’ll see how fat and juicy it is when that cold air hits it.”

Viktor laughed, but kept his eye on the depth readout. He cleared his throat. “Passing sixty meters.”

The Diving Officer nodded. “Very well. Zero your bubble. Take all planes to horizontal. Level off at four-zero meters.”

The Watch Officer pulled a communications microphone from its cradle in the overhead angle irons. “Sonar — Watch Officer, coming shallow in preparation for going to periscope depth. Report all contacts.”

The answer came from an overhead speaker a few seconds later. “Watch Officer — Sonar, we hold three contacts at this time, all evaluated as fishing boats, and all bearing to the South. Target number one, surface, bearing 176 degrees with slow left bearing drift. Target number two, surface, bearing 194 degrees with moderate left bearing drift. Target number three, surface, bearing 212 degrees with slow left bearing drift.”

“Watch Officer, aye.”

The Watch Officer reached up and grasped the hydraulic control ring that encircled the upper hull penetration for number one periscope. He rotated the control ring about ten degrees to the right. With a muffled thump, the scope hydraulics engaged, and the periscope began to rise from its form-fitting well beneath the deck.

As soon as the optics module slid clear of the deck, the Watch Officer leaned over and flipped the periscope grips into place. A second or so later, when the scope had risen about a meter, the Watch Officer crouched and placed his left eye against the black rubber collar surrounding the eye piece. He followed the still rising optics module, starting from a crouch and turning the scope as he duck-walked his way through an entire 360 degree revolution.

Kapitan Kharitonov observed his Watch Officer’s periscope procedures without speaking, noting with silent approval that the young lieutenant managed to complete a full visual sweep by the time the eyepiece had reached eye-level above the deck and he could stand normally.

The Watch Officer thumbed a control button, increasing the optical magnification of the scope and began a second visual sweep. At forty meters, the head of the periscope was still well submerged, but enough sunlight filtered down to that depth to backlight any sizeable object on the surface of the ocean. The lieutenant was checking for shapes and shadows: the telltale silhouettes of any ships or boats floating on the surface.

In a perfect world, sonar would detect any surface vessels well ahead of time, allowing the sub to steer clear, but it’s nearly impossible to hear a boat or ship drifting with its engines cut. In the past, more than a few submarines had collided with quiet surface craft, usually with devastating consequences to both vessels. A little extra caution during this procedure could easily make the difference between safety and disaster.

The Watch Officer increased the magnification of the scope again and conducted a third sweep. When he was finally satisfied that the surface near the submarine was clear of collision hazards, he pulled his face away from the periscope. “Diving Officer, make your depth twenty meters.”

The Diving Officer nodded. “Make my depth twenty meters, aye!” He turned and began issuing orders to the individual watch stations. Five minutes later, he had the boat holding steady at its new depth and trimmed to his satisfaction. “Sir, my depth is two-zero meters.”

Kapitan Kharitonov nodded. “Raise the radio mast.”

The Watch Officer acknowledged the order and flipped a switch on an overhead panel. The muffled whine of hydraulics announced the raising of the radio antenna mast. A green status light illuminated on the panel. The Watch Officer looked at his kapitan. “Sir, the radio mast is deployed and locked.”

Kharitonov nodded. “Very well.” He lifted a radio microphone from its cradle and verified that the channel selector was set to the designated frequency for the exercise. He held the mike to his lips, pressed the transmit key, and spoke. “Volk-shentnadtsatiy, this is Kuzbass.”

Volk-shentnadtsatiy, Wolf-sixteenth, was the call sign of the Tupolev TU-142 anti-submarine warfare aircraft that would be attempting to track the Kuzbass for the next few hours.

The radio speaker rumbled with static, but there was no reply.

After about a minute, he keyed the mike and tried again. “Volk-shentnadtsatiy, this is Kuzbass.”

Again there was no answer.

“We are at the proper coordinates, at the correct time, and on the designated frequency,” Kharitonov said. “Perhaps our esteemed shipmates in naval aviation have forgotten how to locate the ocean.”

