Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  He moved to the close-range plot. The ASW officer pointed to one half-circle shape showing the call sign Bravo Four. “This bird was coming in to the carrier after finishing his patrol, sir. He’s critical on fuel.”

  Brown felt an icy sensation down his back. How could anything have gotten in so close without being picked up? “Tell the helo to hold contact for as long as he can. How solid is it?”

  “Bravo Four got two good passes in before he called us, Admiral. I’m vectoring other birds from Connie and the O’Brien at top speed to localize the bastard.” The ASW officer looked personally affronted by the idea that anything could have slipped past his screen.

  “We don’t have time.” Brown shook his head. “Okay, have Bravo Four lay one DICASS sonobuoy and then head home. “Who’s in ASROC range?”

  “O’Brien, sir.”

  “Order her to pair up with Duncan and attack immediately. Keep the helos ready to assist.” He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, put the entire formation at general quarters. Increase speed to maximum and turn the heavies away from the MAD contact. And keep the rest of the screen clear so O’Brien and Duncan can engage. Got it?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Brown hardly heard the alarms on Constellation. He was too busy trying to make sure the sneaky bastard out there didn’t get a shot off. Whoever it was, he was too damn close right now.

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  “Sir, the fire control party is tracking the main body of the formation.”

  Markov shook his head. “Keep the plot simple. Pick out the three strongest signals and concentrate on them. They are either the closest or the biggest. Either way we want them.”

  The group around the table got busy.

  Markov looked at Dribinov’s charge meters. They showed forty-four percent of his battery power left. All of his training screamed at him that this was wrong, that he was in trouble.

  He was inside the screen, though. And in any event, the Dribinov couldn’t back out now, even if he wanted it to. Markov forced himself to relax. There would be plenty of power available for the rest of his approach.

  He laid a hand on his first officer’s shoulder. “Dimitri, tell the torpedo room I want a new record for reloading. We will probably have to shoot our way out of here.” The shorter man nodded his understanding and reached for the intercom. Markov turned to the others. “Tracking party, how long until — ”

  “Sir, sonar reports heavy screw noises. It sounds like the formation is speeding up.” Menchikov paused to listen and then continued. “Bearing rates are changing.” Another pause. “Bearing rates on two warships, Contacts One and Three, are constant, increasing signal strength.”

  “Govno!” If a contact was neither going to the left or right of him and its sound signal was getting stronger, then it must be headed straight for him. One enemy ship doing that might be coincidence, but two could not be. Somehow the Dribinov had been found.

  Markov gripped the plot table and ripped out a string of orders. “Release a decoy. Fire Control party, prepare for a snapshot. We will fire a spread into the mass of the American formation. Make turns for emergency speed.”

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  The ASW officer looked sick. “Admiral, O’Brien and Duncan are cold. They’re still too far away to pick anything up on sonar.”

  Brown bit down the urge to swear. “Tell them to launch blind. We’ve got to put the pressure on this guy.”

  The ASW officer relayed his order, then listened for a minute to a new report coming in through his headset. “Bravo Six is picking up something from the DICASS Bravo Four dropped.”

  Brown nodded in satisfaction. That was something at least. “When will Six be on top?”

  The ASW officer made a rapid calculation. “Three minutes, Admiral.”

  Brown felt his short-lived relief die. “That son of a bitch will be able to launch in three minutes.”

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  “Torpedo in the water! Aft and to port!”

  Markov whirled to his first officer. “Release another decoy. And fire tubes one through six! Stand by for evasive action.”

  It took an infinity of ten seconds to launch all six weapons. Every man aboard the Dribinov could hear the clunk as high-pressure air valves opened and closed. Each time they cycled, they sent a blast of compressed air into a torpedo tube, literally throwing the torpedo out into the water. Spent air was vented into the boat’s hull, and Markov and his crew yawned and swallowed as the pressure built.

  “Sonar reports that the weapon is active, but it is drawing left.”

