by Mark Joseph
"It just doesn't make sense—"
"Then tell me why the Russians aren't looking for their missing sub."
"How do you know that?"
"Netts told me," Sorensen said cheerfully. "He came all the way from Washington just to chat with the Ace. You like that?"
"You talked to Admiral Netts?"
"Sure. I'm a big hero, remember?"
"Why would the Russians fake a sinking of their own ship?"
"First, to make enough noise to cover their exit. And if we thought she was sunk, we wouldn't look for her. Come on, Fogarty, think, for chrissake."
"Play the tape one more time."
Sorensen did, and Fogarty felt the first twinges of anger.
"So it was a trick."
"Looks like, kid."
"I grieved for those people—"
"I know you did. An honorable thing to do. Hey, it's not your fault."
"Damn... I'm still not sure I believe it."
"Oh, you believe it, Fogarty. You know it's true."
"How long have you known?"
"Since I played what you just heard. The skipper is going to tell the crew about the Russian sub tonight. And we're going after her, and we'll find her."
"How can you be so sure?"
Sorensen sucked on his beer and looked at Fogarty. "Because of the new system, the deep submergence sonars. The way they work is simple. They laid down cables, like ordinary undersea telephone cables, only as they laid it down, every twenty miles they spliced in a hydrophone. In four thousand miles of cable, there's two hundred sonars, but they're reliable because they send back their signals through the cable. We now have a grid of cables with a total of thirty-six hundred hydrophones in the Atlantic. Some spots, like the Caribbean and the Iceland-Greenland-UK gap, are saturated with phones. Sooner or later the Russians will figure it out. When they do they'll pull their fleet back into the Norwegian Sea and expand their operations in the Pacific and the Mediterranean. For us right now, it means we ought to be able to track this sub, wherever she goes. The game is going to get very interesting. When we go back to sea tonight we have to be ready for anything. What I want to know, Mr. Fogarty, is if you're going to do your job. That's all I ask. Just do your job and cut the crap."
Fogarty picked up the miniature tape recorder and hefted it. He was scared, but he figured that was only natural. He remembered hearing what he thought was the torpedo charging through the water directly at him... but what if—
"I think I will have a beer," he said, opening a bottle. "Look, Ace, explain to me how you wired this into your console."
"Sure, kid."
"And stop calling me 'kid.' "
"The hell you say."
* * *
Lopez was standing with the Marine guards at the foot of the submarine pier. "All right, you're the last ones. Let's go."
The pier was crowded with sailors and technicians preparing Barracuda and Vallejo for departure. As they walked along Lopez said, "You ain't gonna bring no reefer on board, are you, Ace?"
"Why, Lopez? You want to get loaded?"
"Just checking."
"What's happening in the real world. Chief? Any traffic out there?" Sorensen waved his arm in the direction of the Atlantic.
"Seems the whole fuckin' ocean is full of Russians. It's gonna be hot. The skipper wants to see you right away. Go change."
Sorensen showered, changed into a jumpsuit and knocked on Springfield's door.
"Come in."
"Chief Lopez said you wanted to see me, sir."
"Sit down, Sorensen."
"Thank you, sir."
"Coffee?"
"Thank you, sir. Black."
Springfield poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Sorensen. "I understand you spoke with Admiral Netts."
"Yes, sir."
"He wants to give you a commission."
Sorensen rattled his coffeecup. "We've been through this before. Captain."
"I know. How many times?"
"Six."
"And you've turned us down each time."
"Yes, sir. I like it fine where I am."
"I told Netts you would say that, but there's a hitch. You can't stay where you are. None of us can. Barracuda is going back to Electric Boat for a major refit. She'll be up there in Groton for two years."
"That's it? They're going to disband the crew?"
"Pretty much. We're sending you to Mare Island and assigning you to Guitarro as chief of the boat."
Sorensen almost dropped his coffee. "Chief of the boat? You're putting me on, Skipper? No sonarman in the navy is chief of the boat."
Springfield smiled. "Some navy traditions are flexible. Netts is willing to make an exception in your case. You'll have to take a couple special rating exams but you'll have plenty of time for that."
"You said Guitarro? I never heard of her."
