First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  Nelson grinned. “They’ll be shouting discrimination.”

  “That’s the other thing, Nellie. When you read the small print, you’ll see it’s only temporary. I couldn’t convince the powers-that-be in D.C. Maybe after it’s all over, they’ll make it permanent.”

  “Maybe there won’t be any Wendell Nelson after it’s all over.”

  “In that case, I’ll insist they make it permanent—sort of an honor for the deceased hero.” Pratt chuckled through the cigar smoke. “Think how happy those survivors’ benefits will make the wife and kids!” He immediately knew he had made a mistake. Tricia had divorced Nellie. She had the kids. But Nelson never blinked an eye.

  “Too kind… too kind. Will you shed some tears at my funeral?”

  “I would, Nellie. I really would. But I figure if they get you, then they’re more than likely going to get me too….” He was interrupted by a knock. “Come.”

  Tom Carleton entered the stateroom. As usual, he looked anything but the captain of a ship, especially Yorktown. His tan uniform blouse was wrinkled; his belly protruded over his rumpled work pants, and he managed only a pale imitation of a salute as he fell into the couch across from the desk, his legs sprawled straight in front of him.

  “How’s she going, Tom?”

  Carleton beamed. “She’s everything the designers claimed—and more. I can’t thank you enough. She drives like a tin can and she’ll fight like a whole goddamn fleet. No kidding. When we put that system in automatic this morning— Aw, what the hell am I telling you for? You already know what she did.”

  Pratt nodded. “I was watching in plot. It’s kind of hard for an old sailor like me to believe it all.” He put the cigar to his lips, winced, and dropped the wet remainder into the ashtray. He sighed, rubbing tired, red-rimmed eyes. “That’s why I asked for you two.” He picked up a sheaf of messages, weighing them in his hand for a moment, then dropped them back on the cluttered desk. “I expect any of the others could probably handle the job. If the Navy has qualified them, they can run those ships, but there’s hardly a soul familiar with that stuff we’ve been fooling around with in Newport.”

  “Newport” meant the War College, the think tank where select officers studied global strategy and tactics. There were also war-gaming facilities that lent reality to war scenarios dreamed up by men like Dave Pratt. The Navy power structure claimed the Russians were predictable, and they were in many ways. But no man was that predictable if he was reacting under actual wartime conditions—or if he was losing. That’s what Pratt had assumed when he began to play with new tactics. The ships under his Mediterranean command were capable of much more than was required from them under published tactics. The Soviets were expected to attack, and they expected the Americans to wait for the attack, then defend themselves. Pratt’s theory was to dig them out before they could possibly gain an upper hand. Computer simulation was the trick.

  Pratt loved to call himself an old salt, a grizzled old man of the sea ready for retirement after one more tour. But in reality, he was anything but that. That’s why Washington had sent him to Kennedy, and that was why they let him take Nelson and Carleton and why they let Pratt choose their ships.

  The Russians were experimenting with innovative submarine tactics. Pratt saw what those new tactics were for. When he went to Washington, senior admirals shook their heads. That was not the way they saw the scenario, nor the way they wanted to see it. Pratt went back to Newport and ran his ideas through the computer. The results confirmed that the Russians could do what he projected. The computer also agreed with Pratt on how they might be stopped.

  “How’re the others doing?” Carleton asked.

  “We’re halfway there. The base at Svalbard has been damaged. We can see that by satellite, but we don’t know how badly. The British have been chasing every sub near there and seem to be holding them off, and I think our own attack subs have set up a barrier to stop anything that gets by our CAPTORS. We already have convoys coming across the North Atlantic that have a chance of making it now.”

  “And Bernie?” Nelson asked.

  “Not a word, Nellie. Satellites have picked up some Soviet movement in the mountains across from that base he was after, but we don’t have anything else for sure. The Brits are looking out for him.”

  “Cobb?”

