The commander of the U.S.S. Devilfish is ordered to hunt down and destroy a Russian rogue sub in this gripping tale of submarine warfare from the author of Threat Vector.
This one’s for you. Dad.
The USS Stingray hovered silently 200 feet below the polar icecap. The nuclear submarine’s control room was absurdly cramped. Filled with consoles, valves, piping and cables it was uncomfortable, but functional. The room was lit by a dim red wash from the overhead fluorescents and the redmasked gages and dials of the ship’s control consoles. The only sounds were the whining of the gyros, the low growl of the ventilation fans and murmurs of conversation from the crew in the space.
On an elevated platform surrounded by stainless steel handrails, a tall man with a tightly trimmed beard frowned in concentration at a television screen glowing red. The dim light further revealed a stern-faced man in his early forties, dressed in black overalls with a silver oak leaf on each collar. Over his left pocket was a gold pin resembling a pilot’s wings, but each “wing” was a scaly fish facing the middle, with a submarine’s conning tower — its sail — forming the center: a submariner’s dolphins. Embroidery thread over his right pocket spelled PACINO.
A phone buzzed. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he pulled the handset to his ear. “Captain.”
“Captain, radio, sir. The outgoing patrol-report message to COMSUBLANT is ready to transmit.”
“Very well, radio.” Pacino replaced the headset.
A lieutenant standing at the firecontrol console looked up at him on the periscope stand. “Sir, the ship is ready to vertical surface. Ice overhead is one foot thick.”
“Very well, vertical surface.”
“Diving Officer, vertical surface the ship,” the lieutenant called to a chief petty officer sitting behind Pacino at airplane-style controls. At the lieutenant’s order another chief at a wraparound console on the control room’s port side pushed the hovering system’s joystick up to the BLOW position.
The ship started to rise at a steady two feet per second.
Every half second the digital-depth gage clicked off another foot. On the surface above a stiff arctic wind blew the falling snow almost horizontally. The howl of the wind was suddenly punctuated by the sound of the Stingray’s three thousand tons crashing through the thin ice. Several ice blocks fell from the top of the black conning tower to the horizontal surfaces below. A tall mast rose out of the sail — the periscope.
A second — the radio antenna — soon followed. It began transmitting a flash priority message to COMSUBLANT, the admiral in command of the Atlantic submarine force. The message reported the position of the newest known Soviet attack submarine, NATO code name VICTOR III.
Four kilometers away, aboard the Leningrad, Captain 1st Rank Alexi Novskoyy hunched over a firecontrol console showing the position of the American submarine to the south. Long sleepless hours had left dark circles under his eyes, barely showing through the mass of uncombed hair hanging over his face.
He stood and addressed the men in the cramped space.
“Attention in the control compartment. As you are all aware, four months ago an American submarine collided with the Kiev not far from here. The Kiev’s hull was ruptured and she sank with all hands. Our submarine force was disappointed by our official response, little more than a diplomatic protest to Washington. Now we are positioned to deliver the Northern Fleet’s unofficial response.”
All conversation stopped as the four officers stared up at the solid, compact Novskoyy. Only the whining of the firecontrol computer and the deep bass of the ventilating ducts could be heard as he lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the overhead. Novskoyy looked into his officers’ eyes. Each man nodded and turned to his control console. “Weapons Officer, lock the firecontrol solution to the target into the torpedoes in tubes one and two and prepare to fire. Deck Officer, open outer doors to tubes one and two. Ship Control Officer, slow to fifteen clicks.” Each officer began his assigned task almost before the order was given. He’d trained them well, Novskoyy thought.
The hole in the ice created by the Stingray faded as the ship descended to 500 feet and accelerated to five knots. The phone beside Pacino buzzed again.
“Captain.”
“Captain, radio, sir. Outgoing patrol report message to COMSUBLANT transmitted to the satellite. The broadcast has been received, it’s printing out now. No flash traffic, sir, but we do have the familygrams aboard.”
“Very well, radio. Did I get anything?”
“Yes sir. Message from your son, sir. Should I read it out to you?”
“No, just send over the printout.” Pacino replaced the headset, smiling faintly. Every month or so COMSUBLANT included radio messages from family members— usually less than a hundred words — in their submarine broadcast. For the last three months, it was the only communication from home anyone had had.
