Into the still air that followed, an excited report from Sonar came over the interphone.
“Conn, I have an explosion from the last known bearing of Master 01!”
I nodded at Igor. “Make your depth nineteen meters. All stop.” The ship began to slowly rise.
“Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”
“Bearing 090, designate Sierra 1. It sounds like hull noises, breaking up! I think we got him, sir!”
“Nineteen meters, Captain.”
“Da. Raise the electronics mast. Scan with the radar. Report all contacts.”
|The Kilo Raises Periscope||Scope Shot|
Of course, the picture was clean by then, for the Iranian was heading for the bottom of the Black Sea, fifteen hundred meters down. We recovered forty-two of her crew, including her captain.
“And I’m sure he will have some interesting things to tell the FSB, eh, Shoura?”
Uncle Grigoriy took a sip of his tea, a satisfied look on his face.
“You must come and sail with us, sometime.”
I demurred at that invitation. I do not think I would be welcome in so confined a place. And besides, my place is in the sky, with Vasily, and Alexei, and our comrades. Soon, duty will call again, and Uncle Grigoriy and I will have to return to war. But for now, I returned my attention to my borscht, and the beauty of a sunset over the Black Sea, which we watched from the outside dining area of our hotel in Sochi.