Dive to Oblivion

17

“I sure am sorry about da delay. Doc,” apologized Al from the open confines of the Sunshine’s wheelhouse. “It sure ain’t like Sunshine to fail me like that.”

“All that matters is that we safely made the crossing, Al,” returned Dr. Elizabeth, who stood beside him, with her hands on hips.

Andros Island was passing on their right, and the psychic looked out at the lowlying mass of mangrove trees and sand. The sun was already inching towards the western horizon, yet it still radiated unmerciful warmth. With the brim of her straw hat long since soaked. Dr. Elizabeth redirected her gaze to the boat’s interior cabin, when Mimi Slater emerged into the sunlight.

Appearing pale and unsteady, Mimi held onto the edge of the hatchway as if for dear life.

“Feelin’ better, hon?” asked Dr. Elizabeth, her concern most genuine.

Mimi shook her head.

“I’m afraid not. No matter what I do, I still feel sick to my stomach.”

“We’s out of da Gulf Stream now, missy, and da waters here are usually as calm as a bathtub. So you can relax, knowing dat da worst is over.”

“Al’s right, hon. We’ve come such a long way to get here, it would be a pity to give up now. Come join me in the sunlight, and breathe in some of this good clean air.”

Mimi somewhat reluctantly took the psychic’s suggestion, letting go of her handhold and unsteadily proceeding into the wheelhouse itself. Isis could be seen lazily sunning herself on the boat’s fantail, where a card table and three chairs had been set up.

“So that’s Andros Island,” managed Mimi, in reference to the passing landmass.

“Are you sure dat you don’t want to stop at Nicholl Town?” asked Al.

“My cousin Sherman will take good care of us there.”

Dr. Elizabeth looked at Mimi while answering.

“I’m sure that he would. But unfortunately, we’ve got another date to keep.”

Al shrugged his skinny shoulders, and quickly reached down to inch back the throttle when the trawler’s engine began sputtering. A thick plume of blue gray smoke billowed from the stern, prompting Al to lift up his head in mock prayer.

“Come on. Sunshine. Don’t fail me now, ole gal.”

Seemingly in response to this petition, the engine loudly wheezed a single time, before finally returning to normal.

“Dat’s my baby,” said Al with a satisfied grin.

Dr. Elizabeth walked over to Mimi, and gently guided her by the arm to one of the chairs.

“You have a seat right here, and everything will be just fine. Can I get you some water? Or maybe you’d like some of my herb tea.”

“I’m fine for now,” said Mimi, as she sat herself down and absently peered out to sea.

“Hon, you look like you just lost your best friend,” observed the psychic, who also sat at the table.

Mimi looked close to tears as she responded to this innocent remark.

“I have, you know. Without Peter, I have no one.”

Dr. Elizabeth reached over and grasped Mimi’s hand.

“Come now, hon, you know that’s not entirely true. You can count on me for a friend. And besides, who says that your husband still doesn’t have some say in the matter? I’ve got a feeling that he’s gonna be influencing your life for some time to come.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Mimi, her interest piqued.

“Do you really feel that Peter is close by?”

The psychic firmly nodded that she did, and with her finger to her lips, she beckoned Mimi to look towards the fantail. Still stretched out on the fish locker there, Isis had awakened, and was now anxiously searching the blue heavens, like someone was calling to her from above.

“She senses something,” whispered Dr. Elizabeth.

“I tell you we’re close, honi can feel it in my bones.”

“Surface contact. Chief, smack in our baffles,” reported the most junior sonarman in the Rickover’s crew.

“Sounds like it could be a small fishing trawler.”

Tim Lacey had been checking on the depth of their towed array, and he swung around to inspect his young shipmate’s CRT monitor.

“Nice work, babe,” said Lacey as he reached up for the microphone and his direct line to the control room.

“Conn, sonar. New contact bearing three-three-zero.

Classify Sierra six, trawler.”

“Sonar, conn. Aye,” returned the amplified voice of the OOD.

As Lacey reached up into the ventilation shaft and pulled out a bag of miniature Snickers bars. Captain Walden entered sonar. Unaffected by the CO’s presence, Lacey reached into the bag and casually handed Walden a candy bar.

“Enjoy it, sir. I know Snickers are your very favorite.”

“Thanks, Mr. Lacey,” replied Walden as he pulled the candy bar out of its wrapper and devoured it in a couple of bites.

“We’re just picking up the Avalon on the broad band. Captain,” informed Lacey.

“She’s tearin’ up the water something fierce, and headed due west.”

Walden held back his response until he had checked the monitor screen.

“I still find it strange that the Academician Petrovsky has yet to respond to that SOS.

Commander Moore reported sighting two diving saucers in their moon pool and you’d think they’d send them down when those aquanauts called for help.”