"She's a new attack sub still on the ways. You'll have the most advanced electronics and sonars. Space on the boat has already been designated as Sorensen's Beach."
Sorensen hadn't expected this, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it... a new ship, a new crew, a new captain and chief of the boat all at once. Too much...
"I don't know what to say, Captain. Thank you. I'll have to think about it."
"That's fine, Sorensen. You think about it as long as you like. Right now we have more immediate concerns. Netts and Pisaro tell me that in your opinion the Russian sub never sank, that it was an acoustic trick of some sort."
"Skipper, what we thought was the torpedo was the sub itself. I think they fired some kind of decoy that sank and imploded."
Springfield tapped a pencil on his desk. "That means that sub went down to at least four thousand feet."
"Yes, sir."
"A Mark thirty-seven won't go that deep. We couldn't shoot her down there, except with a nuke, a Mark forty-five..." He shook his head at the prospect. "But what if you're wrong, Sorensen? What if she did sink?"
"Then I'm wrong. If she's on the bottom, we'll find her."
"Well, I'm betting you're right. It's the safest thing to do. Admiral Netts has had the tape of the sinking analyzed and the sound engineers don't agree. Still, we have to assume that sub is still loose. We don't know where it is or what shape it's in but we do know one thing. That sub got into the Mediterranean undetected, and as far as we know it hasn't come out."
"If it got in, sir, I won't be surprised if it can get out."
"Well... we've increased the number of patrols through the Strait and beefed up the fixed arrays, but this sub isn't our only problem. Four days ago three more Soviet attack subs passed through the Iceland gap and headed south into the Atlantic. We're tracking them through the North Atlantic with SOSUS right now. One of them is riding a picket line about thirty miles out. Clearly the Russians believe they can penetrate the Med, and it seems as though they designed this new class of subs to do just that. You know, until now our missile subs have been able to operate without any trouble in the Ionian Sea. From there they can strike at targets as far away as Moscow. But if the Russians get attack submarines into the Med, they jeopardize our FBMs. This is a whole new ball game for the Soviet Navy. We think they're going after Vallejo, so the first thing we're going to do is help her shake her tail. We're going to have to deal with this picket first. When Vallejo is clear, we're going on station outside the Strait. If we're lucky, we'll catch the mystery boat coming out. Any questions?"
"Yes, sir. Is there a designation for the new sub?"
"Alpha."
"It s one hell of a sub, sir."
"It is. No question about that."
"We'll keep sharp ears. Skipper."
"Very well. Get ready to take her out."
* * *
Sipping Alka-Seltzer, Sorensen was running circuit checks on the new sonars when Fogarty came into the sonar room and sat down. Fogarty switched on his screen and punched up the bottom scanners.
"How's your hangover, kid?"
"Awfu
l."
Sorensen punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Relax, Fogarty, we're home. What's the depth under our keel?"
"Thirty-four feet."
"All right. Sharpen your spurs, cowboy. Here we go"
They heard Pisaro's voice come through the intercom. "Attention all hands, attention all hands. Maneuvering stations, maneuvering stations. Prepare for slow speed."
The reactor was hot, the steam lines were charged, the course was plotted, captain and lookouts were on the bridge. Overhead the night sky was cloudy, obscuring the heavens. Always obscure, the sea was calm.
On the pier opposite, the captain of Vallejo prepared to follow Barracuda into the bay. Springfield waved and ordered the bow and stern lines away.
"All ahead slow."
With a shudder the ship moved away from the pier, passed outside the breakwaters and slipped by the Russian trawler. Rolling in the swell, Springfield turned his ship into the moderate sea and headed for deep water.
"Strike the colors," he said. "Clear the bridge. Rig for dive."
No band played. No admiral made a speech. No crowd waved good-by. Barracuda steamed out of Rota in the dead of night and slipped furtively into the Atlantic.
21
Arkangel
Ten miles outside Rota, Springfield gave the order to dive.
"All hands prepare for steep angles and deep submergence. Flood forward ballast tanks."
"Flood forward ballast tanks, aye."
"Stern planes down six degrees."
"Stern planes down six degrees, aye."
"Radio to control. Intercepting Soviet transmission."
"Belay the dive. Belay the dive. Stern planes zero degrees."
