Arctic Gold (41 page)

starboard side.

Not much there, Grenville said.

No, sir. We’re close enough to pick up some noise from his screw, and some from his power plant. Down here He pointed to a bright patch on the line. That when he opened his bow doors.

Yes.

And thank God a Russian torpedo hadn’t followed a moment later. The other captain was hunting still, not sure where the target was.

This is what I wanted to show you, sir.

Mayhew indicated an area of random static, a vague patch somewhere behind the Russian sub. Random static but somewhat less of it than elsewhere on the screen.

Grenville eyes widened as he realized what he was seeing. Shit!

I think, Mayhew started to say, but Grenville hand was already on the intercom mike.

Helm! This is the captain! Hard left rudder! Now!

Deep Black 7 - Arctic Gold

24

GK-1

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1205 hours, GMT12

DEAN SPUN, DRAGGING BACK the slide on the Makarov to chamber a round. At the far end of the corridor, perhaps eight or ten yards away, a man in civilian clothing was aiming a sidearm at them. Stoy!

the man shouted again. Stop!

As Dean moved, the man fired, the shot a thunderclap in the steel confines of the base passageway. The bullet struck the overhead, ricocheted with a screech, then ricocheted again off a bulkhead somewhere at Dean back.

Jesus!

Dean ducked reflexively, even though the round had already screamed past. Taking aim, he triggered a round as well, and heard the bullet bouncing off one of the walls before rebounding from the bulkhead behind the other man. Something clattered on the deck ahead of Dean the spent round, spinning as it burned off the last of its energy.

This was, he realized, a deadly shooting gallery. Handguns simply weren’t accurate beyond a range of a few yards unless the shooter was well trained. Here, though,

the massively thick steel bulkheads served to channel shots all the way down the passageway with the effect of making this a little like a shoot- out inside a sewer pipe.

Sooner or later, even the worst shot would hit something. Dean needed to end this now

.

He fired three more shots in rapid succession, not trying for accuracy so much as for a storm of bouncing, ricocheting rounds that would force the Russian gunman back behind the shelter of the far bend in the passageway.

The ugly little Makarov was uncomfortable in Dean hand, the grip considerably thicker than what he was used to. A disengaged part of him recalled that the design enabled the shooter to handle the weapon easily while wearing heavy glovesa necessity in the cold, long winters of Russia.

The other man dropped to the deck, writhing. A pipe running along the overhead suddenly spurted a stream of water. A second man appeared and snapped off another shot that came shrieking down the metal corridor, then pulled back out of sight. Behind him, Dean heard a sudden gasp, a cry of, Ah!

Who hit? Dean called.

It Golytsin! Kathy said.

I’m okay! Golytsin said. Into the submarine! Into the submarine!

Two men appeared around the bend in the passageway, grabbed their comrade, and dragged him back out of sight as water continued to spray into the far end of the corridor. At least, Dean thought, it wasn’t coming in with a force of half a ton per square inch; it must be a broken internal water supply.

You can’t get away, American! a voice yelled.

Braslov.

For answer, Dean fired twice more, deliberately aiming at the bulkhead far down the corridor in an effort to

bank the shots around the corner. He heard a shriek with the second shot.

Behind him, the others had scrambled down an open hatch in the deck. Dean fired one more shot blind, then jumped into the opening, pulling down one circular hatch and dogging it, then the second.

Golytsin was already at the controls, flipping power switches and bringing the little submersible to life. We need to leave now,

he told the Russian. Before they figure out how to stop us.

Coming online now, Golytsin replied. Dean could hear the rising hum from astern. Cutting the connectors now

There was a jolt and a sudden dropping sensation as the deck tilted sharply forward. The whine aft shrilled louder, and then the deck started to level off as Golytsin wrestled the submarine level.

Dean dropped the Makarov onto one of the narrow seats provided for passengers on the craft and squeezed forward between Kathy and Benford, peering over Golytsin shoulder.

Are you okay? Dean asked the Russian.

For now.

Where’d you get hit?

His side, Kathy told Dean.

It just grazed me. Golytsin shook his head. I didn’t think the idiots would open fire inside the facility!

The walls seem pretty thick, Dean said.

Yes, but the water pipes, hydraulic lines, and wiring conduits are all quite

vulnerable, Golytsin replied. We could have crippled the base!

I wish we had, Dean said. He was looking at a TV monitor mounted high up on the forward bulkhead, above and between the two thick quartz portholes. The screen showed the view aft, the brightly lit stern of the upended

Russian ship now receding slowly astern. Can they come after us?

They might, Golytsin acknowledged. We’ll just have to see.

The portholes forward showed only impenetrable blackness. The deck was tilting again, however, this time with the bow nosing higher. They were beginning their ascent: eight hundred meters, half a mile

Dean glanced around the compartment and saw three sets of bright blue survival dry suits on the deck aft where the others had dropped them.

Let me take the helm, Golytsin, he said. You three should get into your dry suits and, Kathy? Check his wound. I don’t want him bleeding to death. Is there a first aid kit in here?

Port- side bulkhead, Golytsin said.

Dean was still wearing the neoprene dry suit he’d donned for the assault on the Lebedev.

Once they reached the surface, it would be best if they could stay snug and dry inside the Mir, but he didn’t know how long the little vessel life support would last, or how well it might ride on the surface. If they did have to abandon ship, the others stood a much better chance of surviving if they were properly garbed.

