Red Phoenix

by Larry Bond

  Sonar Chief Kelsey straightened and turned to face Manriquez. “Skipper, I count at least ten pingers out there, with more appearing all the time. We’re receiving low- and medium-frequency signals, and it’s impossible in that mess out there to tell what classes or even if they’re only surface ships.”

  The captain didn’t wait. Turning to the “squawk box” on the bulkhead, he called the control room. “Control, this is the captain. Sound general quarters. I’ll stay here.”

  The klaxon filled the cramped spaces with sound, and Manriquez squeezed into a corner as the rest of the sonar gang arrived and made the compartment even smaller. There was a quiet bustle, punctuated with exclamations, as the new arrivals saw the sonar display and were briefed on their current situation.

  Manriquez looked at the chief. “Concentrate on the low-frequency pingers. They’re the biggest threats.”

  He looked at the scope, trying to pull information out of the lines and patterns. Big exercise? Nothing had been announced. Some sort of snap drill, then? He desperately wanted to find some other explanation than a general Red Fleet deployment.

  There were other, more immediate questions as well. Just how many subs were hiding in that mess?

  Adams’s voice came over the squawk box. “Captain, all stations manned and ready, quiet routine in effect throughout the boat. Four Mark 48 torpedoes loaded and ready.”

  “Very well. Boomer, ensure we are clear of that mob, but I want to stay here as long as possible. We’ve got to see if they’re sending the ballistic missile subs out.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Adams would try to conn the boat away from the group of Soviet ships emerging from Petropavlovsk, but their movements were unpredictable. The simplest thing would have been to work their way to sea and report, but the report would be incomplete. Manriquez needed to see exactly how many units were leaving port.

  The sonar operator looked over his shoulder at the captain. “Sir, I’ve found heavy screw beats, bearing three zero one.”

  Chief Kelsey looked at the display. “Right in the middle of that mess. If we can hear them at this range, those must be serious screws.” He glanced quickly at the captain. “Kiev-class, Skipper?”

  “Probably. Let’s just sit tight and watch the show.”

  Over the next hour, they watched the gaggle of Soviet surface ships pass, creeping at slow speed and zigging often to confuse anyone trying to track them.

  Once the formation was well on its way to sea, Manriquez walked back to control. Speaking softly, almost whispering, he ordered, “Move us in closer, Boomer. We won’t hear any submarines out here.”

  They started easing their way in. They had to do it quickly, before any subs hiding behind the surface task force slipped past, but movement created noise. And Manriquez was sure that if they made too much noise, the Red Navy’s entire Pacific Fleet would come crashing in around their ears.

  They closed on what appeared to be empty water, but the chart showed the channel that submerged submarines would have to use to sortie.

  The speaker was secured during silent routine. Instead a talker with a mike and earphones spoke softly. “Sir, sonar reports a passive sonar contact off the port bow. Machinery noises, screw beats, classified as a Delta II ballistic missile submarine.”

  An odd feeling of mixed triumph and anxiety filled Manriquez. He had his answer. The Soviets were sending out their boomers. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “Right. Let’s get out of here.”

  They turned slowly, easing their way out. “Captain, Sonar reports more active sonars. They think it’s a line of sonobuoys, bearing southeast. Not too close, though.”

  Manriquez looked at the plot. The buoy line wasn’t close to their intended track so it wasn’t a threat to them, but it meant that there were ASW aircraft up screening the Russian subs as they sortied.

  “Sonar reports two more buoy lines, to the north and northeast. Neither is close.”

  Manriquez still wasn’t too worried. The Soviets didn’t seem to be actively looking for them and they had plenty of sea room. Adams was already steering Drum toward one of the gaps in the sonobuoy lines. The question was, were there more fields coming? And what else was out here? In this acoustic murk, active sonar was a good way to see things, but Drum couldn’t use hers. Not without announcing her unwanted presence to the world at large.

  Suddenly, the talker announced, “Sonar reports active pinging close aboard to port!” His tone was the closest thing to a shout quiet routine would allow.

