The Pacific Rim Collection
Page 92
“Chief, how many sonobuoys are left?”
“We’re down to three, sir. Two passives. One active left.”
Stacks thought for a second. He did not have either fuel or sonobuoys to waste on what might have been a reflection of the sun against a wave. On the other hand, if another sub was down there . . . with the carrier headed in this direction . . .
“Okay. Here’s our plan,” he said, thinking aloud. “Since we have two passive sonobuoys and only one active left, we are going to drop one of the passive sonobuoys in the water and see what we can hear. If Leftenant Jordan did in fact spot a communications buoy, and there is a submarine down there, it cannot be that far from the surface. We should be able to hear something with passive sonar.” Stacks looked at his copilot. “Do you agree, Leftenant?”
“Yes. I would think we should be able to hear her engines close to the surface, sir.”
“Agreed,” Stacks said. “Chief, prepare to drop passive sonobuoy. On my command.”
“Preparing to drop sonobuoy. Aye, sir.”
Commander Stacks brought the Merlin down to an altitude of two hundred feet, low enough to safely drop the passive sonobuoy into the ocean below, and low enough that the chopper’s downdraft stirred up the waves and swells on the surface.
“Sonobuoy’s in the water, Skipper,” Sonarman Chief Philip Welton announced.
CHAPTER 23
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles SSE of last known position of ARA Santa Cruz
depth 300 feet
1:35 p.m. local time
Depth approaching three hundred feet, Capitán.”
“Very well,” Commander Almeyda said. “Continue descent to target depth of four hundred feet. Prepare to arm torpedoes.”
“Continue descent to four hundred. Prepare to arm torpedoes.”
An eerie silence pervaded the control room of the San Juan as the depth meter reflected the submarine’s fast dive.
310 feet . . .
315 feet . . .
320 feet . . .
“Capitán!” the sonar officer said. “Splash on the surface, sir. Sounds like a sonobuoy.”
“I was afraid of that,” Almeyda said.
“Should we prepare for evasive maneuvers?” the XO asked.
“No,” Almeyda said. “If we do that, they’ll definitely hear us. We may or may not get away, but we’ll definitely have to dodge torps and depth charges if we get away. Let’s stay quiet and hope it’s passive sonar. And pray we can get below the thermal layer before they hear us.”
Royal Navy Merlin Mk1 helicopter
ASW Naval Squadron 814
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles south of HMS Queen Elizabeth
altitude 200 feet
1:40 p.m. local time
Sonarman Chief Philip Welton sat in the cargo bay of the Merlin with an acoustical headset on.
Commander Stacks, at the controls of the Merlin, checked his fuel gauge. “I need to know if anything’s down there, Chief. We can’t keep this baby in the air much longer.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll need a few minutes to analyze the situation, sir.”
Stacks examined his watch. “Five minutes max, Chief. Otherwise we’ll all be swimming back to the Queen Elizabeth.”
CHAPTER 24
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles SSE of last known position of ARA Santa Cruz
depth 360 feet
1:43 p.m. local time
When a submarine detects that sonobuoys have been dropped in the water, that ordinarily means one thing—the enemy above is an aircraft. The submarine’s main weapon, the torpedo, is a weapon that attacks ships in the water. The torpedo cannot hit an aircraft flying a thousand feet above the surface of the water.
Commander Carlos Almeyda feared he might be facing such a mismatch—one that favors the aircraft. If the aircraft pinpoints the location of the submarine, it becomes a one-way shootout, with the sub rendered totally defenseless.
The submarine’s best friend becomes a thick blanket of water below the surface of the ocean called the “thermal layer,” or thermocline, in which the ocean temperatures are much colder than the surface water temperature. If a sub can sink below the thermocline, that thermal layer can help hide the sub not only from passive sonar but even from the pings of active sonar.
The thermal layer effectively dampens and sometimes blankets sound. The more turbulence in the water generated by rough seas, the greater the protective blanket for the sub trying to evade sonar.