  “He got in and somehow got out with his man. Only Henry could manage that. Saratoga forwarded just one message that said they were still in the Black Sea. Admiral Turner also said something about his man picking up Cobb, the Russian, and some woman in an evening dress.”

  “That means it couldn’t be anyone else but Hank,” Carleton remarked, shifting his frame on the couch. “Now it’s our turn.”

  “Saratoga’s group will catch it first. We may learn something from that. I just hope to hell they can recover Cobb and Keradin and get them here. Then that only leaves us.”

  “And the soft underbelly,” finished Nelson.

  “The soft underbelly,” Pratt echoed to himself. He went over to the bulkhead and flipped a switch. Background light glowed softly through a plastic covering. On its surface were blown-up prints of film from recon satellites. Their appearance reminded Nelson of X-rays in a doctor’s office—though the body in question was the Mediterranean. One set involved satellite photographs of the surface. Each island, each group of naval ships, even small fishing boats were delineated accurately. Photo interpreters had neatly identified each item on each photo.

  The second set was of more interest. It contained infrared readings of what was under the surface of the Mediterranean. Like X-ray cameras, infrared satellites actually looked within the body of the ocean for telltale signatures of submarines. Not all could be located, but enough had been detected to show where the Russian wolf packs were located. Unless they were on active patrol, they tended to congregate either near land or the surface to facilitate communications.

  “Leave anything to the imagination?” asked Pratt.

  “I can’t imagine why there would be the slightest possibility of us losing if we know so much, except…” Carleton let that pass. They each knew that the Russians could provide almost the exact same intelligence on their own forces.

  It still came down to three things: if Bernie Ryng had been successful and the Russians were cut off from the North Atlantic, if Cobb came out with General Keradin and was able to deliver him in one piece, and if Pratt’s battle group could control the Med, then the Soviets might pull back to their own borders, or at least halt their advance. It sounded very simple considered in that regard; it was extremely complex from the point of view of the three men in Pratt’s office aboard Kennedy.

  WITH A U.S. NAVAL PICKET FORCE

  Later that day, the ordeal of Admiral Pratt’s battle group began two hundred miles to the east of Kennedy and about one hundred miles north of the Libyan port of Benghazi. It was here that the guided-missile frigate Oliver Hazard Perry was assigned as a picket. She was one of the ships intended as a primary submarine barrier and to provide early warning—if U.S. Hawkeye recon aircraft were knocked out. Perry’s basic task in early warning was to engage any Soviet submarine that was intended to take over and direct guidance of air-launched Soviet cruise missiles as they closed their targets.

  Perry clearly understood there were enemy submarines in the vicinity. She was the southern element of a four-ship picket squadron, steaming at loose intervals of ten miles, the space between them covered by their own ASW helicopters.

  The first indication the little ship had that she was under attack was from her own radar. An object suddenly appeared on her screen, about twenty miles distant on her port bow, traveling at high speed. It was a missile breaking the surface! Launched by a submerged submarine, it appeared sporadically on radar as it flew close to the surface.

  Perry’s captain instantly ordered his chaff canisters fired in an effort to throw the missile guidance off course. A second missile painted on the radar scope from a separate location. Anothe
r submarine!

  Her captain understood his odds of steaming alone. He had no antimissile defense other than decoys, or a lucky shot from his one gun mount. His last-ditch effort would be to shoot the missiles down with his Phalanx close-in weapons system. This was a Gatling-type gun atop the hangar that spewed three thousand rounds per minute automatically at an incoming missile. But its range was less than a mile—seconds in the world of missiles. Phalanx would continue firing until its radar informed its computer there was no more missile—or it would keep firing until impact.

  Perry’s captain turned her stern to the incoming missiles; it would open Phalanx for unobstructed fire. The chaff canisters were reloaded and fired again.

  Perry waited. Her crew waited. Her captain waited.