  Adams started to turn the sub away from the source, while also changing depth.

  Manriquez listened to the exec’s hastily snapped orders with one ear and leaned over the plot. “Is it another buoy field?”

  The talker spoke into his microphone, then listened. “No, sir, it isn’t a multiple source. They think it’s a dipping sonar, signal strength moderate.”

  Dipping sonars were used by ASW helicopters, which could hover while lowering their sonar transducers on long cables into the water. They always operated in pairs, and this close to a major port, there might be many such pairs. Manriquez made a decision. They had to get clear before the Soviets got lucky and landed a helo right on top of them. “Boomer, increase our speed. If they detect us actively, being quiet won’t help.”

  ABOARD ALEKSANDR OGARKOV

  “Comrade Captain, we have a passive sonar contact. Faint screw beats bearing three five one.”

  Captain Kulakov was also staring at a sonar display. The new contact’s postion did not correlate with the location of any of the Soviet attack subs fanning out from Petropavlovsk. It had to be an intruder, an American.

  And with sonar conditions this poor, the American submarine had to be close. Too close. The American might already have one of the Red Navy’s precious ballistic missile subs in his sights. “Fire control party, prepare to fire a spread on my order.”

  Kulakov didn’t plan to wait for a full fire control solution, intending instead to launch several torpedoes centered on the American sub’s location as soon as his tracking party had a rough idea of its heading.

  He smiled grimly. The American subs were excellent. And that was why only the newest and best submarines, like his Akula-class boat, were assigned to this work. Ogarkov and its counterparts had sortied with the surface ships, then taken up positions to screen the ballistic missile submarines as they left port.

  For once, Kulakov’s orders from Fleet Command made sense. He was to protect the deploying subs from sneak attacks, like the kind the Americans had made on Dribinov. His orders made it clear that there would be no more surprises. This intruder would be stopped.

  “Sir, screw beats now bear three five three.”

  “Very well.” Kulakov tensed. They had their bearing rate. “Stand by to fire.”

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  The talker had a new report. “Skipper, passive sonar contact bearing one seven two. Screw beats.”

  Manriquez called softly to Ed Baum. “Stop everything you’re doing and start a plot on this contact.”

  “Sonar evaluates contact as possible submarine at creep speed, high bearing rate.”

  That last bit of information galvanized the control room crew. A rapidly changing bearing at slow speed meant the new contact was very close.

  Manriquez took a shallow breath and released it. “Boomer, come right. Put the contact on our beam. As soon as we can determine his course, we’ll head for his baffles and try to slip away — ”

  “Sonar reports transients! Torpedoes inbound!

  Shit. “Launch a decoy! Right hard rudder, all ahead flank! Take her deep!” Manriquez paused for one microsecond, then said, “Fire one and two with a four-degree spread, and make them active homers.”

  He felt the boat start to heel over as she built up speed and started to turn. He regretted having to fire, but his mission was to survive and report. Shooting at the other side was a good way to start a war, but he suspected that one was already under way.

  A
BOARD ALEKSANDR OGARKOV

  “Captain, the American has returned fire! Two torpedoes inbound.”

  Kulakov felt his heart flutter and then pump faster. “Emergency speed! Turn on the active sonar and track the American. Release a decoy!”

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  “Captain, the Russian’s gone active. Two of the torpedoes have a high bearing rate, the other two are still closing.”

  Manriquez swore under his breath and started snapping out maneuvering orders. This was going to be a damned tight squeeze. They’d dodged two of the incoming torps, but the others were going to be tougher.

  OFF THE SOVIET NORTH PACIFIC COAST

  The two combatants maneuvered, dodging and turning at high speed as each tried to evade the weapons heading toward them. The Mark 48 torpedoes were faster than their Soviet counterparts, so that even though they were fired later, they reached the Soviet sub first.

  Fired without correction for the target’s course and speed, Drum’s shots depended on the small active homer built into the nose of each torpedo to find and attack the target.