Commander Almeyda knew that the thermocline at this time of year in the southern hemisphere—October, or late spring—could be rather deep. He watched the depth meter and mentally calculated whether he would have enough depth to get under the protective blanket before being picked up by enemy sonar.
Depth 360 feet . . .
Depth 370 feet . . .
Depth 380 feet . . .
“Approaching target depth of 400 feet, sir,” the diving officer said.
“I’m not sure that’s enough to clip the thermocline based on the water temperature, Lieutenant. Maintain dive. Set new target depth at seven hundred feet.”
“Aye, sir. Maintain dive. Set new target depth at seven hundred feet.”
Royal Navy Merlin Mk1 helicopter
ASW Naval Squadron 814
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles south of HMS Queen Elizabeth
altitude 200 feet
1:45 p.m. local time
Despite the somewhat unrealistic demands of the top brass in the Royal Navy, submarine hunting couldn’t be likened to popping an English muffin in the microwave. It involved a combination of art and science—and more art than science. To find a submarine lurking below the high seas, one could not merely pop a problem in a computer and wait thirty seconds for a solution. Like a fox hunter waited for his prey to emerge from the woods before taking a shot, patience and a good ear were the hallmarks of a good submarine hunter.
Against this backdrop, Sonarman Chief Philip Welton, Royal Navy, sat in the back of the helicopter at the sonar station and adjusted his acoustic headset. Less than two hours earlier, Welton was hailed as the man who discovered the first enemy submarine. He had listened intently as the torpedoes and depth charges dropped from this helicopter attacked and destroyed the Argentine Santa Cruz–class submarine.
The sinking, the first British kill against the enemy in retaliation for the coordinated attack against British civilians in Antarctica, had generated considerable excitement among the ships of the British task force. The commanding officer of the Queen Elizabeth, Captain Jones-Landry, had personally called on the secure ship-to-air frequency to congratulate Welton for his work in locating and sinking the enemy submarine.
Now Welton was hunting for another submarine, this time under less-than-ideal circumstances. His pilot stood over him, rushing him and reminding him of their critical fuel situation. All the fuss probably because of a flash of sunlight against a long swell spotted by a young, overly enthusiastic copilot still excited by the electricity of combat.
“Hearing anything, Chief?” Commander Stacks pressed for an answer.
“Hard to say, sir. Lots of sloshing and turbulence.”
“We need to know something, Chief. With these headwinds picking up, we’re going to burn more fuel to get back to the ship. We need an answer now.”
“It often takes some time, Commander. I have nothing so far but ocean slosh.”
“Very well. We’ll set a course back to the carrier. We have got to refuel.”
“Wait a second . . .”
“What is it?”
Welton adjusted his headset. “I thought I heard something.”
“What?”
“Give me a second, sir.”
“Chief, we don’t have a second.”
�
��Please, sir.” Welton turned up the volume on the acoustic sensors to maximum. He had heard something. A strange sound. A whine. A faint clang.
Now, nothing. Ocean turbulence again.
“I heard something, sir. Now it’s gone. Could’ve been a whale. Possibly an electronic reverberation. Maybe a submarine fleeing the area or diving. I’m sorry, sir. I could not get enough of a fix for any kind of match. We would need more time.”
“Time is something we don’t have,” Stacks said. “Leftenant Jordan, set course for the Queen Elizabeth.”
“Aye, sir.”
CHAPTER 25
M/S Thor Liberty
British Registry cargo ship
South Atlantic Ocean
60 miles southwest of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
2:10 p.m. local time
Five hours had passed since the sonar officer aboard the Thor Liberty had first picked up sounds of the enemy submarine and relayed the message to HMS Queen Elizabeth.
Oh, the sweet irony, that a ship captained by one who had aspired to be a Royal Navy officer, having been rejected over a minor sports injury, had detected the enemy submarine even before the naval ships of the flotilla had detected it.
