Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  The radioman left hastily, knowing better than to run, but hurrying all the same.

  Markov swung out of his bunk and started relacing his shoes, all his prior torpor gone without trace. He’d thought that he and Dribinov had been condemned to endlessly patrol the Yellow Sea’s muddy waters — condemned as punishment for last month’s failed attempt to embarrass the American carrier force. This latest message might signal a relief from the mind-numbing monotony of counting Chinese coastal steamers. Special Code was used only for extremely sensitive messages, matters of wartime urgency.

  He would have to wait to find what the admirals in Vladivostok wanted, though. Regulations required that both the captain and his second-in-command, the zampolit or political officer, be present when all Special Code messages were broken. The two-man rule was designed not only to catch errors in decoding, but also to witness the receipt of what were always important instructions. Markov finished tying his shoes and stood up, stooping to avoid smashing his head against the low ceiling.

  He turned at a soft rap on his cabin door. “Come.”

  It was Koloskov, his political officer. “You asked to see me, Comrade Captain?”

  “Yes, Andrei Nikolayev, it seems we have a message to decode.”

  “Certainly, Comrade Captain.” Without blinking an eye Koloskov sat down next to his captain and took the blank piece of paper he offered.

  Using a lead-lined code book placed between them, the two men worked in silence, translating the jumble of letters and nonsense phrases into a readable message.

  The message was short:

  PACFLT 4457-1096QR. Begins: U.S. amphibious task force operating in Yellow Sea. Location at 1400 Moscow time grid 261–651. Course 025, speed 10 knots. Submarine Konstantin Dribinov is ordered to attack, repeat, attack. Priority targets are aircraft carriers and amphibious ships. Nuclear weapons are not authorized. Under no circumstances may Dribinov’s identity be compromised. Message ends. PACFLT 5423-0998XV.

  Markov drew a sudden breath and double-checked the message’s authentication codes. They were absolutely correct. Then he compared the main body of the signal with the zampolit’s copy. They were identical.

  The contents were electrifying. He’d seen orders like that before, dozens of times, in fact — but only during fleet exercises. Never in peacetime. He read it again, checking the decoding to be sure he hadn’t left out a crucial phrase. No, he’d been right the first time through. The Fleet’s signal did not say “simulate attack.” It demanded the real thing.

  Koloskov seemed even more shocked. “Comrade Captain, are we at war?”

  Markov paused before answering, “I do not think so, Andrei Nikolayev.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then ticked off his reasoning on his fingers. “First, there has been no general war message. And second, the Fleet has not instructed us to attack just any American ship. Only those in this amphibious task force of theirs. So I would guess that we have just been volunteered for limited service with the North Korean Navy.”

  He paused again. “But whether the motherland itself is truly at war or not is unimportant, eh? We must behave as if we were. If the Americans find us sniffing around their carriers again, they will do their best to kill us. So we must kill them first, agreed?”

  Koloskov nodded his agreement. Or was it merely his understanding? Markov wasn’t sure.

  For the present he decided he didn’t care. He read through the message again. Real combat, considered and ordered, unbelievable. He’d prepared for this moment for years, ever since his first days as a snot-nosed cadet, but he’d never really thought it would ever happen. Why, Konstantin Dribinov would be the first submarine to make an attack since the Great Patriotic War, the first Soviet submarine ever to attack an American vessel. It was heady stuff.

  And dangerous as well. Someone in Moscow was obviously willing to risk escalating this conflict to the superpower level. Markov hoped his superiors had correctly judged the risks they were running, but knew he couldn’t allow himself to second-guess them. He had his orders and they would have to be carried out.

  Both he and Koloskov knew why he had been chosen. His experience, his past performance, had all been exemplary. Then, chosen to make that damned simulated attack based on his merits, he had failed. Now he was being given a second chance, a real chance.

  He wouldn’t fail.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  Brown studied the assembled faces of his staff for a moment before continuing. They still looked alert, despite the hour-long briefing, and now he saw eager anticipation as they absorbed its implications. He cleared his throat and put both hands on the lectern. “Gentlemen, you’ve just heard the details of what will undoubtedly be the single most crucial operation of this war. And though we may not be in line this time for the best actor award, I’ll be darned if I’m going to see anyone else walk away with the Oscar for best supporting role.”

  There were chuckles at that, and Brown smiled. He half-suspected that, when the time came to haul down his admiral’s flag, he’d find that his power to move junior officers so easily to laughter would vanish along with his authority. In the meantime, however, he relished it.

  He waited for the light laughter to fade and then continued, “Now, if we do our job right, we’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. A lot of hostile attention.” That sobered them up. “We’re going to get one chance at this, gentlemen. One chance. If we screw it up, we’re dead. A lot of our fellow sailors and Marines are dead. And a lot of U.S. and South Korean infantrymen and tankers are dead.”

  Brown leaned forward on the lectern, towering over it. “So stay alert. Be ready for instant action. Remember that we’re at war and there aren’t any prizes for second place in this thing.”

  He stepped back. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and good hunting.”

