From forward, the loud sound could be heard in the room, almost as deafening as the torpedo launch, fifteen seconds of the roaring climax of Tchaikovsky’s
Seagraves looked at Quinnivan. “What do you think our good friends on the
“Depends if it works,” Quinnivan replied.
“Anything?” Pacino asked Albanese, leaning over his sonar stack’s seatback.
Senior Chief Albanese held his headset to his ear as if listening hard, but he shook his head and looked back at Pacino, then Seagraves. “Nothing, nothing at all. The mines must have either fallen off or went tits-up from the nuke’s shock wave.”
“All that work for nothing,” Pacino said to himself.
“Torpedo run time, eleven minutes, Captain,” Quinnivan said. “Six to go.”
“Makes you miss the old Vortex missiles, doesn’t it, XO?” Seagraves said. “A supercavitating underwater missile would have reached Master One in about two minutes.”
“They just tended to blow up the firing ship until they came up with the Mod Echo,” Quinnivan said. “But you’re right, it would have been nice.”
“Captain,” Styxx said from the weapon control panel, “I’ve lost wire guide continuity on own-ship’s unit.”
“Sonar,” Seagraves called. “Is our torpedo still pinging?”
“Yes, Captain,” Albanese said. “The pinging sounds are rising and falling in volume and pitch. The weapon must be circling, sir.”
“Reattack mode,” Pacino said to Cooper. “It can’t see the target. So it cut its wire and is just circling around, hoping it finds something.”
“How much fuel do you think it has left, Weps?” Quinnivan asked Styxx.
“Somewhere between five minutes and ten,” Styxx replied. “Without wire continuity, I have no data.”
“Master One must be hiding himself behind an ice wall,” Pacino said.
Quinnivan frowned. “We’d better hope that fookin’ weapon finds him and takes him out before he shoots another nuke, this time, with a note on it that says, ‘Dear
“Captain,” Albanese said from the sonar stack, “own-ship’s unit, pinging has shut down.”
“Ran out of fuel, sir,” Styxx said sadly.
Pacino glanced at Short Hull Cooper, whose eyes were as wide as hard boiled eggs. “You okay?” Pacino asked him.
Cooper swallowed hard. “I’m fine,” he said, but Pacino could tell he was frightened.
“What the hell do you mean, Weapons Officer?” Captain Alexeyev asked harshly.
“I’ve got a weapons control trouble light,” Weapons Officer Sobol said. “I’m showing an open circuit on the weapon control panel, sir.”
“Can we take local control and bypass the panel?”
“Yes, Captain, but I’ll have to program the weapon at the tube control panel station.”
“Well, get down there,” Alexeyev ordered.
“Wait, Captain,” Lebedev interjected. “If we’re having trouble shooting the Shkval, let’s switch to shooting the Gigantskiy. Let’s see if that works. We were planning on launching it anyway.”
Alexeyev nodded. “Stay at your station, Weapons Officer, and line up the Gigantskiy in large bore tube five. Slow speed transit. Enable it at two miles. Active search. Full one megaton yield. Set for proximity detonation with contact detonation as a backup in case it hits the ice wall at open water. Same target data package as for the Shkval, bearing zero eight seven, range seven miles.” Alexeyev paused, then announced to the room’s watchstanders, “Procedures for firing the Gigantskiy.”
“Ship is ready, Captain,” Shvets said.
“Weapon is ready, sir,” Sobol reported. “Assumed target data package inserted. Your presets inserted. Weapon on internal power.”
“Weapons Officer, fire large-bore tube five!” Alexeyev barked.
And again, nothing happened.
“Goddammit, Weapons Officer, what
“Captain, same indications as for the Shkval. I’ve got a weapons control trouble light,” Weapons Officer Sobol said. “Another open circuit on the weapon control panel.”
“Get down there and sort this out with Glavny Starshina Yeger. Insert the presets locally and try to get the tube to fire.”
“Sir,” Sobol said, “do you still want the Shkval first? Then the Gigantskiy?”
“Yes,” Alexeyev said. He rubbed his bad eye, which was itching through the eye patch. This fucking mission, he thought. What the hell else could go wrong?
The sonar ping came through the hull, audible to the naked ear, lasting a long fifteen seconds, which was long for a pulse. Sonar pulses generally tended to be short, so the sender would shut up and listen for a return ping. The surface navy used long pulses that rose and fell in pitch like a police siren, but they had large equipment capable of transmitting and receiving at the same time.
“Did you hear that, Captain?” Lebedev asked Alexeyev.