  The first missile went awry, the guidance system unable to pinpoint the target. The second missile was more persistent. The ship’s single gun mount automatically fired in the direction of the missile—a futile gesture. At fifteen hundred yards, Phalanx opened fire with an incredible racket. A steady stream of bullets raced out, directed by a radar system locked on to the missile.

  The noise was so ear shattering, so undeviating, that any member of Perry’s crew within eye contact stopped what he was doing. If the missile was shot down, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If the missile impacted, it didn’t matter anyway.

  At approximately thirty to forty yards distant, the bullets from the Gatling gun exploded the missile’s warhead with a tremendous blast. Fragments sprayed Perry’s stern, hangar deck, and upper deck, cutting down any man who had stopped to watch. Metal chunks tore into the after one-third of the ship. As Perry reeled from the detonation astern, the radar on Phalanx lost its target. Automatically, it ceased fire, mechanically returning to its original position even as metal fragments glanced off its small radome.

  Perry’s casualties were primarily personnel. Nothing impaired the ship’s ability to fight. Her captain wheeled her about and brought her to flank speed to close her attackers.

  Aboard the Soviet submarines, the targets were obvious—four American ships, most likely frigates from the sound of their single shafts. Both subs immediately commenced reloading tubes to fire a second set of missiles; their alternate tubes contained torpedoes. It seemed, at this range, to be similar to shooting fish in a barrel. The Americans apparently did not have their helicopters in the path of the submarines. By reloading quickly the Soviets could destroy the targets before they came within torpedo range. Only the two closest American frigates provided any immediate hazard to the submarines—and these were easy targets.

  Perry’s captain deployed his helicopter in the direction of the missile launch. Within minutes the helo was dipping its sonar in the area where radar had first spotted the missile breaking water.

  Contact almost instantly! Two contacts! Three… four. The sonar operator was confused—too many different sounds. Decoys! That was it—the minute the Russian submarine heard the initial ping of the sonar, it released decoys. Which was the real target? Which was the phony one?

  There was only one way for Perry to tell—get weapons in the water! As Perry closed, her own sonar picked up contact. One was strong and solid. No doubt about it— classified submarine!

  Even as the helo prepared to drop her first homing torpedo, Perry came within maximum torpedo range of the contacts. Saturation—that was the best way at this stage. They had no idea how many subs were in the vicinity. Splash! Perry’s captain could see the first torpedo fall from the helo. Splash! A second in the water.

  Solution complete. Ship’s torpedoes ready. Fire! Leaning over the edge of the open bridge, her commanding officer saw three torpedoes leap out of the starboard tubes at short intervals like sprinters, hitting the water with tremendous splashes. One skipped on the surface for an instant, the others dove immediately.

  Her commanding officer brought the little ship parallel to the sub’s course. Can’t close them too much—too good a target.

  The helo was on the way back to the ship, her torpedoes expended. He’d launch the second helo with two more torpedoes before retrieving the first. What a hell of a chance he’d be taking, slowing down and maintaining course until he could launch one, bring one home.

  But the word came to the bridge with a sudden finality—the hangar doors had been jammed by the near miss of that first missile. They’d have to start cutting—fifteen to twenty minutes before they could get the doors open and clear the deck for launch.

  But they couldn’t wait! There were at least two enemy subs out there. Perry was the only ship prosecuting contacts yet. Other helos were coming in. Someone had to maintain the attack.

  There was a report of more missiles breaking the surface. Then, in much less time than anticipated, there was an explosion a few miles off their bow. One of the missiles had locked on to their sister ship’s incoming helo, knocking it out of the air. Perry was the only one that could keep the subs busy. Her captain turned her directly toward the underwater contacts.

  By now, at least one of the torpedoes should have hit, he thought. His binoculars steadied on the horizon above where the subs should be. Nothing. Sonar continued to report multiple noises in the water. Screw beats—submarines, decoys, Perry’s sister ship approaching from astern at flank speed. Then a report of an underwater explosion, then a second. Only two! The others must have run off.

