The Hunt for Red October - Tom Clancy [216]
The V. K. Konovalov
Tupolev was enjoying himself. For whatever reason, the Americans had chosen to play a conservative game that he had not expected. The smart thing, he thought, would have been for one of the attack boats to close in and harrass him, allowing the missile sub to pass clear with the other escort. Well, at sea nothing was ever quite the same twice. He sipped at a cup of tea as he selected a sandwich.
His sonar michman noted an odd sound in his sonar set. It only lasted a few seconds, then was gone. Some far-off seismic rumble, he thought at first.
The Red October
They had risen because of the Red October's positive trim, and now Ryan had five degrees of down-angle on the diving planes to get back down to a hundred meters. He heard the captains discussing the absence of a thermocline. Mancuso explained that it was not unusual for the area, particularly after violent storms. They agreed that it was unfortunate. A thermal layer would have helped their evasion.
Jones was at the aft entrance of the control room, rubbing his ears. The Russian phones were not very comfortable. "Skipper, I'm getting something to the north, comes and goes. I haven't gotten a bearing lock on it."
"Whose?" Mancuso asked.
"Can't say, sir. The active sonar isn't too bad, but the passive stuff just isn't up to the drill, Skipper. We're not blind, but close to it."
"Okay, if you hear something, sing out."
"Aye aye, Captain. You got some coffee out here? Mr. Bugayev sent me for some."
"I'll have a pot sent in."
"Right." Jones went back to work.
The V. K. Konovalov
"Comrade Captain, I have a contact, but I do not know what it is," the michman said over the phone.
Tupolev came back, munching on his sandwich. Ohios had been acquired so rarely by the Russians—three times to be exact, and in each case the quarry had been lost within minutes—that no one had a feel for the characteristics of the class.
The michman handed the captain a spare set of phones. "It may take a few minutes, Comrade. It comes and goes."
The water off the American coast, though nearly isothermal, was not entirely perfect for sonar systems. Minor currents and eddies set up moving walls that reflected and channeled sound energy on a nearly random basis. Tupolev sat down and listened patiently. It took five minutes for the signal to come back.
The michman's hand waved. "Now, Comrade Captain."
His commanding officer looked pale.
"Bearing?"
"Too faint, and too short to lock in—but three degrees on either bow, one-three-six to one-four-two."
Tupolev tossed the headphones on the table and went forward. He grabbed the political officer by the arm and led him quickly to the wardroom.
"It's Red October!"
"Impossible. Fleet Command said that his destruction was confirmed by visual inspection of the wreckage." The zampolit shook his head emphatically.
"We have been tricked. The caterpillar acoustical signature is unique, Comrade. The Americans have him, and he is out there. We must destroy him!"
"No. We must contact Moscow and ask for instructions."
The zampolit was a good Communist, but he was a surface ship officer who didn't belong on submarines, Tupolev thought.
"Comrade Zampolit, it will take several minutes to approach the surface, perhaps ten or fifteen to get a message to Moscow, thirty more for Moscow to respond at all—and then they will request confirmation! An hour in all, two, three? By that time Red October will be gone. Our original orders are operative, and there is no time to contact Moscow."
"But what if you are wrong?"
"I am not wrong, Comrade!" the captain hissed. "I will enter my contact report in the log, and my recommendations. If you forbid this, I will log that also! I am right, Comrade. It will be your head, not mine. Decide!"
"You are certain?"
"Certain!"
"Very well." The zampolit seemed to deflate. "How will you do this?"
"As quickly as possible, before the Americans have a chance to destroy us. Go to your station,