“Make your depth fifteen meters,” he ordered. Vipr moved up a little higher in the water. At last they were clear enough of the waves for the snorkel to operate. Vivilav shouted, “Raise the snorkel mast!”

He watched as the large black pipe slid upward, clear of the tops of the waves. As soon as he was sure it was high enough, he ordered, “Commence snorkeling.”

The grumbling roar of the diesel generator vibrated throughout the boat. The noisy machine sucked in great quantities of clean air and vented out the choking smoke that had filled the engine room.

Vivilav winced. The noise of their diesel would carry for many miles through the water, and he knew that there was no way to disguise the distinctive sound. If anyone were looking for them, they would come running now.

The smoke dissipated, but the stench of the fire remained. Men removed their air-breathing masks, fighting the impulse to gag, and started the slow task of trying to repair the damage.

No one on board Vipr was aware of another large submarine, this one traveling below the thermocline on a reverse course, twenty miles away. On board Toledo, the narrow sonar trace they saw was classified as a fishing trawler.

Intent on reaching its destination, Toledo ignored the brief blip as it passed astern.

Chapter 27

The Toledo moved through the cold waters of the Barents. Traveling deep and fast, she felt nothing of the turbulence that raged up above them on the sea’s roiling surface.

Master Chief Tommy Zillich sat perched on a high stool in the back corner of his beloved sonar shack. The dim blue light played across his face as he nursed his “boys” while their high-tech electronic “ears” searched out the far corners of the depths. They were doing their best to hear anyone out there long before the other guys realized Toledo was in the neighborhood.

He sat back, yawned, and, as he reached up behind his head in a big stretch, he flipped a switch to start a tape in a small playback unit. It was time to test his team and, at the same time, interject a little excitement into an otherwise boring watch. The tape turned as Zillich scrutinized the backs of his watchstanders.

Sure enough, the passive broadband (PBB) operator jerked up straight in his chair as if someone had sent high voltage through it. He began frantically pushing buttons on his stack with his left hand and slewing his joystick to the bearing with his right. His eyes were wide. The displays in front of him shifted through several modes until he finally looked up.

“Chief, new contact!” he shouted breathlessly. “Sierra four-seven-one. Possible Sierra-class Russian sub. Bearing one-two-five. Best range two to three thousand yards.”

Zillich frowned. He reached to cuff the young sonarman sharply on his shoulder.