From the bridge of the Thor Liberty, Captain Bob Hudson checked the other three surface ships of the flotilla through his binoculars.
HMS Ocean, with her eighteen helicopters and eighty-three Royal Marines, still steamed off to the left, though she had opened up a bit more distance off the freighter’s port than before. The RFA Black Rover had moved another thousand yards off the right, and the flagship Queen Elizabeth remained out front, but had opened up a distance of another thousand yards in front of the Thor Liberty.
The instructions to spread the ships more in the water, issued by the task force commander aboard the Queen Elizabeth, would increase the range of sonar coverage for the possibility of more submarines that might be in the area. Part of the reason that only two ships had detected the first sub may have been noise turbulence from the ships being bunched so tightly together. With all the engines of the flotilla churning in close proximity, the turbulence made it harder to hear anything.
Captain Landry-Jones must have been embarrassed that the only other ship to have heard the submarine besides the Queen Elizabeth was the Thor Liberty. This brought a smile to Bob Hudson’s face.
Bob gave the credit to his superb sonar operator, Mister Brice Johnson, the venerable Scotsman who had spent twenty years in the Royal Navy before retiring and starting a new career at Thorco Shipping. Johnson was better and more experienced than most military sonar operators in the Royal Navy and probably better than those now in the task force vessels.
Johnson’s discovery of the submarine was a credit to the Thor Liberty and to Bob, personally, as captain.
Yet in a strange sense, the reality of the kill tempered the excitement of the discovery. The eerie groaning death sounds of the submarine on passive sonar as she reached crush depth and imploded under tons of powerful water pressure would haunt Bob for the rest of his life.
How horrible that must have been—to have been trapped in a steel cylinder hundreds of feet below the surface, realizing that there was no hope, that torrents of cold seawater would soon flood the dark steel-encased abyss and fill the lungs of the crewmen.
What a lonely way to die.
Bridge
HMS Queen Elizabeth
South Atlantic Ocean
61 miles southeast of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
2:12 p.m. local time
Captain, we’re receiving a distress message from the lead Merlin helicopter out on antisubmarine detail.”
“Put it on the loudspeaker, Leftenant,” Captain Jones-Landry said. “And give me the microphone.”
“Aye, sir.”
A brief static over the bridge’s loudspeakers.
“Mayday. Mayday. This is the pilot of ASW Chopper Merlin 1. Please be advised that we’re perilously low on fuel and may need to ditch. HMS Queen Elizabeth, please respond. Over.”
“Merlin 1. This is HMS Queen Elizabeth. Report your position, your bearing, and your predicament. Over.”
“Queen Elizabeth. Merlin 1. We are twenty miles out, sir. On course back to the ship. We were delayed because of a possible sub sighting. We took time to investigate but could not verify. We thought we had enough fuel, but headwinds returning to the ship have been extraordinary, and we’ve burned all reserves. We’re flying on fumes, Captain.”
“Merlin 1. Queen Elizabeth. We’re headed your way. We will increase speed to try and close the distance. Hang tight, my friend.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Engineering. Bridge.”
“Bridge. Engineering. Go ahead, Captain.”
“Leftenant, we’ve got a chopper going down. Out front of us, due south. I want to close the distance. Give me full power. All engines full.”
“All engines full. Aye, Captain.”
“XO. On the 1-MC.”
“On the 1-MC. Aye, Captain.” The executive officer handed Jones-Landry the microphone, which would carry his voice to every crevice of the ship.
“Now hear this. This is the captain speaking. We have received a distress signal from one of our Merlins, operating twenty miles to our south but running out of fuel. We’ve gone to full power to try to close the distance. Prepare for search-and-rescue operations. Fire crews, prepare the flight deck for a crash landing. I want two additional helicopters launched immediately to spearhead our recovery efforts. All hands to recovery stations! Stand by for recovery efforts. This is the captain.”