  One Mark 48 had been fired to either side of the Ogarkov’s estimated position, so that whichever direction it turned, at least one would be in a position to see the Soviet sub.

  In the end, both saw him and attacked. Detection range in the noisy water conditions off Petropavlovsk was so short that both torpedoes’ powerful sonars illuminated the Akula-class sub at point-blank range.

  One struck amidships, the other aft — in the engine compartment. Ogarkov’s double-hull construction could not survive two hits. In addition to the salt water pouring through the two tears in the hull, the double shock wrecked equipment throughout the ship and threw men across compartments into steel bulkheads. With so much flooding there was no hope of saving the boat. Powerless, without any control at all, Ogarkov tumbled downward on its long journey toward the ocean floor.

  ABOARD USS DRUM

  Drum’s sonar operator heard the explosion, but he was too busy tracking the weapons headed toward them to report it. “Captain, those two torps have locked onto us!”

  Manriquez glanced quickly at the scope over his shoulder; the strobes were getting wider and stronger. Jesus.

  Ten seconds passed. Wait for it. Fifteen seconds. Now. “Launch two more decoys.”

  Shot out of the sub’s signal ejector, the decoys hovered in the water and emitted sonar signals designed to confuse the guidance systems of the Soviet torpedoes. One was seduced by the decoys, turned toward them, and exploded. The other was too close and it hit the American submarine forward, just under the sail.

  Manriquez, Adams, Baum, and everyone else in the control room were thrown to the deck and plunged into darkness, while one deck below, water shot in through a two-foot tear in Drum’s hull.

  “Blow everything!” Manriquez shouted, trying desperately to counter the tons of weight being added to the hull as compartments flooded. It wasn’t enough.

  Too heavy to maintain even neutral buoyancy, air bubbling from its vents and from the gash in its hull, the American sub followed its Soviet opponent down to the bottom.

  KING’S BAY, GEORGIA

  Rear Admiral John Fogarty focused his night-vision glasses and watched as the long, dark shapes glided silently past his station and out to sea. Two Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines were under way — each nearly twice the length of a football field and larger than a World War II-era heavy cruiser. White foam churned by their massive propellers glistened momentarily in the moonlight and then vanished as if it had never been.

  He tracked the SSBNs until they could no longer be seen and then heaved a small sigh of relief. The most dangerous moments for any ballistic missile sub were always in port. Anchored beside a supporting sub tender, the Ohios were nothing more than sitting ducks. But once they were at sea, the huge boats were so quiet that the Soviets could never seriously hope to find them. A significant percentage of America’s nuclear deterrent was now effectively invulnerable.

  Fogarty turned to the lieutenant waiting with him. “Dave, get a signal off to COMSUBLANT immediately. Tell him the boomers are away.” Then he walked back to his office, past an empty anchorage.

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The display map glowed with color-coded lights and symbols marking the position and alert status of every major Soviet military unit around the world. The symbols along the Soviet Pacific coast glowed bright red.

  The President looked grim, an expression matched by every other man and woman around the table. “Are we sure that Drum was attacked, Admiral?”

  “Very sure, sir. Our long-range acoustic sensors were tracking a large number of ships leaving Petropavlovsk, along with every other port on the Pacific coast. During the deployment, they detected two explosions, which they plotted inside Drum’s patrol area.”

  Admiral Simpson frowned. “Since then she’s missed two communications periods and does not acknowledge her call. She was certainly attacked by the Russians, and barring a miracle, was sunk.”

  “Does that tell us anything about Soviet intentions?”

  Simpson shook his head. “No, sir.” He moved to the display map. “They’ve put every interceptor and SAM battery in the Far East on full alert. All surface ships and submarines in port are sortieing…”

  “Toward our forces?”

  “No, Mr. President. At least not yet. They’re deploying into what might be defensive positions.” White lines appeared on the map as he spoke.

  “That’s good news at any rate.”