  Sonar was incapacitated by noise, clutter. The underwater explosions blanked any possibility of determining whether they’d gotten a hit. They were, after all, nuclear attack subs capable of outrunning a torpedo.

  Only one thing left to do. Run down their throat. The missiles were for long-range, standoff-type weapons. Close in, they’d have to use torpedoes.

  Off their port quarter, there was a rocking explosion, one that echoed across the water, definitely not from a torpedo hitting below the waterline.

  Perry’s captain swung his glasses around. He saw only smoke and flame from the direction of their sister ship. She’d taken a hit from that last missile. Now Perry was all alone.

  No sooner was he aware of that than another voice came over the speaker from sonar—more torpedoes in the water from the submarines! In the confusion, had they streamed their own decoys? Yes! The gunnery officer had seen to that automatically with the first contact. Her NIXIE buoy was streamed astern, creating more noise for a homing torpedo than the ship’s propellers.

  But Perry had nothing else to attack the subs with. No standoff weapons, no depth charges, just her own torpedoes, and he had to reload the starboard side now. His attack would be made with the remaining port torpedoes—three of them. Then he had nothing—nothing until he could launch his second helo!

  He came about to tow NIXIE along the track of the incoming torpedoes. As he looked out over the surface of the water, staring in the direction of the unseen torpedoes, various reports arrived on the bridge—another ten minutes to free the hangar doors, about the same time to reload two of the empty torpedo tubes. The third had been damaged by the launch!

  The effect of the underwater explosions was diminishing. Sonar again had a definite submarine to port, operating at high speed. New sounds—like a boat breaking up. They must have hit one of the subs—one of the five torpedoes must have hit one of them! Other sounds—high-speed screws, more torpedoes approaching from port.

  Perry’s captain overheard the telltale sounds through the speaker from sonar—a high-pitched squeal increasing in intensity as they drew near. He waited—an explosion astern, water bursting hundreds of feet into the air. One of the torpedoes had homed in on NIXIE! Where was the second? There was no squealing of screws nearby. Both must have gone off at the same spot—the decoy!

  The water was once again turbulent. Nothing could be detected by sonar. The captain turned his ship in the direction of the last contact. As soon as he found that sub, he’d fire. There was no logic in giving the Russian any chances. Who could tell which sub had fired the last missiles—the one that had been hit or t
he one he was after now? If it was the former, he might expect another missile breaking the water any minute. Or was he too close to his quarry? Those subs were faster than his frigate; one had had a chance to run while he’d been evading them. In five minutes, going in opposite directions, the subs might be ten miles apart. One of the subs’ computers could feed a solution into its launching system and another missile…

  Radar contact port quarter—on the screen—off the screen—high speed—another missile! The damned sub had opened the range while Perry was evading! At that range, it would take about a minute to impact.

  Sonar gave him a course for the submarine. It had apparently fired a missile, then changed course to come in for a torpedo attack, if necessary. The sub was closing in again! The captain brought Perry on a new course to intercept, leaving his Phalanx open.

  Even as they settled on the new course, the Phalanx opened up with a deafening roar. Four minutes until they could put the second helo on deck—only one starboard torpedo tube loaded. The second would take longer because maneuvering was delaying the loading.

  The shattering sound of the Gatling gun was cut short by the impact of the missile in Perry’s, midsection. It detonated under the torpedo room. The port-side torpedo tubes were blown over the side; the automatic 76mm gun was damaged; the nearest gas turbine under the blast was disabled; fires spread quickly on three deck levels. The captain could see nothing of his ship from the impact point on back—he had no idea whether or not she would be able to continue the attack.

  He called for the rudder to be put over—Perry responded. But with only one engine functioning, his speed had been cut considerably. The torpedoes he had planned to use while they finished reloading the starboard tubes were gone. He had only one torpedo ready, and one helo that he had no idea whether or not he could launch, and a ship that was burning badly.