Peacemaker by Gordon Kent

Author:Gordon Kent [Gordon Kent]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007512201
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2000-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

21

November

The Strait of Gibraltar, aboard the Shark.

Suvarov smiled at Lebedev, who was his admiral’s son and his chief sonarman and who excelled at his job. Right now his job was to identify the USNS Philadelphia among hundreds of other merchant ships in the eastern Atlantic. As usual, he was doing a superb job.

“Dead ahead, 010 relative, four thousand meters,” Lebedev said quietly. “Two escorts, one Ticonderoga-class, one Burke-class.”

“How far from the Rock?”

“Fifteen thousand meters.”

“Make revolutions for three knots. I want to be dead ahead of the Philadelphia. I want her to pass directly overhead. Helm, place us bow up in the layer. Weapons, set up a passive torpedo attack, bow on.” The weapons officer looked appalled.

The tension on the bridge was like a layer of cigar smoke. It could be felt; it certainly had a smell. Suvarov watched Lebedev. He wasn’t rock steady, but he was solid enough. He conned the ship carefully. Suvarov watched the screen as he mentally counted the seconds. He didn’t need the sonar to feel the placement of the ships. He was taking an unholy risk: that the Americans did not have a tail deployed. They were about to transit the Strait of Gibraltar and he hoped they had no idea that he existed. If one American destroyer had an acoustic tail deployed, he might very well be caught, and that would ensure humiliation and might mean the end of the mission. Protest meant showing the Americans that he could have taken action had he desired. That was the language of the Cold War, and sailors spoke it better than anyone. Especially submariners.

He felt the ship slow, felt the change in attitude as Lebedev changed the internal ballast and pointed the bow a few degrees up. The crew was silent. They did not need passive sonar to hear the big American ships passing. While every hand on the bridge sat glued to his screen, many white-knuckled, Suvarov watched them, looking slowly from man to man. They were not bad, and in that moment he loved them, even little Rubinov who was trying to hide his hyperventilation.

“Prepare revolutions for twenty-six knots,” he said, very quietly. The last American ship was almost directly overhead. The tidal race would start in forty minutes, a period of acoustic chaos.

Lebedev raised his head sharply. He laughed, two small barks like a lapdog. “It is a game!”

Of course he had never intended to fire. He had simply said hello. Protest, not fight. That was in his orders. The surface ship captains knew, but he wanted to give his crew this taste of the past, a knowledge of themselves.

Suvarov smiled. He turned to the engineer. “Run,” he said, and made a small gesture. The engines sang out and the Shark leapt forward. Suvarov knew that every sonarman on the American ships now knew his location. Their officers would get the message.

I was under you. I owned you. Welcome to the Med.

The protest had begun. So had his revenge.

Off Africa, aboard the Jackson.

“So,” Alan was saying to Kravitz, “this is right up your alley.

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