  Markov felt his heartbeat slowing slightly. A bearing change that quickly signaled that the American torpedo had not acquired his submarine. And that meant it would probably miss. Confident that his prediction would be confirmed in a matter of seconds, he used the time to organize his thoughts, to plan his escape.

  Menchikov broke into his thoughts with more bad news. “Sonar reports another torpedo in the water. They think it is distant, but it is directly ahead of us.”

  Markov watched carefully as a young lieutenant marked the new threat on the plot with shaking hands. There wasn’t anything he could do. Not yet.

  Clunk. The last torpedo left its tube and whined away toward the fleeting enemy formation. Now! Markov spun to the helmsman. “Right full rudder. Slow to ten knots.” Reflexively he looked at the battery gauges. Thirty-two percent.

  “Captain, Sonar reports the second torpedo’s seeker is locked onto something, perhaps the seabed.” A soft boom sounded from ahead as the American Mark 46 exploded on the muddy floor of the Yellow Sea. Markov smiled and relaxed, but not too much.

  If they were dropping on him, it was time to get out. But not quietly. Markov had already decided to fight his way clear. The Americans might have detected the Dribinov too soon, but they would soon find they’d grasped a tiger by its tail.

  He leaned over the plot, mentally calculating angles and ranges. “Steady on course two three zero. Tracking party, set up a solution on those two warships closing on us.”

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  “She’s fired, sir! Torpedoes inbound for the heavies.”

  Brown saw new lines appear on the display screen, closing on the center of his force. The ASROC-launched torpedoes from the O’Brien had almost certainly forced the enemy skipper to fire earlier than he would have liked. But the admiral knew his ships could still be in danger. Most of the amphibious ships and merchantmen couldn’t make much over twenty knots — not fast enough in a race with homing torpedoes moving at thirty-plus knots. He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, order another course change. Bring the formation to zero three zero, and order all ships to maneuver individually to avoid torpedoes.”

  ABOARD LST-1189 SAN BERNADINO

  The Newport News-class LST San Bernadino was in trouble.

  Originally stationed near the middle of the formation, she’d fallen farther and farther behind as faster ships raced by — intent on saving themselves. As an amphibious transport, she’d been designed for a sustained speed of twenty knots. Real speed and designed speed were proving two very different things, however. Since leaving Pusan, engine troubles had shaved four knots off the San Bernadino’s capabilities.

  “Jesus!” Captain Frank Talbot, USN, flinched as a gray-painted Navy helicopter roared low over the ship’s bow ramp and flashed by the bridge windows at top speed. He pulled himself upright and grabbed the intercom. “Any luck, Mike?”

  “Negative, skipper. We’ve still got that godawful vibration in the starboard shaft. It could seize up on us anytime now.” The chief engineer’s voice came tinny over the loudspeaker.

  He was wondering how long he could push the plant when he felt himself flung hard against the rear bulkhead by a massive, thundering explosion.

  As he lay stunned and bleeding on the deck, Talbot felt the bridge tilting downward, toward the sea, and saw the ship’s pointed bow rising sharply toward the sky. T
hat was odd, he thought hazily. And then the answer came to him. The torpedo must have exploded directly under the San Bernadino’s keel, breaking her back and ripping her in half.

  Talbot felt tears for his ship and crew dripping down his face and tried to get to his feet on the sloping deck. Then the pain hit. It drove him down into unconsciousness moments before the ship’s stern section plunged below the cold surface of the sea.

  ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

  News of the San Bernadino’s fate swept quickly through the Flag Plot, leaving only a stunned silence.

  Brown felt his jaw tighten. First blood to the enemy. He turned to his chief of staff. “I want a full-scale search and rescue op for survivors. I don’t want a single, goddamned man left out there in the water. Clear?” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply before swinging to face the ASW officer. “What about the other torps?”

  “No hits, sir. Sonar shows they’ve all run out of gas.”

  That was something. The bastard out there had been forced to fire too soon. If they hadn’t spoiled his attack, he probably would have caught more than the slow-poking San Bernadino.

  “Bravo Six is reporting, Admiral. That boat’s running at high speed, but the signal’s fading.”

