The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [189]
"That was your cleverest move of all." the Master Shipwright said, pointing a finger at his guest. "You could not have decided better, because the next time you go out, you will be the most quiet submarine we've ever put to sea."
"They still have the advantage over us," Dubinin pointed out honestly.
"That is true, but for once the advantage will be less than the difference between one commander and another, which is as it should be. We both studied under Marko Ramius. If only he were here to see this!"
Dubinin nodded agreement. "Yes, given current political circumstances, it is truly a game of skill, not one of malice anymore."
"Would that I were young enough to play," the Master Shipwright said.
"And the new sonar?"
"This is our design from the Severomorsk Laboratory, a large aperture array, roughly a forty-percent improvement in sensitivity. On the whole, you will be the equal of an American Los Angeles class in nearly all regimes."
Except crew, Dubinin didn't say. It would be years before his country had the ability to train men as the Western navies did, and by that time Dubinin would no longer have command at sea - BUT! In three months time he'd have the best ship that his nation had ever given one of its captains. If he were able to cajole his squadron commander into giving him a larger officer complement, he could beach the more inept of his conscripts and begin a really effective training regimen for the rest. Training and leading the crew was his job. He was the commanding officer of Admiral Lunin. He took credit for what went well, and blame for what went badly. Ramius had taught him that from the first day aboard the first submarine. His fate was in his own hands, and what man could ask for more than that?
Next year, USS Maine, when the bitterly cold storms of winter sweep across the North Pacific, we will meet again.
"Not a single contact," Captain Ricks said in the wardroom.
"Except for Omaha." LCDR Claggett looked over some paperwork. "And he was in too much of a hurry."
"Ivan doesn't even try anymore. Like he's gone out of business." It was almost a lament from the Navigator.
"Why even try to find us?" Ricks observed. "Hell, aside from that Akula that got lost "
"We did track the guy a while back," Nav pointed out.
"Maybe next time we'll get some hull shots," a lieutenant observed lightly from behind a magazine. There was general laughter. Some of the more extreme fast-attack skippers had, on very rare occasions, maneuvered close enough to some Soviet submarines to take flash photographs of their hulls. But that was a thing of the past. The Russians were a lot better at the submarine game than they'd been only ten years earlier. Being number two did make one try harder.
"Now, the next engineering drill," Ricks said.
The Executive Officer noted that the faces around the table didn't change. The officers were learning not to groan or roll their eyes Ricks had a very limited sense of humor.
"Hello, Robby." Joshua Painter got up from his swivel chair and walked over to shake hands with his visitor.
"Morning, sir."
"Grab a seat" A steward served coffee to both men. "How's the wing look?"
"I think we'll be ready on time, sir."
Admiral Joshua Painter, USN, was Supreme Allied Commander Atlantic, Commander-in-Chief Atlantic, and Commander-in-Chief U.S. Atlantic Fleet - they only paid him one salary for the three jobs, though he did have three staffs to do his thinking for himi. A career aviator - mainly fighters - he had reached the summit of his career. He would not be selected for Chief of Naval Operations. Someone with fewer politically rough edges would get that job, but Painter was content. Under the rather eccentric organization of the armed services, the CNO and other service chiefs merely advised