A neoprene dry suit was designed to prevent hypothermia; Dean suit had proven that much already. He’d been miserably hot over the past hour, especially with the athletic exertions of the past few minutes, and was sweating heavily inside the thing.

Keep hold of this, Golytsin told him, moving aside so he could take the joystick. He pointed at a digital readout. That is our angle of ascent. Keep it between twenty and forty degrees.

Right, Admiral.

Golytsin looked pale and drained and was clutching

his right side. Dean could see blood slowly spreading beneath Golytsin hand.

Dean hoped they could find the Ohio

up there. Even with a survival suit, Golytsin wouldn’t last long on the iceor in this cold chambernot when he was already going into shock.

The Mir continued its climb through darkness.

SSGN Ohio

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1208 hours, GMT12

Captain Grenville had been wondering what had become of the Pittsburgh.

The Los Angelesclass attack submarine had accompanied the Ohio

all the way up to the Arctic. They’d passed messages back and forth, of courseby radio when they both were at periscope depth and could raise a mast, and by hydrophone while at depthbut once they’d entered the AO, the Area of Operations, all hydrophone communications had ceased. Anything one of the American subs could hear underwater could be heard by Russian subs, and at an extraordinary distance.

Standard operation orders, therefore, required a communications blackout. According to the ops plan, the Pittsburgh was to have begun orbiting the AO ten miles out each time the Ohio

surfaced, providing perimeter security against the Russian attack subs that were known to be in the vicinity.

Grenville stared at the patterns on Mayhew waterfall, realizing that what they represented was a slight decrease in noiseeven the background noise of grinding ice and distant shipsjust astern of the Russian Victor.

In short, Grenville was seeing what amounted to a

sound- absorbing hole in the water, and the only thing that might do that was the anechoic, sound- absorbing paint on the outer hull of

The Pittsburgh, Mayhew said softly. It gotta

be.

Agreed, Grenville said. He put out a hand to steady himself against an overhead beam as the Ohio deck tilted with her turn. The Ohio

had been passing the Victor, from bow to stern and off her starboard side, but not on a perfectly parallel course. Grenville had been intent on executing a maneuver known as the Williamson turn, cutting behind the Russian Victor and coming around on an exact reciprocal of his initial coursewhich would put him squarely in the Russian wake.

But it appeared now that the Pittsburgh

was already there. Grenville had broken off to port in order to avoid a head- on collision with the other American sub in the area.

He watched the patterns of sound shift on the waterfall and hoped he’d given the order to turn in time.

Mir

Beneath the Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1209 hours, GMT12

Dean held the Mir in its climb. For the past couple of minutes, he’d been listening to the swish and zip of clothing being changed behind him and trying not

to picture Kathy stepping out of those baggy pants and wiggling into her survival suit. She was, he thought, quite attractive.

He found himself thinking about Lia instead. Safe in Ankara, Rubens had said yesterday. Was she back in Washington yet? Or still overseas?

This doesn’t look too bad, Kathy voice said a moment later.

He risked a glance back over his shoulder. Golytsin

was slumped in one of the seats, the leggings of his survival suit on, but the rest bunched up behind his waist and back. Kathy, in another blue dry suit, knelt in front of him, looking at an angry red slash just below his rib cage. She had the sub first- aid kit open and was applying a wad of sterile gauze.

I told you, Golytsin said. Just a scratch.

Yeah, a scratch bleeding like a stuck pig, Kathy said. But this should stop the

It hardly matters, Benford said. He going to die anyway. You all are.

Dean looked past Kathy and the Russian. Benford was standing all the way at the aft end of the compartment, stooped slightly under the low overhead, and he had a Makarov pistol in his hand.

SSGN Ohio

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1209 hours, GMT12

We’re cavitating, Captain! Mayhew said.

Captain, Con! a voice called over the intercom at the same instant. We’re cavitating!

The damage was done. Helm! Maintain turn! Come to new heading two- six- zero! Ahead half!

Helm maintain turn to new heading two- six- zero, aye! Ahead half. Aye!

Even at a creeping pace of four knots, the sudden turn had been enough to make noise in the water. The trouble was that the Ohio, over 560 feet long and with a submerged displacement of 18,750 tons, did not

stop on a dime or turn inside her own length, and Grenville had to goose the old girl to give her rudder some bite to the water.

The cat was well and truly out of the bag now, dripping wet and making a hell of a racket but that was better than scoring an own goal by ramming the Pittsburgh

.

The question now was what the Russian was going to do about it.

SSN Dekabrist

Arctic Ice Cap

82a! 34’ N, 177a! 26’ E

1209 hours, GMT12

Got

him, Captain!

Captain First Rank Valery Kirichenko looked up as the sonar officer called over the intercom.

Talk to me, Lieutenant.

Sir! We have sounds of propeller cavitation to starboard, bearing two- five- zero, range approximately five hundred meters. Target aspect changing, and appears to be turning away from us, to port. I’m getting increased power plant noise as well. I believe he is accelerating.

Excellent! Stay with him!

Kirichenko orders required that he find and neutralize any enemy submarines operating within a twenty- kilometer perimeter around the GK-1 if hostilities commenced. The Lebedev

had passed him the word hours before that American commandos were boarding the ship and that an American Ohio- class submarine had surfaced alongside.

The Americans had made it so easy but then the game had turned dark as the Dekabrist slipped closer to the enemy. The American vessel had suddenly submerged, making the challenge of finding her that much more difficult. He knew approximately where the enemy vessel was, but not precisely. He’d hoped the sounds of scraping ice and opening bow doors would have enticed