Water
poured into the engineering spaces, squeezing the atmosphere in the
compartment into a smaller and smaller pocket until the air itself
exploded,
destroying the turbines and reduction gears.
An
electrical fire ignited a tank of light lubrication oil that exploded
and destroyed Sorensen's Beach. Fogarty burned up.
As
Barracuda
sank to the bottom, twelve thousand feet below,
Sorensen lived long enough to drown.
A
plain, unmarked
Mercedes was waiting for
Netts when he stepped off the plane at the airstrip near Hamburg. Three
days
had passed since
Barracuda
and
Potemkin
had destroyed one
another.
A
young
lieutenant stood on the tarmac,
holding open the rear door. The admiral waved the lieutenant aside,
slid into
the driver's seat and drove south along the west bank of the Elbe.
It
was a fine
spring morning and the river
was wide and beautiful. In that part of central Germany the Elbe is the
border
between East and West. Thirty miles east of Hamburg fields of rye
stretched
ripe and green, and on both sides of the river farmers on their
tractors looked
busy, but there was one difference. In the East, a hundred yards from
the
river, a chain of high guardtowers marched along the Elbe, guns trained
on the
open fields.
Netts
drove
through Lauenberg an der Elbe, an
ancient town of long slate roofs, and stopped when he reached a
single-lane
bridge that crossed the river. Two West German border patrolmen, whose
usual
station was at the foot of the bridge, sat in a jeep a discreet
distance away.
On
the other side
of the river another
Mercedes was parked behind a lowered crossing gate. In the middle of
the
bridge, alone, stood Sergei Gorshkov, admiral of the fleet of the
Soviet Union.
They
had never
met before. Netts looked at
him, not trusting himself to speak. He waited for the Russian to start
it.
Gorshkov
was a
tall, heavy man dressed in a
dark well-made suit. His face was bland. He watched the river barges
for
several minutes, as though admiring the hard-working rivermen. Finally
he spoke
in heavily accented but otherwise good English. "I am pleased you
agreed
to meet."
"I
thought it
prudent. Tell me what you
have to say."
"You
will not
inform your press agencies
of what has happened?"
"Of
course not."
No need to get
such an assurance in return. Everything
Potemkin
had
done was to keep
the secret of its existence and of
Dherzinski
's
presence in the
Caribbean.
"
Dherzinski
is returning to Murmansk. She is no longer in position to—"
"We
know. She
passed through the Iceland
gap this morning... Admiral, your captain sank my ship."
"He
died for it."
"He
committed an
unprovoked act of war.
You are responsible—"
"It
was not
unprovoked. Your ship came
within a kilometer of
Dherzinski
—"
"
Dherzinski
was in our waters." Like medieval popes, the two admirals were dividing
up
the world... "Admiral, I don't think you were so concerned about
Dherzinski
.
In any case, you now know your
attempt to violate our Cuban agreement is ended. Your patrols in the
Caribbean
have been terminated. But you were trying to protect your new class of
attack
submarines. What was the name of the ship that sank
Barracuda?
"
"Potemkin."
"How
apt. Named
for a czarist prince.
You Russians never forget who you are. Why are you so anxious to protect
Potemkin?
"
Gorshkov
smiled.
"Admiral Netts, I am
sure you would not ask such a question unless you knew the answer. Your
technicians have spectroscopes. By now they will have examined the
sections of
the bow removed from
Barracuda
in Rota after the
collision and found
traces of titanium." Gorshkov added, "We do not want to sink your
ships. We want to put a stop to this before it gets out of control."
"You're
buying
time, Admiral. You want
to delay until you have a fleet of deep-diving titanium subs."
Gorshkov's
face
was still bland, almost
affable. "You're a gambler, Admiral Netts. I would enjoy playing poker
with you. But, as it is, we have each lost a submarine, and neither of
us
wishes to lose another. Or be provoked into a war."
They
both turned
to the river. Gorshkov said,
"And so, once again, it is agreed neither of us will speak of what has
happened, or of this meeting."
Netts
nodded
curtly. "I have already
said so.
Barracuda
disappeared, causes unknown."
"For
us, it is
simple.
Potemkin
never existed."
They
did not
shake hands on the bargain. Self-interest
sealed it. For now. They would have no war today.
Below
them a
barge whistle shrilled. They
faced each other for a moment, then turned and walked off in opposite
directions.
The
game was over.
The
game had just
begun.
MARK
JOSEPH attributes his lifelong interest in nuclear submarines to a
childhood
spent wandering the Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, California.
Currently, he makes his home in San Francisco. This is his first novel.