"This is the captain. We have just received word that there is an enemy submarine in the area, possibly United States Los Angeles class. This submarine has already attacked and destroyed a civilian Russian freighter that had women and children on board. The president of the Russian Republic has ordered the Black Sea fleet to destroy it.

"We believe that this submarine is in our area, perhaps within ten miles of our current position.

"It is my intention, gentlemen, that the Alrosa shall be the submarine that will carry out our president's orders. We shall do so to avenge the death of innocent Russians. We shall do so to take control of the high seas and to show the Americans whose navy is superior, and we shall do so for the glory of Russia.

"Be prepared to go to battle stations. This is the captain. That is all."

The USS Honolulu Black Sea depths

Soup. Check this out." The Bloodhound handed his earphones to the sonar officer, Lieutenant Boers.

Boers had heard enough. He picked up the microphone for direct link to the control room. "Conn. Sonar. We have a possible submerged submarine! Bearing zero-one-five. Designate contact master two-nine!"

"Sonar. Conn. Aye. Man battle stations! Torpedo, rig for ultra quiet, " cried the officer of the deck, Lieutenant McCaffity.

"Rig tubes one and three fully ready, " Pete ordered.

"Rig tubes one and three. Aye, sir."

"Man battle stations!" All over the ship, red lights flashed. Crewmen sprinted and dashed to their positions. "Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands, man your battle stations!"

"XO, come with me. Mr. McCaffity, you have the conn."

"I have the conn. Aye, sir."

Pete rushed to the sonar room. Frank followed him.

The Bloodhound had both hands on the outside of his earphones. Intense concentration dominated his face. Lieutenant Boers was glued to the passive sonar screen.

"Okay, what do you got?" Frank asked.

"Sir, we have a possible submerged submarine, " Boers said, "bearing zero-four-seven. Designate master two-nine. Best step for evasion, sir, is to dive deep. Recommend diving to eight-three-one feet, to avoid that sub."

"Very well." Pete picked up the microphone. "Lieutenant McCaf-fity, this is the captain. Increase your speed to standard. Come right to course two-seven-zero. Make your depth eight-three-one feet."

"Aye, aye, Captain, " Lieutenant McCaffity said. "Chief of the Watch, all ahead standard. Dive. Make your depth eight-three-one feet."

"Aye, sir, " the chief of the watch, who was also serving as the diving officer, acknowledged the order passed down from the captain. He stood just behind the helmsman, who pushed down on the steering wheel. This sent the submarine into a steep dive.

The Honolulu continued its dive as Pete and Frank returned to the control room.

The diving officer gave reports on the sub's descent. "Passing five-five-zero feet."

A message came in from the radio room. "Conn. Radio. Sir, we are out of VLF radio range. Full message capacity is cut off."

"Radio. Conn." Pete said. "Extend extremely low frequency antenna."

"Passing six hundred feet."

Back in the sonar room, a small red cylinder appeared on the passive sonar screen. Lieutenant Boers' eyes widened.

"Conn! Sonar! We have risk classification." Boers turned to one of the sonar technicians. "Mark that tape. Get the classification on your monitor."

Pete rushed into the sonar room. "What the heck is going on?"

"Sir, " Boers said, "the master two-nine is classified as a Russian Kilo-class hunter killer. Bearing zero-one-zero, sir. He's close, but I don't think he's spotted us."

"Keep an eye on it, " Pete said.

"Aye, sir."

Pete headed back to the control room.

"Passing eight hundred feet, sir."

"Continue to dive, " Pete said. "Five degrees down bubble. Continue rigging for ultra quiet."

Pete picked up the microphone and switched to the 1MC. "Gentlemen, this is the captain. We have a Russian Kilo-class submarine out there. We are rigging for ultra quiet. We've been set back on our timetable because we rescued these orphans that we now have on board. But we went back and got them, because it was the right thing to do."

He looked around the control room. All eyes were glued on him.

"Our plan is to dive deep and hope to avoid the enemy submarine. But they're looking for us, as you know. Be ready. Be prepared. If that sub comes around or even so much as opens up a tube door, we're going to take her out." Pete exhaled. "This is the captain."

Pete hung the microphone back in its place. Dead silence was broken only by the diving officer's status report. Pete had decided to dive even deeper.

"Passing nine hundred feet."

He checked the sonar sweep monitor in the control room. Nothing. The oblong red image was gone.

"He's gone, " Frank Pippen was looking over Pete's shoulder.

"The heck he is, " Pete said. "He's up there." He looked up. "Somewhere."

"Nine-five-zero."

"Along with a dozen others just like him. Plus a whole fleet of aircraft and surface ships. All with torpedoes."

Depth dropped. Dropped more. 1100… 1200… 1250…

Pete was already deeper than he had intended to go. At 1475 feet, the submarine would be at "crush depth" and in danger of imploding. Enough was enough.

"Zero bubble."

"Zero bubble, aye, sir. Twelve hundred seventy-five feet, aye, sir."

The Honolulu was now headed in a westerly direction, toward the coast of Romania, nearly 1300 feet below the surface.

In the sonar room, the Bloodhound detected movement. "Soup, he's coming around, " he called.

Lieutenant Boers picked up the microphone. "Conn! Sonar! The Kilo's turning around, sir." A small red blip shot out from the larger, oblong red cylinder. "Conn Sonar! Torpedo in the water! Bearing two-four-one!"

A second red blip followed the first one. "Conn! Sonar! Second torpedo in the water. Bearing two-four-two!"

In the control room, sweat dripped off Pete's nose, splatting on the floor. If either torp exploded anywhere near Honolulu, it was all over.

"All ahead flank! Right full rudder." The sub swung hard to the right.

"Conn! Sonar! Three thousand yards and closing, sir!"

"Sound the collision alarm!" Loud bells rung all over the ship.

"Torpedoes at twenty-five hundred yards, sir."

"Rig ship for impact!" Pete ordered. "Hang on to your seats, gentlemen!"

"Two thousand yards!" Lieutenant Boers' voice boomed on the 1MC, echoing in the ship's corridors.

"One thousand five hundred yards. Bearing zero-seven-zero. Zero-seven-five. One thousand two hundred yards." Men grabbed onto anything they could, as if that would somehow stop the flow of deathly freezing water that would flood the submarine from a direct hit.

"One thousand yards and closing fast, " Boers' voice echoed. "Nine hundred fifty yards!"

"Launch the five-inch evasive device!" Pete shouted. "Launch countermeasures!"

"Countermeasures away, sir!"

Two metal canisters shot into the dark water from the hull of the submarine. The canisters, five-and-a-half inches in diameter at the base and propelled by small motors, gyrated and swirled through the water in a desperate attempt to deter the torpedoes from the submarine.

"Shift your rudder to left full!" Pete said. The helmsman complied. Honolulu swerved sharply through the dark water to the left, sliding coffee mugs, pencils, and anything else not buckled down in the opposite direction. The idea was to pull the ship away from the countermeasures, and pray that the torps fell for the bait.

"Three hundred yards and closing, sir." The sharp turn continued as Boers spoke.

"Sir, the first torpedo is going after the countermeasures! They missed! They missed!"

A massive underwater explosion rocked the Honolulu. The control room vibrated like the violent aftershock of a major earthquake. Men hung tightly to pipes, stationary cylinders, handles, anything they could find.