Voyage of the Devilfish

“Deck Officer, Ship Control Officer, right full rudder, steady course west.” The officers acknowledged, and 60,000 metric tons of Russian attack submarine came slowly around to the west, enroute to the thin ice of the polynya, on the way to transmit the molniya of Admiral Novskoyy. Even though Vlasenko had been in the titanium pod for only a half hour the temperature inside was subzero. Since the collision he had sat on a wooden bench, watching his breath form vapor clouds in the cold and trying to decipher the meaning of the sounds of the ship without hard data. The collision must mean that an American submarine had been shadowing them. But did it stop Novskoyy’s lethal transmission? Vlasenko had felt the hull tremble with the power of speeding up. A few minutes later came the unmistakable sound of a torpedo launch, the deck had angled to the port side, then starboard — turning hard right. The hull had again trembled with speed, then become calm. The polymer injection system was smoothing the ride. It seemed clear Novskoyy had launched a weapon at the intruder, then run like hell — it must be a Magnum! A conventional unit couldn’t hurt the firing ship, but a Magnum could blast them to the bottom if they were closer to it than 20 kilometers. Strangely, though, several minutes later the ship had slowed again and the pod deck angled to and fro as the ship was turned. It made no sense, there had been no detonation shock from the Magnum! Maybe it hadn’t been a Magnum after all. Vlasenko hated his position… from captain to passenger.

He had tried to distract himself with a mental calculation of the amount of air in the sphere, and his rate of oxygenuse. He had decided that the air was good enough for perhaps 12 to 24 hours, depending on the assumptions about his levels of metabolism. He also realized he would probably not last half that long… the cold was chipping away at both his body and his spirit. It was extremely painful. He could feel the circulation slowing in his arms and legs. His toes were numb, so were his fingertips. His ears burned from frostbite and his nasal linings were on fire from the frigid air. Pain. How long could he endure it…? The Mark 50 Hullcrusher torpedo “felt” the thrust of its spinning propulsor. It had never before cruised on its own power; it had only been through simulated electronic checks. As instructed, it counted out the range from the firing point with a counter on the propulsor shaft so that it knew when to start the circular orbits, swimming in circles until it found a valid return. Seven minutes after launch the weapon reached the orbitpoint, put the rudder over and turned left to the north as it slowed to circling speed. Turning, it “listened” passively.

Nothing to the north. Nothing to the west. The weapon circled. Nothing to the south. Still orbiting, the weapon settled in for a long series of circles to find the target.

Two minutes after Ivanov ordered the turn, the ship was steady on course west, at first at her original polymer injection speed but slower as the polymers ran out. When the ship neared maneuvering range of the polynya she slowed further. All the while the officers continued monitoring the quickly retreating Magnum torpedo, twenty kilometers away, still on its own way west.