Lacey tapped the upper portion of the middle CRT screen.

“We’ve been isolating the Russian vessel ever since we left them, sir, and so far we haven’t heard a peep out of them. That’s some support ship.”

“I’m afraid that’s what we get for letting the wolf guard the chicken coop,” offered Walden, who looked up when a loud, hollow pinging noise sounded inside the sonar room.

This same noise generated a painful chorus of shouts from the three technicians. As they tore off their headphones, blood could be seen running out of their ears.

“Son of a bitch!” cursed Lacey, while rubbing his own throbbing ears.

“Someone out there just lashed the shit out of us!”

Spurred into action by this unexpected sonic attack, Walden’s first concern was his men.

“Get your boys down to the doc, and call in the next watch. It’s evident that we’ve got company down here. And I smell a Russian rat.”

“I’d like to remain on duty, if that’s all right with you. Captain,” pleaded Lacey.

“I know the score out there, and if there’s another submarine close by, all I need is another bearing to tag ‘em.”

Walden turned for the aft doorway.

“Do it, Lacey.

And I’ll go and see what I can do about flushing them out for you.”

The captain was furious with rage as he stormed into the control room.

“What in the hell hit us, sir?” asked the OOD, from his position beside the periscope well.

“Someone’s playing hide-and-seek with us,” revealed Walden.

“And we’re not leaving this damn quadrant until we find out just who it is. So let’s start the ball rolling with a nice, quiet turn to clear our baffles.

And if we should happen to encounter any visitors out there, we’ll say hello with a sonic lashing of our own!”

“Well, Comrade Petrokov, how did they react to our little greeting?” quizzed the zampolit with his usual air of impatience.

The Pantera’s senior sonar technician held back his reply until he had a chance to check out each of his sensors.

“I don’t understand it, sir. So far, we haven’t heard a peep out of them.”

“Maybe they didn’t hear us go active,” offered a junior associate.

“They heard us all right,” returned his bearded superior.

“In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t hear us back in Murmansk.”

Quick to join them after a hasty visit to the helm was Alexander Litvinov. The Pantera’s CO had only to scan the faces of the sonar team to know that their tactic had failed.

“Do you mean to say that the 688 isn’t hightailing it for open waters?” he asked against hope.

“That they aren’t. Captain,” answered the senior sonarman.

“Not only have they gone completely silent, but they don’t appear to have heard us.”

Litvinov began massaging the technician’s shoulders.

“But we know differently, don’t we, Misha? They got an earful, that you can bet your pension on. And instead of making them run for cover, we’ve ignited their are.”

“Do I hear fear in your voice. Captain?” ventured the red-faced political officer.

“What you mistake for fear, Comrade Zampolit, is one professional naval officer’s respect for another,” retorted Litvinov.

“I inwardly doubted that the Americans would be so easily intimidated, and now we must pay the price.”

“But Admiral Valerian has ordered us to remove them from this sector at once!” countered Dubrinin.

“That could be a little difficult, if we can’t even manage to find them again,” said the captain, who was finding it hard to hide his loathing for the ignorant political officer.

The zampolit couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“But we must locate them, and do so with haste. Admiral Valerian is relying on us, and no matter the risks involved, we have to rid the sea of this 688.”

“And how do you propose that we do this. Comrade Zampolit?” asked Litvinov angrily.

“How should I know?” replied Dubrinin.

“You’re the trained naval expert. Apply yourself. Captain!”

Litvinov sardonically commented, “One course that they unfortunately didn’t teach at the Academy was how to handle a pretentious political officer.”

“Your impertinence is noted. Captain,” spat the zampolit.

“I shall make certain to describe it in full when it comes time to record my official log.”

“You just do that,” returned Litvinov.

“And please don’t forget to include one more thing. If it had been up to me, the rank of zampolit would have been abolished years ago. Your kind do nothing but waste space and precious resources, and cause dissension among the crew. You are a living symbol of all that was wrong in our pasta system that has left the rodina a nation of bankrupt beggars. Shame on you, Boris Dubrinin.

And shame on your precious Party!”

Stunned into silence by this unexpected outburst, the zampolit was spared further comment by the remarks of the senior sonar technician.

“We continue to monitor the DSRV, Captain. It’s well above the thermocline, and any minute now, they’ll be arriving in the quadrant where the Mir habitat is located.”

This news caused a sudden idea to dawn in Litvinov’s mind.

“Why of course, the DSRV! All we have to do is close in on it and use it as bait to draw out the 688. Then when we know their location once again, we’ll challenge them to a little game of chicken. Soon they’ll be limping back to port with a dented hull to repair.”

The zampolit failed to share the captain’s enthusiasm.