  Simpson looked troubled. “I wish I could agree, sir. But the fact is, all of these are the very same actions the Soviets would take if they were contemplating additional attacks. Their exact plans are still unclear.”

  “Damn.” The President closed his eyes and started rubbing his temples, trying to massage away the tension headache building there. No one spoke until he opened his eyes again. “What about your end of things, Fran?”

  The head of the National Security Agency shrugged her shoulders. “Again, nothing conclusive, Mr. President. We’re picking up a lot of traffic from Vladivostok to Moscow and back again. All high-priority FLASH-type stuff, naturally. There’s also been a marked increase in signals to the other major military commands — Soviet Forces, East Germany, the Northern Fleet, the Black Sea Fleet, and so on.”

  “But no change in their alert status?”

  “Not yet, sir.” The NSA boss toyed with her pen. “At least not as far as we can tell. We’re scheduling some additional satellite passes throughout the rest of today and tomorrow to try and pick up more data.”

  “Christ!” The President’s irritation was clear and easy to understand. It was also somewhat unfair. Tens of billions of dollars had been invested in America’s electronic intelligence-gathering capabilities, but no photo-recon or SIGINT satellite could pry into the minds of enemy leaders or divine their hidden intentions.

  “Have you talked to the General Secretary yet, Mr. President?”

  The President’s angry snort could be heard across the room. “Hell, no. I tried calling the man direct when this whole thing first blew up. The General Secretary is, quote, unavailable for the time being, end quote.”

  Simpson frowned. “So either they’re as confused over there as we are, or they’re all busy scurrying for the fallout shelters.”

  “Yeah.” The President shoved his chair back and stood up, feeling a sudden desire to pace. He stalked to the front of the room and stood facing the display map. Europe caught his eye. “Maybe we should start shipping troops and equipment to NATO now — while we’ve still got time. At least we’d be ready if the Russians decide to escalate this thing further.”

  “I’m afraid that activating Reforger is impossible at the moment, Mr. President.” General Carpenter, the Air Force Chief of Staff, looked embarrassed. Reforger was a plan for moving American troops and equipment to Europe. Rapidly reinforcing NATO was one means of deterring the Soviets fr
om an attack there. “We don’t have the sea- or airlift available.”

  Blake Fowler nodded to himself. The Military Airlift Command and Military Sealift Command were already stretched to the limit just supporting McLaren’s troops in South Korea. Three weeks of almost nonstop operations were taking a dangerous toll on the flight crews and their planes. Three C-141s and a C-5 had already been lost because of inadequate maintenance or crew fatigue — the Starlifters somewhere over the Pacific and the Galaxy in a fiery crash in California. There were enough planes to keep the war in Korea going or to reinforce Germany. But not to do both.

  The President just stared at the map without speaking. Then he turned. “If the Soviets do escalate, can NATO hold without the Reforger forces?”

  “Probably not, sir.” Simpson shook his head slowly. “Not with just conventional weapons.”

  The men and women crowding the Situation Room fell silent. Without enough conventional forces, NATO would have to use tactical nuclear weapons to stop a Soviet armored onslaught across the West German border. And nobody in the room really believed it was possible to step halfway across the nuclear threshold. Five-kiloton bombs dropped on armored columns would inevitably be answered by five-hundred kiloton ICBM warheads landing on cities.

  Fowler saw the President’s shoulders sag. None of the options were particularly palatable. Either push McLaren’s planned offensive forward and risk leaving Europe defenseless, or rush reinforcements to NATO while accepting a bloody stalemate in South Korea.

  At last the President spoke. “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull the rug out from under our boys in South Korea. We’ll have to gamble that the Soviets aren’t ready to expand this thing.” He turned to Simpson. “In the meantime, Admiral, I’d like to give them something to think about. Now, we’ve already deployed our missile submarines. What’re my other choices?”

  The admiral had come prepared for that question, but his answers weren’t very reassuring. Nobody felt comfortable playing with nuclear fire.