Their fix on the edge of the icepack was old. Currents and wind would have moved the ice a few miles south as increasing summer temperatures weakened the thick white roof on the ocean. Maybe an hour's worth? the captain wondered hopefully.
The plot showed Boston fifteen miles to the east, and Providence eight miles southeast. Three more hours to the ice. Eighteen nautical miles, maybe less, and they'd be safe. Why should there be anything else out here? They can't send their whole fleet after us. They have plenty of other problems to worry about. McCafferty dozed off again.
"Conn, sonar!" McCafferty's head came up.
"Conn, aye," the exec answered.
"Providence has speeded up somewhat, sir. Estimate she's doing ten knots."
"Very well."
"How long was I out?" the captain asked.
"About an hour and a half. You've been awake quite a while, sir, and you weren't snoring loud enough to bother anybody. Sonar is still blank except for our friends."
McCafferty got up and stretched. That wasn't enough. It's catching up with me. Much more of this and I'm more dangerous to my own crew than I am to the Russians.
"Distance to the ice?"
"About twelve thousand yards, near as we can make out."
McCafferty went to look at the chart. Providence had caught up and was even with him now. He didn't like that.
"Go to twelve knots and come right to zero-four-five. He's getting too eager."
"You're right," the exec said after giving the proper orders, "but who can blame him?"
"I can. What the hell does another few minutes matter after all the time it's taken to get this far?"
"Conn, sonar, we have a possible contact bearing zero-six-three. Sounds like machinery noise, very faint. Fading out now. We're getting flow noise that's blanking it out."
"Slow down?" the executive officer asked. The captain shook his head.
"All ahead two-thirds." Chicago accelerated to eighteen knots. McCafferty stared down at the chart. There was something important here that he wasn't seeing. The submarine was still deep, at one thousand feet. Providence still had her tail working, but she was running close to the surface, and that made trouble for her sonar performance. Was Boston running shallow, too? The quartermasters on the fire-control tracking party kept advancing the positions of the two American subs in keeping with the known course and speed of each. Chicago rapidly closed the distance. After half an hour she was broad on Providence's port bow, and McCafferty ordered speed reduced to six knots again. As the submarine slowed, the exterior flow noise abated and her sonars returned to full performance.
"Sonar contact bearing zero-nine-five!"
The plotting team ran a line across the chart. It intersected the previous bearing line... almost exactly between Boston and Providence!
McCafferty bent down to check the depth there-nineteen hundred feet. Deeper than a 688-class sub could dive...
... but not too deep for an Alfa...
"Holy shit!"
He couldn't fire at the contact. The bearing to the target was too close to Providence. If the control wires broke, the fish would go into automatic mode and not care a whit that Providence was a friendly.
"Sonar, go active, Yankee-search on bearing zero-nine-five!"
It took a moment to power-up the system. Then the deep ba-wah sound shook the ocean. McCafferty had meant to alert his comrades. He'd also alerted the Alfa.
"Conn, sonar, I have hull-popping noises and increased machinery noise at bearing zero-nine-five. No target on the scope yet."
"Come on, Todd,!" the captain urged.
"Transients, transients! Boston just increased power, sir-there goes Providence. Torpedoes in the water, bearing zero-nine-five! Multiple torpedoes in the water at zero-nine-five!"
"All ahead full!" McCafferty looked at the plot. The Alfa was perilously close to both subs, behind both, and Providence couldn't run, couldn't dive, couldn't do a Goddamned thing! He could only watch as his fire-control team readied two torpedoes. The Alfa had fired four fish, two at each American boat. Boston changed course west, as did Providence. McCafferty and the exec went to the sonar room.
He watched the contact lines swing left and right across the screen. The thick ones denoted the submarines; the thinner, brighter lines each of the four torpedoes. The two aimed at Providence closed rapidly. The wounded sub was up to twenty knots, and made noise like a gravel truck trying to run. It was clear that she'd never make it. Three noisemakers appeared on the screen, but the torpedoes ignored them. The lines converged to a single point that blossomed bright on the screen.
"They got her, sir," the chief said quietly.
Boston had a better chance. Simms was at full speed now, with the torpedoes less than a thousand yards behind. He, too, deployed noisemakers and made radical changes in course and depth. One torpedo went wild, diving after a decoy and exploding on the bottom. The other locked on Boston and slowly ate up the distance. Another bright dot appeared, and that was that.