“I hope this tactic, is more effective than your sonar lashing. Comrade. I say, enough of these childish games. Once we locate them again, let’s hit them with an acoustic homing torpedo and be done with it.”

“Our orders are to scare them away, not start a war,” reminded Litvinov.

“Who said anything about starting a war, Captain?

A well-placed torpedo will guarantee no survivors.

And all the Americans will ever know is that one of their submarines lies scattered on the bottom of the Andros Trench, the apparent victim of a defective weld.”

“Such talk scares me. Comrade zampolit. It’s indicative of what a blind fool you really are.”

Fighting back the urge to slug the captain, Boris Dubrinin swore to himself that he would revenge this in suit The exchange took place in the public confines of the Pantera’s attack center, so it would soon be common knowledge. Unless the zampolit did something drastic to redeem himself and show the extent of his power, he’d lose the crew’s respect, with no hope of ever again regaining it.

As fate would have it, the opportunity presented itself shortly after Pantera changed course to close in on the DSRV. No sooner did they start up the reactor and turn to the west, when an ear-splitting, resounding sonic blast penetrated their hull. It instantly shattered the eardrums of the sonar team, and the confidence of the men gathered around them.

Yet of all those assembled inside the attack center, only Boris Dubrinin looked at this lashing as a great opportunity. At long last, the American sub had exposed itself.

It was as Alexander Litvinov attended to the bleeding senior sonar technician, that Dubrinin casually made his way to the vacant firecontrol console. With a key that only he and the captain had copies of, the Zampolit proceeded to arm the sonic homing torpedoes stored in tubes one and three. These weapons were targeted on the source of the powerful sonic burst that they had just received, and with a casual push of his index finger, he released them into the sea.

The Pantera’s deck shuddered twice as the torpedoes streamed from their tubes, and Boris Dubrinin calmly stood back and watched their progress on the flashing monitor screen. Satisfied now that he had shown his shipmates where the power lay, he turned his glance back to the sonar room. There Alexander Litvinov stood speechless in the doorway, his shocked gaze locked on the man who had just abruptly changed their destinies.

Tim Lacey was monitoring the hydrophones placed inside the Rickover’s towed array, when a muted, buzzing sound caught his attention. His first impression was that it was nothing but a biological anomaly. But when the noise persisted, and seemed to actually intensify, he knew that it warranted his complete attention.

“I’ve got a transient, Chief!” informed one of the new members of the sonar watch.

“Bearing two-five five Could it be the Avalont’ “I’ve also got it on the towed array,” replied Lacey.

“It’s the wrong frequency for Avalon. Let’s boost the volume gain to the max and see what we come up with.”

With the hope that they wouldn’t be the victim of another sonic lashing at this inopportune moment, Lacey further amplified the mysterious sound. The familiar buzzing whine continued, and he searched his memory for the last time that he heard a similar signature.

He had to go back all the way to sonar school, and when it suddenly dawned on him what it was that they were hearing, his pulse quickened and his voice shouted out in warning.

“Incoming torpedoes! Maximum range, on bearing two-five-five!”

In the adjoining control room, these words of warning were greeted with instant dread. John Walden heard them while huddled over the navigation plot, and he quickly joined the OOD on the bridge.

“I’ve got the conn. Battle stations, torpedo!” ordered Walden firmly.

It was the chief of the watch who reached up and triggered a loud alarm that penetrated every corner of the Rickover, informing the crew to man their action stations. Rushing in to join the captain was his XO, who had been shaving when this alert came down, and still had some lather covering his face and neck.

“What the hell’s coming down. Skipper?” he breathlessly asked while taking up a position beside the attack scope.

Walden answered as he scanned the instruments above the helm.

“Looks like whoever lashed us didn’t appreciate it when we returned the favor, and now they’ve gone and expressed their displeasure by taking a potshot at us.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” remarked the startled XO, his tone tinged with utter disbelief.

Walden reached up for one of the microphones that hung from the ceiling, and secured a direct line into sonar.

“Chief, do you have a definite on those torpedoes?”

“That’s an affirmative. Captain,” shot back Lacey.

“They’re still well outside the twenty-thousand-yard envelope, though both appear to be emitting.”

Walden clicked off the microphone and addressed his XO.

“We’ve got plenty of time to lose them. Have Weaps ready a MOSS. If we’re livin’ right, our decoy will take care of the threat for us.”

“But what about that cowardly bastard out there’s who’s responsible for this unwarranted attack?” the XO asked.

“We’ll take care of him as soon as we’ve neutralized those oncoming torpedoes,” replied Walden.

“But first, we’ve got one hundred and forty lives to get out of harm’s way. And only after that’s accomplished, and we’ve ensured the safety of our DSRV, will we turn our thoughts to revenge.”