  JANUARY 15 — ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  Markov knew his officers thought he was behaving in a most unusual manner. They couldn’t understand why he’d had his tracking party working for nearly twenty-four hours — more than twice as long as needed for a normal approach. The Dribinov’s approach, however, was anything but normal. The normal way of doing things, he wanted to remind them, had nearly gotten them all killed the last time they’d closed with an American force. This time it would be different. Much different.

  The submarine’s track on the chart looked like a series of loops, approaching the formation from the side, slowing as it closed and letting it steam past. Then as soon as the American ships vanished over the horizon, Markov would angle away and increase speed to run parallel with them again.

  Koloskov, the political officer, looked the most worried of all. As the sub’s zampolit, his duties included ensuring the political awareness and reliability of every crewmember, including the captain. And Markov knew that his caution might look like cowardice to the inexperienced political officer. It might also look like foolishness to a professional naval officer.

  Every officer aboard seemed sure that their captain was taking a terrible risk. They thought these constant sprints were consuming too much of the Dribinov’s available battery power. They were certainly contrary to the Red Navy’s standard diesel boat doctrines.

  Three weeks ago, Markov would never even have considered ignoring doctrine. After all, his standard approaches during exercises had always been models of classic technique. The pattern was simple — position the Dribinov in front of its prey and ghost through the water at one or two knots, just enough speed to control depth and direction. Use any available layer of colder water, a thermocline, to help block enemy sonar. And when the enemy vessels come within point-blank range, fire a spread of homing torpedoes and escape in the ensuing confusion. The classic approach had a single significant edge over other ways of doing the same thing — it used scarcely any battery power, leaving plenty of charge available for high-speed evasive maneuvering.

  This time, though, Markov was using all his energy in ten- and twelve-kn
ots bursts. He glanced at the charge indicator. It showed fifty-eight percent, and they were pulling away from the American task force again.

  Out of the corner of his eye Markov saw the political officer following his gaze. “Don’t worry, comrade, our power is being well spent. That was our last sensor run. Next time we will attack. Look here.” He tapped the chart, enticing the man over.

  Besides the looping line showing the sub’s track, the chart was covered with hundreds of other lines radiating out from the task force. Markov regarded the sheet with admiration, almost with love. The information it contained showed both a sleepless night’s work and the key to victory.

  “We’ve been tracking the American formation for almost a full day now, and we’ve taken hundreds of sonar bearings to his ships, his helicopters, his sonobuoys. Our task has been simplified because he must use active sonar to find us, while we can remain passive and plot the direction of his pinging.” Markov smiled at his political officer. “So you see, Koloskov, I now know his formation, his patrol patterns, even where his patrol aircraft lay their sonobuoy lines.”

  Markov pulled out a clean sheet of paper with an array of different-sized dots drawn on it. “Here is what we think his formation looks like. Valuable units in the center, escorts surrounding them. Here is a Spruance-class destroyer, here is a Knox-class frigate, and so on. I have our tactical team up plotting the exact sonar performance of each class, based on the water conditions.”

  He smiled wider. “More importantly, I have found a hole in his screen. See this Knox-class frigate? It is not moving randomly. It always moves in the same pattern within its zone. Never become predictable, Comrade Koloskov.”

  Almost smashing his fist on the plotting table, Markov said, “That’s where we will penetrate their screen. Once inside it, they’ll never find us, not until it is too late.”

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  The admiral checked the plot with the ASW coordinator. “Anything shaking out there, Tim?”

  “No sir, nothing right now. Not even a trace.”

  Brown wished that was reassuring. “That doesn’t mean there’s nobody out there.” He raised his voice, addressing the whole room. “Let’s stay sharp, people. I doubt the NKs are going to let us have anything for free.”

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  The boat had been at battle stations for three hours now. The abysmal air circulation had become even worse with all the fans turned off. Water vapor from the thickening air condensed on Dribinov’s ice-cold hull and dribbled down bulkheads.

  The strictest silent routine was in effect. Every piece of nonessential equipment had been turned off, both to reduce noise and to conserve electricity. Every crewmember not actively manning a post was in his bunk.

  Quieter than a school of fish, quieter than the water around it, the Dribinov swam to intercept a moving spot in the ocean. Gliding just above the ocean bottom, the sub kept its bow toward the enemy ships, reducing the area available for sound impulses to bounce off.

  Above it, the American task force was steaming northward toward its objective at about eight knots. At this distance the thrashing propellers of its nearly sixty ships could be heard clearly through the sub’s hull as a dull, rumbling roar.

  Markov ignored the faint noise and kept his eyes focused on the plot. It showed each of the amphibious group’s escorts patrolling within its own moving box. He’d timed the Knox-class frigate’s cycle and was heading for a time and a place when the American ship would turn toward the inside of its zone. That single turn to starboard would expose a blind zone in its sonar coverage for a few minutes. And the Dribinov would be there, ready to slip in and follow that blind zone around.

  Only long preparation allowed the tracking officer to stay calm. “Contact is two minutes ahead of its projected position, Comrade Captain. We do not recommend a speed change.”