The carrier’s nuclear-powered engines hummed to a higher whining pitch, and the Queen Elizabeth lunged forward in the ocean at a speed that would leave the other ships of the task force in her wake. The others would catch up soon enough, but for the time being Jones-Landry would do everything in his power to save the crew of the British chopper.
“Captain!” the bridge watch officer said.
“What is it, Leftenant?”
“Sir. I see the Merlin. Through the binoculars, sir!”
“Where?”
“Right out there, sir! Inbound! Just above the horizon!”
Jones-Landry brought his binoculars to his eyes. There. The black silhouette of the inbound chopper appeared over the horizon.
“Captain, we have another call from the chopper.”
“Put it on the loudspeaker.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Queen Elizabeth. Merlin 1. Sir, we’ve got you in our sights. But frankly, I don’t think we can make it back. The fuel alarm is buzzing.”
“Hang in there, Commander. We’ve got two Merlins headed your way to pull you out of the water if you ditch. We’re steaming at maximum speed. Try to squeeze a couple more minutes out of that bird. That’s all we need.”
“Aye, sir.”
Control room
Argentinean submarine ARA San Juan
South Atlantic Ocean
15 miles SSE of last known position of ARA Santa Cruz
depth 300 feet
2:13 p.m. local time
Capitán!” the sonar officer said. “I’m picking up engines on passive sonar . . . multiple targets. Most likely the British task force, sir. They sound close, sir. Range to target, one thousand yards to our north! Sir! They are closing in on our position!”
A surge of adrenaline shot through Almeyda’s body. “Go to periscope depth! Prepare to fire all torpedoes on my command. Then prepare to dive on my command!”
“Go to periscope depth! Prepare to fire torpedoes! Then prepare to dive. Aye, sir!”
His heart pounded with a hammering thump, thump, thump as the San Juan rose toward surface depth. Like a deer hunter in a tree stand, this was a sub commander’s dream—to silently wait in the water while unsuspecting prey wanders in for a point-blank shot. Could he have gotten so lucky?
“Sub’s at periscope depth, Capitán.”
“Very well. Up scope.”
“Up scope. Aye, sir.”
The sound of a small electric motor hummed throughout the control room as the telescope rose to the surface.
“Scope’s up, sir,” the watch officer said.
“Very well,” Almeyda said. The capitán stepped over to the periscope, grabbed the grips on each side of the periscope column, and peered through the eyepiece.
His first view showed only water and gray-blue sky. Almeyda pivoted a quarter to his right, and when he did, his heart nearly stopped. There, in the middle of the screen, steaming toward them from the north, the wide image of the flattop in the crosshairs! The HMS Queen Elizabeth was steaming right at him, like an unsuspecting elephant walking into a safari gun trap.
“Down scope! Prepare to fire torps one through four! Prepare to dive!”
“Down scope! Prepare to fire torps! Aye, Capitán!”
Almeyda glanced around at his men. Tension electrified the control room. The moment of truth had arrived.
“Scope’s down, sir!”
“Very well! Fire torp one!”
“Firing torp one, aye, sir!”
“Fire torp two!”
“Firing torp two! Aye, sir!”
“Fire torp three!”
“Firing torp three! Aye, sir!”
“Fire torp four!”
“Firing torp four! Aye, sir!”
“Weapons Officer! Report status!”
“Four torps in the water, Capitán! Torp one, time to impact two minutes, sir!”
“Very well! Emergency dive to seven hundred feet. Then set course at zero-nine-zero degrees, full power. Let’s get out of here!”
Bridge
HMS Queen Elizabeth
South Atlantic Ocean
61 miles southwest of the Falkland Islands
course 180 degrees
2:15 p.m. local time
Queen Elizabeth. Merlin 1. Captain, our engine is sputtering. We aren’t going to make it, sir.”
“You’re only half a mile away, Commander!”
“Can’t make it, Captain. We’re starting to drop!”
“Initiate auto-rotation, Commander!”