moving blip headed exactly toward the center of the dial, pinging as it homed in on the submarine. The pinging became louder and more rapid, like Henry’s heartbeat as he watched death approaching. Then the pinging slowed and the blip paused.
“Sir, correction, it’s a UUV,” the sonar operator reported, meaning an underwater drone.
“They want to get a read on us,” Dixon said. He turned to his navigator. “Open torpedo tubes one and two. Let’s be ready.”
“Aye, sir, torpedo tubes one and two open.”
“Dive officer, bring us to periscope depth.”
As soon as the sub reached a depth of sixty-eight feet, Dixon sent an urgent message via the UHF mast to Submarine Force Atlantic headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia: Georgia is at Defense Condition Two, one step below war. He quickly scanned the horizon through the periscope. Radar picked up a Russian antisubmarine helicopter, probably dropping motion sensors in the water. Was this a game? The Russians were always challenging American ships and planes, then backing off at the last possible second. But everything the convoy had done indicated that they were prepared for war.
There had to be some response to the American bombing of the Russian warplanes in Iran and the blockade of their Pacific Fleet. Perhaps the Russian planners calculated that a single American submarine was a proportionate response. Or maybe the larger war had already begun.
There were five ships in the Russian convoy. The Georgia carried fourteen torpedoes, but could only fire four at a time; no doubt that was why the Russian commander was waiting for reinforcements. Dixon’s best chance was to put as much distance as possible between his submarine and the Russians. The surface was turbulent, which could complicate the Russian attempts to track the Georgia’s acoustic signal, but the damaged piston made silent evasion almost impossible.
“Open main ballast vents,” Dixon told the dive officer.
Immediately came the blasting OOGA OOGA! The sudden clamor was jarring. “Dive! Dive Dive!” was the command.
“Diving officer, make the depth eight hundred feet.”
“Eight hundred feet, aye.”
Henry grabbed a handhold as the submarine lurched nose-downward. Seawater noisily filled the ballast tanks. His ears popped. Everyone leaned backward at a steep slant, as if they were being blown to the ground by a hurricane wind.
Down, down, they went.
“Give us a report on eddies and currents. We’d like to find a thermocline to hide behind,” the captain said to the navigation officer. Dixon figured that by now F-18s from the American carrier group in the Mediterranean were in the air. If he could escape the drone and come to a dead stop in the deep, he might have a chance. Otherwise, the Georgia was doomed.
“Sir, the Russians are closing to weapons distance, forty thousand yards,” the sonar operator said. The ships were moving slowly in order to keep track of the submarine. The faster they traveled, the less they would be able to hear over their own engine noise. That was why they had planted a drone on the Georgia’s tail. Dixon ordered his executive officer to generate target solutions for the Russian ships.
“Launch countermeasures,” Dixon ordered.
The evasion devices—noisemakers and bubbles—were meant to throw off the drone, but it wasn’t fooled. Russian technology had gotten so much better in the last few years. Torpedo tubes three and four were opened.
“Sir, the UUV is surfacing,” the sonar operator reported.
The drone was rising to communications range to report the GPS coordinates of the Georgia. Whatever the intention of the Russian commander, it would be made clear momentarily. The Russian officer certainly knew what Dixon was up to, racing to deep water to hide behind a thermal gradient. They were both running out of time.
“Sir, we have firing solutions,” the executive officer reported.
Captain Dixon had a momentary advantage. As soon as the drone broadcast his location, the Russians could launch their torpedoes. It would be an onslaught. On the other hand, Dixon could fire first. A surface ship had no chance against Georgia’s Mark 48 torpedoes. They were wire-guided and had their own sensors as well. They were almost undetectable until they blew up the keel of the ship they were programmed to attack. But he wouldn’t be able to destroy all five ships at once.
A loud clatter suddenly came on the sonar. The screen clouded over with particles like champagne bubbles.
“Sir, something strange!” the sonar operator said.
“Source?” Dixon asked.
“It’s all over the place, sir!”
“Frequency?”
“Two hundred decibels, sir!” It was slightly louder than a gunshot; on the sonar it sounded like bacon grease popping in the pan. The