  Brown refocused on the hunt at hand. What was done was done. His job now was to make sure no more enemy torpedoes sought out his ships. “All right, O’Brien and Duncan have had a chance. Let’s give the helos their turn.”

  The ASW officer nodded his understanding and ordered a circle of sonobuoys placed around the sub’s last position, allowing for its reported speed and the time elapsed since it had last been detected. One was hot almost immediately.

  “He’s still moving, Admiral. Speed estimated at…” The ASW officer paused, then grew two shades paler. “Bravo Six has a classification, sir. It’s a Tango-class diesel boat.”

  The admiral felt like an idiot for asking, but he went ahead anyway. “Get a confirmation on that.”

  The officer spoke into his headset, then listened. “No doubt about it, sir. Six has a very strong signal.”

  Brown felt the hair lift off the back of his neck. There were no Tango-class submarines in the North Korean Navy, or in the Chinese Navy for that matter. The only Tangos in the world belonged to the Soviet Union. The Russians had just put their oar in the water. “Jim, get me CINCPAC on the secure net. Tell them I have FLASH traffic for Admiral Simons himself.”

  He looked at the ASW controller. “Get those helos on top of that Russian s.o.b., and get some reliefs spooled up. I want everything we’ve got aloft. We’re up against the first team here.”

  “CINCPAC is coming on line, sir.” The chief of staff handed him the red secure phone and continued, “We’ve also got a preliminary count on survivors from the San Bernadino. Rescue helos have picked up fifty-two men so far, and Bagley is still quartering the area where she went down.”

  Brown nodded grimly. The LST had carried a crew of 290 men, and most of them were probably dead. Well, if he had his way, they’d soon be avenged tenfold. The only thing he could be thankful for was that the Bernadino hadn’t been carrying any troops. But that was small consolation.

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  Markov was not happy. “One explosion, that’s all?”

  “Yes, Comrade Captain. But sonar reports hearing the target breaking up.”

  Markov wasn’t consoled by the report. One hit out of six torpedoes. A miserable performance. Dribinov would have to do better than that in this next attack. He tapped the two closest dots on the plot reflectively. The submarine’s next targets would be the two American escorts charging toward it. Missing either of them could prove fatal, not just embarrassing.

  He looked up from the chart at his first lieutenant. “Dimitri, how are they coming?”

  The man put down his phone. “Three tubes reloaded, the fourth in half a minute. And we have good firing solutions on both contacts.”

  “Three will have to do. We don’t have half a minute. Shoot!”

  The Dribinov shuddered again as three more torpedoes were flung out into the water. Markov moved to the helmsman. “Left ten degrees rudder. Steady on three one zero. Slow to five knots.”

  His battery was now down to twenty-eight percent charge. He would have to conserve what was left and try to sneak out.

  ABOARD USS O’BRIEN

  “Torpedo inbound! Bearing zero four three.”

  The sonar operator’s report galvanized the Bridge and Combat Information Center into immediate action. Levi’s first order called for flank speed, and the gas-turbine-powered warship responded like a sports car, slicing through the sea as its speed climbed over thirty knots.

  O’Brien’s CIC crew cursed silently as they tried to keep track of their own ship’s evasive maneuvers while still keeping tabs on the Soviet sub’s last reported position.

  Levi stood braced against the tilting deck as his ship turned, hoping he’d made the right decision. Instead of turning away from the oncoming torpedo, he’d ordered a turn toward the enemy. The idea was not to be where the launching unit had predicted and to get away from the torpedo’s seeker.

  “Bridge, this is Sonar. No change in torpedo bearing. The signal may be splitting into two or more weapons.”

  Well, that didn’t work, Levi thought. He ordered another rapid course change. Screw closing on the sub. Coming right, he steadied perpendicular to the torpedoes’ approach. Maybe giving them a rapidly changing angle would throw them off.

  The sonar room reported again. “We now have three weapons in the water. Bearing rate on one is changing. It may be going for Duncan. Rate is still steady on the other two.”