  Markov was really only concerned about the three nearest, American escorts. The others were too far out of position to pose much of a danger to his submarine. Ahead and to Dribinov’s left was a Spruance-class destroyer — normally a serious threat. But its powerful low-frequency sonar and towed array were close to useless in these shallow waters.

  The Knox-class directly ahead also had a low-frequency sonar and towed array, but not as effective as the Spruance’s equipment. And its predictable movements were what made this approach feasible.

  Behind and to the right of the Knox was a newer Perry-class frigate. That was the American ship that most worried Markov. It mounted a medium-frequency sonar that was more effective in shallow water, and its commander was driving it in an extremely aggressive, unpredictable manner. If the Perry moved too far forward in its zone, there was a chance its sonar would pick up Dribinov’s hull, which had be broadside to that American ship while the sub crept in, and was thus easier to detect.

  That unpredictable frigate had already cost Markov two precious hours and even more precious battery charge. He’d made a last loop past the task force hoping to find a pattern or at least some system behind the American frigate’s movements. He had failed. The Soviet captain smiled wryly to himself. The American captain’s constantly changing helm orders must be driving the ship’s crew half-mad. He studied the Perry’s jagged track and smiled again. The American ship’s size and behavior reminded him of a small dog, snarling and prowling in its owner’s yard to warn off intruders.

  Well, little dog, Markov thought, this intruder has teeth of its own. If it looked as if Dribinov had been detected, he intended to fire a pair of torpedoes at each nearby escort — relying on the ensuing confusion to help him break in toward the more valuable ships inside the ASW screen. He would prefer to save all his weapons for use on his primary targets, but preferences were often meaningless in battle. At any rate, they all saluted the same flag.

  The tracking officer measured their progress. “Approaching extreme detection range for Contact Two’s active sonar.” Contact Two was the Knox-class frigate in front of them.

  One of the plotters listened to his headphones for a minute and made a new mark. “Contact Three may be changing course.”

  Markov resisted the urge to pace. Contact Three was that damned Perry. “How long until Contact Two turns?”

  “Four minutes, sir.”

  The Knox frigate was moving generally north. According to the pattern they’d observed, it would turn east, and then south. Dribinov was moving east now, just outside hostile sonar range. When the Knox turned east, the gap they’d been waiting for would appear.

  “Comrade Captain, the bearing rate on Contact Two is changing, slowing down.”

  Markov was ready. “They’ve started their turn! Increase speed to fifteen knots.” They would move this fast just long enough to penetrate the screen, then slow to a more reasonable pace.

  The plotter made another report. “Comrade Captain! Contact Three’s sonar strength is increasing.”

  “Is he in detection range yet?”

  The plotter talked into his microphone briefly. “No sir, but sonar estimates a speed of twelve knots.” The man fell silent again as another report came through his headphones. “Three is now at extreme detection range, but there is no indication that they’ve found us yet.”

  “Plot, is Contact Two still on course?”

  “Yes sir, we should be in position north of her in seven more minutes.”

  Not enough time, Markov thought. If he could get close to and behind the Knox, there was a good chance his sub’s echoes would merge with those bouncing off the hull of the enemy ship. And even if that didn’t work, Dribinov could be through the screen and gone long before the Americans sorted out just what had happened.

  But the blasted Perry frigate was coming up too fast, closing the sonar gap he’d needed to slip through. Markov made a quick decision. The game that had been so leisurely for so long was now accelerating into one that could be won or lost in seconds. “Open outer doors. Fire control party. We will launch tubes one and six at Contac
t Three, two and five at Contact One, and three and four at Contact Two.”

  Markov felt a shiver of anticipation. He was about to make his first real attack on enemies of the Soviet Union. His first real attack in over twenty years of service. Every man in the Control Room watched with wide eyes as the settings for the three targets were entered. The ranges were so close that there would be little warning time. With luck, one or two ships would be crippled or sunk, and the Dribinov would get the break it needed.

  “Make sure the doors are closed as soon as each torpedo is launched.” Each open torpedo tube door slowed them slightly, and they would need that speed.

  “Three minutes until we are north of Contact Two,” reported the plotter. “Sonar reports Contact Three’s sonar strength is approaching a twenty-five percent chance of detection.”

  Markov looked at all the information on their position. That Perry-class frigate was just too close. He was about to fire the opening shots in what could be World War III. The thought terrified him until he suppressed it. He had his duty. “Stand by.”

  “Captain, Contact Three’s bearing rate is changing again. She may be turning!” The plotter’s voice went up a half-octave before dropping back to its normal even pitch.

  “Fire control party, check fire! Menchikov, ask Sonar if that frigate could be changing course toward us.”

  The plotter asked, listened carefully, and answered, “No sir. Three has already turned past us.”

  Markov exhaled heavily. “Close the tube doors. Continue with the original approach.” They had done it.

  They were inside the screen.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  “Sir, one of our helicopters has just reported a MAD contact!”

  Brown looked up from the pile of messages he was reviewing. “Where’s their contact?”

  “In the inner zone, sir.”

  “What?” The messages were dumped and Brown was on his feet.