"Stern planes zero degrees, aye."
"Control to radio. Where is the point of origin?"
"Radio to control. It's in a priority code from Cádiz."
"Control to radio. Did you get it all?"
"Radio to control. Message complete. Shall we decode?"
"Very well, radio, decode the message. A little practice never hurts. If it's anything more than a report of our position, let me know right away."
"Aye aye, skipper."
"Stern planes down six degrees."
* * *
In the torpedo room Lopez checked the serial numbers of the live torpedoes against the log and cheerfully dusted off the warheads. Once again fully armed, Barracuda carried twenty Mark 37 torpedoes with conventional high-explosive warheads, in both wire-guided and acoustic-homing modes, four Mark 45 torpedoes with quarter-kiloton tactical nuclear warheads and two chaff decoys designed to confound and mislead an enemy torpedo. Lopez hummed a happy tune.
The young torpedomen gathered around a plaque newly installed over the firing console.
ZAPATA M.I.A.
Johnson, the mate, was scrutinizing the new plating in the curved snout of the compartment. Patches of fresh gray paint still glistened in the bright light, but the welds were invisible.
"I dunno, Chief," Johnson said. "This was a damned fast job on these torpedo doors."
"Those tiger team boys know their stuff," Lopez replied. "Regular hotshots."
A thin wiry man, Johnson seemed to grow even thinner as his eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was like two stones scraping together.
"Lopez, the scuttlebutt is that a Russian sub is riding a picket line thirty miles out."
"That's right. They do it all the time."
"Yeah, but this one's waiting for us."
Lopez watched the torpedomen rivet their eyes on the mate.
"No shit, Johnson. Why would they do that?"
"They want revenge because we sank their boat."
"Bullshit. They're waiting for the boomer, Vallejo."
"How do you know, Lopez? They want to even the score. Wouldn't you?"
"Johnson, you've got a big mouth. If I hear this from anybody else, I'll know where it came from. All of you, listen. The Russians are not interested in us. There's a shitload going on here that you people know nothing about because you don't need to know. Don't sweat it. When we get back to Norfolk, all of you will get thirty days' leave. Think about that and forget the Russians. After we chase these Ivans away, we're goin' home. This is my last cruise and I want it to be a good one."
The torpedomen appeared unconvinced, but none spoke. Lopez swore under his breath, cursing Springfield for not informing the crew that the Russian sub never sank. He was still muttering when the exchange between the captain and the radio operator came over the command intercom. As the torpedomen listened, they grew visibly concerned. Lopez lit a cigar.
"It's just routine," he said, "and you all know it. The trawler in the bay reports all ship movements to the picket. They're waiting for Vallejo, not for us."
A moment later the ship began to submerge. As the hull compressed, the torpedomen gasped at every creak and groan. Every eye was on the new torpedo doors. Every weld had been X-rayed twice, and the tiger team had taken the ship for a brief sea trial, including a dive to eight hundred feet, but Lopez had sealed the hatch and prepared for the worst. When Springfield adjusted the trim and leveled the ship, all systems were functioning normally. The torpedomen's cheer sounded like a sigh of relief.
"You happy, Johnson?"
"We ain't here to fight the ocean, Chief."
Lopez frowned and shook his head. "Open the hatch. It's stuffy in here. Johnson, I want circuit tests on all the on-board computers in the fish. I'm going up to have a word with the skipper."
The captain reduced speed to a crawl and began to circle. In the sonar room Sorensen closed his eyes and pressed his earphones tight against his ears, listening for the picket. When the circle closed, he spoke into his headset, "Sonar to control. Negative contact."
"Very well, sonar. If she's here, we'll have to wait until she tips her hand."
Slowly Barracuda swung back toward the bay where Vallejo was due to emerge in ninety minutes.
Sorensen took off his headset and turned on the speakers. Fogarty watched the blank screen, giving a little start each time the brief sound of a distant surface ship flashed a target across one sector of his screen.
"What's the matter, Fogarty? You jumpy?"
"God, Sorensen, we steamed out here like a battleship. If there's a Russian picket, she's locked onto us."
"I guess you are jumpy. Relax. This Russian isn't going to pull any dirty tricks. It's our turn."