  Levi clenched his fists. There was nothing more he could do. “Pass the word, all hands brace for impact.” He looked out to starboard and saw another ship heeling sharply. The Duncan was also maneuvering.

  IN THE YELLOW SEA

  Soviet SET-65 torpedoes use passive sonar to home in on the sounds made by a ship’s engines and propellers. As the two torpedoes fired by Dribinov at O’Brien closed on their target, their robot brains brought them in behind the American destroyer — with one a hundred yards back.

  Both tiny onboard computers evaluated the closest noise source as the rapidly turning screws of an American Spruance-class destroyer. Both were wrong.

  They were homing on a Nixie, a torpedo decoy towed behind most U.S. Navy warships. No bigger than a garbage can, the Nixie was designed to make noise on the same frequencies as the ship towing it, but so loud that any attacking torpedoes would be spoofed into attacking the decoy instead.

  It worked.

  The Dribinov’s first torpedo closed on the Nixie and detonated when its proximity fuze sensed the target’s position changing rapidly.

  The explosion of its six-hundred-pound warhead threw a hundred-foot-tall geyser of icy water into the air, drenching sailors watching from the O’Brien’s fantail. At the same moment the shock wave rippling out from the explosion lifted the destroyer’s fantail almost clear of the water, and for a moment the O’Brien’s propellers raced as they neared the air.

  The second torpedo, intent on the same target, raced through the roiled water left by the explosion and suddenly found itself without a noise source to home in on. The SET-65’s forward-looking seeker didn’t have the intelligence to realize that its original target was now to its left and behind. And the control logic preprogrammed into the torpedo’s tiny brain was simple, direct, and mistaken: If a target is lost, circle right and look for another.

  Meanwhile, O’Brien’s captain had not been idle. As soon as the first weapon exploded, destroying his Nixie, he’d ordered a hard left turn. Not only was he now closing on the Soviet sub’s estimated position, but he and the second torpedo were heading in opposite directions with a combined speed of eighty knots — over ninety miles per hour.

  It took roughly thirty seconds for the Russian torpedo to circle completely around to face O’Brien’s stern. By that time the destroy
er had covered thirteen hundred yards, over half a nautical mile. The torpedo’s small size meant a small, short-range seeker, with a maximum range of a thousand yards. So it never heard the O’Brien again and simply continued its turn. Left behind by its prey, the torpedo circled mindlessly for about five more minutes, then ran out of gas and sank quietly to the bottom.

  ABOARD USS O’BRIEN

  Levi’s heartbeat was starting to slow toward normal when he heard a tremendous, rolling explosion from the right and felt the O’Brien rock for an instant. His head snapped right in time to see another towering column of water like the one that had appeared behind his ship. This one, though, wasn’t made up of only white, foaming water. It was stained a dirty black and gray and located directly under the Duncan’s stern.

  The column sagged and then collapsed back into the sea, leaving the frigate hidden for half a minute under a dense cloud of mist and smoke. When it emerged, the Duncan was visibly listing to port and down by the stern.

  Levi stood rigid with anger. The Russians had struck again. He wheeled to his bridge crew and snapped out a new string of orders. “Indicate turns for twenty knots. Right full rudder. Boatswain, call away the repair and assistance party.”

  ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

  The first explosion’s rumbling Crrrummmpp came through the hull exactly when the tracking party predicted Dribinov’s first torpedo would reach its target. There were excited, quickly muffled exclamations from the Control Room crew, followed shortly by disappointed mutters when the time for their second torpedo to attack came and went. But the second explosion was right on schedule, and again the control room crew had to stifle its cheers.

  Markov hid his excitement well. Three American ships sunk or damaged in a single quick series of attacks. It was easy to be calm when things were going as he had planned. Now to exploit the situation by escaping through the gap he’d just blown clear through the American ASW screen. “We will steer toward the two targets. Steady on course two six five.”

  The sub changed course slowly at low speed. Normally he would have increased speed to hasten its turn, but the Dribinov’s battery was now too low to risk the unnecessary drain.