Most of the members of the control room crew chuckled.

Kharitonov looked over at the hole where his master dive clock should have been. “Or it could be that some gutless idiot has stolen their clock and they don’t know what time it is.”

There were fewer laughs this time. His men knew that, joking aside, their kapitan was still torqued over the missing clock.

Kharitonov keyed the mike again. “Volk-shentnadtsatiy, this is Kuzbass. Do you read me?”

This time, there was a response. “Kuzbass, this is Volk-shentnadtsatiy. I read you clearly.”

Kharitonov’s eyebrows went up. “Volk-shentnadtsatiy, this is Kuzbass. I am at periscope depth and preparing to surface for your camera and infrared sensor runs. Do you read?”

The reply came almost immediately. “Kuzbass, this is Volk-shentnadtsatiy. Understand you are at periscope depth. Can you mark your position with a smoke float?”

Kharitonov frowned. A smoke float? If those flying idiots were any good at their job, they wouldn’t need a smoke float to locate a submarine.

He sighed. “Watch Officer, launch a smoke float for our cloud-hopping shipmates.”

The young lieutenant repeated the order and carried it out. “Smoke float deployed, Kapitan.” He grinned. “I used an orange one so they won’t have any trouble finding us.”

Kharitonov returned the grin. “Good thinking, Lieutenant.” He started to key the microphone when an ear-splitting squeal erupted from the radio speaker. He grabbed the gain control and cranked the speaker down to minimum volume. The painful sound was diminished but still audible.

He was about to call for a technician when one of the radiomen stuck his head into the control room. “Sir! Our communications are being jammed!”

Kharitonov’s ears were still ringing, but he heard the man without difficulty. “Are you certain?”

“Positive, sir,” the radioman said. “We’re getting broad spectrum jamming on all naval communications frequencies.”

“Understood,” Kharitonov said.

The air crew of that plane really were idiots. Obviously one of the operators had hit the wrong button by mistake. No doubt they’d realize the error before long and shut down their jammers.

An intercom speaker crackled in the overhead. “Control — Sonar, torpedo in the water! Repeat, torpedo in the water, bearing zero-four-four! Recommend immediate evasive maneuvers!”

Kharitonov’s brain went into high gear immediately. The torpedo report had to be a mistake, but he couldn’t take that chance. “I have the deck,” he shouted. “All ahead flank! Left full rudder!”

The boat heeled over instantly as the Helmsman executed his orders. “Sir, my rudder is full left! All ahead flank!”

“Very well,” Kharitonov said. “Launch countermeasures!” He paused for a half-second. At flank speed, hydrodynamic force would mangle the periscope and the radio antenna. “Down scope! Retract the antenna mast!”

The deck began to vibrate as the turbines brought the screw up to maximum speed. Something had to be wrong with the sonar equipment. The torpedo had to be a mistake. But no … he could hear it now, right through the hull, the unmistakable dental drill whine of high-speed propellers. It wasn’t a sonar error. It really was an incoming torpedo. The sound was quickly growing to a howl.

“Countermeasures away!” the Watch Officer shouted.

The intercom speaker flared again. “Control — Sonar, we have startup on a second torpedo! Repeat, we have two inbound torpedoes! Classify both torpedoes as 400 millimeter type UMGT-1!”

Those were Russian torpedoes, air launched. They had to have come from Volk-shentnadtsatiy. Why was their own aircraft shooting at them?

“Emergency dive!” Kharitonov said. “Full down bubble on all planes!”

Before the Diving Officer could acknowledge the order, the intercom speaker crackled again. “Control — Sonar, no takers on the countermeasures. Both torpedoes have acquired.

Outside the hull, the howl of approaching torpedo screws rose to a deafening shriek.

Kharitonov opened his mouth to order an emergency rudder change, but his voice was drowned out by the explosion of the first torpedo. He couldn’t tell where it hit, but the shock of the impact slammed into him like a speeding car, lifting him off the deck and throwing him sideways against the housing for #2 periscope. He felt several of his ribs break.