Fogarty rubbed his eyes and stretched. "It's been a long day and I could use some sleep. Instead, I get more Russians."
Sorensen glanced at the chronometer in his console. "You'll have plenty of time to sleep when this cruise is over. Meanwhile, get Davic and Willie Joe in here. We have to try out the new down-searching passive array they installed in Rota. And get us some coffee. Let's stay awake."
In the galley Fogarty found Cakes sipping tea with Stanley. Fogarty asked, "What's shakin', Cakes?"
"Lopez just came through with a big mad on. Said he was goin' to shut down the rumor mill. You heard any good rumors lately, Fogarty?"
Stanley spoke up. "I hear the Russians put out a contract on Barracuda. They want us bad. No shit, just like the Mafia."
Cakes shook his head. "What, like the Mafia?"
"Sure, man. This Mafia is all KGB. Same in Japan, this Yakuza. they all KGB, too. The Italians are just fall guys, get all the bad rep."
Cakes laughed. "Why put a contract on us, Stanley?"
Stanley put a finger to his lips and whispered. "We sink their ship, kill their sailors. They want an eye for a tooth."
Fogarty poured two cups of coffee and balancing them precariously returned to the sonar room where he found Davic and Willie Joe crowded around Sorensen's console. Sorensen had activated the new sonars.
Barracuda was at four hundred feet. A school of tuna passed under the ship at a thousand feet, turning the screen into a swirl of green dots. Sorensen took his coffee from Fogarty, punched a button, and most of the fish disappeared. "This sonar is comput
er-enhanced. It compensates for the thermals," he said. "Not completely, not perfectly, but it helps."
"What's the point?" Davic asked. "No sub goes that deep anyway."
Sorensen said, "I dunno, Davic. You never can tell. Go ahead and sit down. You're going to have to learn how to use this."
Davic and Willie Joe each took a turn, and Fogarty was taking his when the overhead speakers came to life.
"Attention all hands. This is the captain. I'm sure you all recall Admiral Netts' visit to our ship in Naples. Now that we have put to sea, I am authorized to read you a communication from him. It is dated yesterday and addressed to all the officers and men of Barracuda, SSN five nine three. The message is as follows:
GENTLEMEN, I WISH TO COMMEND ALL OF YOU
FOR AN OUTSTANDING PERFORMANCE DURING
THE EXERCISE THAT RESULTED IN YOUR
UNFORTUNATE COLLISION WITH A SOVIET
SUBMARINE. AS MANY OF YOU KNOW, IT WAS
BELIEVED AT THE TIME THAT THE SOVIET
SUBMARINE SANK. I WISH FOR ALL OF YOU TO
KNOW THAT, TO THE BEST OF OUR KNOWLEDGE,
THIS WAS NOT THE CASE. THE SOVIET SUBMARINE
DID NOT SINK, ALTHOUGH WE DO NOT KNOW
WHETHER OR NOT HER CREW SUFFERED CASUALTIES.
THE SOVIET NAVY HAS NOT ACKNOWLEDGED THE
COLLISION. IT IS PROBABLE THAT THE SUBMARINE
STILL IS OPERATING IN THE MEDITERRANEAN, BUT
EVENTUALLY SHE MUST PASS THROUGH THE
STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR AND INTO THE ATLANTIC.
ONCE VALLEJO IS CLEAR OF A REPORTED RUSSIAN
PICKET AND FREE TO BEGIN HER PATROL IN THE
MEDITERRANEAN, BARRACUDA'S ORDERS ARE
TO REMAIN ON-STATION ON THE ATLANTIC SIDE OF
THE STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR AND WAIT FOR THE
SOVIET SUBMARINE TO ATTEMPT A TRANSIT
WESTBOUND. YOU CANNOT STOP HER, BUT YOU
WILL FOLLOW HER AND YOU WILL HAVE THE
ASSISTANCE OF THE SOSUS DEEP-SUBMERGENCE
SONARS IN THE ATLANTIC. USE EVERY MEANS AT
YOUR DISPOSAL TO COLLECT AS MUCH INFORMATION
ABOUT HER AS POSSIBLE. GOOD LUCK AND GOOD
HUNTING. SIGNED, EDWARD P. NETTS.